#it is . just not an atmosphere i want anything to do with

[vettelsvee]

SO IT GOES... | Charles Leclerc

⋆ PAIRING: Dom!Charles Leclerc x Sub!Girlfriend Female Reader ⋆ SUMMARY: Charles and you have one of the worst fights of your relationship but, instead of talking, Charles decides it's time to let you know who you belong to ↳ REQUESTED: Part of REPUTATION in MY TORTURED DRIVERS DEPARTMENT ⋆ WARNINGS: Smut (Dom!Charles, Possessive!Charles, female receiving oral sex, unprotected p in v, fingering, cowgirl position, orgasm denial). Curse words, mentions of cheating ⋆ WORD COUNT: 2377 ⋆ VEE'S NOTES: As promised, we're back with MTDD fics! Hope you like this one and, if so, remember reblogs and your comments are very much appreciated! Thank you so much for reading <3 ↳ TALK TO ME / REQUESTS! | FORMULA 1 MASTERLIST

The atmosphere in Charles’ driver room was suffocating you both, but what was truly killing you was the silence… and the fact that neither you nor your boyfriend could find the words to speak.

He stood in front of you, breathing heavily. His hands were clenched tightly into fists, arms hanging rigidly at his sides. His pupils were dilated, almost swallowing the green in his eyes. Frustration, rage, and above all, a crushing sense of pressure radiated from them.

His words, laced with anger, packed with everything left unsaid, all the broken promises, were what was tearing you apart.

"Are you seriously telling me you don’t know if you can trust me?" you asked him again, your voice lower now, though the irony still lingered in your tone. "After everything? After all these years together?"

“Fuck. I didn't fucking say that!” Charles shouted, running a hand through his hair, his mouth spitting out frustrated sighs.

"You don’t have to say it. You doubted me, Charles. God… you doubted me."

He let out a bitter, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. He couldn't wrap his mind around the situation… How foolish he had been to believe the pictures of you with that guy didn’t mean anything.

At first, he had convinced himself it was nothing. But now? Now he truly believed you were cheating on him, and no amount of evidence could erase that thought from his mind.

"And can you blame me for that? Do you know what this looks like? Do you have any idea how I feel right now?"

His voice cracked.

You wanted to agree with him. You wanted to scream that you, too, had felt neglected, unimportant, even suspicious. All those times after races, seeing him surrounded by girls, some Ferrari staff, others just familiar faces, posted all over social media by fans. It had hurt, even if you’d never said a word.

“I spent the whole day walking through the paddock while people stared at me like I’m pathetic. Like I’m some fucking idiot too blind to see what’s right in front of him.”

“And that’s on you for thinking that! And on them for judging me like that, Charles!” you shouted, pacing nervously around his room in Ferrari’s hospitality. “It’s not my fault that someone took pictures of me with my best friend and now everyone, including you, thinks I’m cheating!”

“But I can’t ignore it!” he exploded. “I seriously can’t. When I see those damn photos, I feel like a complete idiot. You have no idea how much I hate it.”

Your throat tightened. The anger and the crushing pressure in your chest were unbearable.

"And what about me? Don’t you think I feel humiliated too? Jesus, Charles! I feel like absolute shit knowing that the person I love most in this world thinks I’m hurting him, when all I wanted was to spend time with a friend so I wouldn’t drown in loneliness with you across the world instead of in Monaco."

Charles didn’t answer. His jaw clenched, his entire body tense with fury not at you, but at himself.

“I don’t know what else you want me to say,” you continued, trying to steady your voice as Charles struggled to calm his breathing. “I’ve told you the truth. I’ve told you it wasn’t what it looked like, and still, you don’t believe me.” Your voice broke at the end, and you cursed yourself for losing control now of all times. “What more do you want from me, Charles?”

He closed his eyes for a second, taking in shaky breaths that he hoped would steady him. They didn’t. He still looked at you like you were fragile, like you were everything he loved, and everything he feared losing.

Deep down, Charles hated himself. And he knew the reason this had spiraled so far was because of him.

“I just… I just want to stop feeling like this, love,” he finally admitted, voice hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

And those words hit you like a knife to the gut.

You didn’t know what to say; not with Charles looking at you like that, with a mix of longing and shame, searching for something you weren’t sure you could give just yet.

But even so, you stepped toward him. Determined, though something inside you still felt fragile.

“Then stop.”

Those two words were enough to make Charles shift his gaze from your eyes to your lips just for a moment, but it told you everything. How much he was holding himself back. How much he didn’t want to.

And then, he didn’t.

In one desperate motion, Charles closed the gap between you. He cupped your face in both hands and kissed you, hard and deep. It wasn’t sweet or soft. It was raw, fueled by anger, pain, and everything you’d left unsaid.

You moaned against his mouth, your hands tangling in his hair as you pulled him even closer, your back slamming against the wall.

Your boyfriend groaned now, his hands running up and down your waist before moving to your chest, teasing your nipples through your dress. You couldn’t help but grind against his thigh, silently begging him to part your legs and make this pain disappear with pleasure.

“Charles…” you whispered against his lips when you pulled back just enough to breathe.

“No. Don’t say anything,” he muttered, and kissed you again.

This time, it was deeper, more tender. Like he was trying to apologize for every cruel accusation. Trying to heal you with the only thing he had left to give: himself.

Charles knew you’d need to talk, really talk. But right now, all he wanted was to make it up to you the only way he knew how: by giving you one of the best orgasms of your life.

When he began tracing a finger over your underwear, you stopped trying to hold back your moans. Instinctively, you tugged at the hem of his shirt, desperate for his skin. He didn’t hesitate. He pulled back just long enough to yank it off, tossing it aside without a second thought.

The last thing he felt like doing was getting rid of your skin.

Charles came back to you and lifted you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist, and gestured poorly with your hands for him to set you down on the couch in the room, trying not to fall down the short, but winding path, littered with things on the floor.

By the time he set you down on the couch you were already out of breath. Charles got on top of you, carefully, his lips brushing your jaw, your neck, leaving a trail of kisses with his mouth all over your stomach until he reached your lower stomach.

The moment he knelt in front of you and lifted your dress, torturously and slowly, never taking his eyes off you, you felt the power Charles Leclerc had over you no matter how hard you tried to stop him.

“You drive me insane...” he murmured, leaving kisses on your thighs, massaging them.

“Charles, if someone hears us....”

You didn't have time to finish speaking.

His mouth slipped between your pussy, soaking wet and ready for him. Next to it, two fingers were added to the equation quickly and deeply. You bit your lip to hold back the moans that were so threatening to come out of your mouth, and that you didn't want Lewis, whom you had overheard in the next room, to hear.

That was proof enough for Charles to let himself go. His fingers rammed you faster, at a brutal pace, while he sucked harder and harder on your clitoris.

“You're mine,” the Monegasque shouted. “Come on, love. Say it.”

Your knees buckled. Instinctively, you clutched at Charles' shoulders because you couldn't take the pleasure you were feeling any longer, and somehow trying to keep yourself from screaming.

“I'm... I'm yours...” you whispered, screaming the last word and regretting it instantly.

“That's it, love…” Charles slowed down, but curved his fingers even more to make me reach that spot that gave you so much pleasure. The palm of his hand was in charge of rubbing your clot, completely swollen. “No one else touches you like this. And, above all, no one else makes you moan and cum like I do.”

Those words were enough to make you come hard, throwing your head back and leaning it against the back of the sofa. You bit down hard on your hand to keep the moan, that scream you wanted so badly to let out. Your eyes were filled with tears of pure pleasure, and all you wanted to do was lie next to Charles and do nothing but run up and down his body.

He sat up and kissed you, then stood up and brought his fingers to his lips, full of you, to suck and taste you once more.

Then he sat down next to you and signaled you to get up, to which you did not hesitate to respond.

“I hope you know I'm not done with you yet.”

You tried to answer him, but he tugged at your dress, which you were still wearing, to pull you closer to him. He silenced you with a kiss that made you taste yourself.

“You taste like fucking heaven, love,” he murmured into your mouth.” And now, to make up for it all... you're going to ride me. But don’t get confused… Even if you think you're in control, I am.”

You trembled under his touch and his words, the excitement returning to you. Charles quickly removed his pants and boxers, leaving his fully erect dick exposed, not taking his eyes off you, shy for no reason. His hands grabbed your thighs and you were spread open, facing him, with your entrance perfectly aligned with his cock as Charles moved it to pleasure your clitoris.

Suddenly, he rammed into you, forcing you to sit completely on top of him.

Now you really let out a deep moan, and Charles felt it as a great victory.

“Good girl…” he whispered, putting his hands on your ass. “Just like that... Take all of me…”

You started to move, trying different speeds and movements. You made slow circles with your hips even though you knew that your boyfriend wouldn't agree with that provocation.

