#have i already posted something like this before?

[brunchable]

Are you Jealous? || B.B. [Oneshhot]

Pairings: Roommate!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader Themes: Jealousy made Bucky immature. Bickering. Another attempt at being funny. Summary: The guy you were talking to ruined Bucky's morning so he decided to do something about it. A/N: This is a comeback ONESHOT. HELLO, I am alive, how are ya'll? I've intended to come back earlier but health related stuff just kept on slapping me left and right. But I'm fine, this baby in my tummy is fine, everyone is fine! Expect a few sporadic posts from me as I am working on where I've left off ;__;

The morning had started so well.

Bucky took a deep, satisfied breath as he cradled his coffee mug, his soul momentarily at peace on the upper balcony. He had earned a kiss. A cheek kiss, sure, but a kiss was a kiss. And it wasn’t just any kiss—it was your kiss. A reward for heroically delivering your USB to the hospital before your presentation. He’d strutted out of there like a goddamn champion, feeling like he was glowing from the inside out.

And now? Now, he was sipping his coffee, reliving the moment in high definition, when the universe decided to slap him across the face.

Because there you were.

Sitting at the picnic table in the backyard.

With some guy.

Bucky's brows furrowed. He tilted his head. The guy was laughing. You were laughing. You were both laughing.

He squinted harder, trying to decipher what was so damn funny, when he caught the tail end of the conversation.

“So you’re telling me… you kicked him down?” the guy asked, sounding both impressed and too interested for Bucky’s taste.

“That’s right,” You confirmed with a smug grin.

The guy threw his head back, laughing like you had just told the funniest joke in existence. 

“That’s really impressive,” the guy said, his eyes glinting with admiration.

Bucky scowled. 

Then, like a demon summoned from the depths of hell at the worst possible moment, Sam appeared beside him, holding his own coffee and grinning like he had just won the lottery.

“They look close,” Sam mused, eyes twinkling with mischief, making sure to emphasize the word 'close'.

Bucky whipped his head toward him, glaring. “Hm. I don’t think so.”

Sam didn’t even hesitate. “Are you jealous?”

Bucky scoffed so hard he almost choked on his coffee. 

“Tsk. Why would I be jealous?” He pulled a face. “Honestly, if she had a brain, she wouldn’t even like dudes like him.”

"Just ask her out already." Sam sipped his coffee with exaggerated slowness, watching as Bucky’s eyes flicked back to you and your colleague. Sam’s grin widened to criminal levels.

Bucky sighed heavily, dragging a hand down his face. “Why do I have to see your face this early?”

Sam didn't respond—he just grinned. Then pointed at Bucky. Then grinned some more.

“Why are you smiling like that?” Bucky demanded, suspicious.

Sam took another sip. “No reason. Just enjoying my morning.”

Bucky rolled his eyes before looking down again. That’s when he noticed something.

The garden hose.

Right there. Within reach. Just waiting to be used.

He grabbed it, tilting his head like a scientist about to conduct a very important experiment.

Sam’s eyes widened.

Bucky turned the nozzle.

“Bucky, don’t—”

Bucky aimed.

“Bucky—”

He fired.

A powerful blast of water shot out like he was operating a high-pressure fire hose, hitting your colleague directly in the chest.

“WHAT THE—?! HEY! THAT’S COLD!” the man screeched, jerking back like he’d been shot, arms flailing wildly.

Bucky adjusted the nozzle slightly—just slightly—to ensure maximum discomfort, the spray now hitting the poor guy directly in the face.

“DUDE, WHAT THE HELL?!” The man spun in place like a malfunctioning windmill, water soaking through his shirt at an alarming rate.

From below, you gasped, hands on your head. “Oh my gosh!”

“DUDE! ARE YOU BEING SERIOUS?!” 

Bucky took another slow, calculated sip of his coffee. “I dunno, man,” he called out, voice as casual as if he were discussing the weather. “Looks like it’s raining.”

Sam made a choking sound.

Your colleague staggered back, sputtering. “WHY IS IT ONLY RAINING ON ME?!”

Bucky tilted his head. “Must be one of them localized storms.”

“Bucky, stop it!” You shrieked, but Bucky pretended not to hear you, subtly tilting the hose again so the water jet honed in on the guy’s knees, making him slip slightly.

The guy tried to run.

Bucky tracked him like a sniper, adjusting his aim so the water followed in real time, soaking him from head to toe as he attempted a desperate escape.

“OH, COME ON!” The man shrieked, arms flailing, looking up at the balcony, “YOU’RE DOING THIS ON PURPOSE!”

Bucky let out a slow, amused exhale. 

“Naaah.” Slight adjustment. Direct hit to the guy’s back.

You were fuming. “Are you ACTUALLY out of your mind?!”

Bucky set his coffee cup down with a deliberate sigh. 

“Ohhh, that was your colleague?” He put a hand on his chest, shaking his head like he was deeply moved. “Damn. That’s crazy.”

Sam collapsed against the railing, crying-laughing.

You turned back to the guy, who was now dripping, shivering, and looking thoroughly traumatized, “I am so sorry, I will grab a towel.”

Bucky twirled the hose nozzle between his fingers like a cowboy reholstering a gun. “Might be best if he, y’know, went home to change.”

The guy glared at him, teeth chattering. “Not cool dude.”

Bucky tilted his head. “That’s fair.”

You looked one second away from climbing the balcony to strangle him. “Are you kidding me?”

Bucky took another sip of his coffee. “Plants looking dehydrated, he was in the way.”

The guy finally gave up and trudged off, squelching with every step.

You threw up your hands. “Are you happy now?!”

“Honestly? Yeah.” Bucky leaned lazily against the balcony. 

Sam wheezed, gripping the railing for support. “That was so petty.”

Bucky smirked, absolutely unrepentant.

× × × × 

It wasn’t planned, okay?

You just happened to be standing by the hose, and Bucky just happened to be fixing something in the backyard, wearing a tight-fitting henley that had no business clinging to his stupidly broad back like that. 

And sure, maybe you were a little pissed that your colleague—the one he soaked this morning—had turned out to be your senior doctor. The same senior doctor whose recommendation you desperately needed to become chief resident and finally get your first lead in a surgery.

But this? This was justice.

So you lifted the hose.

And fired.

Bucky jerked, his entire body seizing up as ice-cold water slammed into the middle of his back.

“The hell?!” he barked, spinning around, dripping wet, glaring.

You kept your grip firm, adjusting your stance like a sniper zeroing in on a target.

“Oh, what’s wrong? Afraid of a little cold?” you drawled, watching as rivulets of water slid down his chest, clinging to the fabric of his now very translucent shirt. His dog tags clinked as he moved, the metal gleaming wetly against his skin.

Bucky pushed his soaked hair back, his nostrils flaring. “You’ve got five seconds to put that hose down before I—”

PFFFFFT.

Direct hit to his chest.

“YOU’RE INSANE!” Bucky stumbled back, arms raised like he was taking fire in an action movie. 

“Oh, I’m insane?” you shouted over the sound of the water, increasing the pressure as he tried (and failed) to dodge. “DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU DID TODAY, YOU ABSOLUTE WALNUT?”

Bucky, still getting pummeled by the water, threw his arms out. “I WAS JUST WATERING THE GARDEN—”

“WATERING THE GARDEN?! YOU WATERBOARDED MY BOSS! MY BOSS!”

Bucky froze mid-step. Blinked. “Wait. That guy?”

You turned the nozzle to jet-stream.

Bucky roared, arms flying up to shield himself as you unleashed hell. “Y/N, FOR F—C’MON!”

“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW HARD I’VE BEEN WORKING TO GET THAT RECOMMENDATION?!” you yelled, stepping closer. The force of the stream pushed him back against the fence. “DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH ASS KISSING I’VE HAD TO DO?! HE WAS GOING TO GIVE ME MY FIRST LEAD—AND NOW HE HATES ME.”

Bucky, panting, ran a hand down his soaked face, his biceps flexing with every movement. “I mean—”

“NO!” You cut him off, eyes narrowed. “You don’t get to talk.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. And then—so absolutely characteristic of him—he lunged.

You squeaked, but he was too fast.

One second, you were soaking him. The next, the hose was yanked from your hands and tossed somewhere (you didn’t care where, because holy shit).

Bucky’s arms caged you against the fence, droplets of water still trailing down his neck and collecting in the hollow of his throat. His wet shirt clung to his chest like a second skin, the muscles underneath shifting as he braced his hands against the wood beside your head. His breaths were heavy, controlled, his blue eyes searing as they locked onto yours.

A very big mistake on your part was looking down.

Because that’s when you noticed the way his shirt was now practically transparent, highlighting every ridge of his abs. His dog tags rested right at the base of his throat, shiny and wet, and suddenly you forgot every single word in the English language.

Bucky noticed.

His smirk was slow. “Cat’s got your tongue now?”

You swallowed, shifting, only for his arms to press in closer. “I—”

Bucky tilted his head. “You gonna spray me again?”

“… Maybe.”

His smile widened. “God, you’re so damn cute when you’re mad.”

Your pulse jumped, and Bucky—of course—felt it.

His gaze flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice lower now, rougher. “I—” He exhaled, then shook his head slightly. “I was being jealous.”

You blinked. “What?”

His jaw clenched, as if he was warring with himself. But then—slowly, like he was giving himself up—he leaned in, his nose brushing yours. 

“I didn’t like seeing you with him,” he admitted. “I hated it.”

The confession sent electricity through you.

You squinted. “So you, who fought in World War Two, thought the best way to deal with your jealousy was to hosing down a respected medical professional?”

He grinned, dimples peeking through. “I was very efficient.”

You made a noise of pure exasperation. “Oh my god.”

And then—because you were still so infuriatingly, ridiculously mad at him—you grabbed his soaking-wet shirt in both fists and yanked him down.

Bucky crashed into you with a growl, his breath hot against your lips for only half a second before he seized control, kissing you like he was starving for it.

His mouth slanted over yours, rough, greedy, tongue sweeping past your lips like he had something to prove. And maybe he did, because his hands—Christ, his hands—slid down, gripping, claiming, fingers digging into your hips as he yanked you closer.

Your whimper only made him groan deeper, the sound vibrating between your bodies as he pressed you back, caging you against the wooden fence.

His drenched shirt clung to his body, thin and wet, and when his chest pressed flush against yours, you felt everything. The hard ridges of muscle, the heat radiating off him, the faint clink of his dog tags as he moved against you, like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss you harder or pull back and wreck you with his eyes.

You curled your fingers into the soaked fabric of his shirt, trying to ground yourself, but Bucky—the bastard—just growled again, tearing his mouth away to kiss a path down your jaw, your neck, nipping at the skin like he wanted to mark you.

Your head thunked against the fence, your legs threatening to give out, and Bucky—because he was an asshole—chuckled, his lips ghosting against your throat.

“Easy, doll.” His voice was pure sin, raspy and smug and dripping with heat. “Didn’t realize you wanted me this bad.”

Your brain short-circuited. “Excuse me?”

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and wrecked, lips kiss-swollen and wet. “You heard me.”

Oh, that was it.

Your hands shot up to his stupidly hot jaw, yanking him back into another kiss, this time making sure he was the one losing balance.

He groaned, low and deep, his grip tightening on your waist like he was debating just hauling you up against the fence and having his way with you right there.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, Bucky was still holding you like he was trying to memorize the way you felt in his arms.

His forehead rested against yours, his fingers flexing against your waist like he was trying to calm himself down before he said something stupid.

You smirked, your lips tingling.

“… You’re so gonna make me come to work and apologize, aren’t you?” His voice was still thick with want, but there was a rough amusement under it.

You grinned. “Oh, absolutely.”

× × × ×

“Come in.” A deep, intimidatingly unimpressed voice called from inside.

Bucky let out one final breath, straightened his spine like a soldier, and walked in with you trailing behind.

Dr. Harrington.

The man was sitting at his desk, reviewing charts, his expression exhausted and vaguely murderous—the exact look of a surgeon who had been woken up in the middle of the night one too many times to deal with absolute nonsense.

Dr. Harrington glanced up. His gaze landed on you first, then flicked to Bucky.

Silence.

Then—

“Oh. It’s you.”

Bucky had never wanted to disintegrate more in his life.

Dr. Harrington slowly closed his folder, leaned back in his chair, and clasped his hands over his stomach, watching Bucky the way one might watch a particularly stupid animal at the zoo.

Bucky, to his credit, put on what you were sure he thought was a professional smile but actually looked like a man trying very hard not to run.

“Dr. Harrington,” Bucky greeted with a polite nod. “It’s, uh… nice to meet you. Officially.”

The older man stared at him for two full seconds. Then he turned to you, his brow arching. “This your boyfriend?”

Your mouth opened, but—

“Yes,” Bucky immediately said. Too fast. Too eager.

Dr. Harrington exhaled slowly, like he was trying to find inner peace. “You hosed me down like a feral dog.”

Bucky cleared his throat. “Yeah, so—about that. Um.”

You nudged him hard in the ribs.

Bucky swallowed his pride. “I’m really sorry about that, sir. It was… a misunderstanding. And also…” He inhaled through his nose, like saying this next part physically hurt him. “It was very immature of me.”

You resisted the urge to clap.

Dr. Harrington drummed his fingers against the desk. “Immature.”

Bucky nodded. “Very.”

The attending hummed. “And the reasoning for this very immature behavior?”

 “...Jealousy.” Bucky shifted, looking off to the side.

You squinted at him. “Speak up.”

His jaw ticked. He straightened his back and begrudgingly admitted, “I was jealous.”

Dr. Harrington blinked slowly, then glanced at you with unmistakable amusement. “Is he always this possessive?”

You opened your mouth.

Bucky, again, too fast, “Nope. Not at all. Super chill. Very normal.”

Dr. Harrington sighed, rubbing his temples. “You ruined my scrubs.”

“I’ll buy you new ones,” Bucky said instantly. “Better ones. Custom-tailored. You want your name embroidered? Done. You want gold-threaded seams? Got it. You want a diamond-encrusted scalpel? Say the word, Doc.”

The older man stared. “Are you trying to bribe me?”

Bucky took a moment to process this.

Then, with the utmost confidence, “...Is it working?”

Dr. Harrington let out a long, suffering sigh.

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

Bucky beamed like a golden retriever. “So… we’re cool?”

Dr. Harrington’s eyes narrowed. “You’re lucky your girlfriend is a damn good doctor.” He turned to you. “Your first lead surgery is still on, but if your. . . guard dog here shows up again with a hose, I will be the one hosing him down in the ER.”

Bucky gasped, clutching his chest. “Violence? In a hospital?”

“We’re leaving.” You grabbed his sleeve.

Bucky threw up a two-finger salute. “Pleasure doing business with you, Doc.”

Dr. Harrington waved a hand. “Get him out of my sight before I retract my decision.”

You dragged Bucky out the door, ignoring his smug grin.

“So,” he said as soon as you were in the hallway. “Am I officially boyfriend of the year for saving your surgical lead?”

You deadpanned, “You literally almost ruined it.”

“But I fixed it.”

You gave him the flattest look you could muster. “You bribed my boss with diamond scalpels.”

Bucky slid an arm around your waist, smirking. “I didn’t even know that was a thing.”

You groaned. “You’re the worst.”

His smirk widened. “And yet…” Bucky leaned in, voice dropping as he pressed a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You’re still gonna kiss me later,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin.

You rolled your eyes, pushing at his chest, “Go home will you?”

Bucky finally—finally—stepped back, that smug little smirk still plastered on his stupidly handsome face, “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, giving you a one last look before turning on his heel. Then just as he reached the door, he glanced over his shoulder, voice softer now, “Oh and, good luck on your first lead.” 

tags: @lomlbuckybarnes @winterslove1917 @hzdhrtss @mostlymarvelgirl

@missvelvetsstuff @unaxv @carnal-vogue @bmyva1entine @wheredidiputmyfish

@thereoncewasagirlnamedjane @wanda-widow @filmologetica @awaywithtime @Thealyrs

@greatenthusiasttidalwave @winchestert101 @strawberrybisou @unaxv @asgards-princess-of-mischief

@fynnwolff @veronicapaula

[earlgreylatte]

Unyielding

You’re usually at his mercy.

Omni Mark

It was hard to believe that there was once a time where Mark would unwillingly flush when just your shirt would ride up, especially now when he has you reduced to a trembling, overstimulated mess, every thrust slamming the bed post into the wall. You at least appreciate his restraint, knowing he could have ruined another bed frame.

With your brain feeling like mush, the only thing you could do was push yourself up by the elbows and attempt to crawl away from his unrelenting pace, only for him to press his hand between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned as your moist cheeks rub against the covers.

You let out a noise of protest, Mark audibly scoffing in return above you.

He doesn’t falter, simply pressing down harder when you squirm, “Don’t back down now, you asked for this, after all.”

“It’s,” you gasp, burying your face into the sheets again when a particularly sharp roll of his hips has you blanking out, “too much! Mark—“

He hushes you, hand reaching out to brush against your forehead before moving down to grip your chin, fingers digging in your cheek as he lifts your face up to prevent you from suffocating yourself, “Breathe. We’re not done until I say we are.”

You whine pitifully, the ever present storm in your body growing, slack body tensing up.

“You still have more to give. You can cry and complain, but we both know that you want this; to be used by me until I’ve taken everything—“ his voices becomes more strained, cutting off into a shaky exhale when you tighten around him, “there she is…”

You jerk when his other hand slides down and draws taut circles on your clit, “I-I’m going to…die!”

He laughs, something you’d savour under any other circumstance, before pressing a kiss to the back of your head, “Then die.”

No Goggles Mark

If he wasn’t so unfairly good at sex, you’d have kicked the freak out ages ago.

Even after what felt like hours of him hammering his dick into you until you could feel him in your cervix, his eyes were still wide open, glued to your face, watching you pant and moan pathetically, legs straining and shaking from having them tossed over his shoulders.

“I’d fucking kill someone before I let myself be pulled away from you,” he grins, and if your mouth wasn’t already agape, you’d have groaned at the fact he was still saying crazy shit even while fucking you. “Are you into that? Feel proud you have a pussy that could start wars? Like Helen of Troy, but hotter—“

“Please,” you pant slapping a hand over his mouth, feeling him smile against your palm, “shut up.”

He only grabs your wrist, and presses his face against your hand harder, groaning into it with a satisfied look in his manic eyes. You try to glare at him, but his hand reaching down to press against your stomach as you writhing. Why does his dick have to be big enough to cause a tummy bulge? His ego is already insufferable enough.

He pins your trapped wrist to the mattress, stupid grin now fully revealed again, “After I’m done with you, you won’t even think about fucking anyone else because I’m not stopping until my cock leaves an imprint—“

He can’t even finish his rant before he succumbs to his urge to attack your mouth with his, licking and sucking until you’re even more lightheaded.

“I’m going to ruin you,” he whispers excitedly against your neck. Weirdo.

Omni mark…vote Omni mark the in the poll

Why are my top posts all for invincible, this was a dc blog😭

Masterlist

[that-gay-jedi]

There's this kind of cultural clusterfuck right now where people combine outdated assumptions about scifi and fantasy with the new and fashionable revulsion for "people who only watch kids' shows" and so on.

There are very pertinent and valid reasons to be frustrated and angry behind it- strong critical thinking and media literacy skills ARE a lot rarer at this crucial moment in human history than they should be and it IS making the literary landscape especially shitty if you like controversial or highbrow or otherwise challenging books and we DO often become better company when we're well-read- but they're looking for causes in the effects.

I can't help feeling like a big missing piece of the puzzle is that the vast majority of fiction is of malleable depth. The same work that might be pure escapist id-candy if you read it with your id can provoke you to think and grow if you put in the effort to analyze it. Something crafted with authorial intent as either one can come out as the other to the reader.

I've posted before about how a lot of childrens' media is at least still intentionally made for developing minds, while a sizable amount of entertainment for adults presumes you don't want or need to develop any further and avoids challenging you on that basis.

Sure, if you're an already well-read adult actively looking to grow your capacities you should probably look for something closer to your own level, but let's not form another simplistic goddamn binary around it.

A similar thing happens where books designed to be challenging are sometimes just trying so damn hard to impress you that they ultimately don't yield the food for thought a piece that's trying to express to you does. You don't even have to be cursed with a social circle who thinks the only point of intellectualism is bragging rights to have this happen, though of course it increases the risk.

Let's not forgot how changing contexts can alter whether something is perceived as "for smart people" or "for posers" in these kinds of binaries either- I find myself often stereotyped IRL as more of an intellectual than I care to be because I happen to like really old schlock, things like Shakespeare and Homer that were in many ways intentionally id-candy to a different audience but are studied now at least partially on their historical merits.

Some of the smartest animals are those who dig through trash, while those with more discerning palates might be sheep.

my creative writing prof also HATES fantasy. as in if she asks for an example of symbolism in a book, and you give something from a fantasy novel, she’ll ask for an example from a “non-commercial book” instead.

I dunno man, people can have preferences, but the second you discount the artistic merit of sci fi and fantasy I stop taking your opinion seriously. and there’s such a big culture in Canada of only valuing literary fiction, to the point where one of our biggest authors, Margaret Atwood, refused for a while to classify her books as sci fi or fantasy. she said they were “speculative fiction”, which is entirely separate and very highbrow (sarcasm).

and I could go on about how Octavia Butler and Ursula Le Guin wrote books every bit as intellectual (and honestly, even more so) than their literary counterparts, but I am also an enjoyer of schlock!! I think there’s artistic merit in animorphs, and in isekais where a japanese schoolgirl reincarnates into a magical spider who has to level up like it’s a video game! it’s like with everything, you can’t draw a clean line that separates ‘art’ from ‘non-art’ or even ‘lesser art’, and pretending you can do so just makes you look ignorant and goofy. in my opinion.

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

i can fix him - spencer reid x fem!reader

reader makes it her entire life's purpose to restore the spark she's sure spencer reid used to have before prison turned him gray but it doesn't quite work out...

genre: angst with some smut wc: 1.3k warnings: post prison but no spoilers, grumpy x sunshine, sunshine!reader, age gap (reader is 25), lowkey enemies to lovers, spence chokes an unsub, sex used as manipulation, unprotected sex, teasing a/n: anon request!!! based on i can fix him (no really i can)

“He hasn’t been the same since he got out.”

The words rang delicately in the back of your busy brain like a constant dial tone. A conversation with Penelope brought forth a realization in you.

When you joined the BAU, replacing the youngest member with your fresh face and a childish desire to make the world a better place, you thought of Spencer Reid as untouchable. He was rational, scientific, gathering all of his beliefs from the articles he cherished. He was right, always. Every last syllable that left his chapped but plush lips was guaranteed to be the uttermost truth. Cited, sourced, and verified.

At first, it was irritating and unbearable. You couldn’t say one word without an infuriating, “actually,” following.

The fact that he practically ignored your existence didn’t help.

It wasn’t until an enlightening comment that your view changed.

“A day in a prison, how fun,” you had said.

Garcia, ever the one to gossip, had replied with, “yeah, poor Reid, I wonder if he’s going today.”

“Well, why wouldn’t he be?”

“You don’t know. Oh, you don’t know!”

Her eyebrows raised as her mouth gaped. But then she looked away, as if telling herself to keep quiet. “He should really be the one to tell you. Or Emily! Even–uh–okay, okay, I'll tell you!”

And so you sat, wide-eyed and shocked at the things she described so easily. All of it was bad. She had mentioned his mom and drugs which honestly left you confused.

Every time you looked at him, you saw the shadow of a man he has every right to be. You saw a heart that could grow three sizes if given reason.

You knew he wasn’t always this way. You could see it every time his eyes lit up when he was about to lay some new information on the team. Right before he was shut down.

Because nobody really cared about the guy who only has seventy-two items to his name (including his underwear).

You saw the way he looked at you.

With a longing–a pondering that you found yourself wanting to know its meaning.

The rest of the team communicated their impression with how wise you were despite your amount of acquired wax candles.

He never blinked.

You figured it had to do with his already large amount of knowledge. But it felt like more. Every time you contributed to a case with a smile that proved your pride, he stared at your profile almost like he could picture the day you would dwindle. And he never once allowed an UnSub to come near you.

It was like he couldn’t figure out if he wanted to protect your innocence or ruin it altogether.

Something that used to infuriate you now seemed so… insignificant.

It was wrong, you knew, to be feeling so sad for a grown man, but it came on its own. His random facts now intrigued you.

You were sure he picked up on the change in your demeanor. Because he changed too.

When you laughed at an unfunny joke, his lips would curl into this nervous but confused half-frown-half-smile that you were now determined to make last.

And so, with the knowledge that your very own laughter cracked his tough armor, you decided to take it further. You wanted him to be who he was before all the hurt. You knew you could bring back his spark if you tried hard enough.

An optimist at heart you were.

It started how it was destined to–with a convincing kiss.

Strategically, you asked for help with organizing your bookshelf. A few lingering glances and he was right where you wanted him.

Your lips met and you knew your plan would work.

Spencer was touch starved. The second you straddled him, he was yours.

All of him crumbled the first night he spent in your bed.

And then he never left your side.

Like a puppy, he followed you around and did everything you said.

It started with small things. You asked him to smile more, say “good morning” to Anderson, and remember that bad people will still be bad even if he stays the night at the BAU.

It worked too.

He was happier. He made jokes, he laughed, he did physics magic.

You trained him almost like a dog, praising him after every time he did something nice for someone else. Because–according to Garcia–he came to work and went home unlike how he used to be.

Since you, a younger, outgoing adult, forced yourself on him, he came out a bit.

O’Keefe’s was now familiar with him. Thanks to you, that is.

And, of course, an older man, you didn’t mind. Spencer was older, experienced. He made you feel grown. And you could fix him. You turned a cold, antisocial man into a silly, awkward man again.

But there were still setbacks.

For one, he allowed his anger to come through when he thought you were in danger.

There was a day where an UnSub was taking young girls who reminded him of his ex. You just so happened to resemble that ex perfectly.

When you cleared the bathroom, you forgot to check behind the shower curtain. A mistake you were sure had been made before quickly put you in the way of Spencer. His hand had wrapped around the guy’s throat so hard you thought he might actually kill him. Apprehending him against the hard tile wall, his eyes met yours in a silent scolding.

The EMT’s fingers brushed the wound on your forehead as she bandaged the cut. Spencer’s converse came into view but you didn’t look up.

Not until he spoke.

“Are you… okay?”

Two pairs of glass eyes met and you watched as his struggled not to dwell on the bandaid. “I’m fine,” you said.

But you resented how he couldn’t be the version of himself the world deserved.

For months, he’d been perfect, how come he couldn’t stay that way?

Your twenty-five-year-old brain wasn’t enough to fix the much older man in front of you. You thought that if he smelled enough strawberry lip gloss he’d change and become a boyfriend. Yet that change never happened. He didn’t seem as grumpy or isolated, sure, but it wasn’t enough for you.

You strived to fix him.

You remembered the first time you slept together.

“What are you doing?” Spencer asked, rolling his eyes.

You simply hummed, pressing another kiss to his jaw. “I was thinking… maybe… we could have some alone time? Just the two of us. Before O’Keefe’s?”

“I already told you I’m not going to the bar.”

“Maybe you’ll change your mind? Be nice to a few people? I’ll make it worth your while…”

Another sloppy kiss to his neck.

“How about that?” you inquired softly.

No answer came, only a harsh kiss. His tongue parted your lips and his hands slid under your skirt. In a second, your panties were pushed over. His belt went to the floor.

You wasted absolutely no time in running yourself over him and sinking down immediately onto his length.

Spencer’s mouth dropped as he grabbed your ass. It burned every time he slammed into your cervix but you took it, because the look on his face was everything. Groans left him every time your hips met.

A quick, frenzied pace was set. It was pathetic how fast he unravelled.

Furrowed brows and a scrunched nose gave away how long he was going to last.

“Already close?” you teased.

“God–”

And he was coming inside you, messing your skirt effectively. But you couldn’t resist.

You felt him throb as your hips rose and fell slower. “Stop it,” he croaked.

Graciously, you nodded, pressing a sticky kiss to his lips. Your head found a resting place on his shoulder.

“O’Keefe’s?” you suggested after a few beats.

Of course, he agreed.

Because who was he to disagree with you?

[prettyboykatsuki-moved]

trick of the light | n. monoma

✮ tags ; afab + fem!reader, reader is intended to be curvy, hate-sex, hooking up, blood (you bite his lip and it bleeds and u keep kissing fdkjsds), fingering, unprotected sex, post-timeskip monoma, reader and monoma are pro-heros, 18+

✮ wc ; 2.8k (dude sdkfjd)

✮ a/n ; fic for @antique-remains SORRY FOR HOW LONG ITS TAKEN. but i like this version much better dsjksjdk and i hope u like it too.

also . lord i want to fuck this guy

“Crazy bastard,”  

Monoma laughs, his teeth tugging at your lower lip, blue eyes lidded low. He’s more sober than you are, yet he seems intoxicated. “And you’re still taking me to bed, huh? Aren’t you something?”  

You land against the door of your apartment with a thump, pulling your mouth back in some silent protest—lips pulled into a thin line. You both know you’re not protesting at all. You wouldn’t last long even if you tried. He swipes at your mouth with the tip of his tongue and you open for him easy but unnerved, frustrated. He’s always been good at getting under your skin, knowing exactly what makes you tick.  