And so it was: his hands went to your waist, his fingers digging into your skin to force you to go faster.

“Do it my way. You know how I like it. I want to feel you.”

You didn't have a chance because, by the time you put your hands on his chest, Charles was the one who started ramming from below, hard and relentless. You ended up accompanying his movements with the swaying of your hips, joining in his panting as you tried to keep up with him, getting faster and faster and you don't know how he could do it after running a race.

You felt tired but, at the same time, noticing him deep inside you. Hearing him tease you, possess you, was just what made you want to keep going.

“You're mine,” he said softly, gutturally, over and over. “I want to show each and every asshole who wants to fuck you that you're mine. Maybe I should invite them to see us as we are now....”

You tried to speed up, seeking the orgasm you knew was building in your lower stomach and was about to burst.

Charles, however, noticed.

He grabbed you by the hair, pulling it into a ponytail, and pulled you close to his face:

“You're not going to cum unless I tell you to. You're going to hold on until I tell you to, so I hope that's clear to you. Alright?”

You moaned, trying to control yourself, and nodded your head quickly. 

“I love seeing you like this,” Charles thrust harder into you, and by the way he gritted his teeth, you knew he was as desperate as you were. “So needy, so desperate for me... Look at you, trying your best to be a good girl, today, for me...”

He brought a hand to your neck and squeezed you lightly, just enough to drive you even crazier, while I kept forcing you to ride at his pace.

“You're going to cum when I tell you to do so, and I want you to scream my name so the whole fucking paddock, this whole fucking team, hears you.”

You were still there, on top of him, trying to avoid the friction of his penis against your clit to avoid stimulating yourself more. You were squirming. Your nails were digging into his chest as you begged him with your eyes to let you cum.

And he seemed to understand.

“Go on. Now.”

You broke down, screaming his name as, perhaps, you had never done in all the time you had been together. You collapsed; you broke down as you loved every time you had sex with Charles. He, however, didn't stop and kept ramming into you, caring little about how you trembled or how overstimulated you were on top of him.

He finished cumming soon after, and you felt that, if he had done it later, he would have given you the third orgasm of that make-up sex session.

“I must admit that, although I don't like that you think I'm cheating on you, I should make you think about it more often, because the way you fucked me today....”

Charles shook his head, chuckling under his breath. His hands were around your waist, much less possessively now, but he still wasn't going to let you go. One hand began to run down your back in a different way, too overprotective for your liking, but you thought you were overthinking, so you let it go.

In the end it was just Charles, your boyfriend.

“I hope you know you're mine. Always.”

And the way he says that?

You didn't know if it was really his possessive self invading him, or because it was one of those promises, the kind that are meant to be broken before you can even dream about them, that he was making to you again.

[sugusat]

Street Racer! Suguru x Bimbo! Reader

TLDR: You and Suguru broke up a few months ago but you’re both down BAD for each other. Lots of yearning :((( Smut will be in part 2 !!!

I don’t know much about cars so apologies for the inaccuracies, it’s just for fun. Basically fast and furious inspired - unedited/no trigger warnings

Street racer Suguru and bimbo reader who broke up a few months ago but Suguru couldn’t let you go, couldn’t take you off his mind for a second. You broke up with Suguru in a fit of rage after he drove a little too dangerous after being incredibly jealous all night at a bustling house party. It’s not your fault you’re attractive and guys wanted you. Besides everyone knew you were Sugurus anyway. But a couple of guys from out of town hadn’t realised the rules that came with dating the no1 street driver in Tokyo and decided to try their luck. It was nice to get attention for once and you only giggled at one.. okay, maybe two of their jokes. But this was enough to tip Suguru over the edge, knocking one of the guys out and dragging you out of the party.

So two screaming matches later when Suguru shouted for you to get back in the car, promising he would calm down on the possessiveness, you didn’t believe it and you were finally just done. 2 months later, you were now here. Miserable, but both too damn stubborn to admit it, or do anything about it.

You arrived at the latest race hosted in some back streets of Shibuya, Shoko and you linking arms, giggling away together. This was needed, a night of fast cars and forgetting all your problems. You didn’t think he would be here tonight, Gojo had told you as much, and you had missed the atmosphere a big race caused. There was a spark of excitement in the air and you could smell the fuel burning, engines humming, ready to be rattled around. You should have been feeling on top of the world, newly single, outfit looking immaculate and incredibly cute! But you still couldn’t help the sinking feeling in your chest, your eyes glancing around, searching for that broad build and deep voice without even realising.

“I told you, he’s not coming y/n” Shoko said with a sigh as she dragged you around the many approaching cars. You let out a huff and shook your head, “I know, and I don’t care. I don’t even know what you’re talking about anyway,” you replied with a roll of your eyes.

“Ya, sure about that one,” Shoko huffed as you walked back into zone, you had been asked by Saturo to wave the first two racers of the night off and you couldn’t resist. The best part about these races was being the girl at the front of race, the rush of the cars flying past you, it was like nothing else.

And with no ex boyfriend lurking around, making sure no one got too close but not speaking to you either. This couldn’t be better! Or so you thought..

Sugurus stomach dropped, slowly rolling his car up and seeing you stood there. Fuck he had missed you, and that little skirt you currently had on.

He had been an idiot that night, got too complacent with you always doing what he said. He saw two men flirting with you, and just saw red. Were people really that stupid to go after his sweetheart??

Well in a way they had succeeded as he hadn’t been yours for 2 months now and it sucked. He wanted to get you back but you were always huffing that it was better this way and the space was good for you both. Or at least that’s was Saturo said.. Other than to drop some clothes off at his, you had barely spoke to him these last two months. And now you were stood here, in that pretty outfit, hair done just the way he liked, smirking with the familiar glint in your eye whenever you got to wave the racers off.

As everyone checked out both cars, Suguru pulled the door up on his ride and stepped out, his eyes trained entirely on you. You stood in between the two cars, frowning, almost scowling at his unexpected arrival. The scowl on your face was just a mask though because shit.

He looked hot.

Black cargos hung low against his waist whilst he wore a loose oversized band tee, his hair was tied in a messy bun and those wispy bits still escaped. The ones you used to always push out of his face, especially after a tough race. He made his way towards you and you gulped, turning to grip the smooth metal of the other car that had been entered in tonight’s race. Letting nonchalance wash over your face, stared down into the shiny engine of the car. Pretending like the man who hadn’t left your thoughts for the last two months wasn’t headed right for you.

“Hey sweetheart..” Suguru said lowly, a breadth away from your ear as you felt the slight arch of your backside jolt into his front. You loudly huffed and gripped the bonnet, that familiar nickname bringing up an anger you had almost forgotten was there.

“Su-gu-ru “ you said childishly as you refused to meet his eye, his body still an inch away from yours. You could smell him now, his familiar scent wafting around you, threatening any resolve you had trained into yourself over the last few months.

Sugurus deep chuckle came from behind as he knew how much he was affecting you just from that name. “Come onnn baby, you’re not even gonna look at me?” Suguru grinned as he leant against the car, his hand almost brushing your own tightly gripped one.

“We broke up Suguru, you don’t get to call me those names anymore.” You muttered, peering into the bonnet of the car, pretending like you totally knew what you were looking at.

“Ah, and in that time have you become a car expert all of a sudden? Find a better teacher than me baby, hm?” Suguru chimed, pretending to also be interested in what the other racer had to offer. He knew it would be nothing on what he had under the hood anyway.

“Hmpm, maybe I did,” you huffed, flinching away as his body pressed in further, pretending to get a better view at something else in the car. “That’s a real shame,” Suguru said in a sultry tone that always made you at his mercy.

Taking a deep breath you looked up at him suddenly, with a huff you glanced through those big doe eyes and said “What do you want Suguru?” You surprised yourself at how normal you sounded, how unaffected by his presence.

“I miss you baby, it shouldn’t be like this..” he mewled whilst taking a strand of your hair and twirling it around his finger.

You paused for a moment and then snapped your head to the right, pulling that strand of hair straight out of his hand. He lightly pouted as your face scowled up at him.

“Whatever Suguru,” you huffed, refusing to meet his eyes again as your heart tugged with him being so close.

Suguru laughed again, god he had missed your little tantrums. He did get sick of them, but not having them at all was terrible. He’d do anything to have you back, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to say that. “Fine sweetheart, I’ll do you a wager..” Suguru said, his fingers had now found their way to the curve of your hips, lightly grazing the naked skin, as goosebumps pebbled. You glanced up at him, intrigued by the suggestion and already a little breathless.

“If I win this race, you let me take you on a make up date. And if I loose, I’ll leave you alone. No more nicknames, nothing..” and despite that wager, your heart sunk a little at the idea of never hearing those silly names from his mouth. Your lips came together in a thoughtful pout, mulling the suggestion. His fingers now lazily drew circles on your hips, distracting your thoughts.

It took everything in him to prompt that idea, immediately regretting it. There was other ways to win you back. He knew he would win, but he didn’t like to tempt fate, and this felt an awful lot like doing just that.

Your big round eyes calculated the odds in that pretty little head before gazing up at him and nodding. You knew it was very likely he’d win, hell you’d been to every race of his since you were both young, had always been the one cheering him on before you became more than friends. And it didn’t take a genius to know this rookie didn’t stand a chance, especially with the state of his car..even you knew this.

And you knew even more that it was stupid to even entertain going out with him again, but with the way he was looking and how close he had been, you found it hard to remember why you even broke up in the first place.

So here you stood, a few minutes later, in between two very loud and aggressive cars getting ready to wave them off. Suguru revved his car as you stood smiling smugly at both drivers. He gripped the steering wheel hard and raised a single eyebrow at you in a challenge.

You said your usual speech for these kind of races. Then holding your arms in the air as you lowered your head, you gave Suguru a grin that was only ever reserved for him, the other racer completely forgotten. Just as you were about to lower your arms Suguru winked at you, and with a smirk of his own they were off. Whizzing past you, you turned to watch both cars leave you in the dust as everyone gathered round to cheer. Everyone made quick work to head to the finish line as you heard Sugurus throaty engine rev in the distance.

You now stood at the finish line, awaiting those two cars, ready to see who would be the winner that would decide your fate. Your belly pooled with adrenaline, this race having more stakes on it than ever, a small part of your brain said it was obvious but still you had doubts. From what Gojo had reported monitoring both cars through trackers and drones as usual, it was pretty neck and neck. This new rookie was surprising everyone tonight, and your palms were sweaty with anticipation.

“He’ll be fine,” Shoko said as she came to stand next to you, handing you her cigarette. “I-I know that, I’m not worried anyway..” Shoko laughed as you nervously took a drag, she knew you needed something to take your mind off it.

“I did something stupid Shoko..” you suddenly said as she looked out into the road, also waiting for the cars to make it round the corner.

“As stupid as ending it with Suguru over a petty fight..?” Shoko murmured under her breath as you shot a glare in her direction.

“Erm, maybe..” “He gave me a wager.. if he wins, he takes me on a date and if not, he leaves me alone.. for good.” Shoko’s eyes widened at the last part. She knew how much you’d been pining for Suguru since you decided to end it that fateful night but she also knew how damn stubborn you both were. And she didn’t know if either of those ideas were good.

“Tsk, you both need your heads banging together. Guess he has no choice but to win now.” Shoko tutted as you anxiously bit your lip.

The two racers finally making it around the corner at a staggering pace, Sugurus back end came out on the corner and you shrieked, the stupid rookie racer gained pace over Suguru and suddenly it felt like the entire crowd was holding their breath. But then his car straightened and Suguru was zooming past, over taking the rookie with ease. And then he was past the finish line, the car spinning round in celebration.

You couldn’t hide the grin that graced your face as Suguru pulled to a stop and climbed out of his car with calm smile on his face. A small laugh leaving his body as Gojo ran over hyping him up, explaining some tech things that went in one ear and out the other as he caught your eye.

You hadn’t moved from your spot and Suguru found you in the crowd, his eyes now trained on you, not leaving your face for a second. You shook your head as you rolled your eyes and smiled, all knowing what was to come next. Saturo now realising where his eyes were on you, shut the hell up about the car tech and said “Thank fuck you won, now go show her a good time,”

———————

Part 2 will be coming soon and it’ll be smutty :))))

Thank u for reading!

[storkmuffin]

Liveblogging the SanHwa Lego Build (Part 3)

You can find PART 1 HERE and PART 2 HERE

requested by @jess-the-mess2513

We open to part 2 and uh, it starts with Seonghwa speaking sweetly to his mother. He hangs up after speaking to her briefly (but very politely, in a sweet voice) and then he tells Sannie that his mother called to ask if the Live Broadcast had been turned off, because they must have gone off line for a minute. This is extremely filial and very sweet except he's been domming the shit out of his hometown boy Sannie in front of his mother in full awareness of her watching this ... situation going on and so I can't be completely at peace about this whatsoever.

Ever a nice boy (lie, it's a lie) Hwa asks that the viewing audience say a greeting to his mother. Sannie, as the actual nice boy, inquires whether it's not an extremely early time for his mother to be awake at the moment.

Then they have a nice conversation about how Hwa's mother is raising birds right now, and Sannie is surprised by this, asking in Korean, 새? before confirming in English, Bird?? Then San shares that his grandparents used to raise birds too. Seonghwa says that he misses the birds the most when he thinks of home. They fly around near the ceiling at home.

Then Jongo appears. Well, just his voice. He says 안녕하십니까 which makes both me and Seonghwa laugh. Not 안녕하세요, not 안녕, 안녕 하.십.니.까. like he's about to give a speech or sell us insurance. I am, I must add, relieved that Jongho is here. Jongho does not generally support bullshit that he himself did not start, and he definitely didn't start what is going on over here, so maybe, just mayyybeeeeee, the madness will end.

The translation in the version I'm looking at translates "���도 화장 안 지웠냐" from Sannie, which literally means You haven't taken off your make up either? to Is your condition not the best? (at 2:38) and I find this kind of icky. They're often wearing a full face of make up, and they freely acknowledge it, and TAKING OFF YOUR MAKEUP is not a euphemistic phrase for anything in Korean - it literally just means 'take off your makeup' so Youtube content creator has some discomfort with these men wearing make up all the time, apparently.

San and Hwa, busily engaged in the parallel play that is putting legos together, both ask that Jongho sit for a bit and keep them and the Atiny company. Hwa explains that Jongho feels shy about showing his bare face, so he will participate only by voice. Jongho supplements this explanation by saying that he saw they were doing a live broadcast so he thought he'd come over. Johngho says he's only planning to stay a little while.

Jongho wants to know where they got the Legos from, and Seonghwa explains that he rushed to the store directly from the airport to obtain this sex toys - sorry, Legos - because he planned to do this dungeon dom session -SORRY - lego construction live broadcast.

Jongho makes a visual appearance by showing his hands in a V sign or maybe the Atiny flag sign. (Is this before or after the Sleep Deprivation Broadcast?).

San's neck is hurting from looking down so much, so he gives himself a stretch, which prompts Seonghwa to ask if he's run into difficulties. Sannie says No. Jongho says this is a nice atmosphere to be in, in Seonghwas Lego Dom Dungeon. Oh ho ho, how little he knows. Because what's happening right now, as soon as he appeared, was not what was going on the whole time.

Jongho says that he really would like to show his face, but he really can't, because he's had 'some beverages.' Not even Jongho can lightly admit to having ingested alcohol during an Idol Live Broadcast. San asks, while busily constructing the Lego (Seonghwa has gone completely silent with absorption) whether Jongho too was with Yunho (who was apparently drinking). Jongho says No no, he was eating with Wooyoung.

He just says the name, 우영이, without an honorific (no hyung). Jongho and Wooyoung had 삼겹살 for dinner. They are such old ajushi style guys that it cracks me up. They went all the way to Denmark and managed to find a Korean restaurant to have 삼겹살. It's really annoying actually to travel with Koreans who are like this, who somehow can only eat Korean food (why??) when you're me and you want to only eat local cuisine.

Still using the catchall word "beverages" (rather than drinks, as per the incorrect translation - sigh), Jongho says they were very enjoyable. Sannie is subtly smiling at the little Idol insider joke that's being said, and says "Seems like it, given your expression right now." Jongho says that he still wanted to at least share his presence even if all he could contribute was his voice, and Sannie says that's very sweet.

Jongho and Seonghwa reminisce about when they were trainees they put Gundam together because "they had nothing else." San says he can't remember the last time he did anything with Legos. Seonghwa says he didn't play with Legos after elementary school, but their trainee period in the US is what got him back into it. They went to an outlet to go shopping, and he picked a little Lego up. And that's why we are all here.

The three of them are chatting away amiably like old ladies at a quilting or knitting circle, talking about, What time is it in Korea? and San is humming a little tune, and it's honestly kind of soothing -

CHIKI CHAKA

..........

Seonghwa! Why? WHY? I was just typing that I was soothed!!

The Chiki Chaka is the cue for Jongho to suddenly express a lot of self consciousness about his present inability to show his face to the Atiny. He starts to take his leave. NOOOO DON'T LEAVE ME, Jongho, DON'T GOOOOO!!!