It’s not like he’s always right. It’s Monoma. That insufferable jackass who can’t shut up to save his life, always making assumptions. So unbearable that even Kirishima thinks it. So annoying you spent half of your highschool career getting into with him on the training grounds, trying your best not to strangle him and get your license revoked. He always picked fights with you specifically, even over the rest of your class as you got older 

You’ve always hated him. He shaped up a little before graduation, but now he’s— 

You feel teeth again. Monoma makes a low sound in the back of his throat that goes right to your core. Your pussy is throbbing and it’s so annoying it makes you want to cover your face. He’s thrilled when he speaks. “Pay attention, hm? I know you Class 1-A kids are all brawn and no brains but,”  

You go to protest but Monoma is quicker. Sharper. Stronger than you remember him being given the way he uses his hands to pin you into place underneath him 

You give in easily when he leans into kiss you again. One nip of his lips is all it takes for you to open your mouth back up. Your head feels heavy, arms around his shoulders as his hands hold onto you tight. His hand cups the nape of your neck and brings you forward to him. He kisses you shallowly first, drawing it out as he pulls away. When you chase his mouth, you can feel him smile against your lips. Proof that you want him, you think. It frustrates you. Both how good he is at kissing you and how easily he’s working you up.  

But he’s so good at this, whatever it is. Good at kissing you. Good at knowing where to put his hands and how exactly to feel you up. He slips his tongue into your mouth, forcing your own own open. You gasp as you fist at the back of his shirt from surprise. You sink under the weight of it. He nips into your mouth with intent, his eyes lidded. Not quite closed even as he kisses you in a way that makes your stomach churn.  

It’s something in his demeanor that’s making you want to slink back—direct conflict with whatever desire is burning you through you so quickly. You thread your fingers through his hair and pull. Monoma groans into your mouth, the hand on the back of your neck growing even tighter.  

“You’re being quite feisty,” Monoma says. His voice is pitched high with familiar amusement. “Any reason? Or are you hoping for me to have my way with you? That’s my guess at least,”  

You open your mouth to say something but Monoma leans into you again. Actslike he’s going to kiss you - his nose brushing yours. “Don’t worry. There’s a lot I wanna do with you, see?”  

Your curiosity gets the better of you. “…Like what,”  

“Aren’t you here to find out?”  

“Shut up and tell me already,”  

Monoma clicks his teeth. His lips press against your jaw, teeth pressing into the skin below - tender under the dulled ends of his incisors. There’s a touch of irritation to it. “All grown up and you still don’t have manners,”  

Words of protest die in your mouth as he trails down further, all the way down to your throat where he bites down. His mouth closes over your pulse, your spine arching up into his grasp as you slump against the wall. Something washes over you, your mind clouding. He laughs a little into your skin as his hands find the hem of your shirt - skirting past your waistband.  

Your chest rises and falls in anticipation for what comes next. He keeps you on the threads of his last words as his hand slips down further. His fingers are slender, long enough to reach easily. You were staring at them earlier at the bar. Part of you wonders if he noticed your staring.  

His middle finger slides over the the seam of your panties, just over your clit. You hiss as he presses against it. He laughs again, and he sounds a little bit like scumbag in the way he has his whole life. Instead of resenting him for it, it makes you moan. You feel your pussy get wet at the callous touch to his voice. “We have all evening, but I don’t really want to wait to fuck you. I’ve waited long enough.”  

Your hands finds purchase in his arms. His laughter only becomes brighter the way you tremble at his teasing. He’s hardly doing anything of note, but your body is so keyed up it makes you feel dizzy. “I’ve been wanting to feel you like this for so long,” He says, voice almost hysterical. “So, I won’t take it for granted. You want to know right? But I fear trying talk to you during this is pointless a task as they come,”  

He slides your panties over just slight before his fingers slide through your arousal. You’re so wet it’s so soaking, sliding down the pudge of your inner thighs. You wince hearing the slick sound of his fingers sliding through your folds. “Hah! How are you so wet?” 

You moan as you feel his middle finger push further, deeper until it comes into your cunt. Your pussy opens up easily as proof of your arousal. He’s mean. In one go, you feel his middle finger down to knuckle  - curling up immediately until they find your sweet spot. His name comes out of your mouth in a squeal. 

“Fuck, fuck—slowly, dammit,”  

His fingers are so much longer then yours. Reach much deeper. You try to squirm away from him but there’s nowhere for you to run away to.  

“You were talking so tough on the ride back,” Monoma muses. He fucks his finger in and out of you. The soft shlick shlick shlick sound feels so loud in your empty apartment. “Is this all you can handle?”  

“Shut up,” You hiss. Monoma grins against your throat. Another finger slides in alongside the first, this one slower. There’s tension to the way your pussy stretched but barely enough to make it hard. When his second fingers reach all the way down to the base  - he scissors them inside of you. You moan, suppressing the sound by keeping your lips shut. 

Monoma uses his other hand to cup your face, thumb pressing your lip and forcing your mouth open. His tone is light but the look in his eyes is harsh. Serious, almost. “None of that, hm?”  

Your glare at him weakly. He rubs against your sweet spot on purpose, palms grinding against your clit until your eyes roll back. He laughs again as you whimper, unable to suppress it. “Much better. Should I make you cum just like this, do you think? It seems like it’d make you more docile,”  

You frown at him, biting at his thumb. Your heart is pounding in your ears. The words have less bite then they should, given the way your voice breaks. “If you want me to be docile then hurry up and fuck it out of me,”  

Monoma pauses, eyes going wide as he inhales a sharp breath. He crashes his lips into yours, almost violently - more teeth than tongue. You bite hard at his lips, enough for him to bleed. Even as blood smears, iron in between kisses, it doesn’t deter either of you. 

His eyes have a crazy look to them when you pull away. Foreheads touching as he pulls his hand away from your skirt and forces them into your mouth. You make a noise of protest as you taste yourself, the length of his fingers making you gag. He asses you closely, laughter on the tip of his tongue. “It’d be cuter if you were honest and just begged me to fuck you but your attitude is what I like about you,”  

“You’re so annoying,” You say muffled. Monoma pulls away his spit covered fingers.  

“Let’s pretend I believe you,”  

You roll your eyes as Monoma steps back to undress. Your eyes travel down the length of his body. You’re both still clothed for the most part, but you can see his figure well enough. His dick is straining against the slacks he’s wearing. Your hands come up to his waistband on automatic, unbuckling his belt and undoing his zipper.  

His cock is…bigger than you thought it’d be. You can tell even through his boxers as he slacks slide down. Your hand cups his length. Monoma hisses above you. His usual arrogance melted, face red as he covers it with one hand. Your eyes widen as your heart does a little flip.  

“I can undress myself,” He hisses.  

There’s… no way you thought of this fucker as cute just now.  

You feel like you’re entranced. You squeeze the outline of his cock experimentally, feeling him twitch. He wants you just as bad as you want him. 

“You’re so hard,” You murmur. “You’re—“  

Your thoughts are buzzing. It’s weird. The shift in the air. The sudden tension that’s no longer just lust. Your heartbeat is loud but you almost feel calm. Hooking your finger in the waist band of his boxers, you tug them down until his cock is revealed. 

Even in the darkness of your apartment, you can see it clear enough. The tip, red and flushed. Long with a nice curve, slender and tight. A laundry list of dirty thoughts crosses your mind.  

Your eyes meet. A mistake maybe. The look on his face is so different than the Monoma in your head. Anticipatory. Wanting. Just a little desperate. You feel like you’re hallucinating it but you don’t think you are. There’s something suddenly sweet about him. He shudders as you wrap your hand around it, suddenly avoiding your eyes. He puts his hand on your wrist as if to stop you.  

“I’ve—there’s a condom in my—“  

“Just fuck me,” You reply. “Shut up and do it,” 

Monoma shudders over you, teeth clenched. Trying to keep up the facade but failing. He hisses.  

“Fine. Just. Turn around,”  

You oblige and press yourself up against the door, ass facing him. You expect for him to undress you but he doesn’t. His hands squeeze your hips, merely flipping your skirt up as he presses his cock against the curve of your ass. Your breath catches.  

Wordlessly, he slicks himself up with spit and sticky fingers before sliding through your folds. Your eyes roll back as your pussy stretches around his cock to accommodate him. It goes in so easy it makes you gasp. The lower half of your waist goes weak, the only thing keeping you upright being him. Where he has you sheathed on his cock and how tightly he’s gripping onto you. He moans over you. It’s loud. Deeper than you expect. Makes you clench down on him so tight your breathless.  

“You feel—” His head drops onto your shoulder. “Shit that’s so good.”  

It’s the first time you hear him curse. The first time he’s ever praised you. Fuck. You whine his name out loud, and he groans against your shoulder again.  

He pulls out before slamming right back into you, your knees nearly making you drop. You cry out as Monoma fucks you. He sets the pace more brutally then you thought he had in him. It’s hard and fast, has his teeth sinking into your shoulder blade over your sweater. Your skin is burning hot, almost feverishly as you feel it. The sensation of emptiness before being filled over and over like a drug to your brain. Your limbs weak as your mind drowns in such sudden, unexpected pleasure. Monoma fucks you thoroughly, a hand around your waist with his fingers toying at your clit— determined to make you cum right on his cock. It’s the quietest you’ve ever heard him be. Always running his mouth, you didn’t think he had it in him to fuck you like this. Wouldn’t have imagined it in a thousand years.  

It feels too good too fast. Overwhelmingly. Your stomach tenses, orgasm making your hands curl into fists as you lean against the door. You can barely make out a coherent sentence to tell him you’re getting close.In the end you only manage one word.  

“C-cumming,”  

Your orgasm crashes into you. It feels like you’re on fire, electricity sparking through your nerves. It’s the hardest you’ve ever cum in your life with any partner and by yourself. Your pussy clamps down hard on his cock as your thighs shake.  

Monoma follows you soon after, pulling out to cum against your pussy instead of in it. You quiet the small part of you thats disappointed as you feel thick, warm cum against your skin. He leans against you as the both of you stand, panting.  

Your voice is hoarse. You still feel so horny.  

“What? Is that it?” You goad, secretly hoping it’s not.  

He laughs. Not in the usual way. It’s softer. Still amused but not so annoying. It’s the orgasm talking. You feel your skin grow even hotter. “Don’t underestimate me. We have all night,”  

__  

EPILOGUE:  

You wake up the next morning sore.  

Sore but… clean. And warm.  

There’s a nice scent coming from somewhere in your house. You sit up in bed still naked, covered in hickeys and bruises. You pull the sheets over your chest as you rub the sleep from your eyes, trying to remember when exactly you slept. You don’t remember showering but the lack of stickiness makes it seem like you did.  

Which means that Monoma must’ve wiped you down before bed. The thought makes your face hot. So he’s considerate to sex partners. A pleasant surprise. You reach for your phone on your bedside to find it charging there.  

Another surprise.  

Okay. So he’s really considerate. Whatever.  

Before you get to wonder where he is, Monoma comes back to your room. He’s shirtless, wearing his boxers from last night and holding a mug of something. He blinks.  

“So you’re up. I came in to wake you. It’s noon by the way,”  

Your eyes go wide. “Noon? I have patrols,” 

He snorts. “No you don’t. You’re welcome.”  

“…You called in for me?”  

He looks at you before rolling his eyes. “Well aren’t you clever?” He says sarcastically. He walks in and places the mug on your bedside table. “I just called into your agency and said you weren’t feeling well. I gave them my hero ID so it wasn’t hard. Drink your tea before it gonna get cold,” 

“It’s for me?”  

“Well I didn’t bring it here to drink in front of you,”  

You feel incredibly conflicted, so much so you can’t even tell him to fuck off. This… this is not the way you remember him. Not at all. You frown, looking down at your lap.  

“Stop being so nice. It’s weirding me out.”  

He laughs again. “I was always nice, just not to your class and by extension not to you,”  

“You were not nice last night,”  

“Is that a complaint?”  

You stay quiet.  

“Thought so,”  

There’s a beat of silence. Monoma sighs a little, turning to leave. And, for some ungodly reason, you grab hold of his hand. He pauses and looks back at you. You frown, your voice uncertain.  

“Have you… had anything to eat?”  

Monoma pauses. “Not yet.”  

“Then…”  

“Are you inviting me on a date?”  

You look up at him, expecting to see his usual expression. And sure, he does look like an arrogant jackass like normal but he’s… smiling too. In a sincere way. You’re seriously losing your mind. There’s  no way this guy is… 

“If I was?”  

“Beat me to the punch,” Monoma says, half-way shrugging. He leans down again to get eye-level with you. Nose to nose. You pull away, very conscious of having half-woken up.  

He kisses the corner of your mouth instead of directly, smug like always. Instead of it being deeply annoying, though - you find your heart beating fast. He stands and stretches after, observing you with a hand on his hip. 

“It’d be good if you thought about how other people felt for a change. But well, you 1-A kids were all self absorbed like that. You were always so hung up on hating me, you didn’t consider why I picked fights with you over everyone else,”  

You pause. “What does that—“  

Monoma stands and turns around without answering. “I’m borrowing your shower,” 

Damn him.  

 “Asshole! Answer my question first!”  

[immortalmrwavell]

The Identity Transfer

(Original story posted February 6th 2023) This story has been mildly Updated!

Written for @the-natwolf

It’d been a long day for Nat as he arrived home feeling exhausted and wanting nothing more than to chill out for the last few hours of the evening. The first thing he did was whip up a nice hot meal for himself to satiate his growling stomach. Soon after he’d finished his meal, he was collapsing onto his bed with a drink in hand as he pulled out his phone and scrolled through some of his socials.

Naturally it wasn’t long before he found himself on Instagram. He took a sip from his drink as he flicked through the various posts. Some were of his friends, some being adverts and others being funny videos. But of course one of the most common themes while scrolling had to be the huge manly hunks showing off their half naked bodies. As a gay man, who could blame him. There would be bears, jocks, dads and meatheads alike just filling his feed to the point where more often than not Nat found himself unable to go on Instagram in public.

“Damn he looks good…” Nat mumbled to himself as he stopped on an image of a bear showing off his big hairy pecs and stomach. In honesty he’d always been a little jealous of men like that. Men that were huge and masculine. It made sense though. After all, Nat was 26 now and stood at around 5’7 with a pretty lean average build. He wasn’t really that hairy either. He might not have been as hunky as the men he drooled over but he didn’t hate his body. He was content with what he had… mostly. When there were guys out there his age and younger that were well over 6 foot and stacked with muscle, it was hard not to be at least a little envious of them.

He took another sip of his drink before his seemingly endless scrolling was stopped dead in its tracks. Up had popped a new post from one of his favourite dudes on Instagram. Ched Uzor!

He was a massive dude in every sense. Incredibly tall and insanely muscular with dashing good looks that made the smaller man swoon every time. Along with almost any gay man for that matter. He was gorgeous! So much so that Nat couldn’t help but pull up the man’s profile and start scrolling through all his posts again like he had many times before. He could never get enough of drinking that man in.

As it turned out Ched was an online coach that took on clients to help with training and getting into shape so naturally this meant he posted tons of pictures and videos dedicated to showing off his physique. Plentiful amounts of shirtless pics in the mirror to show off his god-like body for all to see. There were even a few where he stood in nothing but a towel or a tight pair of shorts that left little to the imagination. Those posts always drove Nat and many others crazy. Getting to see those chiselled abs and incredible pecs was always a treat. Not to mention those colossal arms of his that needed no introduction. Apparently he considered them his best feature and for good reason. Just one of Ched’s gigantic biceps looked to be the same size as one of Nat’s legs!

He continued to search through the bank of juicy content with a growing tent in his jeans. There were of course many workout videos to go with all the pics he put up which was just the icing on the cake. Getting to see Ched working those impressive muscles of his in an effort to pump them even bigger than they already were. He really couldn’t be more of a beast! Though his British English accent was something that frequently threw Nat off. He hadn’t expected it when he first heard Ched’s voice but he certainly didn’t hate it. He found it being quite the turn on actually!

Eventually he’d begun to lose himself a bit. Soon finding himself gulping the rest of his drink down so he could focus on rubbing his arousal over his jeans while gawking at this man’s amazing body. “Fuck… I wish I could be just like him.” Nat muttered to himself. He was just about ready to unzip and whip his dick out when suddenly a strange pop up filled his screen. It said:

- Our service has deemed you eligible for an identity transfer. From what we can gather, you wish to become like the user of this account “Ched Uzor”. Would you like us to proceed in making that possible for you? -

Beneath the message was a green accept button and a red deny button. Naturally Nat’s first instinct was to deny with strange pop ups like this but as his finger hovered over the red option, he hesitated. He had no idea why but for some reason, something deep down was telling him to accept. The logical part of his mind was telling him it was most likely a scam or a virus or some kind but at the same time something else was tugging at him. Telling him that it was real and to just trust it… so he pressed accept. After which there was a slight nervousness building in his chest as a new pop up emerged that simply read:

- Confirmation Received. Preparing Physical Transfer… Gathering Information… -

Seeing this Nat began to panic slightly. What was he thinking accepting this random link!? It was probably taking all the personal info off his phone right now! Next thing he knows he’s gonna have an emptied out bank account and most of his emails compromised! Though just as the fear began to set in, the screen changed once again.

- Preparation Complete! Beginning Physical Transfer… 0% -

Physical transfer? What the hell did that mean? Well Nat was soon about to find out. He tapped away at his phone a little, trying to back out from whatever this was but nothing was working. Even pressing the home button or holding down the power button did nothing as the percentage metre slowly began to tick up.

His eyes widened in disbelief when he noticed the pale skin on his hands beginning to darken. At first he thought he was seeing things but he couldn’t deny it when they started expanding too! Growing larger and meatier while also gaining a more weathered look you’d see on guys who did plenty of physical labour or spent lots of time in the gym. Before long his enlarged hands had turned a deep ebony in colour and that darker hue was quickly starting to spread across his light skin. He tossed his phone onto the couch in panic as he could do nothing but watch this bizarre transformation progress…

- Physical Transfer… 5% -

Next up were his forearms. His skin didn’t waste any time in converting from his usual pale white to a much darker tone. His biceps and shoulders soon followed the same example until both of Nat’s arms looked as though they belonged to a black man! He barely had time to process this though as moments after he felt a warm tingle flow up and down his arms for a second until suddenly they began expanding with muscle!

It began once again with his forearms pumping up rather aggressively with his biceps and triceps quickly following suit as they grew to seemingly no end. It wasn’t long before he’d not only filled out the sleeves of his shirt but the fabric was beginning to dig into his biceps until a faint ripping sound could be heard. That sound only got louder as his shoulders started to bulge, growing into huge boulders of muscle.

He looked… ridiculous! His arms were huge, bulky and a completely different colour to the rest of his small white body. Thankfully it wouldn’t stop there though. As soon as his arms finally reached their full enormous size, the transformation began to spread further.

- Physical Transfer… 25% -

Saying Nat was bewildered would be an understatement. He took a second to marvel at his arms by moving and flexing them a little as he stood up from the couch. The sleeves on his t-shirt were torn in multiple places and only continued to tear as he checked out his new guns. They were gigantic to say the least. He’d go as far as to say his arms were now bigger than a lot of the jock dudes he’d seen at the local gym. Though, as incredible as they were, they probably looked rather silly and out of place on his much smaller pale body.

Just then however, as if on cue, there was another warm tingle that darted around his torso. Of course Nat had been far too focused on the new size of his arms to notice that the skin beneath his shirt had continued changing. It started with small splotches of colour appearing across his chest, stomach, back and traps. At first making his skin appear tanned in those spots but as the patches spread and connected to one another, the tone deepened even further until it matched the same rich ebony skin colour his arms now proudly adorned.

- Physical transfer… 40% -

After what had just happened down with his now hulking arms, Nat already had a good idea of what to expect next when the warm tingle across his torso subsided. He stared down at himself, breath hitching slightly as he waited. And then he felt it. A strange pulsing sensation flooding through his upper body and then…

“UUROOUGGHH!…” Nat bellowed as his chest suddenly heaved forwards, his once unimpressive pecs eagerly starting to take shape. What was previously a relatively flat chest ballooned out into a juicy pair of meaty muscle tits that strained desperately against the front of his shirt. At the same time he found his torso growing thicker and wider in unison with his pecs. His back broadened more by the second until a massive rip tore across the spine of his shirt as he hulked out of it. It simply wasn’t able to contain so much man.

Nat’s eyes began to flicker and roll with all the intense feelings rushing through him right now. The changes were so overwhelming but at the same time… he didn’t want it to stop. Even smiling a little as he felt his traps start to bulge and his neck thicken slightly to compensate. But it didn’t end there. Even as all this new muscle was growing, his height had been increasing a little as well. His torso had grown significantly longer as his former 5’7 statue extended up to 5’11. It couldn’t be more obvious as his shirt rode up enough to give the world a view of his new thick dark abs.

That said he still looked quite ridiculous. He had the arms and torso of a bulky black man with the head and lower body of an average white dude. Not for much longer though.

- Physical Transfer… 65% -

The changes seemed slowed down towards his neck for time being but they didn’t stop their march downwards to the lower half of his body. Naturally the first things to be swallowed by the darkening skin were his groin and his backside. Then as the tingling began to swarm those two regions, it was near impossible for Nat to hide the huge grin forming on his face. By this point he was fully embracing the insane transformation and only wanted more! He didn’t know how it was possible but it just felt so damn good! All he could think about now was the rest of his body getting huge and how amazing it was going to feel!

The back of his jeans started to grow tighter by the second as his ass expanded aggressively, plumping itself up with more and more muscle. Before long his jeans were forced to really stretch themselves over two thick globes that put his former ass to shame. But it didn’t stop at the heavy black jock butt. If anything Nat’s attention was much more focused on his crotch as he rubbed a large hand over it. He could already feel the next change setting in fast.

His hard and already black cock started to bulge obscenely in his pants as it pumped itself bigger and fatter. Gaining not only length as it bucked and pulsed but some delicious girth as well that would stretch any hole to its limit. He almost couldn’t believe he didn’t cum on the spot as the mushroom tip grew thicker and rounder inside the confines of his jeans. He’d managed to stifle his moans for the most part up until that point but he couldn’t help letting out a long groan when his balls suddenly bloated to a huge and heavy size without warning. A glob of precum stained the inside of his pants as his nuts swelled with jock seed.

- Physical Transfer… 75% -

As was expected by this point, the ebony colour spread down across Nat’s legs causing his thighs and calves to darken multiple shades in tone. The change crept lower before finishing with his feet as they endured the same fate. He pulled up one of his pants legs slightly to confirm this was the case and he couldn’t help but get excited upon seeing the dark skin, knowing what was to come. His entire body from the neck down was black!

Moments later that now familiar pulsing sensation travelled up and down his legs. What followed was the sound of his jeans ripping at seams as his legs started to pack on years worth of hard earned muscle in a matter of minutes. His thighs thickened to watermelon crushing levels of size and power while his calves slowly but surely began to grow to the size of sturdy footballs. During which all Nat could hear was the sound of his legs tearing his jeans apart. But once again it didn’t stop there. Along with all the muscle, his legs began stretching longer as well. It wasn’t long before his already increased height of 5’11 went well past 6 foot and all the way up to 6’4! By that point his muscle had finished expanding leaving him with a set of huge meaty legs and jeans that were clinging on for dear life. They were in complete tatters like his shirt. The button on the front had popped off and his ankles were exposed thanks to the jeans now riding up his legs!

He only got a few seconds to rest however as the next little transformation wasn’t waiting right around the corner. The only warning he got was a pleasant buzzing sensation flowing through his feet before suddenly they began exploding with size. They grew at such a rapid rate that within moments they completely burst out of his shoes. With a grin Nat gave his new black size 14 feet a wriggle, loving the feel of how big they were.

- Physical Transfer… 90% -

Now there was only one part left to go and Nat was ready to embrace it. He closed his eyes with a smile as the darkening skin resumed its spread up over his neck and towards his head. It took a little longer than the rest of the body but before long there wasn’t a trace left of Nat’s once pale skin left. Every inch of him was now a rich dark tone. But with the skin done, it was time for the rest of his features to catch up!

A warm wave of tingly pleasure washed over his head as the final changes began. It started with the lump in his throat shifting slightly and readjusting to give him a slightly deeper and more intimidating voice but also one that could be sensual and charming. The main event however was the face itself. Facial features began moving, growing, shrinking, sharpening and softening in all the right places until there was almost no resemblance to the original Nat left. His jaw was stronger, his lips were fuller and his nose was broader. The only thing left was his hair but even that quickly began to recede from the shaggy mop it had once been into something much shorter. Forming into tight neat curls that were distinctly black. And to top it all off a short bristly beard sprouted across his face to match, making his visage all that much more handsome.

- Physical Transfer… 100%… Complete! Physical Identity of “Ched Uzor” assumed! -

Bringing his hands up to his face, Nat couldn’t believe what he was feeling. Everything about it felt different to the spacing between his eyes to the size of his features to the feeling of his hair. It was insane but at the same time extremely erotic for some reason. He had to see what he looked like.

He was in luck as he’d recently put up a new mirror in his bedroom of which he soon found himself stumbling towards, not used to his new weight and centre of gravity. Though despite having just gone through the whole transformation, nothing could’ve prepared him for what he saw. Staring back at him was a black muscular hunk! But not just any hunk… it was Ched Uzor! *He* was Ched Uzor! The same man he’d been drooling over online for years!

Of course Nat was far too distracted to notice but across the room on his bed, the message on his phone changed as it began to initiate the next phase…

- Preparing Mental Transfer… Gathering Information… -

Being blissfully unaware of this second transfer, Nat immediately began exploring himself with glee. He never imagined he’d get to experience what it felt like to have a body like this. Not only powerful and muscular but extremely tall as well. Before he'd always felt like the short dude in a crowd but now that he was 6’4 things are gonna be very different. Even now he couldn’t help but notice how much smaller everything seemed. How the floor looked so much further away and how things like his bed, desk and closet seemed so tiny now. It was crazy to wrap his head around but he could certainly get used to it.

- Preparation Complete! Beginning Mental Transfer… 0% -

Nat couldn’t help but love how his former clothes were now in tatters as they struggled to contain his new godly form. Despite that, he had to get a proper look. And so he gripped his torn t-shirt and with one swift motion, ripped it off his torso with ease. Tossing the fabric to one side, Nat took the opportunity to marvel at his incredible upper body. Starting by giving his juicy new pecs a generous squeeze before pinching at his dark nipples. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how many guys he’d get to fuck with a body like this. He was gonna have dudes practically falling to their knees before him.

“Mmm I wonder if I can bounce my pecs like this…” Nat mumbled to himself, loving the new English accent to his voice. He struggled at first, flexing the muscle on his chest awkwardly, but then something just hit him. Suddenly he started popping his pecs like a pro. No wonder because he’s been able to bounce them like that for years now!

- Mental Transfer… 10% -

Once he’d had his fun with his pecs, Nat made sure to give his abs a bit of attention as well, running his hands across the hard ridges with a bite of his lip before moving onto his arms. Sure he’d given them a good flex earlier but now he had the rest of the body to back them up. To say they were unreal wouldn’t do them enough justice. They were so massive and juicy that merely moving his huge arms gave him a power rush, never mind flexing them for the mirror. Getting to feel the pure strength behind all that raw muscle was intoxicating.

“Ughhh yeah!… I’m so huge!” He moaned as his enlarged cock strained against his underwear. He was getting drunk on the sensation of how huge his arms were. No wonder he considered them his best feature. He’d always had big arms so when he started training them properly they just exploded with size! Now he and everyone he met couldn’t seem to get enough of them.

- Mental Transfer… 25% -

He just had to see his body in its full glory. Not wasting any more time Chat gripped his jeans and just like with his shirt he ripped them off before tossing the remains to the side. Now all he had covering himself was an extremely tight pair of underwear that had the tip of his excited cock peeking out one of the leg holes. Overall he was pretty surprised that his underwear seemed intact. Or so he thought anyway.

After giving a quick twirl in the mirror, he was fast to notice a huge rip down the back that gave a perfect window view of his large muscle ass. Seeing this Chat couldn’t help but laugh before giving his big butt a hefty slap, enjoying the way it recoiled slightly. “Yeahhh boy! That’s what I’m talkin about!” He smirked as he took pride in the powerful glutes he’d crafted over the years, just as impressive as the rest of his body.

But of course he couldn’t ignore the main course for long. That new cock of his was begging for attention and Chat was willing enough to oblige. He turned back around to face the mirror once more before ripping off his underwear and allowing his fat new dick to spring free at last. Finally he was able to get a good look at his body in its entirety. “Thank fuck I decided to drop college so I could work on my body.” He stated proudly while turning to look at himself from every possible angle

- Mental Transfer… 50% -

Chat was completely oblivious to what was happening to his mind. With every second that passed his personal reality was being warped around him. He was starting to believe that this was all normal while his former identity was slowly being pushed out of his head to be replaced by a new one. His intelligence dropped a fair margin in the process from the IQ of an intelligent young man to the level of a blissful jock. Not dumb per say but not as bright as he once was either.

Despite everything he still found himself insanely turned on by his reflection even if the reasoning for it was becoming blurrier and blurrier with every passing moment. He gripped his thick black member with a dumb grin, loving how it filled his large hand before pumping it slowly. For some reason it felt way more sensitive than usual. Generally his cock was quite active but this was something different. It almost felt like it was begging him to cum. But he had to savour it just a tad bit longer. It felt far too amazing to rush.

He managed to keep a smooth rhythm with his stroking as he continued to explore his buff body for some obscure reason. As he did, a lot of his former smarts were replaced with a bunch of gym, workout and healthy eating knowledge. All of which was necessary to maintain a huge physique like his. He was definitely gonna need it. After all how else was he gonna be an online coach if he didn’t know all the tips, tricks and secrets to getting swole as fuck!