Jongho takes his leave while San, in old biddie mode, says to nobody in particular, "That boy always has such lovely manners," and just as Seonghwa says another (say it with me now)

chiki chaka

Jongho slams the door and he's gone.

Sannie has a depressing realization. "I have to make another one of the exact same one," about whichever Lego he's construction.

Guess what Seonghwa says in response? Yes. Of course he does. Chiki. Chaka. Except he's putting that infuriating gap between the two words so as to make sure that both will be given enough time to sink in properly and infect my brain with maximum cringe rage.

Sannie starts humming, because Sannie's method of self soothing is to sing to himself. Then his Idol self awareness kicks in and he says, "When I hum and talk to myself while making things, people often tell me that I seem like a middle aged man," Sannie says.

"Chiki Chaka," Hwa says, in a psychotic Tweetie bird falsetto.

San wants to bring back the Seonghwa that was more under control as when Jongho was present. "Do you know what I mean?" he asks.

It almost works. Seonghwa likes playacting a lot so he starts imitating old-man-making-stuff self-mutterings, like "ohh let's see here, what have we got~" in singsong, and Sannie happily plays along. But not for long because two seconds into this roleplay Seonghwa says, "Compared to something like that, chiki chaka is really fun."

NO IT'S NOT.

NO IT ISN'T.

IT IS NOT.

Seonghwa compliments San on his progress. San is singing Ateez songs to himself, and this also works to bring Seonghwa back to his Idol self a bit, because they're harmonizing. This is really nice. They're singing Treasure. My friends in church choir would get like this sometimes, and it was nice to be around this sort of sotto voce singing by people who were trained to harmonize with each other.

And then something weird happens. San asks, "Did Hongjoong talk about this yet?' and then turns to his left, away from Hwa, to say to someone off camera, 얘기했지? which could be translated as He has, right? or You have, right? depending on who it is he's talking to. Who the fuck is in this room right now? Staff? Hongjoong? WHO? San hears something the person has said which is inaudible to us, but doesn't hear it fully, because he says, "Huh??" before returning to his Legos.

Seonghwa says, "He's said something about Paris, but if you find yourself asking, Should I not? then you just shouldn't." San doesn't object, and says, "That's why I asked. Because I have a memory of his saying somethin. Someone told me he said something." Then he looks now to a different point off camera to a second silent person and gets the confirmation he wanted.

HOW MANY OTHER PEOPLE ARE IN THE ROOM WITH THEM WHEN SEONGHWA IS DOMMING HIS MEMBERS?

Apparently the thing that San wanted to talk about was Hongjoong's Balmain deal. San says how amazing that is, that Hongjoong is a real celebrity with fancy deals, and Seonghwa says he was so proud. This is incredibly sweet, and I am really just going to commit to believing it genuine even though I think every single other group will probably use the exact same phrases - amazed, proud, it's like he's a real celebrity, etc. In fact, Stray Kids often say that about each other, that "you seem like a real celebrity" even though they've been world famous for years. Sannie says Hongjoong is awesome and wants all the Atiny to support him.

Seonghwa says, "It's a little concerning that he's going alone. I hope he returns without having lost anything."

This is such an incredibly wifely thing to say that San looks up and stares at him for a long moment.

And then they both laugh.

Seonghwa repeats what he said, that Hongjoong is great at everything to do with the actual job, but he also sincerely hopes that he will complete the trip to Paris without having lost anything. San agrees, and says that Hongjoong needs someone by his side to take care of him to not lose things.

Worrying about Hongjoong losing things while being a celebrity by himself in Paris has activated Seonghwa because then he turns on the weirdness aggression on San. When Sannie takes moment to sigh and contemplate next steps, Seonghwa goes, "Is something wrong?" four times rapidly, in a row. It's very mocking.

San considers hitting him, once more.

Ever the gentleman, Sannie says that he was merely wondering where a piece went, and then when Seonghwa asks which one, he finds it on his own.

Seonghwa says San should ask for help any time. Now Seonghwa's neck is hurting, so he stretches. San does the same just for insurance.

San says that it's so nice that everyone is doing so many Lives broadcasts. He expresses the wish that the messages app situation gets resolved. I don't know what this is because I was not in the fandom at this time. Seonghwa dramatically acts out his distress, which confuses San for a minute. San closes this discussion by expressing optimistic hope that all will be worked out very soon.

Seonghwa says that he hadn't had very high expectations of enjoyment from making these mini-fied versions of the characters in Lego form, because the final work product is so far removed from the original character, but now that he is almost done making them he finds that he can see this is another way to express this character, and he finds it very endearing now. San is such a good sport, and goes right along with the conversational thread. He says, "Oh these cute little ones must have been so disappointed that you were ignoring them all this time."

Seonghwa mutters something about LIghtsabers, sings a snippet of a song that references lightsabers from Kpop, and suddenly, he is done!

Except he's not. Seonghwa had left off an ear. He says "Oh I'm sorry!" to the Lego. When he's got it completed for real, he shows the back of the constructed Lego to the Atiny, to show them how intricate the character design is for this munchkin version of Obiwan Kenobi.

San's neck is really bothering him.

Seonghwa starts playing with his Star Wars guys like he's 5.

Like really, this is five year old behavior from this tall man who I know had been burning up stages throughout Europe during this time period.

Seonghwa talks about the Obiwan Kenobi show. San doesn't think that it's proper to promote non Ateez IP so he lets that go, and then asks whether everyone has been enjoying episodes of Wanteez. The editing is done so well! says San.

Seonghwa does not want to be working right now (as in, promoting Ateez content). He chockes himself out with Pringles so viciously that San becomes concerned. "Please eat those one at a time. You'll get it stuck in your esophagus otherwise." in the comfortable lack of Chiki Chaka because Seonghwa's mouth is full, Sannie sings snippets of songs peacefully to himself as he completes his Lego.

Seonghwa starts to build a display of all the Legos they've completed so far. Seonghwa is getting impatient with Sannie's pace.

Seonghwa starts cherry picking comments to read out from the Atiny:

"It's so fun watching Seonghwa make Legos together with a member."

... Like I said before, YOU HWA ULTS STAY AWAY FROM ME. (affectionate, admiring, but still).

Someone asks for a pringle, and Seonghwa pretends to oblige. Then Seonghwa asks San whether he's ever seen anyone else eat pringles the way Seonghwa himself does. "Like it's a tongue."

San wants our help. San wants to escape so bad.

San, who has been a trooper, a real one, a true blue, through all this chicki chaka and now Pringles related torture, has finally hit some sort of block because he can't find the piece he needs. Seonghwa takes over, and immediately sides with Lego Corporation: "You may have misused the piece in the wrong place." San is very sure this is not what happened. "NO!" he says, and then repeats, "NO!" again. "I did it right!

San is ready to give up.

But it turns out the little bitty thing he needed was still just in the packaging.

San is so relieved.

Seonghwa graduates from letting Pringles give him tongue to just deep throating the whole bottle.

San is not having a good time. He says he's going to do a reading broadcast later, rather than Legos. But then he remembers that he can't do an audio book format Live either due to copyright. Why is there so many things he wants to do for the Atiny the world won't let him? Seongwha tells him to think positively about it. But San objects. There is no way to think positively about being unable to share his joy of reading. Seonghwa won't admit defeat, and says that San should just offer his presence and his smile. San tells him to just keep eating. Seonghwa obliges.

Seonghwa has realized far earlier than I did that San got adjusted to the Chiki Chaka torture. Now he's using 잘 돼? 잘 안돼? (Is it going well? Not well??) as the insanity inducing phrase. San is a very subtle resistance fighter, and calmly counters every time that it's going very well.

San keeps thinking of different, better, more enjoyable lives than this Lego torture he's having to undergo right now. He wants to sing and dance on Lives but assumes that's copyright blocked as well.

A lego hurts him while clicking into place, but since Seonghwa is always on the side of Lego Corp he doesn't express sympathy.

Seonghwa says he should just film a reels. They talk about The Tropical Boys filming another reel. Seonghwa is bored, and puts San's glasses on his face. San is working so hard right now, but for some reason his progress is slow. Seonghwa reads out cheerleading comments from the Atiny.

An Atiny says that she learned Hangeul in 8 months because she was inspired by San. San gasps and then applauds them, before going on to say that it's really a difficult thing, to learn a whole different language. I concur. All of you who learned a whole new script because of your love of kpop, I always salute you. Much respect.

San runs into another problem, and Seonghwa takes on his role as auditor on behalf of Lego Corp. San is on to his game (San is very smart, we all agree, yes?), so he smilingly demands that Seonghwa stop trying to find fault with San's work every time there's a problem.

Seonghwa really is a corporate simp for Lego, because he has a whole aphorism ready to deploy at will, which he also uses later on Hongjoong: "You must always doubt yourself first, with Legos."