- Mental Transfer… 80% -

As his free hand wandered around the muscular crevices of his body, it eventually found its way to his back side. At first he was simply grabbing and kneading his cheeks which he didn’t think too much of at first. Just enjoying the feeling until he tried to slip a finger towards his hole. The moment said finger grazed that tight puckered hole however, his eyes snapped open. “The fuck am I doing!?” He questioned out loud as he drew his hand away from his ass. He wasn’t sure why the hell he’d been doing that. After all he’d never been into ass stuff before. Not to mention his asshole is clamped shut anyway. No way anything was getting up there anytime soon. Instead he just tried to shake off the weird experience and focus on jerking off instead.

“Fuuuuck bro! Why am I so horny today!?” Chet moaned as his cock began spluttering pre-cum relentlessly, getting his hand wet and sticky. “I need a hookup or something. Haven’t been with a girl in weeks…” he droned off mindlessly, not even realising the problem with what he’d just said. Yet despite everything it was still his thick muscular body that was the main attraction of his sexual desire right now.

- Mental Transfer… 90% -

Chet began stroking faster as he bounced his pecs again in the mirror, his own body seeming so hypnotising for some reason. It baffled him as he’d never felt this way about himself before but he didn’t bother questioning it. How could he when he could already feel his fat bull balls starting to churn. They were getting ready to shoot while his cock grew more and more sensitive by the second. All of his senses were being overloaded as a thick haze settled over his mind. And soon enough that pleasure began to peak…

Chet couldn’t stop himself from flexing almost every muscle in his body involuntarily as his balls squeezed, sending a fat load up towards his cock until… “FUUUUUUuuuuuccckkkkk…” Chet moaned heartily as his massive dick shot rope after rope of hot thick jock nut all over the mirror like an erupting volcano. Shooting more cum than he ever had in his life while giving the reflective glass a sticky coating of delicious man milk.

- Mental Transfer… 98%… Error Error… -

The pop up screen on his phone began to flash with a warning as the meter seemed to get stuck on 98%.. The Error message continued to flash for a few seconds before the screen changed again, jumping directly to a new screen without having shown the 100% at all.

- Congratulations! You have assumed the Mental and Physical identity of “Ched Uzor”! It would seem our work here is complete! Enjoy the rest of your day. -

The strange pop up claimed proudly before disappearing without a trace. The phone returned to Ched’s Instagram, only now it seemed to be logged in as the user of the account.

Back over at the mirror Ched grabbed his head in confusion. That was one of the biggest nuts of his life so he couldn’t figure out for the life of him why he’d done it to his own reflection instead of to a hot babe like usual. But even more importantly where the hell was he? This definitely wasn’t his house and those ripped clothes on the floor certainly didn’t belong to him. He closed his eyes and racked his brain for a moment, trying to figure everything out until it finally hit him. He was on vacation to America right now and he’d hired this dude to look after his place back in the UK. The dude’s name was Nat if he remembered correctly. He took a breather as things finally started to fall into place.

And so, with his cock turning flaccid once again, Ched grabbed some tissues and started to clean up the huge mess he’d made. After all, the people he was renting this place from wouldn’t be happy if he left their mirror with a huge cumstain on it. Once that was done he’d better find himself some clothes to put on so he can enjoy the rest of his evening and take plenty of pics for his Instagram. He knew how thirsty some of his followers were and they were always eager to get another glimpse at his incredible body. Not that he could blame them.

———

- 4 Months Later -

Ched had long since returned home to the UK. That Nat guy had done a good job looking after his house while he was gone, the place looked spotless! Though he could swear there was something eerily familiar about Nat that he just couldn’t place. He couldn’t really put it into words. It was almost like nagging in the back of your mind when you’ve forgotten something but can’t remember what. Regardless he thanked the smaller man before giving him the second half of his payment and sending him on his way.

Since then things had been normal for the most part. Making inspirational posts on Instagram about exercising and getting into shape as well as just having an excuse to show off a bit. Naturally he spent plenty of time in the gym as always and was hard at work coaching his online clients as a personal trainer. But there were a couple weird things he’d noticed recently…

For example he still hadn’t gotten over this weird fascination with his own body he’d developed lately. Every time he looked at his reflection he found his cock chubbing up for some reason and he had no idea why. Plus the amount of times he would end up groping his own muscles while jerking off. He’d never done that before but now he couldn’t help it. But don’t get him wrong though, Ched isn’t gay. He’s been hooking up with plenty of women as of late and had no problem getting it up when they pull their tits out for him. If anything he’d say he’s been fucking more pussy recently than usual. Getting into bed with hot chicks left and right to fuck their bimbo brains out… but that could be partially due to him compensating for another new desire.

You see along with his self infatuation, over these past few months Ched had also caught himself glancing at other men. Not just in an admiring kind of way either. Like he was properly eyeing them up. His gaze was constantly being drawn to their asses and bulges. It was madness! He’d never been into dudes before so why were these feelings suddenly surfacing now!?

Recently there’d been this new guy at the gym that’d he’d been speaking to. Brandon was his name. Massive dude, about the same size as Ched himself. And just like with many other guys, Ched hadn’t been able to stop himself from checking out Brandon’s huge body. Only difference being that he could swear he caught Brandon checking him out as well…

Surely he couldn’t be gay because he did genuinely love women as well. So maybe he was Bi? If that was the case, how he managed to go all these years and not realise until now was beyond him. Well perhaps if this Brandon dude really was interested he could give it a go and ask him out or hook up maybe?… see what happens?

Little did Ched know that this was actually due to the error during his Mental Transfer. It seemed a tiny percentage of Nat remained inside him and vice versa for the new Nat as well. It was that tiny part of himself that was obsessed with his body and the part that still had an interest in men. But of course he’d never know that because as far he knows, Nat is just the guy that looked after his house for a couple weeks. He of course was the hunky Instagram model and online coach Ched Uzor! Only now he was a little gayer than before. And you know what? He was okay with that.

[exponentialjest]

My daylight job is part of the legs of the shipping process but I don't want to get specific.

I see a lot of people who hate the post office because they had a package get lost or something came really late.

I don't think people fully realize that their mail carrier is also making last leg delivery for a lot of the carriers. If you ever get a shipping label that has multiple shipping companies listed or isn't really clear who's carrying it, it's usually has the USPS somewhere in it's journey.

Amazon contracts the USPS for a bunch of last-leg shipments because they are they only way to get them in rural areas. By last-leg, I mean that usually these will get sorted to the nearest regional facility for th carrier before it's passed off to the USPS for the last sorting and delivery.

They make it look like they work more with UPS but, frankly, they are just using UPS for package drop offs and returns. This could lead me into a whole other rant about QR codes and rural communities but not today.

They also have way more Amazon delivery drivers out now but in my rural ass area, we get both their drivers and USPS last-leg.

What I'm saying is that corporate America has already been leeching on USPS for a while. That's why the service has been bogged down like this for several years. Every USPS worker I interact with is tired and overworked.

And maybe this is a little bit of reach but these maga fucks have already poisoned like 75% of social media platforms. Seems like now their also going after the old ways of communicating with each other.

Like, you can send someone a postcard anywhere in the US for about $0.60 if you use a postcard stamp. You can get something like 80lbs-100lbs index cardstock, standard 8.5"x11", and split it into equal quarters. You could also do this with A4, if you have that, for some reason. Congrats, you now have 4 blank postcards that are the right proportions for a postcard stamp, which is far cheaper than an forever stamp.

Stamp goes in the right top corner; the recipients address goes in the middle but can be the middle left if you need space; Your return address (optional) goes in the top left corner.

Sure, the internet is free, but I am already seeing homemade postcards like this being sent to politicians. I've seen them going through the EDDM system to carpet neighborhoods.

Don't you think that's part of why they're targeting the post office?

Next time you're around when the mail gets delivered, ask your delivery person if they're understaffed or not.

But don't hold them up too much, they have a lot of work to do.

[traveler-at-heart]

Love is a winning serve

Sequel to Game, Set, Match that was on my drafts and just decided to post lol.

Tennis player Natasha Romanoff x F!R

--

The grass is always greener at the start of the season.

No matter how many times you step in, Wimbledon always takes your breath away. The view is especially magnificent today, as your eyes follow the figure of your girlfriend, Natasha Romanoff.

Fury grumbles next to you.

“Is there a problem?”

“She’s down! 3 games to lob on the first set. Why are you not freaking out right now?” the man whisper yells and Melina glares, shushing him.

“She’s bored” you say after she loses the fourth game.

“What did you just say?”

“Natasha’s bored. She won Roland Garros 6-0, 6-1, so she wants to make this at least a bit entertaining”

“Well, could she possibly play sudoku or something else to combat this boredom? If I wasn’t bald already I’d be losing my hair from the stress”

After the break, and as you suspected, Natasha wins three games in a row. You admire her graceful movements as she sprints across the court. She’s wearing all white, as tradition requires. Such a shame that her team opted for a polo shirt. Yes, she looks elegant, but you’d rather see those toned arm muscles as she exerts herself.

“Fuck”

Natasha’s outburst and the crowd’s gasp break your train of thought.

“Are you kidding me? That ball was so in” she challenges the call.

“That’s the rule” umpire Steve Rogers, aka Mister Manners, says.

“That’s bullshit”

“Ms. Romanoff, language!” he says, truly shocked. You’re amused, because Natasha can do so much worse than that.

So much dirtier…

“Stop it” Yelena elbows you.

“Stop what?”

“Looking like you’re ready to throw your panties to the court”

“If that keeps the press from asking about her little outburst, be my guest” Fury sighs.

But you’re already on it.

After throwing her racket across the court, Natasha has to go the extra mile to win 7-5 on the first set. Throughout the rest of the match, you make sure your left hand is showing the big diamond ring Natasha gave you.

“You’re already trending on Twitter” Yelena says, amazed. “Thank God you’re on our side, evil genius”

Natasha wins the second set easily, and is saved from the court interview by the English rain.

“Nice. The tennis part, not the tantrum in the middle of the game” Fury says.

“Come on, the umpire was being an idiot. How long do I have before the press conference?”

“20 minutes, give or take. Don’t worry, they’ll be nice to you”

You show the ring and she nods.

It all started as an honest mistake. Yes, Natasha had given you this particular ring as a present, and yes you’d wore it in public. But the speculation of an engagement was enough to boost her public persona, so you ran with it.

“You know, when I get you an actual engagement ring, it will be huge” she says, pulling you closer to kiss you.

“I don’t have a preference on that regard, Miss Romanoff” you smile against her lips.

“Really? I was under the impression you liked how big my stra…”

“Aaaah! Stop. I should have stayed in New York!” Yelena says, leaving the locker room in a rush.

—

“Have you set a date?” is the first thing a journalist asks during the press conference.

“Date for what, David?” Natasha plays dumb.

“We’ve all seen the huge diamond ring on Y/N's finger. Or maybe you’re planning on getting married right in the middle of the court once you reach the Golden Slam”

“No comment” Natasha says, holding back laughter.

—

It’s been two years since the start of your relationship with Natasha. Once it became clear that you were both committed to making it work, you quit your job and joined her team, as PR manager/mediator when Fury and Natasha were butting heads.

At first, you were worried that I’d be too weird to work with Natasha, but she valued your input and trusted you. Two things she had never found in anyone else aside from her family and Fury.

The fact she had won 3 grand slams last year and was on route to completing the golden calendar this year was a testament to how good you were as a team.

Knowing her after match routine, you figure there’s some time to catch up with Bucky’s first round match. He gets the job done in straight sets, and you wait for his interview to be over.

“Hey, defending champion” you say, looping your arm around his. He smiles.

“Hi, coach Y/L/N”

“Glad to see umpire Jarvis wasn’t a total asshole to you this time” you mutter, looking around as a couple of kids approach Bucky for autographs.

“Might be too busy with all the Maximoff drama”

“Oh?”

Though Wanda had stopped trying to mess with Natasha since you two became public, you were always on edge when it came to her. It couldn’t hurt to have any extra intel on Maximoff.

“Word on the street is that they broke up” Bucky lowers his voice, placing his hand on your back. “You didn’t hear it from me”

“My lips are sealed”

“Hopefully not for food. I’m starving”

“Lunch on me, champ”

—

“I’m home” you joke as usual, stepping foot on the hotel suite. That had been the hardest part of your new life.

You didn’t spend more than two weeks in the same country, and being alone with Natasha was a rare ocurrence.

There were times when you missed your couch and the Indian food from around the corner of your apartment.

The sight that greets you is enough to make up for it.

Natasha is stretching in nothing but leggins and a sports bra, her perfect ass on full display as she bends over in a complicated yoga stance.

“Now that’s a champion’s ass” you whistle.

The redhead smiles and straightens, raising her arms above her head. You take the opportunity to wrap your arms around her waist, kissing her neck. “Where’s everybody?”

“They went to get some food”

“Perfect timing” you whisper against her skin, enjoying the soft smell of lavender. Your hands wander all the way down to her ass and slap playfully.

“You know the rule” Natasha warns, but still melts against your touch.

You huff, annoyed. Stupid, stupid rule. No sex during tournaments.

“I have to wait two more weeks to taste you? How is that fair, baby?”

“Don’t I make it up to you everytime?”

“Let me just…” you kneel hugging her hips and placing kisses on the small of her back. “I’ll take care of everything. Just bend over and spread those pretty legs for me”

“Y/N…” you can tell by her tone she’s ready to give in and you smile.

“Hope you are all starving… ah! AGAIN! I quit” Yelena shouts as she walks in on you.

“Step away, Y/N” Fury warns as you stand up and whimper pathetically against Natasha’s shoulder. “Go take a cold shower.”

“Not fair” you cry out. Natasha chuckles, leaning forward and kissing your neck. A blush spreads as you imagine her lips in other parts of your body. “Really not fair”

—

It wouldn’t be Wimbledon without a rain delay. Considering Nat lost the second set against Danvers, a little break might be good for her.

As you wait for the weather to improve, you keep looking at your calendar and the meeting that no one knows about. Of course it has to happen the minute the match resumes.

“I’ll be right there” you promise, knowing it will be a quick call anyway.

“Ramonda speaking” the voice on the other end greets. She knows it’s you, but still makes you introduce yourself. You expect nothing else from the head of the WTA. “Have you thought about my proposal?”

“It’s very generous… but I’m afraid I’ll have to reject it”

Head of Communications for the Women’s Tennis Association. Being on the citcuit for two years had put you on the map, beyond your wildest expectations.

But you would never leave Natasha. You are a team.

“You’ll still be able to see your girlfriend, if that’s what you’re worried about” the woman says, with a certain condescention in her voice.

“Like I said… it’s very generous. But I am where I need to be. Thank you, Ramonda”

There’s a pause and you wonder if the woman will call you a fool and hang up.

“Look, our current director is leaving at the end of the USO anyway. We’ll hire a consultig firm for a bit, and I hope you’ve had more time to think about this”

“Alright”

Your answer will be the same, but right now you need to go back to the game. Ramonda says her goodbyes and promises to send a better offer by the end of the month.

It makes you dizzy, to think that a local news reporter like yourself could ever do such a huge job.

“You look a little pale” a voice with a thick Russian accent says as you leave the locker room.

It takes you a moment to recognise it.

“Alexei”

“Surprised to see me?”

“Well, yes. Considering you’re banned from the club” you hope that he’ll take offense and end the conversation. But the man laughs, showing his gold teeth.

“I still have my connections”

“Natasha is not here”

“I’m not here to see her. Not right now, at least”

“Then what do you want?”

Alexei sighs, sitting in a bench and looking at you with a phony smile. He looks so much older, and nothing like the man that would get entire stadiums to cheer for him.

“You know I taught her how to hold a racket? How to throw a ball? She was serving before she knew how to write her name”

“Sorry, I don’t have time for this sentimental daddy of the year bullshit”

“I want her back” he explodes, standing up and blocking the exit. You look up, aware that he’s a lot taller than you.

He’s scaring the shit out of you and you hate him for it.

“She listens to you. Put on a good word for me. And then, she’ll come to her senses. That’s how Natalia is, she always needs a little guidance”

“If you go back to coaching her, it would be the worst mistake of her career. So, no. Now move. I have a match to get to”

Alexei punches one of the lockers and you try not to jump at the sound.

“I’ll make sure you regret this”

All you can feel is your heart beating out of your chest. What can you do to escape this situation?

“You better leave now, jackass” Bucky steps out of nowhere, shielding you with his body. “Security is on their way”

The man grumbles, exiting the room. You sigh with relief, allowing Bucky to hold you for a second.

“You ok?”

“Yes. Thank you, Buck”

“Natasha has to know about this. He could be dangerous”

“I don’t want to worry her. It will be fine” you dismiss his concerns quickly, but he looks annoyed “I’ll tell Fury, that should be enough. You have a match to prepare for, I’ll leave now”

Despite his protests, you walk out of the room, heading to the player’s box without paying attention to anything.

“Y/N?” Fury insists when you’re seated and you finally snap back to reality.

“What?”

“Did you two fight? Because she’s about to lose the match and you look like you’ve seen a ghost”

“What do you mean she’s about to lose?” you look up, noticing Natasha is two games down.

Well, shit.

“No, we are not fighting. And the reason I look like I might pass out is because Alexei was here”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you about it later” you say, watching as Danvers prepares to serve.

This eighth game isn’t any better.

One point and that’s it for Natasha.

“She’s gonna pull through” you say, hopeful.

And miraculously, she does. The redhead saves three match points, wins a couple of games and forces a tiebreak.

You sigh with relief as the umpire speaks those magic words.

“Game, set, match, Romanoff”

Little did you know, this wouldn’t be the last bump on the road.

—-

A questionable reputation

The world of tennis knows her as a devout girlfriend, strategist and PR manager to her partner of two years, Natasha Romanoff.

And yet, we know very little of Y/N Y/L/N as she seeks to share some of Romanoff’s record breaking glory.

An insider has shared that they met two years ago during the USO, when the Russian player was having one of the worst seasons of her career.

The public perception has been that Y/L/N contributed to Romanoff’s success, but recent information has put that into question.

As it stands, Miss Y/L/N has a habit of blurring the lines of professional and personal relationships. She has been tied romantically to Yankees’ superstar Sam Wilson and current ATP number one Bucky Barnes.

It seems as if the loving girlfriend is actually a calculated gold digger, and Romanoff might be the next target in her long list of infamous conquests.

—

Well, shit.

Not only did Alexei drag your name (and career) through the mud, but he also managed to put Sam and Bucky in a PR nightmare of their own.

You severely underestimated him.

What a time to post the article. Natasha is about to make her way to the quarterfinals, which means the press conference will definitely include some questions about her “gold digger girlfriend”

A tear rolls down and you try to keep it together, but it feels like the world is on your shoulders.

Your phone pulls you out of the miserable thoughts, but your stomach drops again when you see the name on the screen.

“Yes?” you greet, wiping more tears from your face.

“Alexei is after you” Ramonda drops the bomb without so much as a greeting and you laugh.

“No shit”

“You knew” the woman says, confused.

“He asked me to convince Natasha to take him back as trainer. You can imagine what my answer was”

“I see. He called me too, you know? I don’t understand what he was expecting to get out of it. Alexei’s not a friend of the WTA. He suggested someone else for the job we’re offering you, which is frankly unbelievable. I wanted to call you and let you know that he’s cashing in the few favors he has left to bring you down”

“What would you do in my place, Ramonda?” you pinch the bridge of your nose, feeling a headache coming.

“I’d give him hell”

The playful tone makes you laugh.

“I got nothing to lose, right?”

“Good luck, Y/N”

She hangs up the phone, but the conversation keeps playing in your head.

You may have underestimated Alexei, but he doesn’t understand one thing. As a team, Natasha and you are fucking unstoppable.

So, you take a deep breath, stand up, and go look for your partner.

—

The post match routine is the same as usual. The only thing missing is you.

“She’ll be right here” Fury says, nodding as Melina checks Natasha’s leg, where she felt a cramp.

“Pickle juice” Melina reminds her daughter and she rolls her eyes.

“But it’s so gross, Mama”

“Gross, but effective”

While they wait for you, Natasha walks to the bathroom. The first thing she hears upon entering is someone puking their guts out.

“You ok?” she asks, not knowing who was there.

A beat of silence and then a voice that she knows all too well.

“I’m fine”

Wanda.

“You never threw up before a match. Are you nervous?” the Russians tries to joke while she washes her hands, but stops when Wanda exits the bathroom stall looking half dead. “Jesus! What happened?”

“It’s nothing. Morning sickness” Wanda answers, too tired to care about keeping her pregnancy a secret anymore.

“Oh. Congratulations” Natasha says in an even tone.

“You sound more excited than Jarvis” Wanda says, splashing some water in her face. “Says he’s not ready to committ after two years. What am I supposed to do with twins by myself?”

“Twins?”

Wanda is about to speak when she throws up in the sink once again.

“Here. Let me just…” Natasha rushes to her side, offering some paper towels and craddling Wanda’s face between her hands as she cleans her mouth.

“I’ve missed you”

“I…”

Natasha places a strand of auburn hair back in her place out of pure habit. This is the closest she’s been to Wanda in years, outside of the court.

Her heart aches over Wanda, how terrified and alone she looks.

The redhead is about to say something else when the door opens.

“Oh”

Natasha turns around, her hands dropping immediately to her sides.

“Y/N…”

“Don’t” is all you say as you leave, not looking back.

You’ve seen enough.

—

It was wise to keep some things to yourself. Like this little bar downtown, where Natasha would never think of looking for you.

She must be going crazy, considering your phone is off and the last time you saw her she looked ready to kiss her crazy ex.

Bucky said Wanda and Jarvis broke up.

So, maybe this whole time you were just a distraction. And now, with the article and Wanda being single again…

No. Natasha would never do this to you.

“I’ll have whatever she’s having. Plus another one for her” someone says behind you.

“Carol” you turn, smiling at the woman. She squeezes your shoulder, taking a seat on the bar stool next to yours.

“I thought you’d be preparing for the next round”

“Nah. Gold diggers don’t work, we just cash” you joke but she doesn’t laugh.

“That article was bullshit. Everyone who has ever worked with you knows that. And if Natasha believed it, you’re better off without her”

“I don’t know if she believed it. I left after I saw her with someone…” you sigh, taking a drink from the new glass the bartender brings over.

How you wish you could erase that memory of Natasha and Wanda.

“I thought her and Maximoff had called it quits” Carol says, shocking you. “What? They weren’t as sneaky as they thought. The rest of us didn’t care enough to mention it”

“Wow”

You sit in silence, drinking and looking out the window. It’s gonna rain again.

“If I had known…” Carol starts, but just shakes her head. You encourage her with a nudge of your elbow. “I would have asked you out. But Natasha had to beat me to that as well. As she does with everything”

“Oh, come on” you say shyly, biting the inside of your cheek.

“I don’t know, in the court I’m pretty good at fighting Natasha. Maybe I can give it a try off it”

“I wouldn’t recommend it” you smile, looking over at the menu as a way to change the subject. “You got me a drink, I’ll get you a cheeseburger. How about that?”

“Deal”

—

By the time you go back to the hotel, the rain is pouring. Carol was staying very close to the bar where you had dinner, so she lent you her jacket to keep you dry during the ride home.

You’re walking down the hallway, when the door to your room opens.

If looks could kill…

“Where the hell have you been?” Natasha says through gritted teeth.

You were expecting an apology, not a scolding.

“Out” you walk to the room, eager to change into some dry clothes.

“Yeah? Danvers is your new target, or what?”

Your blood runs cold. Hell, you’re even sure Natasha regrets it as soon as the words leave her mouth.

But she still won’t apologize.

She just stares and that pisses you off.

“Excuse me? Say that one more fucking time, Natasha”

“What do you want me to think? There’s that stupid article going around and just now, someone takes pictures of you hugging Danvers in the rain. It’s all over social media”

“She was helping me with her jacket, Natasha. But, while we are on the subject, how is Wanda? As charming and batshit crazy as usual?”

“That’s different” Natasha scoffs and you laugh.

“You are unbelievable. Truly. One of a kind” you go back to looking for clothes, praying the hotel has a spare room you can book.

“It’s not what it seems. She was going through a rough… just trust me, ok?”

“What? Is it her break up?”

“I don’t have to tell you everything” Natasha says, and you feel like crying.

You threw your life out the window for someone who was waiting for the one that got away.

“Yeah, you’re right. You absolutely don’t have to tell me anything”

“I don’t need this right now, Y/N. Think whatever you want”

She walks out, slamming the door behind her.

Everything you believed in has fallen apart.

—-

It was supposed to be an important day. However, your phone has been off since the day you got on a red eye back to New York City.

Bucky is the only person you talk to through video call using your old computer. He’s so pissed off that he easily agreed to not bring up Natasha at all.

So, Saturday comes and you have no idea if she reached the Wimbledon final or not. You stay in your living room all morning and afternoon, watching a medical drama.

Your heart is so broken, and the last time you felt this kind of pain was after losing your father.

At some point, you’ll have to start thinkig about getting a job. There’s no way in hell you’ll take Ramonda’s offer, because it would mean working with Natasha at some point.

For now, staying in your couch while you wait for your food to be delivered is enough.

“Finally” you mutter, standing up to walk to the door. You open without looking who’s on the other side.

“Hi”

Natasha is standing in the middle of the hallway. You look at the containers she’s holding and realised she hijacked your order.

“That’s mine”

“Can we talk?”

“There’s nothing to talk about”

“Yes, there is”

“No, there isn’t” you reach for the food and she steps back. “Seriously? Fine, I’ll eat leftovers. Whatever”

You begin to close the door, but Natasha stops it with her hand.

“I’m sorry”

“What for, Natasha?” you say, but she doesn’t answer. “For not explaining whatever that was with Wanda? For impliying I was cheating on you with Carol? Or for stealing my fucking food?”

There’s no answer.

“Everything you just said. And for not protecting you from Alexei. Fury told me everything. Barnes provided some extra context in a very loud voice too”

You want to laugh at the idea of your best friend yelling at Natasha. He’d been waiting to do it for so long. It’s apparent that Natasha has no intention of leaving so you walk away, leaving the door wide open.

The redhead takes the hint and goes inside, closing the door behind her.

“Have you eaten anything?”

“There was some food on the plane”

“Wait, what?”

“I… won Wimbledon”

“Congratulations” you say without a hint of excitement.

“And when I looked to my box, you weren’t there. I didn’t even climb to hug anyone. I got through the ceremony, then went to the airport and on a plane here”

“Natasha, are you insane?” you go back to work mode immediately after hearing how stupid she’s acting. “You know you have to stick around for the interviews, the pictures, the dinner. The press is gonna have a field day speculating…”

“I don’t care”

“I do. We are getting you back on a plane to London. Not to mention the Olympics are in two weeks on a completely different surface. You should be training”

There is absolutely no way in hell that Natasha will miss the milestone of her career because of you. You find your phone tucked away in your travel bag and plug it, ready to call Fury and make a plan.

“Y/N, I’m not going back unless you come with me” Natasha walks to your room, leaning against the door.

“I- I can’t. Not now, Natasha” you look away, tears rolling down your cheeks. “You should go”

“Ok”

She agrees so easily to let you go, or so you think until she speaks again.

“I’ll be back to get you some breakfast”

“What?”

“I’m going to a hotel. I meant what I said earlier. The only way I’m going back is if I can fix the mess I made”

Natasha lingers for a second and you sigh.

“Use the guest room” you give in, turning to cut off her thank you. “Just for tonight. One way or another, I’m making sure you go back to London”

—

The call with Fury takes an unexpected turn.

“What do you mean you don’t want her back?”

“This past week was hell for all of us. Did you see how hard she was hitting the balls? I almost thought she’d break them in half mid play”

“So what? She’s so close, Nick. We have to help her to the finish line” you plead. Just two more things and she’ll become a legend. That’s the way it was always supposed to be.

“Don’t tell me you’ll be the one to put the sport above your relationship. I thought it was all Natasha’s doing”

No, it wasn’t all Natasha’s doing. This past week has been eye opening for you.

You gave up your life to follow her, you decided to become her rock. She didn’t ask for anything, and even when she crossed a line, being too focused on the game to check on you, your immediate reaction was to minimize your needs. In your mind, Natasha came first because she was extraordinary; a once in a lifetime talent.

But what about you?

“You still there?” Fury says, making you snap out of it.

“Yeah. Just thinking”

“Listen. If she doesn’t want to come back, no one’s going to force her. I think you know better than anyone that nothing can change Natasha’s mind. Well, only one person can”

“Who?” you think about Melina or Yelena. They can talk some sense to her.

“You” Fury says before hanging up.

Well, that won’t do. You’re done telling her what to do, or when. She’s a big girl and she can handle herself.

“How’s Fury?” she says as soon as you walk out of your room.

“He wants you on the next flight to Paris” you lie to her, but she laughs.

Of course she knows better.

“If you want me out of your place, just say the word and I’ll find a hotel. But I’m not leaving until I fix this. Hey, are you listening to me?”

“There’s a seat available for tonight’s flight” you ignore her, pulling out your credit card to buy her a ticket.

“Stop it!” she protests, snatching the card from your hands.

“Natasha, give it back. You need to practice before the Olympics”

“Why are you so worried? Clay is my best surface” she argues and you take the bait.

“Your best surface is grass but stats don’t reflect that because there’s like two championships! Why am I even arguing with you?”

“I don’t care about any medals if you’re not there” she insists, going after you as you pick up a basket of laundry and walk to the bedroom.

“Really? You’re fine with Maximoff taking it from you? The one thing missing in your career? Olympic gold. Boy, she must have done a number on you on that bathroom, huh?” you say bitterly, trying to shut the door, but Natasha pushes inside.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I saw how close you were. Her hands on your waist, yours on her face. Fine, be with her, I don’t give a shit”

“It looks like you do” Natasha tries to joke when you throw the clothes on the bed. “And Wanda’s not competing. She’s pregnant”

“Congratulations” you smirk, walking out of the room. Natasha stays annoyingly close and you’re aware of how small your apartment really is when you keep moving but there’s absolutely no way of putting distance between you two.