The thing is, this time, there really is some sort of problem. Seonghwa does a very slow motion, roundabout victory dance. He starts looking for a nonexistent dropped piece while San gently apologizes to his Lego for not making it as perfect as it could be, because he didn't use this particular itty bitty piece he now needs in some incorrect way.

Seonghwa is putting on such a (silent) loud show about San making a mistake that San smacks him on the ass.

Look how sad his eyes are. San is so tired.

Seonghwa starts to be really annoying about 'finding' this 'missing' piece as San gently, through grit teeth, begs him, Hyungnim, please sit down. Seonghwa will not. He opens and closes a bottle. He pats himself down. He opens and closes the curtains. He opens and closes the damn pringles bottle, before finally, finally sitting down.

I have to stop. I can't believe there's twenty more minutes of this, warranting a part FOUR of this series. When Seonghwa locks in a sub ... er, a bottom... no, um, a......... a friend to ... do Legos with him he really does milk it for all it's worth.

[like-sunshine-and-gunpowder]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65613298

though i burn (how could i fall)

Pairing: Bob Reynolds/Yelena Belova

Fandom: Thunderbolts (2015), Marvel Cinematic Universe

Word count: 5,440

Tags: Angst, Fluff, Character Study, Getting Together, First Kiss, Kissing

Summary: A quiet moment in the Watchtower, where a dream and a dance are shared between two teammates.

——————————————————————————————————

"If the wind turns, if I hit a squall, allow the ground to find it’s brutal way to me”

——————————————————————————————————

There truly was no reason for him to still be living at the Tower other than this: Robert Reynolds was a hazard. Or a liability. Whatever technical term you preferred. He’d even heard an operative call him “Yelena’s pet”.

That last one was almost endearing, if it wasn’t just a bit pathetic.

Bob tilted back another Lithium pill- the second one for the day- and got started on his tea. Pots clanking and echoing along the big empty living quarters, like a depressive reminder. The New Avengers were on a mission, investigating some new flying object that had just entered the atmosphere, saving the world, being useful. Not... well, being a bum on borrowed time.

God, he felt like he was back in Florida, playing the 'unemployed-friend-who-dropped-out-of-college' part, all over again. All that was missing were the copious amounts of Mountain Dew bottles and scary drug dealers at his door asking for their money back. At least the weather was nicer here, where he could wear his long sleeves most of the time.

There was a tremor on his left hand- it wasn’t withdrawal, couldn’t be withdrawal, it had been so long ago- and the sound of a kettle boiling.

His other, also shaking hand, flew to his wrist. Was it just his disturbed perception or was it getting darker? Bob froze. Out of fear, or guilt, as the kettle continued to scream at him for a while, like a continuous omen.

Maybe it was just the new medication. Because, Dr. Briones had already described that it was a known side effect, to-

“You should probably get that,” a familiar raspy voice warned him from behind.

He hadn’t even heard her coming, though her footsteps were loud and intentional.

Bob turned to see Yelena in her suit. Not bloodied, not stained, no scratches, no cuts, no visible bruises and the mere sight of her (safe, unwounded) felt like a weight immediately slid off his shoulders. World's fastest massage.

She continued to stare at him in her usual furrowed brow, blue under-eye makeup. They stayed there for a while until she cocked her head sideways, as if not wanting to speak up again and pointed to the stove with her thumb.

“Ah, hm,” as if electrocuted into action, Bob suddenly remembered how to move again. Turning off the heat, he tried grabbing onto the now-burning handles of a very hot kettle. His fault for wanting to do things the vintage way instead of opting for the automatic ones. “Shit.”

He drew his hands back quickly, looking for a trustworthy dishtowel. Or any cloth, really-

“Here,” Yelena sprung beside him like an apparition, in a way that nearly put Ava to shame. “Gloves,” she explained, naturally.

He chuckled. It was kind of weird how much humor she could pack into so little words.

Honestly, laughter came easy when it came to Yelena. But that was very, very dangerous. See, if Bob had learned anything from having to deal with his emotions it was that laughing too much was usually a bad sign. The first indicator of a trajectory towards the upper polarity of his mental disorder.

There’s a certain kind of melancholy about having to worry when you actually feel content, though.

It was kind of a miserable existence, to have to go in for mandated check-ins because you’re feeling good. He was sure most people didn’t have to go for late night visits with their doctor because they felt okay for once in their goddamned life- but, he remembered, that was always how it started anyways. The manic episodes, the illusions of grandeur, they all started with just... feeling a little better than usual. And were all promptly followed by drug benders, self-harm, near death experiences and immense credit card debt.

The thing about his illusions of grandeur were this: they used to be illusions and now they were not. (Now, he was just wasting time.)

Still, Yelena smiled at him too, with just the corners of her mouth, and for only the tiniest of seconds. But Bob noticed.

He always noticed.

“Do you, hm,” he started, already pouring her a cup of chamomile tea. It supposedly helps you with sleep. “Want… some?”

“Doesn’t feel like I had any saying in it but okay,” she took the white teacup from his hands, fingers briefly meeting. He instantly missed the warmth.

Her body moved away from his, from her place near the kitchen counter and sat down in the common area’s big lounger.

“What’s with the lights being turned off? Very…” Yelena pointed to the ceiling, seemingly searching for a word, finally settling on: “…Noir. Yes?”

Bob laughed again. Damn it. There she goes, with that dry effortless humor of hers. Truth be told, he hadn’t even realized that it was already dark outside, the late afternon sky was diffult to miss when most their walls were made of glass. But, look, time got kind of hard to keep up with when you had so much not to do.

“Uh, yeah. Thought it’d give off a romantic vibe for my late afternoon tea, you know?”

Yelena scoffed before taking a sip. White porcelain, hitting her lips in a movement that made it impossible to look away from.

(It was only after she gave him her characteristic ‘not-so-bad’ pout that Bob was able to let out the breath he hadn’t even noticed he was holding.)

“Well,” Yelena said flatly, kicking her boots off with intensity and crossing her legs on the sofa, “if you wanted to be romantic, there’s a candle on second drawer. Near the sink.”

There was no way that was true. Bob moved to check, rustled around and, to his surprise, found an old candle. Right next to a .45 caliber. Huh. Better not to question if it’s even loaded.

“Wow. One, singular, dusty candle,” Bob picked it up, curiously. “Do you want me to light that up then?”

He had asked without thinking. He didn’t mean to make it romantic for her. Well, maybe he meant to. But he didn’t mean for her to think that he wanted her to think that-

Yelena simply nodded.

Bob suppressed a shaking sigh and brought the old candle next to her. Sitting close, but also not that close. He feared he would never really get the distance right– perpetually afraid to fly too close to Sun with his wax-made wings. Whenever he was too close to Yelena Belova, it felt overly confident; his skin felt rough and his breathing got too out of control. But, when he sat too far away, it felt purposedly avoidant, and he would ache to go near, heart pounding too loud to hear her sometimes. Always a lose-lose situation with her, truly.

Her knees moved, then, accidentally touching his and sending tiny energizing shocks all over. She was reaching for his book, Sylvia Plath’s ‘The Bell Jar’, that laid forgotten underneath a couch cushion. She looked over the summary quickly, pulled his bookmark without care, and opened it up on a random page instead.

Her brow furrowed, and, without tearing her eyes from the book, she’d asked:

“So… are you going to light it?”

Ah. Shit. He’d gotten distracted by her again. It was a daily occurrence by now. Bob blamed it on the lack of stimuli around the house. Afterall there were only so many novels to read and so little blonde assassins to stare at, all day.

Sometimes, it felt as if, looking at her, it could maybe be the last time he'd ever get to. So he took his time, whenever he could, memorizing each line that graced the whole of her.

Sometimes, her face, to him, already looked like a memory.

“Oh, right,” Bob ran a hand through his hair. “It’s, hm, I don’t… have a lighter. Or- or a matchbook, for that matter.”

She clicked her tongue at him, in a way that almost sounded like when she spoke Russian with Alexei. He somehow knew she was holding back a joke about how a former meth addict didn't have a lighter on him.

In one swift move, Yelena pulled a lighter from one of her infinite pant-pockets and gently deposited it in his left hand. It was one of those tiny, red ones they used to sell in newsstands. Bob briefly wondered if it was even hers. If it had sentimental value or just strictly tactical purpose. He wondered if she used to smoke.

There were flashes, images of her flooding his psyche. Moments that he wasn’t sure were her memories, or that he had simply created right then and there. Yelena smoking a blunt alone in her apartment. Lighting up a cigarette as she cleaned up her gun. A bomb fuse sparkling along, all the way to a-

Bob took the small lighter then, before the images drowned him in. Between them, the now-lit candle spread its miniscule warmth, illuminating Yelena’s soft features. It made her eyes glisten in a way he’d never seen. It was… mesmerizing.