“Ok, now you’re just being an ass. You don’t believe I want to be with her”

You laugh, but it comes out as a sob. Natasha’s smile fades, and she tries to inch closer to touch you, but you step back. She doesn’t push it this time.

“You’re the one who was quick to assume I was flirting with Carol. The one that believed the article. It hurt, Natasha. Especially because I quit my job and my life to be with you”

Your words are met with silence. Not even an apology. Great.

“Wait” she says a second later when you’re opening the door to leave.

“Don’t. I need to be alone”

Luckily, she listens to you.

As you walk down the street to get some food (because yes, you’ll stress eat like you always do), Fury’s words come back.

You could change her mind.

But you don’t want to. She’s a grown woman, a professional athlete with a career to think about. If she wants to throw it all away, that’s fine.

That’s not your problem anymore.

“Hey, Y/N” Pat greets as you enter your favorite diner. “Shouldn’t you be at the Olympics?”

Since you left to travel with Natasha, there’s always a tennis tournament on their television. Apparently it’s a big deal for everyone when the camera pans to the player’s box and you’re there.

“Ah, I had to come back for a bit, I don’t think I’ll make it to Paris” you say, trying to avoid the topic.

“Is that why you weren’t at the Wimbledon game either?” the woman says with a frown and your eyes widen. “It was all the commentators were talking about, sweetheart. They said it was a miracle she won. You didn’t watch it?”

“Nope”

“Well” she turns to the screen and shushes a customer complaining about watching baseball. “There. Watch for a bit while I get you some food”

“Pat, it’s scary how much you know me” you smile in spite of yourself.

It’s a though watch. Natasha lost the first set and barely managed to get the second one in a tiebreak. You notice how she kept looking at the player’s box, and then shaking her head, muttering to herself.

Pat gets you a chesseburger, shaking her head at the way in which your eyes are glued to the screen.

During the break before the third set, she sat looking defeated, and you notice she was running her hands up and down her left arm.

Of course.

It’s the spot where you always write something or put on a smiley face before a match. A spot only she can see.

Even if you already know the result of the match, you cheer when she wins. Natasha doesn’t. It looks like she couldn’t care less about winning, she won’t even go to her box.

“Quite the watch, huh?”

“Yeah. It was… very stressful. I would have shouted at her if I had been there”

“Like your dad during the NBA playoffs?” Pat jokes and you laugh.

“Yeah. Would have gotten banned too”

“Here. Take this back to her. Sleep it off” she says, handing you a package with a burger. You nod, smiling when she tells you to go back home.

You’re walking back when the rain starts.

“Come on” you protest. To your surprise, Natasha meets you halfway there, holding an umbrella.

“Pat called me” she explains when you inch closer, feeling thankful as she shields you from the cold drops. “Come on, let’s go home”

Natasha places her hand around your waist, and even if it is only to keep you under the small umbrella, it makes your heart beat faster.

Once you’re back in the apartment, she places the umbrella in the hallway.

“I’ll get us some towels. Sorry, your food got wet”

“It’s ok” she smiles, taking the bag.

You go back to your room, getting rid of your wet clothes, and searching for a couple of towels among the mess you left earlier.

“Sorry, I should have knocked” Natasha says, but is unable to keep her eyes away from you.

“It’s ok” your voice shakes.

It feels like a small gift from fate. You’re never completely alone, you’re always thinking about the next tournament. But now, it’s just you and Natasha, and the rain drowning out the rest of the world.

She approaches you first, pulling you by the waist until you lean your head on her shoulder.

“You’re cold” she says against your temple.

“Let’s take a shower” you say, surprising her.

It also takes you by surprise, considering how pissed you were. Considering she hasn’t said she’s sorry.

But it feels like it’s been forever since she’s been yours and no one else’s. Your Natasha, not the tennis legend, the number one in the world.

No one can have her, not like you do.

“Ok” she nods after a second, allowing you to lead her by the hand. It’s a small shower, and definitely not as fancy as the ones in those hotels you stay at.

You laugh and giggle as you struggle to fit inside, and Natasha reaches behind you to get the water running.

“Nat!” you shriek when the cold water hits you. “It’s the other one”

“I always forget your shower’s messed up” she apologizes, and you push against her to run away from the stream. “Not that I’m complaining” she adds when you invade what little personal space is left in the shower.

Before you can protest further, she kisses you, slowly at first and then with more urgency.

“Feeling warmer?” she teases against your lips and you smile.

“Very much so”

Her hands travel to your waist, one trailing lower until her fingers are circling your clit.

“Nat” you sigh against her skin. She teases your entrance, and takes her time playing with your clit. It isn’t the friction that makes you come, it’s the soft kiss she places against your ear as you keep moaning.

“It’s ok, let go, baby. I got you”

And as you ride out your orgasm, digging your nails in her back, you feel complete again.

—

The sounds of the city wake you up. As you open your eyes and look up, Natasha is already awake, admiring you.

“Morning, detka”

“Were you watching me sleep like a weirdo?” you grumble, sinking further in her arms.

“I missed this view. Thought I’d never get it again”

You don’t say anything, and stay in her arms until your stomach protests.

“I’m making you pancakes” Natasha says, kissing your temple and leaving the bed.

Even if you want to stay in bed, you follow her to the kitchen and watch as she gets everythig she needs for breakfast.

“I’m surprised you have anything at all”

“Did some shopping the day I got here” you comment, and she nods, trying to act unfazed.

Natasha cooks in silence, and as she places a plate in front of you, kisses your temple.

“Can I say something?” Natasha asks after a beat of silence. You nod, bracing yourself for the worst. “For the last two years, you’ve done what I wanted. I never ask you what you want or need. So, today I want you to tell me what do you want me to do”

“I want you to go and win the gold medal” you answer.

“Will you come with me?”

“I have to stay here… think about what I want” you say. “Natasha, I love you but my life has been all about tennis for the past two years. And I did it because I love you and we’re a great team… but if you were to break up with me tomorrow, you’d still have your career. And what about me?”

“Look, you’re right. We make a great team. But you need to tell me things too. If I had known Alexei was threteaning you, I would have handled everything”

“I didn’t want to worry you” you say, looking away.

“You’re my biggest concern. My reason to do this” Natasha says, holding you by the chin. “I’m sorry I made you doubt it, detka”

You lean forward, kissing her. After a few moments in her arms, you take a deep breath.

“In the spirit of transparency… Ramonda offered me a job as Head of Communications of the WTA”

“What? That’s amazing! When do you start?”

“I haven’t accepted the offer. If I do, I won’t be able to be with you all the time, Nat” you smile sadly, knowing you couldn’t do that to her.

“If that’s what you want to do, I’ll support you” she says.

“Not sure yet. And anyway, with everything that happened the offer might be rescinded”

You eat in silence for a moment, thinking about the things you discussed with Natasha.

“I guess I’ll take the next flight to Paris”

“Call Stark, ask for the jet. It will be faster” you roll your eyes, knowing Natasha hates talking to the former professional turned business man.

“Pass”

“You’re so stubborn” you complain, and she kisses your cheek, taking your plate to wash it.

“So, any advice when I move back to clay?”

“Patience is rewarded. Agression is not” you say, the same way your father always told you when watching those tournaments.

“Agression is my thing” Natasha grumbles.

“I know. Which is why clay is not your best surface”

“I know” she smiles, walking back and carrying you to the bedroom. “Now, let’s do some cardio. Just so I can get back into shape”

—

“Passport? Money? Your special socks?” you check as Natasha goes over her small suitcase.

“Baby, I didn’t bring a lot with me. I didn’t even shower after the game. It’s fine” she says, walking to the door.

Natasha hesitates before reaching for the doorknob, turning to look at you. You frown, arms crossed as you try to figure out what she’s thinking.

“This isn’t how I wanted to do it” she sighs, reaching for her pocket and pulling out a small box. You gasp. “But I realise that this place feels like home. Because you’re here. I know we go to all these amazing locations and I could set up a romantic dinner or a huge show, anything to impress you. Hell, I even had it with me at every final this year, thinking I might propose after winning”

“Nat…”

“I know, you would hate that” she smiles, placing the box in your hand and looking at you. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. If it is here, while you work and I become a personal trainer for wealthy, senile people, so be it”

“Oh, that would be fun to watch” you chuckle.

“You don’t have to answer yet. But know that I love you, and I’ll do anything to prove how much I want this. And apparently that includes winning a gold medal”

“I… I’ll think about it. Call me when you land?” you ask, taking her face in your hands, kissing her softly. “I love you more than anything, Natasha. The trophies are just a plus”

“Mean” she laughs against your lips, kissing you again. “See you soon”

“Yeah”

With a final kiss, Natasha closes the door and you’re left in your apartment, still holding the box.

You try to think of something else, distracting yourself with cleaning and sorting out some clothes. Natasha texts you when she’s about to board and that finally makes you open the box.

The ring is beautiful. Very simple, because that’s what you like, instead of some flashy, giant diamond. You put it on and it feels… right, like it’s meant to be.

“Screw it” you take your phone and dial Stark’s number. “Tony, hey! Have a small favor to ask”

—

There’s a lot of movement in the airport, tourists and athletes arriving for the Olympics. Natasha figured it was going to be chaos, so she told Fury there was no need to pick her up. Still, there’s a driver waiting for her at the arrivals section.

“This way, please” the man says politely, leading her to a black SUV.

“I told you not to pick me up…” she complains as soon as she’s inside, but it’s not Fury on the other side.

It’s you, smiling at her.

“I couldn’t miss this. Not when you’re about to make history” you smile, kissing her. She squeezes you in her arms, shaking and refusing to let go. “Hey, it’s ok”

“I love you”

“More than winning?” you tease and she laughs.

“Yes. A million times yes”

“Damn, you have it bad. Now, let’s get going. Fury’s gonna put you on a tight training schedule”

—

It’s been a week. As you obviously pointed out, Natasha needed a lot of practice in clay. The surface asks for consistency and patience, and she’s anything but patient.

Still, she’s made it to the final, and you’ve been at the player’s box every single day. The press is having a field day, speculating about your absence during Wimbledon.

“So, what do I get if I win this thing?” Natasha says when you go and wish her good luck before the final match.

“A vacation” you promise, pulling out a sharpie to write in her arm. “You can’t read it until the match is over. I’ll place a little bandaid over it because I’m sure you’ll cheat”

“Baby, not fair”

“Shh, just do as I say. There” you finish, grabbing her chin so she’s facing you again. You smile, kissing her softly. “You got this”

“I love you”

“I love you too” you smile, smacking her ass. “Go win this thing, baby”

The crowd cheers as Natasha steps into the court, and you sit by her family and Fury as she warms up.

“Do you think she’ll be extra mean because she’s playing against Danvers?” Yelena whispers as the match begins.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the pictures” Yelena says, smirking.

“No, come on. She knows nothing happened”

But then Natasha executes a move that leaves Carol on the floor, her shirt and shorts covered in clay.

Yelena whistles, laughing as Natasha gets another game with four aces in a row.

“Alright, yeah. She might still be a little pissed”

The first set goes on to be a little bit of the same, Natasha winning with an easy 6-4. For the second one, it becomes a close call. Whenever Natasha serves, she’s in control of the ball, but if it’s Carol’s turn, she manages to throw Natasha off her game.

“Third set” Fury says, when Carol wins the tiebreak by two points.

“She looks kinda tired” you frown, knowing the change of surface might be getting to her.

And it definitely shows when Carol wins the first two games, Natasha struggling to get a deuce on the third one. If she loses this one, then you feel like she’ll definitely not be able to come back from it.

“Is there anything we can do?” Melina says, and you think about it for a moment.

“Oh, boy. I hope I don’t get kicked out” you stand up, aware that several people (and their phone cameras) turn to you.

“Take off the bandaid!” you shout. The umpire glares, asking for silence. Thankfully, there’s no request for you to get kicked out.

Still, you watch as Natasha does what you ask, while Carol dries her hands and gets ready to serve. Once she reads what you wrote, she smiles, turning to look at you.

Then, a miracle. Carol throws what looks like a killer serve and Natasha returns it so fast that you have to do a doble take.

“Is it code for something dirty?” Yelena jokes when Natasha wins the third game and gets two aces for the next one.

You laugh, ignoring her question. She’s so close. Two games. Eight points.

“Serving for the match” Fury moves around in his seat, anxious.

Natasha tries to breath, turning to look at you and you smile, nodding. You mouth an I love you and blow her a kiss.

Then, an ace.

“Fastest serve she’s ever done” Melina comments, looking at her notes.

The last three points go by in a blur, as Carol is simply not playing right. Her last unforced error gives Natasha a match point.

It goes by in slow motion. How she throws the ball, lifting her racket. Her movements graceful, almost like a ballerina as she practically floats.

Carol returns the ball, but it gets stuck in the net.

The crowd goes wild, Natasha dropping to her knees after the realisation sinks in.

Carol waits for her at the net, smiling and hugging her. Natasha accepts the congratulations, going to greet the umpire and turning to you a moment later.

She goes through the sea of people, straight to lifting you up and kissing you.

“Do you mean it?” she says, looking at the thing you wrote.

Yes, I’ll marry you.

“Absolutely. Now, put the ring on it” you say, handing over the box discreetly so she can pull the ring out and slide it in.

“Congratulations!” Yelena says, hugging you both.

Natasha is called back to the court, and you wipe the tears as she talks to the interviewer.

“Thanks to my family, my trainer, and my fiancee…”

The crowd cheers, and you can’t help but laugh at how perfect everything is.

This is a day you’ll remember forever.

2 months later

“Darcy, what news do you have for us today?” Maria says, the screen splitting to show the producer turned reporter.

“Romanoff breezed through her first match and is the favorite to become the USO champion. This would mean she would be the youngest player to complete the Golden Slam in the Open Era. Her wife and a former collaborator of us was also there”

“I believe she’s joining the WTA team soon, isn’t that right?”

“As Head of Communications, yes. And it couldn’t have happened to a better person. Congrats Y/N, but you still owe me a beer”

“Well, let’s hope she finds the time to settle her debt” Maria laughs, but then frowns. “Hey, you said wife. Didn’t they get engaged recently?”

“Well, have a look at what Natasha said in her post match interview” Darcy says with a smile, the screen running a recording.

“Have you set a date yet?” one of the reporters ask.

“Actually, we got married last night” Natasha says, turning to look at you, and you’re blushing when you notice all eyes on you.

“Congratulations” another reporter says. “Can you share anything about the ceremony?”

“Just that we’re very happy and can’t wait to go on our honeymoon. But my wife says I need to win the USO first, so… I better get back to practice. Nice chat, everyone”

Natasha leaves the conference room, amidst questions and camera flashes. You greet her with a short kiss, smiling as she pulls you by the waist.

“Now everyone’s going to say you’re whipped”

“Aren’t I?” she jokes, kissing your temple. “Come on, let’s win this so I can have you all to myself for the next month”

“Relax, Mrs. Romanoff. We have our whole lives ahead” you kiss her, smiling as she squeezes your hand, her thumb running over your wedding ring.

“Forever and then some”

[gdinthehouseee]

Hotline: KWON JI-YONG x READER

summary: you're one of the lucky few who gets selected for a phone call with g-dragon himself! good thing this time it's not being recorded...

word count: 2426

tags: fluff: flirting and teasing, suggestive themes

ao3 link,, prompt written by @infinetlyforgotten - i hope i did this justice!!

Ji-yong leans back in his chair, phone in hand, scrolling through the long list of numbers submitted in response to his post. He smirks to himself, amused at the sheer volume of fans hoping for a random five-minute call. It’s been fun so far—cute, endearing, full of stammering voices and excited giggles. He enjoys making his fans happy, even if it’s just for a brief moment, especially when he had been feeling the loneliness truly getting to him. 

He dials the next number, and something shifts.

“Hello?” 

The second you answer, he forgets how to function. Your voice is warm honey, smooth and rich, flowing through his speaker like something out of a dream. His breath catches in his throat. He even momentarily forgets to speak.

“…Hello?” You repeat, ignoring the fear that it might not be him, a hint of amusement in your tone this time. “Did you pocket-dial me or—”

“No—” Ji-yong blurts out, sitting up straighter. “No, I meant to call.” He exhales a laugh, dragging a hand down his face as he tries to pull himself together. “Though, I’d say it’s already a lucky accident.”

Never mind. That was definitely him.

“Oh?” You chuckle, voice like velvet. “Smooth. You flirt like this with all your fans?”

“Only the ones with voices like yours.”

It’s meant to be a cheeky throwaway line, but the moment it leaves his mouth, he feels the warmth creeping up the back of his neck. Why did he say that? He sounds ridiculous.

But then you laugh—low, sweet, and just a little bit teasing.

“So this is what it’s like to be on the receiving end of G-Dragon’s infamous flirting,” you muse. “Gotta admit, I see the appeal.”

Ji-yong blinks, caught off guard. He’s used to flirty reactions, sure—shy giggles, overwhelmed gasps—but this? Someone actually keeping up with him, matching his energy?

It’s dangerous.

“Oh?” He tilts his head, smirking. “You mean you weren’t a fan before this?”

“Hmm… I don’t know,” you tease. “Maybe I just like watching you squirm.”

Ji-yong chokes on air. He leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair as he laughs. “Damn—you don’t hold back, do you?”

“Not my fault you’re so fun to mess with,” you say smoothly.

He groans dramatically, but his face is burning. He’s got the stupidest grin on his face, and he can’t even hide it. This is supposed to be just another fan call—just five minutes, a little flirting, a little teasing—but now he’s the one getting wrecked.

“I think I should be the one interviewing you,” he mutters. “How does it feel to have G-Dragon wrapped around your finger in under three minutes?”

You hum. “Pretty powerful, honestly. I might start charging for lessons.”

He actually whines. “You’re dangerous.”

“Now you’re catching on.”

Ji-yong laughs, the sound coming straight from his chest. He doesn’t even realize how much time has passed—until his phone buzzes, signaling that the five minutes are up. His stomach drops.

“Oh,” you murmur, clearly catching on. “Time’s up, huh?”

He stares at the screen. Technically, yes. He should be moving on to the next call, but for the first time tonight, he doesn’t want to. His fingers hover over the screen, hesitating. He tilts his head, biting his lip before letting out a slow exhale.

“…You know, I don’t have to hang up just yet.”

A pause. Then—

“Oh?” Your voice dips slightly, amused. “Breaking your own rules, are we?”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “What can I say? You’ve got me hooked.”

“And here I thought I was just another fan,” you tease.

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah, no. You’re trouble.”

“But you like it.”

“…Maybe I do.” Silence stretches for a moment, comfortable, easy. Then Ji-yong leans back, smirking to himself. “Besides,” he muses, “it’s not like anyone’s keeping track of how long I spend on each call. There were thousands of submissions. Who’s gonna know if I stick around a little longer?”

"So, tell me, G-Dragon—what exactly is it about me that’s got you risking your entire fan service event?"

He groans, dragging a hand down his face with a grin. "Don’t make me say it."

"Oh, but now I have to hear it," you tease. "If I’m making the Kwon Ji-yong bend his own rules, I should at least know why."

"You do know why," he mutters.

"Do I?"

Ji-yong bites his lip, hesitating for a split second before sighing dramatically. "Fine." He shifts in his seat, voice dropping ever so slightly. "It’s your voice."

"My voice?"

"You know what you’re doing with it." He shakes his head. "You sound like… I don’t know, like late-night secrets. Like something I’d get addicted to if I’m not careful."

A beat of silence. Then—

"Damn," you murmur. "That was kinda poetic."

He groans, laughing as he slouches down in his chair. "I know! What are you doing to me?"

"Would it make you feel better if I told you I kinda love the way you sound too?"

He stills. Heat creeps up the back of his neck, a slow, steady warmth that spreads across his skin. He should be used to compliments by now—he's heard everything from breathless confessions to outright marriage proposals—but for some reason, this? From you? It hits different.

"Yeah?" His voice comes out softer than he intended.

"Mhmm."

A smirk tugs at his lips. "And what exactly do I sound like?"

You hum, pretending to think. "Hmm… Let’s see. A little raspy, a little smooth. Definitely addictive. Like something that will linger in the back of my mind even after we hang up."

Ji-yong exhales, running a hand through his hair as he grins at the ceiling. "You are trouble."

"So you keep saying," you tease. "Yet here you are, still on the phone."

Ji-yong chuckles. "You make it sound like I have a choice."

"Don’t you?"

"Not even a little."

The silence that settles between you isn’t the kind that demands to be filled—it’s the rare kind, the effortless kind. It lingers, soft and unhurried, stretching out like the quiet between verses in a song, like the pause before a secret is shared. There’s no pressure to speak, no expectation to keep the moment alive, because somehow, it already is. And maybe that’s what startles you the most—not the teasing, not the flirting, but how easy it feels, how natural it is to simply exist in the space between words with him.

You had submitted your phone number as a shot in the dark when you were scrolling mindlessly on your socials—not expecting to be selected among the lucky few, let alone flustering him and making him want to stay on the phone with you. Not only had Ji-yong called, but somehow, you had him completely hooked—flustered, lingering, unwilling to end the conversation even though he was supposed to have moved on minutes ago. You weren’t just another quick call, another fleeting moment in a long list of fans. No, you had done something you never imagined possible—

"I’m not usually like this, you know." He finally spoke up again, pulling you out of your thoughts.

"Oh?"

"I mean, yeah, I flirt," he admits. "But I don’t usually—" He pauses, searching for the right words. "Get like this. All flustered and… stupidly into it."

You laugh, the sound light and teasing. "Stupidly into me, you mean?"

He groans, tipping his head back. "You really love making me suffer, don’t you?"

"A little," you admit. "But only because you’re making it so easy."

Ji-yong grins. He should be embarrassed, maybe even a little concerned about how fast you’ve gotten under his skin—but instead, he finds himself leaning into it.

"So," you muse, playful again. "How much longer do I have before you finally hang up?"

He scoffs. "Why do you sound so sure that I’m the one who’s gonna end the call?"

"Oh?" You chuckle. "You planning to wait until I hang up first?"

He smirks. "Let’s just say I’m not in a hurry to let you go."

Your voice drops into something softer, something warmer. "Good. Neither am I."

Ji-yong shifts in his seat, biting his lip as he glances at the clock. The numbers glare back at him, taunting him with the reality that this call should’ve been over minutes ago. But he doesn’t care. Not when your voice is still curling around his ears, warm and teasing, laced with something that makes his pulse tick just a little faster. He leans back, running a hand through his hair with a smirk. "You know," he murmurs, voice dipping lower, "if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you like keeping me on the phone."

"Mm." You hum, thoughtful, playful. "And if I do?"

"Then I’d say you’re playing a very risky game.”

"Am I?" You chuckle, light and airy. "You’re the one who called me, Ji-yong. If anything, you walked right into it."

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. "Unbelievable. First, you fluster me, then you trap me?"

"You say that like you don’t love it."

And—fuck. You’re right. He does love it. Loves the way you aren’t afraid to push back, to tease him just as much as he teases you. Loves the way your voice curls around his name like you’ve said it a hundred times before, easy and familiar. Loves that you aren’t giggling nervously or fumbling over words, but rather, you’re playing with him—matching his rhythm, keeping pace like you belong in this dance. It’s been too long since he’s felt this kind of thrill from something so simple.

"You’re trouble," he murmurs, letting the warmth seep into his tone.

"You keep saying that."

"Because it’s true."

You hum, as if considering something. "Tell me, Ji-yong," you muse, voice dipping ever so slightly. "If I am trouble… what are you going to do about it?"

His breath hitches.

Oh. 

So that’s how we’re playing this now.

He grins, slow and wicked, as he tilts his head, pressing the phone closer to his ear. "That depends," he murmurs, voice rich with amusement. "Are you the kind of trouble that wants to be chased? Or the kind that wants to be caught?"

The pause that follows is heavy, thick with something just beneath the surface. And then—

"Hmm," you hum, letting the sound drag out, teasing. "That depends."

"Depends on what?"

"On how good you are at chasing." Your voice drops, syrupy sweet, just a little taunting. "I don’t make it easy."

“Oh?" His voice is lower now, curiosity and something else bleeding into his tone. "You like making people work for it?"

"Only if they’re worth the effort."

"Damn."

You chuckle. "What?"

"You’re really gonna make me suffer, aren’t you?"

"Or maybe I’d let you catch me."

His fingers tighten around his phone, grip instinctive, like he’s holding onto something fragile—something he’s not ready to let slip through his fingers just yet. There it is. That spark, that delicious push and pull, a challenge wrapped in temptation. The kind of game that doesn’t come with rules, only the thrill of seeing who gives in first. It’s the promise of something just out of reach, close enough to taste but not quite close enough to have, and it sends a slow, anticipatory heat curling in his chest.

"That easy, huh?" His voice is a little rougher now, a little more raw.

"Did I say it’d be easy?" You tut softly. "You’d still have to put in the effort, Ji-yong."

He exhales, rubbing his jaw. "And what exactly would that effort look like?"

You hum, like you’re truly considering it. "I don’t know. Maybe I’d make you prove you really want to catch me first."

He lets out a low laugh, something dark and amused. "And how would I do that?"

"You tell me," you purr. "How far would you be willing to go?"

His heart kicks hard against his ribs. This is dangerous. He should be wrapping this up, moving on to the next fan, doing literally anything other than entertaining the very inappropriate thoughts now creeping into his mind. But fuck—you’re making it impossible. The silence stretches for a beat, letting the tension coil between you. Then, his voice drops, deliberate and smooth.

"Far enough to make sure you never want to run again."

The air shifts. You inhale—just a little, just enough for him to hear it. For the first time in this entire call, you are the one caught off guard. He can’t help but wonder what other noises you could make for him—

"So?" He continues, his voice is a murmur now, low and smooth. "Do you like to run?"

A beat of silence. Then, soft and teasing: "Only if you can keep up."

Ji-yong exhales sharply through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. "You’re really testing me, you know that?"

"I know," you purr, not a hint of apology in your tone. "And I think you like it."

"You’ve got me sitting here, completely ignoring the fact that I have a hundred other calls to make, just because I don’t wanna hang up on you."

"You say that like it’s a bad thing," you tease.

"It is a bad thing." He huffs a quiet laugh, leaning back in his seat. "I don’t do this, you know."

"Do what?"

"Get stuck like this." His tongue darts out to wet his lips. "You’re making me break my own rules."

"How rebellious of you."

"God, you’re gonna be the death of me."

"Oh, come on," you muse, voice dipped in amusement. "You’re telling me no one else has ever done this to you before?"

"Not like this." 

The confession slips out before he can stop it, unfiltered and a little too honest. There’s a pause. Another shift in the air between you. Then, softer now, more curious than teasing: "Ji-yong."

He swallows, his name rolling off your tongue like warm honey, settling into his bones. He doesn’t know what it is about the way you say it—light, unhurried, like you’ve known him forever—it makes something in his chest tighten.

"What?" His voice is quieter now, softer.

"You still haven’t answered my question," you remind him, and when he stays silent, you press further. "How far would you be willing to go?"

He exhales, a slow smirk curling at the corner of his lips. "Why don’t you stick around and find out?"

taglist: @thanosscrossmain @maskedcrawford @mirahyun @riddlerloveb0t @onyxmango @sherrayyyyy @seunghyunwifey @mattsturniolosbabymama @redhoodedtoad @bettelaboure @cinnamonbear22 @xxxicddbr88 @infinetlyforgotten @babygirlewis @loveesiren @tulentiy @petersasteria @allthoughtsmindfull

[slutoru1207]

Invincible!Mark x reader x Variants!Mark part 10

Warnings: AFAB Reader, Post-Labor, Psychological Distress, Possessive Behavior, Multiversal Variants, Angst, Horror Elements, Yandere Themes, Emotional Manipulation, Mother-Child Bonding

Your body was heavy with exhaustion, your limbs weak and aching from the trauma of giving birth. But none of that mattered. Not the pain, not the terror of being ripped away from Mark, not the lingering fear clawing at your heart.

Because your baby was here.

A soft whimper beside you had your breath catching, your instincts overriding your fatigue. With trembling fingers, you reached out, brushing your son’s tiny cheek. His warmth, his smallness—it was overwhelming. His dark curls, the faintest hint of Mark in his features. He was beautiful. Perfect.

Yours.

A shaky exhale left your lips as you slowly, carefully, pulled him into your arms. He was so small, so fragile, yet his little fists clenched the fabric of your hospital gown with surprising strength. You pressed a kiss to his forehead, breathing him in, grounding yourself in the only thing that made sense in this nightmare.

Then, the presence in the room made itself known.

“You look good like that.”

Your body tensed as Sinister Mark’s voice slithered through the dimly lit space. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his gaze locked onto you with an intensity that made your stomach churn.

He wasn’t alone.

Other Marks stood behind him—Scarred Mark, a quiet storm of emotion; another who bore a striking resemblance to your Mark but with a colder edge, his expression unreadable; and one who simply watched with a strange, almost reverent look.

Your grip on the baby tightened instinctively. “Stay away from us.”

Scarred Mark exhaled, rubbing his temple. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

“Then take me back.”

Silence.

Your Mark’s cold counterpart finally spoke. “No.”

Fury surged through your veins. “You stole me from him! You stole our son!”

Sinister Mark smirked, stepping closer. “We didn’t steal anything. We took back what was already ours.”

The baby whimpered, sensing your distress, and you forced yourself to steady your breathing. You wouldn’t let them see you break. You wouldn’t let them take this moment away from your child.

“You don’t own me,” you said through clenched teeth, rocking your son gently. “You never have.”

Sinister Mark crouched down in front of you, his gaze flickering between you and the baby. “We imagined this, you know. In different worlds, different times.”