Romantic, even. One might say.

With annoyingly shaking hands, Bob moved his knitting gear out of the way and carefully placed the candle on the center table near them. Using a few drops of wax and a Chinese takeout box as a makeshift candleholder, Bob sat back and admired his work for a bit.

He turned to Yelena then, who was staring at him sideways. Studying him in the way she constantly did everything. Different from the way everybody else studied him, he mused, but still. Where everybody else always looked at him as if questioning when he was about to explode, Lena’s eyes always fell on him with a certain type of care that made it hard to even accept. Maybe she was just questioning when that timebomb timer would go off, just like the rest. But God, she did it much more nicely. As if she was tracing back every single layer of him whenever bright green eyes found dark blue. As if she wasn’t disgusted by what she found in her search.

He wasn’t sure what to say in these moments. Bob wasn’t sure of what to say most of the time – except when he was absolutely sure of what to say, which was “usually a problem”, or so his psychiatrists said. Fair enough, he supposed.

Still, he forced himself to make small talk.

“Where’s the rest of the team?”

“Oh,” she tore her examining eyes away from him and back to the book. “Doing clean up, they will probably be out for a while.”

He should ask what exactly was being cleaned up. Why she, of all people, looked remarkably clean today. Hell, he should ask why she was suddenly so interested in Sylvia Plath instead of the potential aliens they might encounter. Instead, Bob just let out a simple:

“Ah… I see.”

And let silence fall upon the two of them again, with a disturbing lack of something to do with his hands.

He couldn’t particularly continue to read his book anymore; it belonged to Yelena’s gloved hands now. To be fair, everything he had, truly, belonged to her. He owed his heart, his mind, his peace to the 5’3” blonde sitting by his side (even if she did lie to everybody, saying she was 5’5”). The one person whose short legs, he didn’t mind finding, were about to find their comfortable way into his lap.

His breath picked up as she laid down on the couch with a low grunt, book still in hands.

He was staring again. Trying to cool down his racing mind and even faster heartbeat. God, maybe he should find something to do. Perhaps a job.

She just looked so- grown, every so often. Bob knew she was technically five years older than she looked due to being Snapped, (“So, does that mean Bobby’s into older women?" Walker had openly asked around the breakfast table once, and Bob had wanted to properly drown into his bowl of Wheaties in response) but there’s also an air of maturity for her that couldn’t simply be chalked up to chronological age.

“Yelena?”

The blonde looked up in acknowledgement, no other movements or sounds needed to let him know that she was listening.

There was clearly no need to be nervous, you know. It was just a simple request. Just out of boredom, really. And he was, essentially, trapped against the couch by an assassin, at the moment.

Bob cleared his throat before speaking up again.

“Can you, uh… read out loud for me?”

Yelena obliged. He didn’t know why, but she would always indulge him like that.

——————————————————————————————————

He didn’t particularly notice when exactly he dozed off. But Bob did realize he was now asleep- dreaming, even.

(It was a skill he had developed long ago, back in the good ol’ substance abuse days, to realize when he wasn’t entirely awake.)

In the near distance, though still in a somewhat distorted version of the Watchtower, Yelena was wearing his favorite Joy Division shirt, three sizes too big for her, humming a symphony he’d never heard before as she stirred something in a boiling pot. The T-shirt looked enormous on her, almost as big as a dress, while, at the same time, being perfectly tailored to her curves.

In the fake kitchen, she smiled at him much easier. A smile far wider than he had ever seen in real life, far brighter than he deserved. Perhaps that’s why he clocked in so fast that it had to be imaginary.

There was a mess of pans, tomato sauce and off-brand brandy along the counter, a container of milk and now, the mysterious big pot. What were they even supposed to be making in there?

Bob cautiously made his way closer and closer to Yelena, who continued to almost sing.

She then, wordlessly took the wooden spoon in her hands, blew at it for a few seconds and fed it directly into his mouth. Like he was a baby or something.

But to be fair, whatever food it was- was delicious. It tasted like sautéed beef and sour cream and– was it stroganoff? It didn’t taste like the very few stroganoffs he had ever had in his life, there was something about it that made it different.

“Ah!”

He must’ve made some type of face because she immediately burst out in laughter. God, he wanted to see that someday. Actually, truly, see that.

Yelena turned away from the stove then, hands against the counter, body towards him. An ache took hold of his heart at the sight, for whatever reason.

“Очень вкусно, да?” Yelena asked him, matter-of-factly. And she looked up at him like he understood it, too. “Папин Сторгонафф все же лучше. Не говори ему.”

Bob’s head was spinning. What was she saying? There was a word there he was sure he'd heard before. Actually he had to have heard all those words before in order to dream like this, no?

So, what was-

Her cold hands moved from the counter, choosing to be placed against his neck. Bob tensed up, because she then inched her whole waist against him. That’s how some of his dreams went, he wasn't going to lie. But there was something about her grip- something about her eyes that looked and felt very different.

It was still her, but it was much less distorted. Much more concrete. The air going into his lungs felt conscious and- and heavy.

The light emanating from her skin felt almost scorching to the touch.

“Расслабьтесь, Боб,” she ordered. That was his name there. She said his name.

What was she saying? What was she saying? What was she saying?

Why was he dreaming of her speaking in Russian like that? I mean, it was endearing and all. But still, something about it was almost overwhelming.

In between spinning stars and neurons firing up, dream-Yelena confidently placed her head against his shoulder and began to sing what sounded like a lullaby.

His body moving on his own, Bob carefully let his large hands hover against her waist, before finally deciding to rest them there. In a few seconds more they were swaying, in a clumsy rhythm, imperfectly tailored to him. Her hips swung against him with the expectation of the ballerina he knew her to be, and he struggled to match it.

He could get lost in it, if he allowed himself - it was just REM sleep, after all, even he was apparently region-locked in Russia for any reason. Bob allowed himself to touch her round cheek, slightly forcing her head up to look at him. There was something in those forest green eyes, something Bob couldn’t quite place, couldn’t read.

An alarm went off inside him, screaming that giving in would be a bad idea. If you put water in 300-degree heat, you later find it boiling. You give Robert Reynolds hope, you later find the Void.

But it was fine, this was just play pretend.

She touched her forehead to his and closed her eyes then. Her grip on him tightened, like she thought he would disappear- which was very funny considering she was the one who wasn’t real, she was the one about to disappear from him. Bob wanted to drink the moment in; wanted to forget it was all inside his head. Maybe he should allow himself to get lost in it, just this one time. Maybe.

“Вот это романтично,” she’d stopped singing to speak. Absolutely no idea what it meant though.

But there was her scent there, that intoxicating mixture of sweat and the Salonpas gel patches she always had on. There was her hair, with her roots, growing from dark red, to blonde to almost fried platinum. There was the fabric of his shirt– her shirt now, he supposed– a bit wrinkly, yet soft to the touch. And there was her tender grin, (so real so real so real), who grew when she approached.

His breath was wavering, too close to hers. The heat emanating from her was that of a million exploding suns.

He wanted to kiss her. He always did. Except, in that moment there was an unmistakable clarity: she wanted him to.

But, still, he should ask this version of Yelena first, anyways, since it was the polite thing to do. Or, at the very least, make conversation. Ask her about the dinner they were supposedly making, or whatever.

“Aren’t we about to burn up the kitchen, Yelena?”

Yelena’s eyes snapped open. Her entire frame froze, she blinked once, then twice- and with her sudden shift, so did the entire room. Everything around them completely stopped still. The crumpling of the fire on the stove, the ticking of the clock against the wall; all agonizingly silent.

This, Bob realized, wasn’t his creation. He was an intruder.

"Bob...?"

It wasn’t his dream, after all.

——————————————————————————————————

Long ago, Bob had been told that with each unmedicated manic episode, parts of his brain would be getting fried to a point of no return. He used to think that it meant, little by little, someday he wouldn’t be able to tell what was real and what wasn’t.

Well, now he wondered if his entire brain had effectively melted beyond repair.

They both had woken up with a start, simultaneously, as if the realization had grabbed them by the shoulders and shouted. Their previously intertwined fingers separating in the quickest instant.

Yelena jumped backwards, up from the couch and landed perfectly on her feet, just as Bob was only able to put his hands up in surrender.

It felt worse than walking in on her trauma rooms, somehow. God, it even felt worse than that time he accidently walked in on her and Ava changing uniforms.

“I- I didn’t mean to,” he flinched, not able to look at her directly.

She didn’t dignify that with an answer. Bob’s leg started stimming, prompting him to jump upwards. He should try harder.

“It’s… um, it’s probably because of the whole…” Bob didn’t want to say it, but he pointed towards his temple. “…Thing, you know? I swear it wasn’t on purpose, or anything.”

Yelena’s face contorted in quiet shame. He knew that look by now– it was the exact same as when Alexei showed him her high school pictures last week. Oh, Bob fucked up.

He fucked up big time.

He shouldn’t have acknowledged it. Now the cat was out of the bag and roaming around the uncomfortable silence freely.

“I’m sorry, Yelena.”

He wanted to physically slap himself. Shut up, shut up, shut up-

“It’s… okay.”

Was all she offered him, before turning on her heels and heading for the elevator. Leaving Bob alone in the very real Watchtower, fifty-one stories high in the sky, his copy of ‘The Bell Jar’ left forgotten on the floor and a blown-out candle dying out in the middle of his heart.

——————————————————————————————————

It was midnight and Robert couldn’t sleep.

Perhaps due to the leftover adrenaline of earlier, still finding its way around his bloodstream, or perhaps because he had, in fact, taken a nap a few hours before.

He’d paced around his room aimlessly, searched for beef stroganoff recipes and reviews on YouTube, took his 3mg of Zolpidem, stared at the ceiling, tried meditating.

It was 1 A.M. and Robert couldn’t sleep.

He couldn’t go back to his book anymore; every word on it would be tainted with… that whole thing. Yeah, no, he shouldn’t. He started at the ceiling some more. Put on white noise. Counted sheep.

Looked back at the clock and it was still 2 A.M. Oh, so now time decided to slow down for him, yeah?

Bob sighed heavily, irritably pushing himself out of bed. He knew the whole insomnia drill by now, better to admit defeat already. Better to go and do something useful, instead of getting swallowed up by the closing walls of his bedroom.

After trading his pajamas for workout gear (careful not to even look at the Joy Division T-shirt thrown in the drawer), he went down the elevator and into the training grounds. He had hoped working out would get him tired enough to go back to sleep eventually. Or, at the very least, stop his mind from wandering back to dyed blonde hair and sweet foreign melodies.

The elevator dinged loudly, pulling him back to the present and out into the fitness center. Though, just as Bob stepped out, yawning mechanically, he could hear it. Just as his eyes landed on her figure.

She’d already spotted him by then, straightening out the fighting posture she held against the poor exercise mannequin.

So, not only had he invaded her very private subconscious- now he was invading her personal gym time too. Greeeeat. What an awesome guy he was.

The doors closed behind him, as his brain struggled to come up with what to do. Would it be more or less awkward to just moonwalk back into his floor?

More, he thought with certainty. Definitely more.

“Um…” Bob mumbled, trying to look at anywhere else, but at her direction. Somehow looking at her gaze now felt like staring straight into the Sun. And he was sure his face was just bright red and embarrassingly numb as an entire day without sunscreen too.

There was another beat, and then Yelena offered, like an olive branch to his nerves:

“Want to spar?”

They had done it before, of course, every Thursday, 8 P.M. sharp. No delays tolerated ("10 push-ups for each minute you're late, yes?"). She always kicked his ass brutally into the ground, and he knew she was still massively holding back.

(“Why are we even doing this? It can’t be useful to you,” Bob had wondered once. She chuckled ironically, already posing for another round. “Don’t ask stupid questions, Bob.”)

“It’s still Wednesday,” he tried, though he hesitantly took a few advancing small steps. Her gravity was already pulling him without much effort.

“Technically,” she started, picking up and moving the dummy out from the training arena. “It is already Thursday.”

Well, he knew she hated tardiness, but this was something else. Yelena cleaned her hands against one other, clapped once and motioned for him to 'come closer'. Her neck moving from side to side, in stretching and preparation.

She waited approximately one second before she landed her first punch. Bob actually managed to block the second attack, his head brutally hitting the floor after the fourth.

Round two was even quicker.

Round three shouldn’t even be able to count, Yelena hadn’t even waited for him to put his guard up, already having him by the legs and down on the hard pad in a single motion.

“Come on, Bob. Pay attention.”

He did. He tried to.

Round five had a bit more of an attempt. Now, he managed to land a kick against her ribcage- which turned to be a bad idea, in the end. Since she used his airborne leg to throw him up and away from her. Very, very bad idea.

“No distracting,” she cautioned, in a low tone.

Round seven started by her circling around him, like a lioness. He blocked her when she launched at him and she smirked momentarily, turning to try and trip him. He dodged it miraculously, trying to go for a punch- only to find her left hand closing in on his fist and twisting it. Bob felt a blow to the right side of his abdomen, then another. And another. His forearm moved to block it, his feet losing their stance momentarily.

No, he recognized it too late.

Yelena had both her hands on his shoulder, swinging him like a ragdoll. Bob blinked and her whole body had thrown him backwards into the familiar ground. Still, from that angle he saw something he had never seen before: an opening. A misplaced stance.

It was probably testing him, but he took the bait- and successfully took her down by the ankles, sweeping her off her feet in the most literal sense. A loud thud landing beside him.

If she was surprised by it, she didn’t show it. Already moving to be on top of him in a millisecond, with both thighs connecting him at the hip, holding his wrists against the hard training cushion.

“That was a dirty move, Bob,” and he almost apologized before she continued. “Good job.”

The grip hurt so much it could probably draw blood. His back was killing him. His head was pulsating from the previous falls. His breathing was jacked, but then again, he noticed- so was hers.

The Salonpas and sweat hit his nostrils from close proximity. She rendered him immobile promptly, straddling him with ease, but it’s not like he wished to move either way. Part of him wanted to stay there, soaking in as much of her as he could. Part of him wanted to escape, though.

Most of him worried about it all; about the instability that came with this; whatever this was even supposed to be. A shiver went along his spine.

Neither of them budged, though. And neither of them spoke.

There was a single bead of sweat running down Yelena’s forehead, Bob noticed. His eyes traced the water down until it hit her neck and eventually splashed against his ribcage, looking up towards her lips then her reflecting eyes. She was reading him again; he could almost see gears turning around and smoke coming from her ears, searching for something within him with intensity and focus.

Her grip on him tightened and he shifted reluctantly. There was not much else to do, he was at her mercy. Just as he had always been, ever since the day they met.

The instant he laid eyes on her, all those months ago, she already had him on the palm of her hand. He was hers to do as she pleased – to throw around, to protect, to neglect or to keep. And, in another reality, to dance with.

He was staring, pleading; she stared back. An immense dialog having just taken place in the small interaction.

Bob opened his mouth, then closed it. Not sure if he would even be able to produce coherent wording. But he should probably say something, right? Not outright confess he loved her but, like, tell her how much he liked her blue eyeliner. Or how much he liked her hoarse voice and the way her accent made every word flow into another with intensity. Or how much he liked her brutal honesty and how she kept everybody on their toes. Or how much he liked her weirdly frank peptalks, whenever he or anybody in the team was feeling down. Or how much he liked her kindness and how easy it came to her, sometimes to a martyr degree, other times from a place of sincere self-preservation. Or how much he liked that she always lit up a room whenever she walked in. The light inside her could even be blinding and oh, how he would gladly go blind for it.

(He would always be hers to blind, to break.)

Yelena slowly released the hands pinned to the side of his ears, moving backwards, triggering Bob to involuntarily reach for her, supporting himself with his elbows. She was still on top of him, however, and still breathing heavy.

Mouth as dry as the Sahara Desert, he had to lick his lips.

“…Lena, I-”

There was so much to say, so little distance between them. Distance that was abruptly closed by Yelena grabbing at his collar and crashing her lips hard into his. Bob swallowed the shock at record speed, closing his eyes and letting the weight of her fall against him.

And no sooner had it begun, it was already over.

That first kiss, at least.

Because soon Yelena angled forward again, this time positioning herself better against his mouth and deepening the kiss. She tasted like alcohol and chamomile, and he wanted to drink her whole, if she let him. Hands trembling (from exercise, from Lithium, from nervousness), he grabbed at the sides of her neck, his thumbs caressing her cheek, body no longer his own. It was all hers. And it was all her.

All the love he felt for her and the fear of ever causing her any harm again, the feelings clashing and converging paradoxically. Cascading into a river, the meeting of clear and muddy waters.

“Yelena…” Bob whispered, not sure if he wanted to say anything beyond her name.

Either way, she cut him off with finality, running her tongue against his own until he could only produce the most primal of sounds. Yelena kissed as if it was a combat– with brute force and a need for something greater. Though the toughness of her intent contrasted with the smoothness of her lips. Bob wasn't interested in winning any battles, just happy to be kissing her at all.