You stiffened as he continued, voice disturbingly soft. “Some of us almost had this with you. Some of us lost you before it could ever happen. And some of us never even got the chance.”

A sharp breath from Scarred Mark made your gaze snap to him. His jaw clenched, his hands balled into fists at his sides.

“She died before we could even talk about it,” he muttered. “Before we could even dream.”

Another Mark, one you hadn’t paid much attention to, finally spoke up, his voice quiet and broken. “She died giving birth.”

Your blood ran cold.

For the first time, you saw something beyond possession in their eyes. You saw grief. Deep, unshakable grief. A grief that, in their twisted minds, they believed they could erase by having you.

Your arms tightened around your son. “I am not her.”

“No,” Sinister Mark agreed. “You’re better. Because this time, we won’t lose you.”

Meanwhile, Back at the Facility

Mark was pacing, his hands running through his hair, his breathing erratic. The Guardians were in motion, gathering intel, but it wasn’t fast enough.

“They took my family,” he snarled, punching the nearest wall. The impact cracked the reinforced metal, his rage barely contained. “We should already be moving.”

Cecil’s voice was sharp. “We don’t know where they took her. If we rush in blind, we could lose her for good.”

Mark wheeled on him, eyes blazing. “So what? We sit here and do nothing?”

“We find her first,” Cecil shot back. “And then we wipe those bastards out.”

Eve stepped forward, her expression tight with worry. “She just had a baby, Mark. She’s vulnerable. We have to be careful.”

Mark’s fists clenched, his entire body coiled with tension. “I know. But every second they have her—” His voice broke slightly. “Every second, she’s scared. And they have my son.”

Cecil’s jaw tightened. “Then let’s get them back.”

-

The baby stirred, his tiny face scrunching up as he let out a soft, tired cry. Immediately, your focus shifted back to him.

And, to your shock, so did theirs.

Sinister Mark, the coldest, most detached of them, softened ever so slightly. His gaze lingered on the child, something unreadable flickering across his expression.

Scarred Mark exhaled slowly. “He looks like us.”

Your heart pounded as another Mark, one who had barely spoken, hesitated before kneeling beside the bassinet. His gloved hand hovered over the baby, uncertain, before finally settling gently against the blanket.

The baby cooed, curling into the warmth.

A strange silence settled over the room. A fragile, temporary peace.

For a brief, fleeting moment, they weren’t Variants. They weren’t threats. They were just… lost versions of Mark, staring at the child they would never have had.

And it terrified you just how much that realization affected them.

But you wouldn’t let their sadness change what was real. You wouldn’t let their grief keep you here.

Your son wasn’t theirs.

And you would find a way to take him home.

[motorsportbarbie13]

Post It - Part 4 - LN4

when lando stumbles upon a random tiktok of a pretty american influencer, he can't stop himself from sliding into her DMs. what happens next is more than both of them ever bargained for.

warnings: once again, this is all fluff. (as always tho, special shout out to @lestapiastrisgirl for always listening to me whine and brainstorm at 2am 🙌🏻)

pairing: lando norris x influencer!reader word count: 3.7k words

- Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 -Master List

youusername posted

892,032 likes liked by lando, hannahstjohn, yourmother and others yourusername taking a little detour... hannahstjohn omg have so much fun! 😉 >>>yourusername see you in sazuka, Hanny 😘 >>>user029 oh hannah knows something...that winkey face doesn't lie. >>>user000 AND SHE'LL BE IN SAZUKA yourmother this is how i find out you're not coming back to boston?! >>>yourusername i called you yesterday! you didn't answer! >>>yourmother it was 3am my time silly girl!!! >>>yourusername oops! user992 lando in the likes AGAIN >>>user332 and quick too!

The engine of the private jet hummed softly in the background, the low thrum of the white noise quietly filling the luxurious cabin. Sunlight streamed through the open windows, illuminating everything around you in a bright glow. You were tucked away in a window seat, legs stretched in front of you while your laptop balanced on your lap. 

Across the small aisle, Lando lounged on the bench seat while he watched you intently. You were engrossed in reading something on your laptop, stopping every once in a while to tap away at something on your phone before your eyes darted back to the screen. He had no idea what you were doing but watching you do it was fascinating. The way you bit at your bottom lip when you were concentrating, the way your brows tilted together as your eyes tracked across the screen, the way your fingers moved so deftly over the keyboard. It was all a mesmerizing dance, something that Lando could watch forever. 

After finishing up post-race notes and analysis, Lando sets his own laptop aside before stretching out his leg to tap your leg with his toe. You look up, surprised, almost as if you had forgotten he was there. 

“What are you doing?” He asks softly, enjoying the way your cheeks flush under his gaze. Lando was still pinching himself, waiting for the dream of you agreeing to go to Japan with him for the week to be over, but it seemed as if this was all real. 

“Research.” You respond, eyes darting down to the five tabs you have open on the screen in front of you. 

“Research?” He asks, tilting his head to the side. 

“Osaka, silly. And Kyoto. It looks like we could totally take a day trip to Kyoto if we wanted to. It’s only like an hour away by train and there’s this temple, well…” You pause, shrugging, “There are a lot of temples but this one in Kyoto is stunning. And the bamboo forests-” Your mouth snaps shut suddenly, ears going a bit pink. 

It takes every ounce of control Lando has in his body not to lean over and kiss you, the look on your face is so cute. “Whats wrong? No bamboo forests?” 

You shake your head, closing your laptop before setting it aside. Tucking a stray piece of hair that had fallen out of the haphazard bun that was piled on top of your head away, you’re eyes dart away from Lando’s gaze. You hated when you went off on tangents like that, it always led to people thinking you were a bit…weird. Not to mention the fact that you just realized you’d started planning over a trip that Lando had already been planning for who knows how long. 

“Nothing.” 

Lando narrows his eyes. “I can tell when you’re lying to me.” 

You huff, rolling your eyes. “That’s not fair.” 

He reaches forward, grabbing your hand before tugging you up and out of your seat. “C’mere.” Lando murmurs as he continues to pull until you’re close enough that he can grab you by the waist and pull you down onto his lap.

You let out a small sigh, leaning your head onto his shoulder. It’s weird, you think, as your body melts into his, the warmth of his muscles seeping beneath your skin. It’s weird how Lando’s only just barely come into your life again and already you’re fitting together like it’s been years. 

You’d been up late last night about it, wondering how this man had so quickly nestled himself under your skin but then you had remembered the countless hours you’d spent with him on FaceTime. You’d learned about his family, his siblings, the pressures of being in a brutal sport like F1. You’d told him about the mask you felt you always needed to wear, the pressure you felt to be perfect and ‘on’ at all times for the followers and fans you met in real life. It was something he could relate to, even though his fame was on a totally different level. But that shared connection, of both of you being sure that neither wanted you for the fame and money your chosen careers came with, had bonded you in a way that neither of you had experienced before. 

You felt at ease, comfortable, safe when you were within arms length of him and while it kind of freaked you out at how fast it was all happening, something inside your soul had felt so settled over the last few days, it was hard to deny. 

“Now, are you going to tell me what’s wrong or do I have to kiss it out of you?” Lando says, lips dusting over the sensitive skin on your neck. 

When you dip your head, fully intending on kissing him first, you’re surprised when he pulls back. Lando chuckles, swiping his thumb over your frown before shaking his head. “Don’t try to distract me. What’s going on?” 

You hesitate only for a few moments, feeling silly at the weight of the anxiety sitting in the pit of your stomach. “I…” You start, leaning your head into the way Lando’s cupping your jaw. “I just realized that you probably have the entire trip planned and I was being a little bossy. This was your trip first, I’m happy to tag alone with whatever you want to do.” 

Lando shifts you in his lap so he can see you better. “Well first of all, this isn’t my trip.” He says before his lips whisper over your jaw. “This is our trip so you get as much say in this as I do. Whatever you want to do while we’re here is what we’ll do, pretty girl. All I want is to be with you.” 

Your heart hammers at his words, the sincerity in them has something squeezing in your chest. Lando’s pupils are blown wide as he looks up at you. He hadn’t really meant to be so…honest with you, it had just kind of slipped out. He’d never felt so protective over someone else’s wellbeing before and while he thought it should be freaking him out, it didn’t. It felt normal almost. Like the noise in his head was quiet when he had you to focus on, to be concerned about. 

When you lean down a second time, Lando lifts his chin up to meet your lips half way. With Lando finishing second yesterday and all the media that came with it, you two haven’t had much time alone together. Most of your ‘alone’ time so far had been with the public just right outside your bubble. Here, in the privacy of the empty jet, you could allow yourself to be more free with your affection. It felt like Lando relaxed in this environment too. He laughed quicker, touched you more, allowed his eyes to wander easier. 

You flourished under the attention because you knew he didn’t want anything else from you. He had his own career, his own fame. You were decidedly less famous than he was, for sure, but the feeling was the same. Not knowing who wanted to be in your life for what you could give them in return was an exhausting way to live. When Lando was with you, he knew you didn’t have ulterior motives and you felt the same.  

Your lips met his in a soft but confident touch that quickly deepened into something more urgent. It was a silent affirmation between you both, an understanding that didn’t need words to confirm, just the heated press of two bodies molding together. It was just two souls, two completely different worlds, merging and finding solace in each other’s presence. 

Lando’s hands move, cupping your face as his thumbs trace the delicate curve of your cheekbones. He pulls you closer, the warmth of his body radiating through you, a comforting heat that chased away any lingering anxieties. The kiss grows more passionate, a silent conversation spoken not in words but in touch. It’s a blend of tenderness and desire, a slow burn that ignites a fire within you. You tangle your hands in his curls, fingers clutching for anything to bring him closer to you, even though you were already impossibly close. 

He groans softly, a low rumble in his chest, his lips moving against yours with a newfound urgency that sends pleasure curling low and deep in your belly. Lando drops his hands back down to your hips, shifting you again so you’re straddling his lap now, knees digging into the soft cushions of the jet’s seat. Experimentally, you roll your hips deeper into his lap, pulling another low moan from Lando’s lips. You can’t help but smile against his lips, enjoying the way he feels hard against you, knowing that it’s your lips, your body, your mouth that’s doing that to him. 

Lando pulls back slightly, his breath warm against your lips. His eyes are dark, like the ocean right before it storms on a dark summer night, intense in a way you haven’t really seen them before and it has your breath catching in the back of your throat. “God.” He whispers thickly. “You have no idea what you do to me.” 

A shiver runs down your spine, a delicious mix of pleasure and anticipation. You lean in again, your lips brushing against his. “Then maybe,” You murmur, voice barely audible, “You should show me.” 

He grins in that wicked and cocky way he’s well known for. “Oh, I plan to.” He whispers as he drops his mouth back onto the hollow of your neck. He licks a long, heated line against your exposed collarbone and you immediately tilt your head back to give him better access. The whimper that leaves your lips is dangerous and has Lando grinding up into your core, desperate for more friction. His hands slip beneath the thin cotton of your t-shirt tracing the curves of your body, lingering on the sensitive skin that he’s never seen before. 

He’s moments from attempting to remove your shirt from your body when the speaker system crackles to life, alerting you to your impending approach to the airport in Japan. With a deep sigh at the interruption, you scramble off of Lando’s lap before the flight attendant comes back to prepare the cabin for landing. Lando clears his throat, adjusting his joggers as best he can while starting after you as you settle back into your seat. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” He asks, patting the seat beside him. 

“They wanted us to get in our seats for landing.” You reply, looking at him as if he’s got three heads. 

“Yes, this seat right here is yours now. Get back here.” 

“So needy.” You tease but you obey without any more fight. 

“I have a feeling I’m always going to be needy for you.” He whispers in your ear before nipping at your earlobe. You barely swat him away as the flight attendant slides the cockpit door back open, smile on her face. 

“Welcome to Japan, you two!” She says brightly with no indication that she has any idea of what had just been going on in the cabin moments before. 

“What do you mean you’re not going to eat sushi with me while we’re here?” You stare at Lando incredulously later that day. 

Lando wrinkles his nose in a way that makes it look like he’s just smelled something extremely funky and shakes his head, “Sushi is fish. Fish is disgusting.” 

“You are an absolute child.” You laugh, shaking your head. 

After the jet landed and your bags had been whisked away to the hotel for you, Lando had swept you off your feet and took you to your first destination: Osaka Castle. The grounds were practically deserted, probably because it was a Monday afternoon, so it felt like you had the entire place to yourself. The cherry blossoms were just beginning to burst open, the pink and white of the famous trees providing the most gorgeous backdrop to the photos both you and Lando were taking. 

You continued on down a path towards the one of the many traditional Japanese gardens leaving Lando behind to continue to whine about how awful fish is. Reaching into your bag, you pull out your Nikon camera that you hadn’t used since you landed in China. Your fingers itched to put it to good use now, the scenery of the castle grounds were practically begging to be photographed. 

“That is a gorgeous camera.” Lando remarks as he comes up behind you. You’d stopped on the path right at the edge of small lake. On a small bluff right behind it rose the white tiered castle that was one of Osaka’s most well known landmarks. A breeze flutters through your hair, spinning spare strands up in its gusts and whipping a few over into Lando’s face. 

“My baby.” You coo, smiling over at him. 

Lando sets his chin on your shoulder from behind, lip sticking out in a pout. “I thought I was your baby.” 

You snort, rolling your eyes before lifting your free hand to frame his face. “Don’t worry, the camera won’t replace you, pretty boy.” 

“Pretty boy?” He murmurs, lips dusting the shell of your ear. 

“Knock it off.” You chuckle before lifting the camera to frame a shot. 

“Is that the new Nikon?” Lando asks, fingers reaching out to brush the body of the camera as he whistles long and low. 

You nod, confirming his suspicions, before snapping a few test shots to figure out how best to use the late afternoon sun that’s casting gorgeous golden rays over the entire park. “I bought it as treat to myself when I hit 10 million followers on Instagram.” 

The moment the words leave your lips your heart stops. 

Fuck. 

You turn around to see Lando’s brows furrowing in confusion. “10 million?” You can see the gears turning in his head. You both know you have just over 2 million followers and you had said ’10 million’ so confidently, Lando was sure it hadn’t been a mistake. 

“Shit.” You whisper. 

“What…I’m confused.” 

Heaving a sigh, you decide you need to come clean. You’d become so relaxed around Lando you had just let the biggest secret you’ve ever hidden out into the open. “Have you ever heard of the photography account Pretty Little Lens?” 

Lando’s eyes go wide as he nods. “Yeah, I’ve followed it for years. Their work is spectacular but no one knows who it is. The mystery behind who’s running that account has entire subreddit’s dedicated to it.” 

You nod, tucking your camera back into your shoulder bag before taking Lando’s hand, pulling him over to a bench a few feet away. “I’m Pretty Little Lens, Lando.” 

For several moments, Lando just blinks at you as he tries to process the secret you’ve just spilled. “You’re…you run Pretty Little Lens? The most secretive art account on pretty much any social platform in the last ten years?” His chokes out, voice full of disbelief. 

You had started the account, with the full blessing of your parents, when you were 16 as a hobby. Two years later you had built up a huge following. You had decided from the get go though that you’d remain completely anonymous. You didn’t want to draw attention to yourself, preferring your art to speak for itself instead. Even now, almost ten years on, the only people on the planet that knew the identity behind Pretty Little Lens were your parents, your art agent, and your PR manager. 

And now Lando. 

“That’s me.” You say, trying to keep your voice light. You knew the kind of following PLL had on socials, how people devoted entire accounts to trying to figure out your identity. So far, you’d been able to evade the spotlight with your art and you’d prefer to keep it that way. 

Lando blinks, rubbing the palm of his hand over his jaw. You shift uncomfortably next to him, starting to get freaked out by his silence. “Lan, say something.” 

The anxiety of him judging your art, your decision to hide behind the anonymity of the account, especially when you are a pretty well known influencer as it was, set your teeth on edge. 

“I have one of your prints hanging over my bed, a few in my living room too.” He says. You’re caught off guard by the admiration shining in his eyes. “I’ve followed you since I was 18…” 

The fact that Lando, the man that you could feel your heart already falling for, had been a fan of your work for years, set something deep and meaningful tightening in your chest. 

You’d never shared your passion for photography with anyone. You had a degree in it, sure, but as far as everyone outside your tiny little PLL bubble, everyone thought you just got that to be able to say you had a degree. No one thought you actually used it. Not even your professors in college were aware you were PLL. That had been an awkward day in class when you had been the subject of an entire lecture on landscape composition and lighting. 

“Well, I’m glad you like my work.” You say weakly. 

“Like your work?” Lando scoffs, still a bit unbelieving that he had solved a literal world wide mystery that millions would kill to know. Standing up from his spot on the bench, Lando pulls you to your feet as well. “Baby, I have been obsessed with Pretty Little Lens for years. Years.” Before you can protest, Lando is pulling you into his arms. “Part of why I got into photography was because of your account.” 

Your heart stutters in your chest at the way he’s looking at you, all wonder and awe filling those pretty green blue eyes of his as they sparkle down at you. The smile that spreads across his face is so genuine, pleasure skitters down your spine in response. 

“You’re kidding.” You breathe, a wash of disbelief crashing over you. “You started photography because of me?” 

Lando nods, a soft smile  tugging at the corner of his lips. He looks at you for a moment, taking in the way that you’re looking at him, totally awestruck. It was a lot to wrap his mind around in such a short time. He’d been following PLL for ages and to find out the girl that he was falling for was the one behind the account? Wild. It made him look at you in a completely new light, like you two had been tied together by an invisible string for years now, the universe just waiting for the right moment to bring you together. 

“It’s true.” He murmurs, his voice husky. “Your work is…it’s more than just pretty pictures. It’s like you have this insane ability to capture the feelings that you were experiencing behind the lens when you took them.” He looks down bashfully then and chuckles. “I have notifications on for whenever you post something new, you know.” 

He tightens his arms around you, pulling you closer. There aren’t many people around to witness this public display of affection, not that either of you really care about what’s going on beyond your own little bubble. “I remember seeing your shots of the Banff in Canada last summer. The way you captured the sun reflecting off the lake in the middle of the mountains like that? It was…stunning.” Lando drops a kiss onto your nose before nuzzling into your your neck. 

Warmth spreads through your chest, a strange feeling of pure joy at finally being able to share your secret with someone beyond your parents and agent. It felt like you were letting someone see you bare for the first time, like someone was able to see the real you that you kept hidden from everyone else. You had thought you’d feel exposed, raw, an a plethora of other negative emotions but instead, all that bubbles up inside your chest is relief and happiness that you can share this bit of yourself with someone else. 

“I don’t know what to say to that. I never thought I’d ever actually tell anyone besides the people who already knew.” 

Lando chuckles, a low and appreciative sound that has goosebumps pebbling your bare arms. “You don’t have to say anything.” He murmurs before brushing his lips against yours in a quick show of casual affection. “Just know that your work is incredible and that I’m proud of you.” He pulls back slightly, a hint of mischief on his face. “And,” He adds, “now that I know your secret identity, I expect exclusive access to all future content before it’s published.” 

You laugh, a light and airy sound that echoes through the garden. “Is that so?” You tease, brow quirking up. 

“Absolutely.” He says, voice firm but with a gentle teasing edge to it. “Those are the rules now. I give you kisses, you give me photography tips.” He leans in, lips brushing against yours again. “We could even collaborate. If you want.” He whispers, breath warm against your skin. 

The suggestion sends a cool shive down your spine. The idea of collaborating with him, of sharing your passion with him was intoxicating and intriguing. You’d never worked with anyone before, not since college and certainly not where PLL was concerned. Lando though? Lando was the first person you’d ever considered sharing creative process with, the first person that actually made collaborating sound appealing. 

“I’d like that.” You whisper back, your lips curving into a smile against his jaw. 

He dips his head then so he can kiss you again. It’s soft and tender, somehow different than any other kiss you’d shared yet. It wasn’t cautious or questioning, it was confident and solid while still managing to remain full of promise and anticipation. The mix was a drug and Lando had injected it straight into your veins. 

As the sun begins to set, casting a golden glow over the castle grounds, you and Lando stroll down the path hand in hand, the secret of who was really behind Pretty Little Lens now a shared treasure between the both of you. The world around seemed to fade away. The bustle of the city, the demands of Lando’s F1 career, the pressure that you felt to be perfect every moment of every day, it all faded into the background as you allowed yourselves to tumble head first into the magic that was brewing between you two in the most unexpected way. 

yourusername posted

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lando.jpeg posted

982,245 likes liked by maxfewtrell, lnfour, yourusername and others lando.jpeg surrounded by all kinds of pretty things lately maxfewtrell oh! >>>lando.jpeg hi max! user919 lando so lando DOES know how to soft launch someone >>>user122 someone tag allegra. >>>user919 @/its_allegra_babes user233 just because they're traveling together doesn't mean anything... >>>user221 BE SO FR RN >>>user201 found @/its_allegra_babes burner account user029 not lando posting almost the EXACT same street picture as @/yourusername. you two aren't slick. WE SEE YOU.

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[hauntedhokage]

𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥

Phainon/F!Reader/Mydei

rating: explicit

word count: 2k

warnings: double penetration (vaginal and anal penetration)

note: it's been in the wips for a couple weeks, figured it was time to get it posted

ao3 | masterlist | ko-fi

“Settle a bet for us, my lady.” 

“And we know that your individual relationships with us shouldn’t become a competition, but this time we need you.”

You hum at Mydei’s statement, leaning back against the wall of the bath as you drink from your wine glass. This day was bound to come one way or another, having a much more than platonic relationship with both Phainon and Mydei was destined to result in you being caught in a competition or four every week. They’d done well to keep it to silly things like foot races or eating competitions, but you knew that eventually there would be a demand for something more personal to be used as a basis for determining superiority. For them to appear while you were trying to enjoy a bath, however, was outside of your usual experience with these two. Alone, maybe, but never together as they were aware of your intimate relations with the other but never made themselves involved.  

“So we’re requesting that you let us be intimate with you together.”

“For what purpose?”

“We’d like to see who is better at pleasuring you.”

It wasn’t the heat of your bath or the effect of the alcohol that had your face hot, but if asked you would blame anything but the weight of the meaning behind Phainon’s words. It was quite the request, to have them both there while you had sex with the other — definitely a precursor to something more involved for all parties and not something you were interested in denying. This explained their interrupting your bath, but you were still going to make them work for it. 

“One condition.”

“Name your price.” Phainon is already undressing as he speaks, and you look to Mydei since he’s the one who will remember what you’re about to say. 

“I paid for this private bath time. You’re paying me back for interrupting it.”

“I’ll send a message to the front desk to extend this session and book another for you on my credit.” And he’s pulling out his stone tablet to do as he promised while a fully nude Phainon joins your bath and comes to stand in front of you. 

“Who said you get to start, Deliverer?”

“I’m simply being efficient, Mydei,” Phainon states, a grin on his face as Mydei huffs behind you. “I truly hate to keep such a beautiful woman waiting.”

You don’t have to look to see that the prince has crossed his arms over that broad chest, eyes narrowed at your white haired lover as he says, “You’re only warming her up for the main event, nothing more.”

“We’ll see about that.”

“If you two bicker through this I will call you both losers and take the bath time for myself.”

The stern warning is met with two mumbled agreements to behave, and you push yourself up to the edge of the bath as Phainon drapes your thighs over his shoulders. Kisses are placed to your thighs before he looks up at you, smile wide before he buries his face in your cunt. He’s eager to lap at the essence that has already collected, one of his fingers rubbing at your clit as his tongue works in your cunt to bring you to your first orgasm of many while you’re under his spell. Your hand pushes into his hair, the thick white strands providing you a grounding zone to help manage your volume. 

Mydei’s armor and clothes fall to the tile behind you, his body heat warming your chilled back as he settles behind you with you seated between his legs. Large hands grip your thighs, kneading at the tensed muscles to help you relax as his rival ate you out. He murmurs words of encouragement into your ear, spoken so softly they’re barely heard over your own stifled sounds of pleasure. 

“Let him hear you,” the prince whispers, teeth grazing your earlobe before he kisses along your neck. “He needs to hear how you sound before I make you lose your voice.” 

“S-So arrogant,” you huff, only to arch your back away from his chest when a finger presses to your clit. 

“I speak from experience, do I not?”

That was unfortunately correct, and recent history. He fed on the sounds he could pull out of you, loved when you cried for him because he was making you feel just that good, and was confident that he was the only person who could make you feel like that. Earlier in the month Mydei had fucked you hard enough that it had broken the lounge chair you’d been on, and rendered your voice weak enough that you had to feign illness (and avoid Aglaea completely so you wouldn’t be caught lying to her about the state of your health). It was probably his suggestion that led to your private bath being interrupted, but that was to be investigated later - after they’d gotten what they wanted and were easy to pull answers from.

“Wouldn’t it be nice to take us both together?” Mydei asks, resting his chin on your shoulder so he could see Phainon too. Bright blue eyes stare up at you and Mydei while you feel a gentle probing at your ass, and you can’t help the gasp that escapes you at the slightest push into the tighter hole. 

The additional stimulation is your downfall, your legs trying to tighten around Phainon’s head only to be stopped by Mydei’s strength ensuring that they stay separated to allow Phainon to continue through your orgasm. By the time he’s satisfied, you’ve cum a second time and he looks to be very pleased, his face red and plastered with a dopey smile as he looks up at you.

“Look at you, Deliverer,” Mydei murmurs, resting his chin on your shoulder so he can meet the proud gaze of his rival. “You look like you were born to be her chair, perhaps it’s the coreflame of the Furniture Titan you should seek.”

“I think the will of that Titan is in both of your souls,” you murmur, smiling as you lean back against Mydei while Phanon rises to his feet in front of you. Phainon only chuckles, dry but still carrying that fondness that he harbored for Mydei whenever they got into their usual back-and-forths.

“Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable, my dove.” He doesn’t give Mydei a chance to argue, lifting you with ease over his shoulder and carrying you out of the bathwater and to the lounge chair in the corner. “Taking us both will be no easy task, you should at least be on a comfortable seat.”

“You are her seat, Furniture Demigod,” Mydei teases, earning a laugh from you as Phainon huffs at his new title. 

As soon as he’s seated with you in his lap, his length is in your hand while your other holds his shoulder for balance. He knows what comes next, his grip on your hips tightening in anticipation as you rise onto your knees to position yourself over his cock. You choose to tease him a bit, guiding his tip along your dripping slit as your lips claim his in a needy kiss. It’s Mydei’s strong hands that push you down onto Phainon, murmuring soft praises into your ear as you take in his rival. His impatience is matched by Phainon’s, the much more slender hands spreading your ass apart to invite Mydei to take the hole that had been prepared for him. 

“Not yet.” Those hands continue to guide you along Phainon’s length, his lips trailing kisses down your spine. 

“Did I not do enough?”

“You did enough for your size, I’m sure.” 

“Don’t–” your attempt at intervention is cut off by one of the Kemnonian curses you’d learned from Mydei when you feel two of his slicked fingers push into your hole as Phainon starts to fuck up into you. This was where the challenge had truly begun, Mydei’s strokes are slow, fingers carefully stretching you while Phainon’s pace is much faster, and you felt clumsy as you tried to keep your pace between them. 

As if sensing your struggle, Phainon requests that you let him take care of you — his large hands gripping your hips tighter as he thrusts into you. Mydei’s fingers rub at your clit as Phainon fucks you, and you feel yourself getting tighter around them as you feel the waves of another orgasm crest over you and beg them not to stop. Both of their voices are soft as they talk you through it, touch gentle as they try to soothe you through such a strong orgasm. 

“Are you ready?” 

The question sounds so gentle leaving Mydei, as if he’s asking you if you’re ready to go out on a walk through the market rather than have both of your holes penetrated by the two Chrysos Heirs at the same time. And you respond just as sweetly, looking over your shoulder and whispering a “yes, please” to Mydei that has Phainon holding your hips just a bit tighter. 

“You ready, Phainon?” you ask, smiling down at your white haired lover and taking the chance to push his hair out of his face. 

“I’ve been waiting all day for this.”

That you were certain of, as with every moment that passed you grew more certain that this “competition” between the duo was their ruse to get to share you. They’d interrupted your bath, giving you the impression that your body would be their battlefield in this contest; instead your body was the enemy they were working together to overcome. Their bickering matched the competitive spirit, but without the tug of hands you would expect from two warriors trying to see who would be able to pleasure you better. 

“I’m sure you wait for my attention all day, every day.”

“You’re not wrong,” Mydei states, smirking at Phainon over your shoulder as his tip prods at your prepped hole. “He’s smitten.”

“As if you aren’t also.”

“HKS, both of you.”

“Oh really? I had no clue that I was- oh, fuck.” 

Mydei was making his entrance; so Phainon laid back, basking in the feeling that was your pussy getting tighter with Mydei working his way into your ass. You’re biting your lip until he’s carefully coaxing it from between your teeth but pushing his thumb into your mouth as Mydei is whispering praises into your ear. 

“You’re ready to cum again already, aren’t you?” Phainon asks, grinning when you gently bite down on his thumb in response to him rolling his hips into yours. “He’s not even fully inside you yet.”

You can feel your core clench impossibly tighter around them, feel Mydei pressing his face into your shoulder to compose himself due to how tense you were getting with your impending orgasm. Knowing Mydei, you suspected he would try to edge you, but you don't think it’d be possible with how stuffed full you were at the moment. You also don't think Phainon would allow Mydei to deny either of you what you wanted at this point. Where Mydei challenged you, teasing and pushing you that much further to work for your pleasure, Phainon spoiled you rotten with your pleasure becoming his purpose the moment you were ensnared in his arms. 

With a snap of his hips Mydei sends you over the edge, chuckling at the wail you let out as you cum around both men. Phainon is kissing at the skin he can reach while the prince continues to fuck you - both men riding that high in their own way and trying to keep you on that edge and clenching around them for as long as they could.

“And there’s four,” Phainon murmurs, biting into your neck as his own patience wears thin and he's holding you in place so he could fuck up into you at his own brutal pace that matched the prince’s. “Can we get you to five, dove?”

“We definitely can.” Mydei assures, winking at Phainon over your shoulder. “Can’t we?”

[fixated-cookies]

okay so hear me out y/n in a revealing outfit for shadow milk cookie and pure vanilla cookie to rate It and you can of course make It yandere :3

oooh, I was brainstorming really hard on this one mhm, I have so many interesting post in my askbox I'm so happy and grateful for you guys ahhhhh hearts!!!

WARNING- Yandere, outfit ripping,

Pure vanilla will definitely favour a light color palette, consisting of creams, white, soft pinks, or baby blues. Very dreamy. Shadow milk's got the opposite spectrum; dark blues with gothic influences. He wants to make you a living doll. Anyways let me skip to the part where we're all here for. Now...with Pure Vanilla seeing you in a revealing outfit, he'd cup your cheeks, eyes filled with awe. “Oh, my dear… You look divine" you’d see the slight dusting of pink across his cheeks—he’s not immune to fluster, even if he tries to be composed. If the outfit had a lot of frills or a dreamy, fairytale-like quality, he’d melt.

But if it’s too revealing, you might hear him gently clear his throat, his fingers subtly adjusting the fabric. “Ah, this design is rather… daring. But it suits you beautifully, even if I’d prefer something a touch more modest.” What can I say? The man is old-fashioned.

His rating? 9.5/10. He adores how angelic you look, but if the outfit is too immodest, he’ll definitely get a bit shy about it.

“Now this—” he drawls, circling you like a predator inspecting his prize, “—this is art.” He’d love the contrast of darker, bolder colors—deep purples, velvety blacks, even a dramatic splash of his very own blue. If the outfit has intricate designs, dramatic draping, or something teasing like sheer fabric, he’d be so pleased. “Ah, Pure Vanilla likes his little doll in soft pastels, does he? Tch. Predictable.” He tugs at the fabric slightly, admiring how it clings to you. “But this? This makes you look absolutely ruinable.”

His rating? 10/10. No complaints. None. It’s perfect. If anything, he’d probably start thinking of even more daring additions just to mess with you further. Their final thoughts? Pure Vanilla: “You don’t have to wear something so bold, little one… You’re already beautiful in anything.” Shadow Milk: "Oh, please. Let them enjoy the attention. Look at them—don’t they just shine under it?” But then, in a rare moment of agreement, their gazes darken at the same time. The outfit is pretty, yes… but wouldn’t it be even better if it was in pieces? Pure Vanilla tilts his head, feigning a thoughtful sigh. “This fabric is so delicate. I worry it might not last very long…” Shadow Milk grins, a sharp, wolfish smirk as he tugs teasingly at the hem. “Mm. A real shame.” His voice is dripping with amusement. “Wouldn’t it be so tragic if it just… fell apart?”

Before you can react, there’s the unmistakable sound of fabric tearing.

Pure Vanilla’s hands, gentle as they may seem, are deceptively strong as he easily pulls apart the fragile material at the seams. Shadow Milk, on the other hand, grip is ripping away excess fabric without a second thought. “Well,” Pure Vanilla murmurs, trailing a finger down your now-exposed skin, his smile far too composed for the situation. “I suppose that makes it a perfect 100/10.”

Shadow Milk’s breathy laugh is pure mischief. “See? Much better.” He flicks away the last bit of fabric clinging to you, watching as it flutters to the floor. “You should’ve just let us do this from the start.”

Outfit Rating? Doesn’t matter. The real fun is in ruining it -- I feel like this at this point I should just write my own characters because I think I'm ruining PV and SM, are they too out of character??? Like, I know PV would never do this but I just love the though of him hanging around SM and SM just becoming such a horrible menace and influence on him.

[ramp-it-up]

Trouble in Mind

Summary: Las Vegas, 1952. James Buchanan Barnes is the newest, and youngest, Capo in town. But amid the glitz and shadows of the Strip, he never expects to find you, the beautiful singer who vanished from his life six years ago without a trace. Bucky wants you back. And he wants answers. But you're only willing to give him one of those things.

Pairing: Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Lounge Singer!Reader

A/N: This is an absolute fever dream inspired by #BuckyBarnesBirthdayBingo by @avengers-assemble-bingo. This fulfills the square: Mafia Bucky.

I went back to 50's Vegas because I need another world to get lost in. This is a little longer because this world is so fetch. I can't quite decide if he is going to be dark!Mafia! Bucky after this. Let me know what you think! Please reblog, comment, and like!

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Angst. Lots of cigarette smoking, longing, forbidden romance, Steve and Sam (they are warnings!), Bucky is an ass, cocky Bucky, smooth talker Bucky, young love, heart break, a slap (which he deserves), rough sex, wall sex, 50's foundation garments, long time no sex, oral (f receiving) squirting praise kink, raw p in v, lies, deceit, and crime, along with 1950's race relations and allusions to Jim Crow. Whew.

I do not have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

-------

Las Vegas, 1952

Vegas glittered at night.

Neon lights buzzed, the air thick with cigarette smoke and money. And tonight, a set of eyes was watching you that you thought you’d left far behind. 

You felt his gaze before you even saw him. It burned into you from the darkest corner of the club. The kind of stare that made your skin prickle, which was both a warning and a temptation.

Bucky.

You’d heard a new Capo was coming to take over the casino, an up and comer from the East Coast, one of the youngest Bosses ever. 

You never imagined it would be Bucky Barnes.

------ 

Brooklyn, 1946

Bucky saw you before you ever looked his way.

James Buchanan Barnes was fresh out of the war and already sinking into the life waiting for him back home.

The one his mother prayed he’d stay away from. 

The one he walked into anyway.

The scent of fresh bread drifted from the bakery down the block as Bucky leaned outside the corner store, trading laughs with his boys, cigarette dangling from his fingers, watching the world pass him by.

Then you walked past, on the way to your vocal lessons.

Your head was high, shoulders squared, exuding the kind of confidence that was ingrained. Your dress clung just right, swaying with each step, and Bucky swore he forgot how to breathe.

He knew your type, a daddy’s girl, from a family with expectations. A good girl from Bed-Stuy, the kind who kept her nose clean and didn’t look twice at trouble.

Trouble, like him.

Down on the corner, they could hear your voice carry over the city noise, rising like a bird above the clatter of the el train.

Lark. That’s what they called you when you weren’t listening. Never to your face.

They knew better than to get too close, and Bucky knew better than to look too long.

But he looked anyway.

And when you finally met his eyes, something in you flickered.

Your father had warned you about guys like Bucky Barnes. 

‘Young punks’, he called them, hanging outside that shop owned by the local boss. Nothing but dead ends and broken hearts. He told you to keep your head high and your eyes forward, and to remember who you were. 

And if that warning wasn’t clear enough, there was another, unspoken one layered beneath it: Girls like you don’t mix with boys like him. Not in this world.

But when Bucky looked at you with those blue eyes, you knew you were already ruined. 

He found ways to get close. 

Catching your eye when you passed by, a slow smirk when you looked away too fast. Holding the door open a second too long, letting his fingers brush yours when he handed over your change. Words, always words, low and teasing, dangerous for a girl with a mind like yours. 

Words were your weakness.

"You gonna keep pretendin’ you don’t see me, Doll?" he asked one evening, stepping into your path as you left the bakery. 

You could smell his cologne and feel his heat and why were you thinking that his lips were nice? What was the tingle in your lower back that you just knew would go away if he touched you there?

You shook your head, remembering you couldn’t entertain this.

"You gonna keep acting like it don’t matter?" you shot back, heart pounding. 

You continued on your way but that night you couldn’t sleep for thoughts of him. 

One day, he whistled as you walked by. And that day, you stopped.

"You want a problem, Barnes?"

He smirked, looking you over blatantly and licking his lips.

"A problem’s not what I want, Doll. Just enjoyin’ the view."

That should’ve been the end of it. But it wasn’t.

You should’ve ignored him. Should’ve listened to your father. But you didn’t.

Because Bucky Barnes had a way of making himself impossible to ignore.

It was stolen glances at first, then hushed conversations on the stoop when the sun was setting. His voice curled around your name, making it sound like something precious. It was the thrill of his hand ghosting over yours, his fingers rough but careful, like he was afraid you’d pull away.

Except you never did.

You knew the risks. You knew people talked. In a world that kept its lines drawn thick and unyielding, Bucky chasing after you was a dangerous thing. 

But Bucky never cared about lines.

He didn't care when people whispered, when your father tightened the reins, when your friends warned you that even if he wasn’t afraid, the world wouldn’t be kind.

“You scared?” he asked one night, his voice soft but steady.

"Of what?"

"Of what happens if you let yourself want this as bad as I do.”

You should have been. But you weren’t.

At first, you told yourself it was just curiosity, just a bit of rebellion before you settled down and did what was expected of you. But curiosity turned into something more, something dangerous. 

Something like love.

Because when he kissed you for the first time, heat pressing against heat in the shadow of an alleyway, you didn’t care about the rules. Bucky tasted like smoke and sin and the promise of something reckless. And suddenly, all the warnings in the world didn’t matter.

Didn’t matter that Brooklyn had unspoken rules. Because Bucky knew what he wanted. And he knew you wanted him back. 

He savored those stolen nights in dark alleys, the way you melted under his touch, the way you let yourself need him, even if only when no one else could see.

And you knew that it wasn’t just about the thrill of sneaking around, or the way he could make your breath hitch with a single look. It was about him, the way he softened when it was just the two of you. The way his fingers traced slow patterns on your skin, memorizing you like you were something sacred.

The way he made you feel like you belonged to him.

Maybe you did. Because you gave him your innocence. 

But love like that didn’t come without consequences. 

What Bucky hadn’t expected, what he hadn’t planned for, was how deep he’d fall for you, how much he’d care.

You weren’t just a good time. You weren’t just a secret thrill. You were it.

The one thing that made the rest of the world fade away.

And maybe that’s why he didn’t see it coming.

One day you were there, warm and real beneath his hands. And the next, you were gone.

No warning. No note. No goodbye. Just vanished, into thin air.

And for six years, he told himself it didn’t matter. That if you wanted to leave, then fine. That he wasn’t the type to chase ghosts.

But then he saw you again, standing under the lights of a Vegas stage, your voice carving its way through the smoky haze.

And in that moment, Bucky Barnes knew one thing for certain.

This time, he wasn’t letting you run.

—-

Vegas, 1952

The man that you had to leave in the middle of the night was sitting in the lounge that you sang in. The man that you dreamed about at night as you sang love songs was right here in the room with you.

And you didn’t know how to act.

You should have run. But you didn’t.

He was seated in the VIP section, flanked by two other men in sharp suits, but he was the only one that mattered. The way he lounged, cigarette between his fingers, watching you like he never relinquished his ownership of you, made your head spin.

—--

Bucky leaned back in his seat, cigarette burning low between his fingers, letting the familiar hum of the casino settle into his bones: the money, the women, the men who thought they were untouchable.

Las Vegas glowed like sin, neon and greed dripping down its streets. It wasn’t Brooklyn, but it had its own kind of pull, its own kind of power. And now, it belonged to him.

It all revolved around him.

But none of it held his attention. Not like you did.

He saw you before you saw him, and for a moment, the world tilted as the air sucked straight out of the room.

Then you stepped onto that stage, looking like something spun from a dream, and for the first time in years, Bucky almost believed in fate.

He’d spent too long clawing his way up in this world to let anyone, or anything, decide his future for him. But seeing you again? It felt like something supernatural.

Because here you were.

In his city.

Singing like you owned the damn room.

You had changed. Not just older, not just more poised. It was in the way you carried yourself, the way you commanded the stage with a presence that made every other woman in the world fade to nothing.

And your body. It was a marvel, showcased in shimmering fabric that clung to curves he remembered all too well.

Now you had fuller hips and softer edges; your body was made to be held. If he got his hands on you again, he knew there would be more of you to worship, to savor.

You weren’t that wide-eyed girl from Brooklyn anymore. And yet, you were still his Lark.

He saw the exact moment you felt his gaze, the subtle tension in your spine, the way your fingers curled just a little tighter around the mic. Even after all these years, you could still feel him.

Then your eyes found him in the dim glow of the club, and Bucky saw it, the sharp inhale, the slight part of your lips, as if you were about to say his name.

It was enough to make his chest ache.

—--

You should’ve kept walking.

You should’ve ignored the butterflies in your belly and that tingle in your back that only Bucky Barnes had been able to inspire.

But you didn’t.

Instead, after your set, you let your feet carry you straight to his table.

Bucky smirked, his fingers tapping lazily against the glass in front of him. 

Like he knew you would come to him.

Six years gone, and yet the moment your eyes locked with his, it was like no time had passed at all. But you weren’t that girl anymore. And Bucky wasn’t that boy.

He was something else now. Something more defined. The suit fit too well, the watch on his wrist cost too much, and the men flanking him sat too still, waiting for his command.

Still, when he looked at you, it wasn’t the infamous new Capo of Las Vegas James Buchanan Barnes staring back.

It was him. Your Bucky.

The boy who once kissed you breathless in the back of a borrowed car.

The boy who called you ‘Baby’ like the word belonged to him.

The boy you left behind in the dead of night, never looking back.

Until now.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” you said, keeping your voice steady.

His smile was the same one that decimated you back in the day.

“Funny,” he said, tapping ash from his cigarette. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

Your stomach flipped, but you didn’t let it show. 

Bucky had always been too good at reading you. Way too good. And then he did something dangerous. He nodded to the empty seat beside him.

“Sit with me, Doll.”

The way he said it, low and easy, like it was a foregone conclusion made your body obey like you had long ago. Your fingers twitched at your side. But instead of walking away, you lowered yourself into the seat beside him, your skin prickling with goosebumps under his gaze.

And when he smirked again, just a little, like he’d just won something, your breath hitched.

Because you both knew.

Six years apart hadn’t changed a gotdamn thing.

—--

The moment you sat down, you knew you’d already lost something. Maybe the upper hand, maybe your damn mind, but something shifted the second you met his eyes and made the choice to stay.

Bucky took another slow drag from his cigarette, like he was savoring this moment. He exhaled a thin stream of smoke, peering at you through it with those blue eyes, then finally turned to the two men sitting beside him, as if he’d just remembered they were there.

“Fellas,” he drawled, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray, “this here is Trouble.”

Your lips parted slightly, a profane retort ready to go, but before you could snap back, he continued.

“Trouble, this is Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson.”

Steve, the blonde with the sharp blue eyes, nodded at you, his expression unreadable. He was the kind of man who didn’t say much but noticed everything.

Sam, on the other hand, smiled a beautiful gap-toothed grin. 

“Trouble, huh?” 

He extended a hand, and you hesitated before taking it, but his grip was warm and firm.

“I gotta say, any woman that can put that look on Barnes’ face is someone I gotta know.”

You arched a brow, tilting your head. 

“And what look is that?”

Sam’s grin widened. 

“Like he just won the jackpot.”

Your stomach tightened, but you kept your face neutral. Instead, you turned back to Bucky, leveling him with a look. 

“Trouble?”

Bucky’s lips curled, and something wicked danced in his eyes. 

“You always were.”

You didn’t blink. 

“And you always loved it.”

There was a silence thick with sex between you, and again the other men were forgotten.

Then, Steve cleared his throat. 

“How do you two know each other?”

Bucky chuckled darkly, and leaned back in his seat.

“Let’s just say…” His eyes met yours, heat simmering beneath the surface.  “She used to belong to me.”

The words struck your chest like lightning. You’d learned enough curse words to set his head on fire since you’d known him last, but you didn’t lace the room with profanity. 

Your fingers curled into a fist in your lap, but you kept your expression steady. 

You weren’t the girl anymore who let Bucky Barnes own her with a smile and a whispered promise in the dark.

So you tilted your head, letting your lips curve.

“Used to,” you repeated, voice smooth as velvet. “Interesting choice of words.”

Bucky’s smile didn’t drop, but he clutched his glass tighter, and you saw the way his jaw ticked.

Sam let out a low whistle, clearly enjoying the show. 

“Damn. She’s quick.”

Steve, ever the observer, just watched the exchange with a smirk.

You leaned in slightly, just enough to make Bucky’s eyes flicker to your mouth and down to your cleavage before he dragged them back up. 

“If I remember right, I was the one who left.”

Bucky exhaled a slow breath through his nose, tapping his cigarette against the ashtray again, his voice a shade lower now. 

“That’s what you think?”

You raised a brow. 

“That’s what I know.”

He made a sound low in his throat before taking another sip of his drink. He gazed at you like he was trying to figure out what to do with you now that you were sitting right in front of him again.

Then his eyes narrowed just a fraction.

“So tell me, Trouble. If you walked away so easy, why are you sitting here now?”

That’s the question, you thought.

So instead of answering, you reached for his glass, plucked it from his fingers, and took a slow sip before setting it back down.

Then you met his eyes and smiled.

“Maybe I just wanted to remind you,” you said softly. “That you don’t own me anymore.”

Bucky stared at you, unreadable. That muscle in his jaw twitched again.

Then, slowly, that wicked smirk crept back onto his face and he tilted his head at you, those blue eyes sparkling.

“We’ll see about that, Lark.”

—----

Bucky watched as you set his glass back down, the ghost of your lipstick staining the rim, taunting him. Six years apart, and you still knew how to get under his skin with a single look, a single move. 

A single sentence.

Maybe I just wanted to remind you… that you don’t own me anymore.

You challenged him in ways no one else dared to. And Bucky fucking loved it.

Steve and Sam were watching, though they had the good sense to stay quiet. Sam was chuckling, and Steve’s face held a small crooked smile, one that appeared after Bucky said Lark.

Bucky didn’t give a damn about either of them right now.

His eyes stayed on you. You were trying to be tough, but you had to be feeling the same pull that he was. Bucky leaned forward, closing the space just enough to catch your scent and see your pupils blow wider. 

Gotcha.

“Never needed to own you, Doll.” 

His voice was quiet, but there was steel beneath it. 

“That was never the game.”

Your lips parted slightly, but you caught yourself, chucking your chin up instead. 

“Then what was your game, James?”

He smiled again. He wasn’t about to hand you that answer.

Yet.

Instead, he sat back, dragging his gaze over you slowly, and licking his lips. 

You were still the most beautiful thing in the damn room, and you had to know it. That dress, those eyes; every man in this club was probably watching you, and wanting you.

But only one of them had ever had you.

And only one of them was going to again.

He tapped his fingers once against the table before rising smoothly to his feet. 

“C’mon.”

You blinked, “What?”

He nodded toward the back of the club, where the private booths were. Where you two could talk without an audience.

“Walk with me.”

A challenge. A test. A door you could still choose not to open.

Bucky saw you hesitate, for just a moment, but then you stood, smoothing out your dress and holding your head high like you hadn’t just made a decision that would change everything.

Bucky’s smirk widened.

That’s my girl.

—-

Bucky’s smirk deepened when you stood, like he’d known you would. That alone made something tighten in your chest, but you swallowed it down, lifting your chin as you followed him through the club.

The noise of the club, the conversations, the clinking of glasses, the jazz band, it all blurred as he led you toward the back, past the heavy velvet curtain that separated the VIP section from the private rooms. It infuriated you how easy it was to fall into step with him, how your body remembered before your mind could protest.

The moment you were away from prying eyes, he turned.

“You still listen like a Good Girl,” he murmured, voice smooth as smoke and just as dangerous.

You crossed your arms, shielding yourself from his stare as he leaned back against the small table between you, eyes skimming the curves of your dress like he had every right to.

“And you’re still a little asshole, Bucky.”

His smirk didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened. He pulled out a cigarette, tapping it against his lighter before the soft flicker of flame cast his face in gold. He inhaled slow, exhaled even slower.

“I think you know I’m not ‘little,’ Baby,” he said, voice dipping lower. “Bet you that cunt still curves to my dick.”

You didn’t think. Your palm met his cheek in a resounding slap before you could stop it.

Bucky only grinned.

“You must wanna see if it’s true,” he murmured, stepping closer, “because you know that turns me on.”

Your breath hitched, anger curling hot in your gut, and you turned to leave, but his hand wrapped around your wrist, gentle but firm.

“Sorry, Doll.”

You knew he was anything but.

Although he let you go the moment you glared at his hand, the heat of his touch lingered.

“Stay,” he said, quieter this time. “I think we need to talk, don’t you?”

You lifted a brow. “About?”

He studied you like he was searching for the right words.

“You left Brooklyn.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a wound, still fresh after six years.

You met his stare, steady. 

“I did.”

“Didn’t say a damn thing to me.”

You thought of the reason why, of the tiny heartbeat that changed your life forever, and you folded your arms tighter across your chest.

“Would it have mattered?”

Bucky let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he took another drag of his cigarette.

“That’s cute, Doll.”

His voice was rough.

“You really think I would’ve let you go?”

Your stomach clenched, but you didn’t flinch. 

“That might be why I didn’t tell you.”

His jaw ticked, frustration creeping into the lines of his face. He leaned in, forearms bracing against the table, his eyes locking onto yours.

“You ran. Fine.” 

His voice was softer now, laced with something you couldn’t name. 

“But tell me this. Was it worth it?”

The air left your lungs. You thought of why you ran. What was expected of you. What would’ve happened if you’d stayed.

Six years of building a life from scratch. Six years of trying to convince yourself you made the right choice. Six years of missing him. Six years of seeing his eyes every day both in your dreams and when you woke.

“Absolutely.”

Bucky’s gaze flickered, searching your face for something, doubt, regret, a lie. But he didn’t find it.

His voice was barely above a whisper when he said, “You were mine.”

You exhaled slowly. 

“I’m not sorry for what I did, Bucky. But I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

You meant it. Every word.

But you belonged to someone else now. Someone more important than James Barnes.

—---

Bucky’s eyes flashed, then he sat back in his seat, appraising you yet again. 

“It’s okay, Doll. I turned out okay. And here we are, together again.”

“We’re not together, Bucky.”

He took another drag of his smoke.

“Only a matter of time, Baby.”

You took a breath, steadying yourself, lifting your chin. 

“I have another set.”

Bucky smiled at you.

“I know.”

Of course, he knew. He ran this town and he always paid attention, always saw more than you wanted him to.

You stood, ready to walk away, to put some space between the past and the present before you lost yourself in it again. But before you could take a step, something small and cool slid against your palm.

You looked down.

A key.

Bucky’s fingers lingered over yours just long enough to make your pulse jump. He looked into your eyes and leaned down and it was like your lips were connected by magnets. 

He tasted like whiskey and cigarettes and regrets as his tongue slid into your mouth, establishing ownership yet again. 

He pulled back and rested his forehead on yours.

“Royal Sierra Hotel. Top floor,” he gruffed.  “I’ll be waiting.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

You should have dropped the key right back into his palm. Should have told him no, should have walked away, should have done a thousand things. 

But you did none of them. You just curled your fingers around the key, just for a second, then slipped it into your dress pocket like it meant nothing. 

Bucky didn’t call you on it. Didn’t press. He just smiled, slow and knowing, then stepped back.

“See you soon, Doll.”

Then he was gone, and you were left standing there, with a key in your pocket and a storm in your chest, knowing damn well you were about to make a mistake.

——

Your second set of the night flew by in a blur. Your voice soared through the rafters, full of emotion, carrying the weight of things you couldn’t say out loud. The memories all spilled into the songs, wrapped in melodies that weren’t yours but might as well have been. 

You poured your soul into every note, and the crowd felt it. They responded with enthusiastic applause and with generosity for the waitresses and bartenders. At the end of the night, the club manager pressed extra bills into your hand, murmuring something about record-breaking tips.

You barely heard him. 

Your mind was already made up.

You stepped out into the cool night air, exhaling as you raised your hand to hail a cab, but before you could, a smooth voice cut through the darkness.

“Need a ride?”

You turned, heels clicking against the pavement as you took in the sight before you.

Steve Rogers, all broad shoulders and quiet authority, leaned against a gleaming black Continental, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. 

Your brows lifted. 

“Didn’t peg you for a chauffeur.”

Steve chuckled.

“Just trying to be nice.” 

He nodded toward the passenger seat. 

“We’ll take you wherever you need to go.”

Your gaze shifted past him to Sam, watching you from inside the car, his smile just visible through the window.

“And if I need to go home?” you asked, testing.

Steve shrugged. 

“Then we’ll take the lady home. But if you’re looking for a little more excitement…”

“We know a place or two,” Sam finished, his voice tinged with amusement.

Despite yourself, you smiled. You liked them. Even if they were Bucky’s men, and even if they saw more than they let on.

“I’ll take you up on that,” you said, sighing as you stepped forward. 

“Standing on a stage in heels all night isn’t exactly easy on the legs.”

Steve’s gaze flickered down, tracing the slit in your dress, lingering just long enough to make your pulse skip.

“Those legs look just fine to me,” he murmured.

You arched a brow. Was Steve Rogers flirting with you? And was Sam giving you the same once over from the passenger seat?

And more importantly, what would Bucky do if he knew? 

You didn’t have time to wonder. Steve was already holding the door open, waiting. You slid inside, sinking into the plush leather seats, and shot him a tired, knowing smile as he shut the door behind you.

He climbed into the driver’s seat and adjusted the mirror, his eyes catching yours in the reflection. 

“Which way, Miss Y/L/N?”

You hesitated.

Bucky was making this hard.

You closed your eyes, reaching back, searching for the girl you were six years ago. The girl who ran. The girl who had every reason to. But she was gone, her memories worn thin, fragile as cigarette paper.

You could stand to make some new ones.

And they would have to last. Because this would only be one night.

“The Royal Sierra,” you said softly.

Steve’s lips twitched. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You two do this often?” you asked as the car rumbled to life.

Steve and Sam exchanged a glance, the kind that spoke volumes.

“I’ve known Bucky for three years,” Sam said, voice lighter than his meaning. “And I’ve never seen him give a woman the time of daylight.”

You let out a soft laugh.

“It’s nighttime, Sam.”

“Exactly,” he said, grinning. 

“He’s never introduced me to a dame before. Plenty have tried to get to him through us, but he doesn’t let ‘em. He just shoos ‘em off like stray dogs.” 

Sam’s smirk deepened. 

“But you? You’re different.”

Something in your chest tightened. You turned toward the back of Steve’s head. 

“What about you, Mr. Rogers?”

Steve cleared his throat, his hands flexing on the wheel.

“I’ve known Buck since we were kids in Brooklyn,” he said after a pause.

“And he’s only ever talked about one woman to me.”

The weight of his words settled over you. He didn’t have to say it. You knew.

Steve’s voice was softer when he added, “But he stopped talking about her about five and a half years ago.”

Your heart clenched.

You didn’t ask any more questions after that. You just let the city lights blur past the window, let the neon colors bleed together as they carried you to the man waiting at the top of the Royal Sierra.

Waiting for you.

——-

The Royal Sierra was a loud kind of quiet. The kind that came from power. Bucky’s kind of place.

Steve pulled up to the entrance, stepping out with effortless authority, like he’d done it a thousand times before. Like he belonged here. Like you belonged here. No one stopped you. No one asked questions.

His presence alone was a key. A shield.

Bucky Barnes’ reach extended farther than Mr. Crow’s.

Before you knew it, you were stepping into the elevator, watching the floors tick by, your pulse a slow, deliberate drum in your throat. And by the time you reached the penthouse, your body had made a decision your mind refused to acknowledge.

You lifted a gloved hand and slid the key into the lock.

The door opened instantly.

And then, there was Bucky.

His gaze collided with yours, stealing the air from your lungs. He didn’t move. Just stood there, watching you, burning you into his memory like he was afraid you might disappear if he blinked.

Then his hands were on you.

Your gasp was swallowed by his mouth crashing against yours, desperate and deep, like he had something to prove, like he needed you to know that six years hadn’t dulled his hunger for you.

You melted, even though you knew better.

You knew this was dangerous. That this wasn’t just about lust, or longing, or the years between you. But none of it mattered as you wound your arms around him, tangling your fingers in the dark curls you missed too damn much.

Bucky groaned, dragging you flush against him. His hands roamed lower, exploring this new version of you, the one with fuller curves, wider hips, a body that had known things he hadn’t been there to witness.

He needed to erase it all.

He deepened the kiss, his breath ragged as he backed you against the wall, pinning you there, swallowing the soft sound you made.

God, that sound.

He had dreamed about it.

You pulled back. Your lips were swollen, your breath uneven, you were beautiful. But there was something else in your eyes.

A flicker of hesitation.

Bucky smirked.

He didn’t want to talk. Not tonight. He wanted to taste you, to relearn every inch of you. 

He brought your hand up to his mouth, taking the glove off your hand with his teeth, one finger at a time.

Your mind short circuited, forgetting what you wanted to say, the only thought that your panties would burst into flames, but the liquid at your center would surely put the fire out.

Bucky Barnes was still so goddamn hot.

“You staying?” 

His voice was hoarse with desire.

Your lips parted slightly. Then, slowly, you nodded. That was all he needed.

With deliberate slowness, he backed you toward the couch, his blue eyes never leaving yours.

He didn’t know why you left.

Didn’t know why you were in Vegas.

Didn’t know how long he had.

And tonight, he wasn’t asking.

"Missed this," he murmured against your throat, his breath hot, his fingers digging into the roundness of your ass. His voice sent a shiver down your spine.

He turned you, fingers finding the zipper of your dress. You felt it slide down, the cool air kissing your bare skin as the rich fabric slipped from your shoulders, revealing the decadent silk and lace beneath.

Bucky let out a rough exhale.

The longline bra molded perfectly to your curves, the underwire and boning lifting your breasts high, the lace trim barely concealing your peaked nipples. The silk garter belt cinched your waist, accentuating the swell of your hips, its straps fastened to sheer stockings that clung to your legs like a whisper.

Bucky groaned low in his throat, his hands ghosting over your sides, gripping, kneading. 

“Jesus, Doll… you always did know how to drive me fuckin’ crazy,” he rasped.

He trailed a finger along the edge of your bra, teasing you through the lace with his knuckles grazing the soft swell of your breast. 

“Look at you… all wrapped up like a goddamn present,” he muttered, voice thick with reverence.

His hands slid down, and his thumbs traced slow, reverent paths along the edge of your garter, then lower, teasing the sensitive skin of your thighs. He tilted his head, lips curving against your jaw.

“Been dreamin’ about this,” he whispered, voice dripping with possession. 

“And now it’s real.”

You shivered beneath his touch, and Bucky smirked, satisfied. He trailed his fingers lower, slipping beneath the garter belt to palm your ass, squeezing greedily, pulling you flush against him.

“Missed these fuckin’ curves,” he groaned, rolling his hips against you, letting you feel just how hard he was, how much he needed you.

He was losing patience. Six years was too damn long.

His hands found the hooks of your bra, and he made quick work of them, peeling the garment from your body and tossing it over his shoulder. He pulled back for just a second, just long enough to admire the sight of you, bare, breathless, your eyes fully dilated.

“Damn, Doll” he whispered, voice almost reverent. 

Then his mouth was on you, trailing down your neck hotly, over your collarbone, lower, until his lips wrapped around your nipple, sucking, groaning when your fingers tangled in his hair, when your body arched into his mouth.

“Feel so good,” he murmured against your skin, voice wrecked.

His hands roamed lower, curling around your thighs, gripping hard as he lifted you effortlessly, walking you backward until your spine hit the cool surface of the wall.

Bucky looked up at you then, eyes burning, voice nothing but gravel.

“Hold on tight, Baby. I ain’t letting you go this time.

Bucky pressed a kiss into you, his hard length grinding against your soaked panties. The heat of him, the sheer size of him, had you trembling.

"Need inside you, Doll… so fucking hard for you," he groaned, his voice rough with need.

You gasped as he rocked into you, your damp panties and his boxers doing little to separate the friction between you. Your hips rolled in response, dragging a throaty grunt from his lips.

"Fuck!"

Bucky hooked a finger into your panties, yanking them to the side. The first brush of his bare cock against your slick folds sent a shudder through you. It was heaven. The aching kind. The kind you felt.

"Bucky, please!"

You needed to feel him again after so long.

His thick cock slid through your folds, coating himself in your arousal, teasing your clit with every slow stroke. You felt everything, the ridges, the veins, the swollen head nudging at your entrance.

At the same time, his mouth latched onto your nipple, his stubble scraping deliciously against your skin. His calloused fingers kneaded the roundness of your ass, pulling unashamed whimpers from your throat.

"Mine," Bucky growled.

Your breath hitched. But just as you prepared for that first, deep thrust, he pulled back.

You gasped in protest.

"Gonna fuck you proper, though. In a bed."

You let out a breathless laugh as Bucky scooped you up effortlessly, carrying you to his bedroom. He laid you out, spreading your legs as he loomed over you, devouring the sight. His manicured nails dragged over your thighs in a slow, teasing stroke.

Your breath stuttered with anticipation.

"Be a good girl for me," he murmured, eyes dark with intent. "And grab my hair if you need to."

Confusion flickered in your eyes, until you felt your legs being thrown over his shoulders. Then, Bucky was between your thighs.

You scrambled up on your elbows, heat rushing to your face as he spread you open with two fingers, stroking the sensitive, slick folds hidden beneath. His gaze locked onto your glistening sex, mesmerized.

"So beautiful, Lark."

Your breath came in shallow gasps as he ran his fingers through your wetness, spreading it.

"So wet… dripping… coating my fingers, Baby."

The filthy words, the intensity of his stare, made fresh arousal seep from you. Your inner walls clenched around nothing, aching for more.

"Pinch those nipples for me," Bucky rasped,

Your lips parted in shock, but his stare was unwavering. With a shaky breath, you obeyed.

The added sensation sent pleasure rippling through you, making your back arch, your ass pressing into the mattress as Bucky pumped his fingers nice and slow. The other hand fisted around his cock, stroking in time with the movement inside you.

Your gaze dropped to watch him touch himself as he touched you. Fuck.

A gush of slick spilled from you. Bucky cursed under his breath, scissoring his fingers, stretching you, preparing you.

"So fucking tight, Doll. Need to get you ready."

Then, his head dipped lower. Your gasp filled the room. Bucky smirked.

"Why so shocked?" he taunted. "You act like you haven’t had sex since I borrowed Johnny’s car—"

He stopped.

Your face must have given you away because his own softened instantly.

"Oh, shit."

His tone was different now, understanding. 

"It’s okay, Baby. I got you."

Determination flashed in his blue eyes as he leaned down again, brushing a featherlight kiss against your most sensitive place. It was intimate. Like he was kissing your mouth.

Then, he licked into you, slow and deliberate, and your world shattered. Lightning coursed through your veins as your thighs instinctively clamped around his head. Your fingers fisted in his curls, tugging mercilessly.

Bucky groaned in approval, his tongue swirling, sucking, worshiping. Every swipe, every firm drag, every deep flick had you writhing beneath him, riding his face, chasing oblivion.

When he pried your thighs apart and plunged two fingers back inside, curling them just right, you detonated. 

Your orgasm ripped through you, your body seizing, your walls fluttering around his fingers as a flood of wetness spilled into his mouth.

"Bucky!"

He pulled back, lips glistening, eyes dark with satisfaction.

"S’okay, Baby. It’s natural."

Then he leaned down again. And drank from you like a man dying of thirst.

You whimpered, overwhelmed, your body trembling as he held you down, refusing to let you escape. The overstimulation was brutal, unbearable.

Too much, too good.

"Really have been such a good girl for me…" he murmured against your sensitive skin.

Then, his voice dropped to something sinful.

"Gonna give you this cock you been waiting for."

When he finally kissed you, his lips slick with you, the last shred of restraint dissolved.

You moaned into his mouth as he lined himself up, dragging the thick, swollen head of his cock through your drenched folds. He parted your lips, teasing you with tiny, torturous strokes. Then, with a sharp slap, he tapped his cock against your clit, making you cry out.

"Shit, Doll…" 

Bucky’s voice was strained, his jaw tight as he fought for control. You rolled your hips, desperate, pleading.

"Inside, please!"

"You’re gonna feel… so… goodddd…"

He bit it out through clenched teeth as he pushed forward slow, steady, and stretching you inch by inch. You choked on a moan as he filled you. He was so big. You had forgotten how thick, how deep, how perfect he felt inside you.

"Ohhhhhh, Bucky!"

"Right here, Baby."

His eyes locked onto you, greedily drinking in your bouncing breasts, your trembling stomach, the way your body took him. The sight alone nearly ended him. His head dropped back, his grip on you tightening as he bottomed out, grinding his hips into yours, making you wail in pleasure.

"You feel amazing… so fucking good. Never felt anything like this, I swear, Lark."

Your walls clenched around him, and Bucky’s face twisted, his control slipping.

"I need you to cum all over my dick."

You gasped as his hand found your clit, circling it with the same practiced precision that always ruined you. His other hand pinched your nipple, sending another bolt of pleasure straight to your core.

"Cum for me, Doll."

You had no choice. Your body seized, pleasure obliterating you as you came, gushing around his cock, wave after wave of ecstasy rolling through you.

Bucky’s grip turned bruising as he drove into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt. His breath caught. 

"Mine!" he growled. 

And his release filled you, thick and hot, as his body shuddered violently against yours.

And in that moment, tangled together, sweat-slicked and sated, you both knew

You were his again.

—--

Bucky collapsed beside you, chest heaving, staring blankly at the ceiling.

You did the same, but while he was basking in the afterglow, warmth spreading through his chest like hope, your stomach twisted into knots.

"Where you going, Lark?"

His voice was thick with exhaustion, but he still caught the way you shifted, the way your body tensed before you sat up.

"Bathroom," you murmured, already moving. "Need to clean up."

Something flickered in his eyes, something soft, something real. But the moment you slipped away, his hope dimmed just a little.

You disappeared into the harsh fluorescent glow of the bathroom, shutting the door behind you.

—--

Bucky sat at the edge of the bed, watching as you slipped your shoes back on. You moved quickly, deliberately. Like you’d planned your exit before you ever walked through his door.

"You don’t have to run out like this," he said, voice rough.

You hesitated, just for a second, before fastening your coat.

"I have to get home."

Bucky’s fingers flexed against the sheets.

"Home."

He rolled the word over his tongue. He didn’t like the way it tasted.

Your gaze lifted, and for a fleeting moment, something flickered there, regret, and sorrow buried so deep he almost missed it.

Bucky nodded, jaw tight. He had questions. Too many. But he knew you wouldn’t answer them.

So he let you go.

But that didn’t mean he was letting this go.

—-----

Bucky sat in the back of the Continental, silent as Steve drove.

He hadn’t said a word since Steve muttered, “I’ll take you to where she lives.”

Vegas never slept, but the streets were quiet this early. Bucky stared out the window, jaw clenched.

He should’ve stopped you from leaving. Should’ve asked the damn questions instead of letting you walk out. But you were good at slipping away. You’d done it before.

Not this time.

Steve glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

"You sure about this?"

Bucky’s eyes stayed on the road ahead.

"Just drive."

Steve sighed but didn’t argue. The car veered off the Strip, where the lights weren’t as bright, where the buildings weren’t as tall, where the money wasn’t as loud. It wasn’t a bad neighborhood, but it sure as hell wasn’t where Bucky expected you to be.

The car slowed.

A modest duplex came into view, its porch light flickering on.

Bucky barely registered anything beyond you were here. Until he saw the front door open.

You stepped out, wrapped in a housecoat, makeup gone, hair wrapped in a scarf. Then you walked to the neighboring unit. And knocked. The door cracked open.

And out ran a little boy.

Bucky sat up straighter, his breath hitching as the kid bolted toward you, dark messy hair bouncing, big blue eyes shining as he laughed, launching himself into your waiting arms.

You caught him effortlessly, hugging him close, whispering something into his ear.

Like you’d done it a thousand times before.

Because you had.

The realization hit like a bullet to the ribs.

You had a son.

Bucky’s world tilted.

Then, the boy’s voice, small and sleepy, carried through the quiet street.

"Mama, you’re home."

His breath left him in a rush.

"Yes, Jamie, I’m home."

Steve tensed, hands gripping the wheel.

Bucky’s hands curled into fists.

"Buck—"

"Drive," he rasped. The word barely made it past his lips.

Steve hesitated.

"Now."

The car pulled away, but Bucky’s eyes stayed locked on you.

Six years.

Six years, and you had kept this from him.

—---

The moment Jamie crashed into your arms, the world melted away.

"Mama, you’re home!"

You exhaled shakily, smoothing his hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Miss Thea stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her housecoat, watching with quiet understanding. She didn’t ask questions. Never had. Just gave you a slow nod before retreating inside.

Jamie yawned, burrowing into your shoulder, his little arms tightening around your neck.

"You smell funny," he mumbled sleepily.

You huffed a quiet laugh, shifting him in your arms.

"Yeah? What do I smell like?"

Jamie blinked up at you, barely awake.

"Like trouble," he sighed.

Your breath caught.

A chill danced down your spine, one you always felt when Bucky was near. Slowly, your eyes lifted, scanning the street.

Nothing. No car. No sign of him. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t been here.

You swallowed hard, clutching Jamie closer as you stepped inside, locking the door behind you. You couldn’t shake the feeling.

Bucky knew.

And no matter how much you wanted to believe you could keep him away….You knew better.

James Buchanan Barnes was coming for you.

For both of you.

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 14

˗ˏˋ laundry day ˎˊ˗

"Doing laundry should be a normal activity—not something that brings out a whole new set of revelations about Jungkook you were not even fathoming. And you don’t know if it’s helping old ladies, tying your shoes or collecting stupid vynils—but you don’t like how it’s throwing off your whole perception of your annoying roommate."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8k

content: laundry rooms, old ladies that have a vendetta against you?, jungkook being a decent human being, batman socks, vynil revelations, humanizing jungkook and not liking it

✧ author's note ✧

Hello again little gremlins! It’s your girl, Kiki—back with another dose of Jungkook being emotionally compromised and having weird feelings about vulnerability.

SO. This chapter is… fairly slow-paced, which, duh—have you read my stuff? I went HAM on the introspection here, but I think it was so needed. Sometimes we need this type of chapter to balance the narrative out. I think it’s worked out beautifully, but do let me know your thoughts at the end.

About the goal thing! In case you’ve been living under a rock (or you don’t check my Tumblr regularly—which, fair), I have decided to switch my update schedule system.

Previously, I had been working with a weekly schedule as you all know. This has been quite easy for me to maintain because I work with hyperfixations, and basically ADHD.

The thing is… it’s a 2 month cycle.

I’m basically on week 7/8 already.

And that brings me to The Point. Goal-based update system. Which just means I’ll continue posting as long as we reach the established goals in every chapter. I’m going to be creating a whole post explaining how it works, but, long story short—as long as we reach either the goal in Tumblr OR Wattpad, we’ll be getting more chapters!

This is basically a self-regulation thing. I am self-aware (luckily) and I know how to work with my ADHD—but for those who don’t know; it’s heavily tied to dopamine. Which just means (I’m not gonna get nerdy I swear), I basically need engagement to trick my brain into staying motivated. Otherwise dopamine hits get slowly weaker and at some point I literally cannot bring myself to write.

WHICH SUCKS. Because I do love my stories, and I love sharing them. But burnout is real and brains work in funny ways and I can’t really fight my ADHD or brain chemistry (trust me I wish I could). So this is how you guys are going to help me tame this bitch. WE RIDE AT DOWN. 🤝

And before anyone asks—no, this is not up for debate. This is not something I’m “considering” or “open to feedback on.” This is me taking care of my mental health and working with my ADHD instead of against it. It’s not an “excuse,” it’s just how my brain operates. If that bothers you… I literally do not know what to tell you.

Anyways, as always, I love you all, I’m reading all your comments and reblogs and asks, and do check the note goal at the very end! 🩷

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

It's fucking weird how some people's clothes have a gravitational pull, like they're magnets and your body is just helplessly metal. 

You're wearing his sweater. The same one that's been mocking you from your desk chair for the last twenty-four hours, just sitting there in all its navy blue glory, smelling like rain and testosterone and bad decisions. You don't know why you haven't tossed it back into his room yet. It's been staring you down all morning, a silent accusation of...something.

But now it's almost midday on Sunday, and your pile of dirty clothes has reached critical mass. Your laundry basket is basically a textile Mount Everest. You'd wear something clean, except there isn't anything clean left—not unless you count the questionable tank top you found at the back of your drawer that you're pretty sure you wore to a frat party sophomore year.

So. Jungkook's sweater it is.

You tell yourself it's just practical. Totally logical. It's uncharacteristically chilly outside, the first whisper of almost September creeping in, and you need something to cover your ridiculous pajama shorts for the trek to the basement laundry room. They're flowery and pale pink, paired with an equally ridiculous oversized t-shirt featuring a cartoonish sunflower with the words "HAVE A SUNFLOWER DAY!" emblazoned across your chest in neon yellow.

Not exactly the look you'd choose for running into anyone with functioning eyeballs, but it's Sunday, and your give-a-fuck meter is hovering at absolute zero.

It's not like you're going to run into anyone important anyway. Miguel the super probably won't be down there; he's usually sleeping off his Saturday night till at least 2PM. And the chances of meeting some hot neighbor—your future spouse who'll be so charmed by your sunflower ensemble that they'll propose on the spot—are basically nonexistent.

Actually, scratch that. 

Even if some dream person did materialize in the laundry room today, they wouldn't see the sunflower masterpiece because it's hidden under Jungkook's stupidly oversized hoodie. The one that somehow hangs past your shorts, making it look like you're not wearing pants at all, which is a whole different kind of disaster.

Whatever. It's warm. It doesn't smell like him anymore. (It does.) And you're just using it. Borrowing it. Temporarily occupying its fabric space.

You scoop up your overflowing laundry basket and wrestle it onto your hip. The elevator in this building moves with all the urgency of continental drift, so you opt for the stairs. Three flights down isn't horrible, especially since the laundry room is conveniently right next to the stairwell exit.

"Just put it in his room later," you mutter to yourself, adjusting the hoodie. 

You could've done that yesterday when he tossed it at you, but you didn't, and you're not thinking about why.

You check your pocket for quarters and detergent pods. 

The whole ritual is familiar now—Sunday laundry day, another week of adulting successfully completed without burning the building down or getting evicted. Not that the bar should be that low, but hey, after the month you've had, you'll take the wins where you can get them.

As you start down the stairs, the hoodie falls past your hand, and you absently tug it back up, trying not to think about how the collar brushes against your cheek or how the cuffs hang past your fingertips. 

And you definitely aren't thinking about the fact that you're surrounded by the scent of him with every breath you take.

Because that would be weird, right? Being conscious of wearing your roommate's clothes? The roommate you occasionally fuck? The one who took you to buy a vibrator yesterday before subjecting you to lunch with his overly-protective friend?

Right. Not weird at all.

You're just doing laundry, in ridiculous pajamas, wearing his hoodie because it's practical. That's the story, and you're sticking to it—even if the sleeves smell faintly of his soap when you lift your hand to push your hair out of your face.

The stairwell is quiet, just the echo of your worn-out sneakers slapping against the concrete steps. You shift the basket to your other hip, huffing slightly under its weight. 

Maybe you should've done laundry sooner. Maybe you shouldn't wait until you're literally out of underwear every single time. 

But then again, maybe you should focus on the stairs and not on the fact that your bare thighs occasionally brush against the soft inner lining of his hoodie.

Adulthood is just a series of mundane chores punctuated by questionable decisions. And today, apparently, that includes wearing Jungkook's hoodie to do your laundry.

No big deal. You'll wash your clothes, return his sweater, and the universe will continue spinning on its axis, completely unaffected by your poor wardrobe choices.

The door to the laundry room is propped open with a cinder block—probably Mrs. Patel from 4C forgetting to remove it again. You shift your basket one final time and head in, already mentally claiming the good dryer, the one that doesn't sound like it's harboring a demon when it hits the spin cycle.

It's just laundry day. Just another Sunday. 

And the laundry room is still a goddamn joke.

Because let’s be real—whoever thought six washing machines and four dryers could service an entire apartment building was either a sadist or never did laundry in their life. 

And on Sundays? 

It's like watching vultures circle a carcass—everybody desperate for their turn at the machines, glaring at anyone who takes too long to transfer their clothes.

Dona Ramirez is already there, of course. The seventy-something retiree who treats the laundry room like her personal kingdom and you like an invading barbarian. She's currently guarding the Good Dryer—the one you had mentally claimed seconds ago.

Just. Fucking. Great.

She looks up as you enter, lips pursing like she's just bitten into something sour. Her eyes travel from your face down to your bare legs and back up again, judgment radiating from her in palpable waves.

"Good morning," you mutter, aiming for polite but landing somewhere around constipated.

"Hmph." Dona sniffs, turning back to her women's magazine. "Young people these days. No shame."

You bite back the urge to point out that it's literally just your legs showing, not your entire ass. It wouldn't matter anyway. In Dona's world, anything above the ankle is basically pornographic.

Shifting your heavy basket to your other hip, you make your way to the only empty washing machine—wedged in the back corner, naturally. The one that sometimes stops mid-cycle like it's having an existential crisis. You slam your basket down with more force than necessary.

"Careful with the machines," Dona mutters without looking up from her magazine. "They're not getting any younger."

Neither are you, standing here taking shit from the laundry room gatekeeper.

"Sorry," you say, not sorry at all.

You start sorting your clothes, creating separate piles for darks and lights. Dona continues to flip pages, totally unbothered. Or maybe bothered. You can’t tell and frankly don’t care. 

As you're separating your darks, something catches your eye. Orange hair. Lots of it, actually, clinging to your black leggings and that navy shirt you wore when you were studying on the couch last week.

Griffin.

That little furry infiltrator has been shedding all over your clothes again. Despite the fact that your door is always closed. Despite the "no pets" clause in your lease that Jungkook blatantly ignores. Despite your best efforts to maintain some semblance of a cat-hair-free existence.

And yet...

You find yourself smiling slightly as you pluck a particularly long orange strand from your favorite black sweater. The traitorous little shit must have snuck into your room when you were in the shower yesterday. You'd caught him curled up on your bed when you came out, looking entirely too comfortable and completely unapologetic about the invasion.

He'd just blinked at you lazily, that slow "yes, I know I'm not supposed to be here, and no, I don't care" cat-blink that somehow manages to be both insulting and endearing at the same time.

You should be annoyed. You should definitely tell Jungkook to keep his feline menace away from your clean laundry basket. You should not find it even remotely charming that Griffin seems to have decided your clothes are his second-favorite napping spot (right after your pillow, the little asshole).

And yet here you are, pulling orange fur off your black clothes with something dangerously close to fondness. 

What the fuck is happening to you?

Maybe it's sleep deprivation. 

Or maybe it's the fact that Griffin is actually kind of cool, for a cat. 

He doesn't have that typical cat superiority complex—he just genuinely doesn't give a shit about anything except food, sunbeams, and antagonizing Jungkook. 

It's a lifestyle you can respect.

Plus, he has this way of curling up next to you when you're reading, just close enough to leech your body heat without actually admitting he wants your attention. It's like living with a tiny, furry version of his owner.

Not that you'd ever admit that particular observation out loud.

You dump your dark clothes into the washing machine, mentally calculating how much detergent to add. Dona shuffles to check her wash cycle, eyeing you suspiciously like you might try to sabotage her laundry when she's not looking.

"Cold day," she comments, which is probably the most conversational she's ever been with you.

"Yeah," you reply, not looking up from measuring detergent. "Came early this year."

She hums disapprovingly, like the weather is also your fault. "Wearing your boyfriend's clothes won't keep you warm forever."

For a split second, your brain halts. 

Boyfriend? What boyfriend? And then—

Ah. 

The hoodie.

Jungkook's hoodie that you're swimming in.

Something about her smug certainty, that look that says she's got you all figured out, makes you want to burn the whole goddamn building down. Or at least throw a very minor wrench in her worldview.

"It's my girlfriend's, actually," you say, the lie sliding off your tongue with practiced ease.

There. Take that, you judgmental old bat. Let's see how your 1950s sensibilities handle—

"Even worse," Dona sniffs, not missing a beat. "Girls these days, always stealing each other's clothes. You'll never build a proper wardrobe that way."

Wait, what?

You blink, momentarily thrown. That's... not the reaction you were expecting. No pearl-clutching. No horrified gasps. Just... practical fashion advice?

"I—"

"My granddaughter does the same thing," she continues, adjusting the scarf around her neck with arthritic fingers. "Comes home wearing her girlfriend's sweatshirts, twice her size. Looks like she's drowning in fabric. No shape whatsoever. You young people and your oversized clothes." She clicks her tongue. "In my day, we wore things that fit."

Well, shit.

So much for your brilliant plan to scandalize the old lady. 

Turns out Dona's not a homophobe—she's just a fashion critic. Equal opportunity judgment for all. How progressive of her.

"Right," you mutter, feeling weirdly chastised. "I'll, uh, keep that in mind."

"Hmph." She turns back to her laundry, seemingly satisfied that she's dispensed enough wisdom for one day.

You're still processing this unexpected twist when the laundry room door creaks open behind you, letting in a draft of cooler air. 

You don't need to turn around to know who it is. 

Something in the atmosphere shifts immediately—molecules rearranging themselves, air particles getting all excited, the very fabric of space-time bending to accommodate his presence.

Or maybe that's just your pulse doing that annoying thing where it decides to race for no good reason.

"Well, well, well."

His voice is sleep-rough and amused, and you can already picture the exact expression on his face without looking. 

That stupid half-smirk. That cocked eyebrow. That look that says he's caught you doing something you shouldn't.

You turn slowly, trying to appear nonchalant despite the fact that you're suddenly, acutely aware that you're wearing his fucking hoodie over your ridiculous pajamas.

Jungkook stands in the doorway, laundry basket propped against his hip, looking unfairly good for someone who's probably just rolled out of bed. His hair is a disaster, sticking up in tufts. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt and those stupid gray sweatpants that look way too good on him, and his feet are bare—the absolute psychopath. Who walks around a gross apartment building with no shoes?

His eyes drop immediately to the hoodie, and his eyebrow arches even higher.

"Interesting fashion choice, Phoenix," he says, lips twitching.

Your face heats. "Laundry day," you say, as if that explains everything.

As if borrowing—okay, stealing—his clothes is a perfectly normal response to having nothing clean to wear.

"Clearly." His gaze sweeps over you, taking in the edge of your floral shorts peeking out beneath the hem of his hoodie. "Sunflower PJs? Again?"

"It's laundry day," you repeat, like maybe he didn't hear you the first time. Like maybe that's a valid excuse for looking like you raided a middle schooler's closet. "Everything else is dirty."

"Hmm." 

He steps fully into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him, and moves to the washing machine next to yours. 

Puts his basket down. 

Stands too close. 

“But the hoodie isn't yours."

It's not a question. It's a statement, delivered with that infuriating confidence he always has, like he's so sure of himself, so certain of how this interaction is going to play out.

"I found it in my room," you say, turning back to your washing machine, pretending to be deeply interested in the cycle selection. "Must've gotten mixed up in my stuff."

"For a whole day?" He snorts, and you can hear him starting to sort his laundry beside you. "Interesting that you decided to wear it instead of, I don't know, returning it."

"It was convenient," you mutter, jabbing at the start button. "And it's cold."

"Right."

You can hear the smile in his voice without looking at him, and you don’t know why you notice without even having to gaze at him. 

Damn your body and its complete lack of dignity.

"You're late, boy."

Your head whips around at the sharp change in Dona's tone. Not softer—definitely not softer—but different somehow. Like… Less venomous, more... familiar? 

The old woman is glaring at Jungkook, but it's not the same glare she gives you. It's like the difference between a loaded gun and a water pistol.

"Sorry, Miss D," Jungkook says, and there's something in his voice—a hint of warmth?—that catches you completely off guard. "Overslept."

"Hmph. Young people." Dona shakes her head, but there's no real bite to it. "My sheets need folding. These old hands aren't what they used to be."

"Sure thing." Jungkook nods like this is a completely normal request, like random old ladies demanding his manual labor is just part of his Sunday routine.

What the actual fuck?

You stare between them, waiting for Jungkook to tell her to fold her own damn sheets, or at the very least look annoyed at being bossed around. 

But he just continues sorting his laundry like this is fine. 

Like this is normal.

"You know her?" you ask, keeping your voice low as Dona bustles over to check her washing machine.

Jungkook glances at you, one eyebrow raised. "Yeah?"

"Since when?"

He shrugs, separating a dark shirt from a pile of whites. "Since I moved in? She lives on the fourth floor."

"And you just... help her fold laundry? Voluntarily?"

"Sometimes." He's not looking at you now, focused on his sorting with more attention than dirty clothes really require. "It's not a big deal."

"Is that why she doesn't look at you like you're gum on her shoe?"

He huffs a laugh. "What?"

"She fucking hates me," you whisper, gesturing discreetly at Dona's back. "Every time I see her, she looks at me like I personally invented avocado toast and killed all the mom-and-pop stores."

"Maybe you just need to help her fold her sheets," he suggests, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

"Or maybe you've charmed her with your stupid dimples and your fake nice-guy routine."

"Fake nice-guy routine?" His eyebrows shoot up, and he looks genuinely amused. "Is that what you think this is?"

"Obviously," you mutter. "Nobody is actually that helpful without an agenda."

He studies you for a moment. Then, speaks. "Yeah? What's my agenda with Dona, then?"

“I don't know yet. But I'm sure it's something nefarious."

"Nefarious," he repeats, and now he's definitely laughing at you. "Sure, Phoenix. I'm playing the long con with a senior citizen. Really working that angle."

"Wouldn't put it past you.”

"Right." He tilts his head to the other side, still smiling slightly. "Well, while I'm busy being fake nice, you might want to turn your machine on. You've been standing there for five minutes and it's still not running."

You glance down at your washing machine, which is indeed just sitting there, silent and unhelpful. Fuck. Your finger must have missed the start button in your rush to look like you knew what you were doing.

You jab the button again, harder this time, and the machine finally lurches to life with a groan that sounds suspiciously like judgment.

"Boy," Dona calls from across the room, "come help with these detergent bottles. They're too heavy."

"Coming," Jungkook calls back, and he's moving before you can say anything else, crossing the room to where Dona is struggling with an industrial-sized bottle of Tide.

You watch, equal parts confused and suspicious, as he takes the bottle from her. They exchange a few words you can't quite hear over the rumble of the washing machines, and then—what the fuck—Dona actually pats his arm. Like he's her grandson or something.

Like she doesn't find him utterly repulsive.

Is this why she likes him? Because he lets her boss him around and carries her detergent? 

That's... kind of pathetic, actually. 

You thought Jungkook had more of a backbone than that.

But still. It's weird. The cold, calculating part of your brain catalogs this new information, filed under "Jungkook, Things That Don't Add Up About." 

It's growing into a pretty substantial folder these days.

You turn back to your washing machine, pretending to be deeply fascinated by the cycle display, but you're still watching them from the corner of your eye. Trying to figure out what his deal is.

"You need groceries this week?" Jungkook asks, voice low but not quite low enough that you can't hear it. "I can swing by after my studio session on Wednesday."

"Do I look like I need charity?" Dona snaps, but it’s not fueled by anger. If anything, she sounds... embarrassed?

"Not charity," Jungkook says, voice even. "Just a neighbor thing."

"Hmph." Dona busies herself with folding a dishcloth. "Well, if you insist on playing delivery boy, I do need milk. And those crackers from last time."

"Got it." Jungkook nods, like this is just normal. Like he's not going completely out of his way for someone who doesn't even seem particularly grateful.

You frown, trying to make it make sense. 

Maybe... maybe it's a hustle? Maybe old ladies tip really well? Or maybe he's building up good karma because he's secretly done something terrible and needs to balance the cosmic scales?

The two of them chat for a bit longer, and you can't quite hear all of it, but you catch fragments—something about Dona's doctor's appointment, something about Jungkook's classes, something about a recipe for chicken soup.

It's all so... domestic. So weirdly normal. So completely at odds with the Jungkook you know—the one who teases you mercilessly, the one who fucks you against walls, the one with the sharp edges and the arrogant smirk.

You're so busy trying to reconcile these two versions of him that you almost miss it when Dona's voice rises slightly.

"...since Hector passed, and these new delivery apps, they charge so much..." Her voice wavers, just slightly. "...shouldn't have to pay an arm and a leg just to get groceries when you can't..."

Jungkook says something too low for you to catch, and Dona makes that "hmph" sound again. But this time it sounds different. Almost... vulnerable?

"Well," she says, louder now, "you're the only one who bothers to check. The others in this building, they see an old woman and they look right through her. Like I'm already a ghost."

Oh.

Oh shit.

Something uncomfortable twists in your chest. An emotion you don't want to examine too closely. Something that feels a lot like…

Shame.

Because that's exactly what you did, isn't it? You saw a grumpy old lady and decided she was the enemy. You never once considered that maybe she was just lonely. 

That maybe she uses sharpness as a shield. 

The same way you use sarcasm as one. 

"Not a ghost yet," Jungkook says, and his voice is gentler than you've ever heard it. "Still kicking my ass at dominoes every Thursday."

"Language," Dona scolds, but you can hear the smile in her voice. "And don't you forget it. I expect a rematch this week."

"Wouldn't miss it."

Wait. He plays dominoes with her? Weekly? What the actual fuck?

And now you feel even worse, because apparently Jungkook—the guy you've been dismissing as an arrogant player with no depth—has been spending his Thursday nights playing board games with a lonely old woman.

While you've been doing what? Watching Netflix and judging everyone's life choices?

Great. Now he's making you feel like an asshole without even trying. That's just perfect.

You turn back to your washing machine, genuinely focused on it this time, trying to process this new information. Trying to fit it into your understanding of who Jungkook is. 

It's not working very well.

When you hear footsteps approaching, you pretend to be busy. You don’t know why you can’t look at him in the eyes right now.

"Sheets are folded," Jungkook says, sliding up next to you. "World is saved."

"What a hero," you deadpan, still not looking at him.

"Someday you'll appreciate my many talents," he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. "Speaking of which, nice hoodie."

You finally glance at him, and yep—there's that stupid, self-satisfied grin. Like he's caught you doing something embarrassing. Which, to be fair, he has.

"It's practical," you say, tugging the hem down where it's riding up. "That's all."

"Sure," he agrees easily. "Very practical to keep my clothes. Much more practical than, say, returning them."

"You want it back?" You make a show of starting to pull it off. "Fine, take—"

"Keep it," he says quickly, and the way he says it—not teasing, not mocking, just simple and straightforward—catches you off guard. "It looks better on you anyway."

You freeze, hands still at the hem of the hoodie, not quite sure how to respond to that. It feels like a trap somehow, like if you accept, you're admitting to something. To what, you're not exactly sure.

"Whatever," you mutter, dropping your hands. "I'll wash it and give it back."

"No rush." He turns back to his own laundry, a small smile playing at his lips.

For a moment, you just stand there, watching him sort his clothes. Then you look away, annoyed with yourself for gawking.

"So," you say, as casual as you can muster,  "you're like, what? The old lady whisperer?"

He glances at you, eyebrow raised. "What?"

"You and Dona." You gesture vaguely in her direction. "The whole..." You wave your hand, trying to encompass whatever the hell it is you just witnessed. "...thing."

"The thing," he repeats, clearly amused. "Very specific."

"You know what I mean," you huff. "The helping her fold sheets thing. The grocery delivery thing. The dominoes thing."

His movements pause for just a fraction of a second, so brief you almost miss it. "You were eavesdropping?"

"It's a small laundry room," you point out. "And you weren't exactly whispering."

"It's not a big deal."

"Playing dominoes with an old lady every Thursday isn't a big deal?"

"It's just dominoes," he says, like that explains everything. 

Like it's completely normal to spend your free time entertaining your elderly neighbor when you could be, I don't know, literally anything else that twenty-something guys usually do on a Thursday night.

"And the groceries?"

"She has trouble carrying them up the stairs," he says with a shrug. "The delivery apps charge too much. It's not a big deal."

"You keep saying that," you note, studying his profile as he focuses very intently on separating a blue shirt from a white one. "But it kind of is. I mean, how many people in this building even know their neighbors' names?"

"Maybe they should. Maybe it wouldn't kill people to look up from their phones once in a while and notice the actual humans around them."

You blink, taken aback by the sudden intensity. "Okay, damn. Sorry I asked."

"No, I'm—" He exhales sharply. "I just don't like talking about it, okay? It's not a thing."

"Why?" you press, genuinely curious now. "Why is it such a big secret that you're apparently a decent human being?"

“It's not a secret. I just don't..." He shakes his head. "I don't do it for attention or whatever. It's just the right thing to do."

"So you don't want me to know you do the right thing?"

"I don't need a fucking gold star for basic human decency," he snaps, and now there's definitely an edge to his voice. "I'm not looking for a pat on the back. I'm not trying to—" He breaks off, stuffing clothes into the machine with more force than necessary. "Just drop it, alright?"

You raise your eyebrows, watching as he jams quarters into the slot with unnecessary aggression. It's almost like he's... embarrassed? No, that's not quite right. More like he's uncomfortable with you knowing this side of him.

Like he doesn't want you to think he's actually nice.

Which is weird, because most guys would be falling all over themselves to prove they're nice guys. To get those good-person points. To make sure everyone knows what a saint they are for helping the little old lady with her groceries.

But Jungkook seems genuinely annoyed that you found out. Almost defensive about it.

It's... interesting.

Weird.

"Fine," you say, lifting your hands in surrender. "Consider it dropped. Your secret identity as a decent human being is safe with me."

He exhales sharply through his nose, still not looking at you. "Thanks."

You both lapse into silence, the hum of the washing machines like tiny droplets of silence between both of you. 

Across the room, Dona is bustling around the dryers, muttering to herself about settings and temperatures. You sneaks glances at her, seeing her in a different light now.

Not just a grumpy old woman. 

A widow. 

Someone who lives alone and has to rely on the kindness of neighbors—specifically, one neighbor—for simple tasks like carrying groceries. 

Someone who's lonely enough that a weekly dominoes game is something to look forward to.

It makes your chest feel tight in a way you don't particularly like.

"Boy," Dona calls, breaking the silence. "What cycle for delicates?"

"Gentle, cold water," Jungkook calls back without hesitation, like he's some kind of laundry expert. Like this is a normal conversation they have all the time.

"Hmph," is Dona's only response, but you notice she follows his advice, adjusting the settings on the dryer.

"She likes you," you observe quietly.

Jungkook glances at you, then back at his machine. 

"She tolerates me," he corrects. "There's a difference."

"She doesn't even tolerate me."

"You've never offered to help with her sheets."

"I didn't know that was an option," you say, crossing your arms. "There's no sign-up sheet for 'Old Lady Sheet Folding' in the lobby."

He snorts, and just like that, the tension from earlier seems to dissipate. 

“Maybe there should be. Building-wide rotation."

"I can see it now," you say, following in on the joke. "'4B gets Monday sheets, 6A takes Tuesday sheets...'"

"'If you find yourself assigned to Wednesday sheets, please be aware that those are the cat-hair sheets,'" he continues, adopting a serious tone. "'Lint rollers will be provided.'"

You can't help it—you laugh. 

It's brief, just a small burst of amusement, but it's genuine. 

And when you glance at Jungkook, he's looking at you with a strange expression, like he's seeing something he didn't expect.

"What?" you ask, immediately self-conscious.

"Nothing," he says, turning back to his machine. But there's a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Just wondering if I should sign you up for Thursday sheets."

"Don't you dare," you warn, but it’s too soft. "I have enough on my plate without adding geriatric sheet duty."

"Could be worse," he says with a shrug. "Could be Tuesday sheets."

"What's Tuesday?"

"Bingo night." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Dona goes hard on the snacks."

You stare at him, once again thrown by this glimpse into a life you didn't know existed. "You're kidding."

"Only partly," he admits with a grin. "But seriously, Tuesday is when she does her big laundry loads. Always complains about the folding."

"And you know this because...?"

"Because I pay attention," he says simply, like it's obvious. Like everyone should just naturally notice these things about their neighbors. "It's not that complicated, Phoenix."

There's no judgment in his voice, but you still feel oddly defensive. Like you've been caught failing some basic test of humanity.

"Well, we can't all be saints," you mutter.

"Not trying to be a saint," he says, a hint of irritation creeping back it. "It's just—" He exhales sharply. "Never mind."

You watch him from the corner of your eye, trying to figure out what button you just pushed. Why this, of all things, seems to get under his skin.

"Sorry," you say finally, surprising even yourself. "I didn't mean to make it weird."

“It's fine."

"It's cool that you help her," you add, feeling awkward but pressing on anyway. "Seriously. Not everyone would."

"Yeah, well." He shrugs, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. "Like I said, it's not a big deal."

"Right." You nod, getting it now.

He really doesn't want the recognition. 

Doesn't want the attention for doing something decent. 

You both fall silent again, with Dona’s muttering as your only company. It's not uncomfortable, though. It's just... quiet. Companionable, almost.

Which is weird, because you don't do companionable silences with Jungkook. You do heated arguments and sarcastic exchanges and intense fucking. 

Not... this. Whatever this is.

"You ever play dominoes?" he asks suddenly, breaking the silence.

You blink at the unexpected question. 

“Not since I was a kid."

He nods, considering this. 

"Dona's always complaining that two players is boring. Says it's meant to be played with more people."

You wait for him to continue, to make the obvious invitation, but he doesn't. Just stands there, pretending to be deeply interested in the cycle display on his washing machine.

"Are you..." You squint at him. "Are you trying to ask me to play dominoes with you and Dona?"

"What? No." He scoffs, finger pressing random buttons. "Just making conversation."

"Right."

"I'm just saying," he continues, eyes fixed on the machine, "that if you ever… I dunno, find yourself bored on a Thursday night… There’s always dominoes."

Is he… Is he actually inviting you to his weird geriatric game night?

And if so, why? 

It's not like you've shown any interest in spending time with the elderly. Or with him, outside of the very specific context of fucking each other senseless.

"I'll keep that in mind," you say finally, not committing to anything.

"Cool."

"Cool."

Another silence falls.

You don’t say anything.

He doesn’t say anything.

And you’re still wearing his hoodie. And he’s still standing too close. 

And for a moment—just a brief, fleeting moment—you wonder what it would be like. To sit around a table with Jungkook and Dona, playing dominoes on a Thursday night. To see that side of him—the side that helps old ladies with groceries and remembers how they like their sheets folded.

It's a weird thought. An unfamiliar one. And you push it away almost as soon as it forms.

Because that's not what this is.

That's not what you are. 

You're roommates who sometimes fuck. You're not friends who play board games together.

"Boy," Dona calls from across the room, breaking into your thoughts. "What cycle for cotton?"

"High heat, Miss D," Jungkook calls back, and just like that, the moment—whatever it was—is broken.

He turns back to his sorting, and you turn back to yours, and everything goes back to normal. Or whatever passes for normal these days.

But you're still wearing his hoodie. And you're pretty sure you're not giving it back anytime soon.

Sometime later, you're leaning against the wall just outside the laundry room, scrolling mindlessly through your phone. 

Your thumb drags across the screen without purpose, not really taking in whatever the hell you're looking at—Instagram? Twitter? Does it matter? The washing machines finished twenty minutes ago, but Jungkook insisted on carrying both your loads like some kind of laundry martyr.

"I got it," he'd said, waving you off when you tried to grab your basket. "Go ahead."

So here you are, waiting, because it feels weird to just leave him down here with your underwear. Even though he's definitely seen your underwear before. In significantly more compromising contexts.

From inside the laundry room, you can hear the murmur of voices—Jungkook and Dona in what sounds like a heated debate about fabric softener. You catch fragments: "ruins the absorbency" and "smells nice" and "didn't raise my Hector to use that chemical garbage."

You roll your eyes. How is this your Sunday? Standing in a dingy hallway while your fuck buddy debates laundry techniques with a geriatric neighbor?

The door finally swings open, and Jungkook emerges, arms loaded with both laundry baskets stacked precariously on top of each other. His biceps flex as he adjusts the weight, and you're definitely not noticing that. 

"Ready?" he asks, nudging the door closed with his foot.

"Been ready," you murmur, pocketing your phone. "Some of us don't need an hour-long consultation about dryer settings."

"She has strong opinions about lint," he says, absolutely straight-faced, like this is a normal follow-up to any conversation.

"Fascinating." You push off from the wall, heading for the stairs. "Let's go before she recruits you for a lint task force or whatever."

He just grins, following behind you. 

The stairwell is narrow and poorly lit, with concrete steps that have seen better decades. 

You're a few steps ahead when you hear it—a dull thud followed by a muttered "fuck."

You spin around to see Jungkook stumbling backward, nearly dropping both baskets as his free hand flies to his forehead. There's an exposed pipe running along the low ceiling that you always duck under without thinking—you're not particularly tall—but apparently nobody warned Jungkook about it.

"Shit." The word leaves your mouth before you can stop it, and suddenly you're moving toward him, hands reaching out automatically. "You okay?"

He looks momentarily stunned, both by the impact and by your reaction. 

"Yeah, just—"

You're already on your tiptoes, fingers brushing his hair away from his forehead to check the damage. There's a red mark forming, but the skin isn't broken. His hair is softer than you expected, still slightly damp from his morning shower, and he smells like—

Wait.

What the fuck are you doing?

You freeze, suddenly aware of how close you are, of your fingers in his hair, of his eyes fixed on yours with an expression you can't quite read. 

Neither of you moves. 

His eyes dart between both of your pupils. 

"Um," you say intelligently, dropping your hands like his forehead is suddenly made of lava. "Be more careful. We don't need you more idiot than you already are."

Smooth. Really smooth.

His lips twitch, but he doesn't call you out on whatever the hell that sentence was supposed to be. "Thanks for the concern."

"I'm not concerned," you say automatically, already turning back toward the stairs. "Just don't want to deal with your concussed ass if you knock yourself out."

"Right." His voice follows you up the stairs. "God forbid you have to care about something."

"Exactly," you agree, not looking back. "Caring is for suckers."

You're halfway up the flight when you hear him grunt as he shifts the laundry baskets. It's a lot to carry, and the stairwell is narrow, but you're definitely not offering to help. That would imply you care, which you just explicitly denied. So.

There's a moment of shuffling footsteps behind you, then: "Wait a sec, Nix."

You turn, ready with some smart-ass comment about his head injury affecting his ability to climb stairs, but the words die in your throat. He's set both baskets down on the landing and is now kneeling on the step below you, looking at your feet.

"What are you—"

"Your shoes," he says, nodding at your sneakers. "They're untied."

You glance down. Sure enough, both laces on your ancient Converse are dragging on the concrete steps, a tripping hazard waiting to happen.

"I know," you lie. You didn't know. "I was gonna fix them later."

"Later, like after you face-plant on the stairs?" He's already reaching for your shoe, his big hands deftly gathering the laces. "With my luck, I'd have to call an ambulance, and they'd blame me for pushing you."

"I wouldn't give you the satisfaction of falling," you mutter, but you don't pull away.

Instead, you just stand there, weirdly frozen, as Jungkook—the guy who regularly makes you come so hard you see stars—ties your shoelaces like you're a fucking kindergartner.

His head is bent in concentration, dark hair falling over his forehead, partially hiding the red mark from the pipe. His hands move with practiced ease, looping and pulling. 

It's such a small thing. So mundane. So ordinary.

So why does your chest feel tight?

"There," he says, finishing the second shoe with a final tug. "Crisis averted."

He glances up at you, still kneeling, and something in his expression makes your stomach do a weird little flip. It's probably just the angle. The way the shitty stairwell lighting catches on his features. The lingering effects of morning caffeine making your pulse do stupid things.

"I could have done that myself," you say, but your voice comes out softer than you intended.

"I know." He shrugs, pushing himself to his feet and picking up the laundry baskets again. "But you didn't."

You don't have a good response to that, so you just turn and continue up the stairs, acutely aware of him following behind you. The only sound is your newly tied shoes against the concrete and his slightly labored breathing as he carries the laundry.

It's weird. 

This whole morning has been weird. 

First the hoodie, then Dona and the dominoes revelation, now this—Jungkook tying your shoes like it's nothing.

Like these small, casually intimate gestures are just things people do for each other.

Maybe they are. Maybe this is all completely normal roommate behavior, and you're the weird one for overthinking it.

It's not like he meant anything by it. 

He's just like that, apparently—the kind of guy who helps old ladies with groceries and plays dominoes on Thursdays and doesn't let people trip on their shoelaces. 

It's not personal. It's not about you.

He's just nice sometimes. In between being an absolute asshole who drives you crazy.

It doesn't mean anything.

It doesn't mean anything at all.

You finally make it to the apartment door, fishing your keys out of the pocket of Jungkook's stupid hoodie and hold the door open for him because he's still stubbornly carrying both laundry loads, despite your begrudging offer to take yours back.

"I can carry my own shit," you'd said on the landing between the second and third floors, trying to grab your basket.

He'd just smirked and swung it out of your reach. "I got it."

"I'm not helpless."

"Never said you were."

"So give me my laundry, asshole."

"Nope."

And that was that. Because apparently this is the hill he wants to die on. Stupid, stubborn, impossible man.

Now he strides past you into the apartment, annoyingly unbothered by the weight of two full baskets. 

You absolutely do not track how lean his arm muscles are as he sets them both on the table near the main door.

You definitely don't track the line of his shoulders as he rolls them back, working out the tension from the climb. 

And you certainly don't follow a bead of sweat as it trails down the side of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt.

Because that would be pathetic. And you're not pathetic.

He starts rummaging through his basket, brows furrowed in concentration. Then he looks up, confusion clear on his face. 

“Wait, I'm missing a sock."

"Huh?"

"A sock." He holds up a single black sock with little Batman logos on it. "I should have two."

You stare at him blankly. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Did you see a sock drop or something? On the stairs, maybe?"

"Why would I be looking for your socks?" You cross your arms. "I have better things to do with my life than track your Batmans."

"Fuck it," he sighs. "I'm going downstairs again."

"Seriously? For a sock?"

"It's my favorite pair." He's already heading for the door. "Be right back."

And then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click, leaving you standing there next to two baskets of laundry and feeling weirdly... abandoned? 

Which is ridiculous. It's a sock. He'll be back in five minutes. 

Get a grip, bitch.

You stare at the laundry baskets on the table. His and yours, side by side. 

Why did he insist on carrying yours? It's so stupidly... nice. And Jungkook isn't nice. He's arrogant and annoying and makes you want to pull your hair out. He's not supposed to tie your shoes or carry your laundry or play dominoes with old ladies.

It's throwing off your entire understanding of him, and that's irritating as hell.

You hate him. You definitely hate him.

Except that's getting harder to believe by the day.

The sound of a door opening breaks into your thoughts, but it's not the main door—it's Yoongi's room. Huh. Like seeing a bear outside hibernation season.

He shuffles into the kitchen, looking about as close to death as you've ever seen him. His hair is a disaster, sticking up in weird tufts like he’s barely managed to lay down on a horizontal surface. The bags under his eyes have bags. His t-shirt is wrinkled in that "I've been wearing this for days" way, and he's moving with the careful deliberation of someone who hasn't slept in approximately three centuries.

"Working?" you ask, because it seems like the only explanation for this zombie-like state.

"Unfortunately." His voice is rough, like he hasn't used it in hours. Maybe days.

He doesn't elaborate, just heads straight for the coffee maker. 

You don't ask. Not your business. 

Besides, you've got your own shit to worry about—like why you can't stop thinking about Jungkook carrying your laundry, or tying your shoes, or the way his hands moved when he was folding Dona's sheets.

God, you need a lobotomy.

Your gaze drifts around the apartment, trying to focus on literally anything else. It lands on the record collection displayed on the wall next to the TV. There must be at least thirty vinyl albums. You remember when Yeji was over last week, she mentioned them—commented on how eclectic the selection was.

You'd just shrugged and said they were Yoongi's. Because they had to be, right? Music producer, always holed up with headphones... it makes sense.

"Nice collection," you say, nodding toward the wall. 

You're not sure why you say it. Maybe to make conversation. Maybe to confirm your assumption. Maybe because some part of you suspects they're not Yoongi's at all, and you want to know what else you might have missed about Jungkook.

Not that you care about his likes or interests or anything. That would be dangerously close to caring about him as a person, which—ha! Absolutely not.

"Huh?" 

Yoongi turns around lazily, coffeepot in hand. He follows your gaze to the wall of records, and then—he scoffs. Actually scoffs, shaking his head like you've just said something so stupid he can't believe it came out of your mouth.

"Have you even checked them?" he asks, tone dry as the Sahara. "They're mostly Mayer."

You blink.

Mayer? As in John Mayer? As in the songs Jungkook plays on his guitar sometimes?

As in "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room"—the song he played that night in his room when he taunted you through text messages and you were stupid enough to actually walk in?

"They're Jungkook's," Yoongi adds after a beat of silence. "Not mine."

"Oh." The word falls from your lips automatically, small and insignificant, completely inadequate to express the weird reorganization happening in your brain. "But he doesn't have a record player?"

Yoongi just shrugs, pouring coffee into his mug. "Doesn't mean he can't collect them."

You stare at the vinyl collection with new eyes. Each album carefully chosen, meticulously arranged. A physical manifestation of something Jungkook cares about, something he values enough to collect even though he can't listen to them. Yet.

Something unwinds in your chest. A tight, small knot of... what? 

Surprise? 

Interest? 

Whatever it is, you don't like it. Don't want to examine it too closely. Because it feels dangerously like the beginning of seeing Jungkook as a whole person, not just the asshole who happens to be good in bed.

And that's not what this is. That's not what you are.

The door swings open, and there he is—stupid grin on his stupid face, waving a Batman sock in the air like he's just found buried treasure.

"Found it," he announces, triumphant. "It was stuck in the dryer door."

You give him the blankest stare you can muster. "Congratulations. Your sock journey is complete."

His grin just widens, completely unfazed by your sarcasm. "Thanks for the moral support, Phoenix. Couldn't have done it without you."

"I literally did nothing."

"Your energy kept me going."

You roll your eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't get stuck in the back of your head. He just laughs, that warm, rich sound that does absolutely nothing to your insides, and starts gathering his laundry.

"Later," you mutter, turning away before he can see the corner of your mouth threatening to twitch upward.

You grab your laundry basket head straight for your room, shutting the door with perhaps more force than necessary.

Safe in your own space, you fish your phone from your pocket—and see three missed calls from the same number. 

Ah. Barnes & Noble. 

Seems like you got the job. Which is good. Great, even.

This is what responsible adults do—get jobs, pay bills, build sensible futures. Not collect vinyl records they can't play or help old ladies with their grocery shopping or carry their roommates' laundry just because.

Normal, practical, boring adult stuff. That's what you're about.

Except now you can't stop thinking about those records on the wall. About what else you might have missed. About who Jungkook actually is when he isn't being an infuriating, cocky asshole. About—

About nothing. Because you don’t care. 

He’s Jungkook. Rogue. The infuriating roommate of yours that leaves towels everywhere and can’t be bothered to clean his own mugs. 

You toss your phone onto your bed and start aggressively pulling laundry from your basket. 

You've got shit to do. Clothes to put away. A job to call back about. A life to live that absolutely does not revolve around wondering why your roommate collects vinyl records or helps old ladies or ties your shoes when they're untied.

It doesn't matter. None of it matters.

(Except that it might. Just a little. And that's the most terrifying thought of all.)

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[etherealrin]

✶⋆.˚ thinking about sae with an eyebrow piercing...

itoshi sae regrets ever giving into his intrusive thoughts—or more specifically—his and shidou's intrusive thoughts.

nothing was even supposed to happen that night. sae was only staying in japan for a few more days after the u-20s match had ended, and even though they had lost, he didn’t care. it wasn’t his reputation that had been damaged. however japan's under twenties team captain aiku had insisted on them all going out for drinks together, to "cheer up," which sae had reluctantly agreed to in order to appease his manager.

so yes, shidou had a few too many drinks in his system, and sae had drank as well. though the latter wasn't nearly as tipsy, it was enough to cloud his judgement.

that was the beginning of the end for sae.

"saeeeee," shidou slurred, a mischievous gleam in his pinkish eyes. "y'know what would look awesome on you?"

"huh?" the same disinterested tone that always came out whenever sae spoke.

"something 'bout your eyebrows, i dunno. like one of those eyebrow slits...wait, no! an eyebrow piercing, that would be an explosion!" although his words were barely coherent, the blonde seemed excited at the prospect, scrolling through his phone for something.

an eyebrow piercing? sae had never put much thought into that before, or any bodily piercing for that matter. would it really look good on him? he wasn't one to trust shidou's erratic taste, but...

sae recalls a conversation he had, not so long ago.

"i think guys with piercings are cool," you'd said over call a few nights back.

"huh?" sae had the same reaction to both your and shidou's insane suggestions. "no way, it'd probably mess up my soccer. and i'd look stupid."

you'd frowned at him through the pixels of his phone. "well, i'm not seriously asking you to get one, but it'd be hot, that's all."

"saeeee," in the short few seconds sae had been mulling over what you'd told him, shidou had come up to him again. sae raised an eyebrow, looking at the devilish boy pointedly. "we should totally do it. for fucks sake, we're in shibuya! there's loads of piercing studios around here!"

what happened next was enough to make the sober sae want to swear off alcohol for a lifetime.

he had actually agreed with shidou, and allowed himself to be dragged out of the bar, away from his teammates. the two stumbled into a brightly lit store, the employees giving them both questionable glances upon arrival.

"we want eyebrow piercings." shidou announced, showing them a reference picture—a silver, metal rod vertical against the eyebrow.

"...are you guys sure?" the girl working had asked. shidou nodded enthusiastically, and sae followed suit against his better judgement, somewhat dazed. the only thing that pushed sae to agree at that moment was the prospect of your reaction. would you think he was hot now? would your face turn bright red, would you gasp at-

a sharp pang drew sae back to reality, and he almost winced.

"it's done," the girl stated, handing them both a mirror. sae blinked. yeah, there was a thing in his eyebrow alright—the gleam of the cool metal was hard to miss. he didn't think too much of it, except that its angularity made his face and jawline appear sharper. if sae had to describe it, he might have chosen the word edgy, his hair was too pink for him to look emo.

"ooh sae, it's even better than i thought!" without warning, shidou snapped a selfie.

"delete that," sae's frigid glare should have been enough to scare him. unfortunately, it was shidou, and he was drunk.

"and...already posted, woohoo!"

sae was dragged out of the shop as quickly as he had came in, and the rest of the night was an alarming void in his memories. he hadn't the foggiest idea of how he made it back to his hotel, except that he woke up today after you had called him.

"morning, cariño."

"itoshi sae, are you possesed?" is that the start of some odd pick up line?

"i'm perfectly fine, thank you? did you really call me to ask that?" sae furrows a brow. he will never understand your train of thought, even after being with you for years.

"hello? do you not know what shidou posted? and i swear you said you'd never get any piercings..." your voice rings out loud and clear.

so that explains why sae awoke with a splitting headache.

"shit," he mutters, racing to the bathroom mirror. sure enough, that stupid piercing was still there, happily resting in his left brow. "i'll kill shidou," he groans, regret coursing through his body. surely last night was just a fever dream; he would have been insane to agree to match something so permanent with that blonde bug.

"don't you dare take it out, itoshi sae!" your sound is muffled now, given that sae had thrown the phone into his blankets.

"and why shouldn't i?"

"it's hot. also you might get an infection and that'd look bad." it's hot? it slowly dawns on sae the new leverage he holds over you.

"ohhh, so you like this," he starts, reaching back for the phone and bringing it up to his face. he's got a cocky smirk stuck to his lips, enjoying your flustered expression as he takes you up close and personal.

"stop it! i might die, you freak!" you actually sound pained, like he had sucked all the breath out of your lungs. sae snickers.

"let's see how you hold up when i come home, amor."

bonus: you could not wait for sae to come back to spain now. sure enough, when you finally greet him at the airport, he's got the same shit-eating grin on, sporting that damn piercing like he was the finest man alive (you think he is.) "sae!" you begin running towards him, and depsite trying to act nonchalant before, his feelings win and sae finds himself headed towards you as well. "missed you," you mutter into his arms after the collision. he doesn't say anything except pull you closer to his chest. when you look up, you think you might faint right there at the baggage claim area. "like what you see?" he's smirking again. "SAE!" you're bright pink now, curse your boyfriend for being too attractive!

a/n: i think i'll just evaporate now thanks...whatever possesed me to have this thought and write it out omfg. sae and rin with piercings haunt me on the daily

masterlist!