There was no drug more intoxicating, and that was no exaggeration or hyperbole – it was a fact. Simply so strong and so intense, you couldn’t compare it to any other kind of high.

He felt a pang of electricity running through every spot touched by her, when she ran her way his hair, his neck, his shoulders, his arm… Leaving a painfully wonderful sensation along her trail, as if he was constantly being stung by Black Widow Bites.

Her nails dig into the flesh of his upper arm like a knife and, God, he hoped she stabbed at him deeper. His muscles longed for her in ways he couldn’t particularly understand. He wanted her to cut him open and consume him in like she were a feast.

Man, there was no way it was all his actual life.

(Actually, being completely honest here, he wasn’t entirely too convinced this wasn’t all just pure psychosis, his brain playing tricks on him once more.)

If there was such a thing as true happiness, this was it. Her mouth, her tongue against his teeth, on the insides of his cheek. Icarus melting over and over and over again- and falling with a smile on his face.

No high, no neuron-frying manic episode ever brought him this, Bob gathered. This was tangible. This was his entire world, on his fingertips, feeling heat and sweat and everything in between.

This was Yelena Belova. And she was the woman of his dreams.

And, for now, he would allow himself this happiness as it was.

——————————————————————————————————

"If I should fall on that day, I only pray, don't fall away from me"

[cami040405]

Heyyyy. I’m back. How ya doing? Hopefully wonderful. Anywaysss.

Can I pretty pls request Michael, Bo, and Billy reacting to their s/o going all out for their birthday? Like she bakes a cake, puts together a gift basket, handmade and store bought gifts, decorates the house, all that fun stuff just to celebrate them?

Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair and Billy Loomis with a S/O Who Celebrates Their Birthday (SEPARATE)

Summary: Imagine your thoughtful birthday surprise — cake, decorations, handmade gifts — deeply touches Michael Myers, Bo Sinclair, and Billy Loomis in different ways.

A/N: As always, your ideas are great, I loved writing this request. I thought it was cute that the reader cared about the slashers' birthday. Thanks for the request.

Michael Myers

It starts a few days before his birthday.

You know Michael's always watching — always near — even when you can't see him. And that makes planning anything a little more... complicated. But you don’t let that stop you. In fact, the thought of him observing you from the shadows while you prep everything makes you work harder. You want him to see. You want him to feel it.

Because for once in his life, Michael deserves to be celebrated.

You decorate the house in the way you think he’d like it: nothing too bright, nothing gaudy. Dark streamers, black and silver balloons, candles flickering softly throughout the living room. You craft a handmade banner, the words "Happy Birthday, Michael" painted carefully in blood-red ink with sharp, bold strokes — a message meant only for him.

The cake takes you hours. Chocolate, rich and dark, with a white frosting layer you carefully mold into the shape of his mask — smooth, blank, and eerie. You even carve small, lifeless eyes with the tip of a butter knife. You almost feel like he's standing behind you as you do it.

He probably is.

The gift basket is a mix of the practical and the personal. A freshly sharpened knife you found at a collector’s store and cleaned meticulously. A new pair of black gloves. A simple, matte-black hoodie you embroidered a tiny white “M” inside of — small enough that only he would ever know it’s there. But also a few... softer things.

A Polaroid of the two of you, standing in the woods on a rare afternoon when you convinced him to let you take it. You’re smiling. He’s behind you, masked as always, but his presence is calm. Protective. You slip that photo into a small frame.

And then — the most important gift — a leather-bound journal. Not for him to write in. But filled by you. Every page is a memory, a letter, or a sketch. You write about the first time you weren’t afraid of him. The time he sat beside you in silence for hours. The time he carried you to bed after you fell asleep on the couch. You even draw his mask — again and again — but somehow, you manage to make it feel... human.

You don’t expect him to say anything. He never does.

But the morning of his birthday, you feel it in the air: heavier, still. Charged.

He appears just after dusk. Silent as ever. His massive frame fills the doorway to the living room, where the lights are dimmed and soft music plays from a record you put on just for him — something atmospheric, eerie, almost meditative.

He doesn’t move at first. He just stands there. Staring.

His head tilts slightly at the sight of the decorations, the flickering candles. His gaze lingers on the cake, then the gift basket. And then... on you.

You’re nervous — not because you’re afraid, but because you care.

“Happy birthday, Michael,” you say softly, stepping toward him, journal in hand. “I know it probably doesn’t mean much. But... I wanted you to know you matter. At least to me.”

You hold the journal out. Slowly. Gently.

He walks forward, his boots thudding against the floor, but his movements are… restrained. Controlled. Like he doesn’t want to break anything. Like he’s trying to understand something he’s never felt before.

He takes the journal from your hands. Not rough. Not snatched. He just… takes it. Looks down at it. 

Flips it open.

You can’t see his face. But you can feel the shift in the air. His fingers pause on one of your drawings — the one where you sketched the two of you side by side. Him towering over you, but your hand reaching up to rest against his chest.

After what feels like a lifetime, he closes the journal and holds it close to his chest. He still hasn’t said a word.

But then he lifts a hand — slowly — and places it on your cheek.

It’s the softest thing he’s ever done.

You lean into his gloved palm, closing your eyes. His hand is warm through the material. Grounding. Steady.

No one’s ever done this for him before. No one’s ever celebrated the day of his birth — a day most people would rather forget. But you remembered. You embraced it.

And for the first time in decades, maybe longer, he feels something like peace.

He doesn’t leave your side for the rest of the night. He sits with you as you slice the cake, as you show him the little details in the gift basket. He doesn’t eat. But he watches. And when you fall asleep with your head on his shoulder, he stays perfectly still — a silent guardian in the dark.

When you wake the next morning, the journal is gone. But in its place on your nightstand is something simple:

One of his knives, cleaned and polished, and on its handle… the “M” you stitched into his hoodie, now carved into the wood.

His way of saying thank you.

His way of saying you matter, too.

.

Bo Sinclair

Bo never really cared for birthdays. To him, it was just a reminder of how long he’d been stuck in Ambrose — stuck in a loop of killing, lying, and pretending that the wax-covered corpses around him were anything like real company. His brothers didn’t bother. Hell, even he barely remembered the date until he saw it scrawled in pencil on an old calendar near the register in the gas station.

So when the morning started like any other — a half-assed breakfast, a cigarette between his teeth, and a bloodstain drying on his shirt from a nosy camper — he expected nothing. Least of all from you.

He should’ve known something was up when the house was quiet. Too quiet. No sound of you puttering in the kitchen, no sarcastic comment when he stepped in, boots muddy and shirt unbuttoned to his stomach.

“Babe?” he called out, eyes narrowing.

And then he noticed it.

The house was dimmed, lit only by flickering candles you’d arranged on shelves and ledges. Red and amber lights cast a warm glow across the room, making it feel strangely alive. Streamers — deep gold and black, slightly rustic like something from an old Southern carnival — dangled above the doorway. The air smelled like vanilla, cedar, and something else…

Cake.

He followed the scent into the kitchen. And there you were — standing beside a chocolate bourbon cake you had baked from scratch, icing smudged on your cheek, the faintest sheen of sweat on your forehead. You had decorated the cake with a little waxwork of his face (complete with a tiny scowl), and written across the top in careful red script:

"Happy Birthday, Bo."

His heart stopped.

He stared, expression unreadable. That classic cocky smirk? Gone. For the first time in a long while, Bo Sinclair was speechless.

“I know you said birthdays aren’t your thing,” you said softly, “but that’s only because no one’s ever made them feel special. So I wanted to.”

You motioned toward the living room. On the coffee table, a handcrafted gift basket sat, wrapped in cellophane and tied with a red satin ribbon. He stepped closer, mouth parted slightly.

Inside were things that meant something:

A small leather-bound notebook — the kind you noticed he liked sketching traps and blueprints in — with his initials burned into the front.

A new set of carving tools, engraved with subtle flame motifs.

A worn cassette tape labeled “For Bo”, filled with old Southern rock, blues, and even a few slower songs that reminded you of him.

A jar of homemade strawberry jam — his mama’s favorite, which he once told you about in a rare, nostalgic haze.

And finally… a framed Polaroid of the two of you, both mid-laugh, your face pressed against his sun-kissed cheek. You’d caught him in one of the few moments where his smile didn’t have teeth behind it.

He picked up the frame. Just held it. Silent.

“…Why’d you do all this?” he finally rasped, his voice hoarse — not from smoke this time, but from something heavy in his chest.

“Because you deserve it,” you answered. “Even if you don’t think so.”

His lips parted to respond, but nothing came out. Instead, he reached up and scratched the back of his neck — a nervous tick you’d seen only once before, the first time he let you touch the scar on his shoulder.

Then he chuckled. Low. Bitter. Almost like he was trying to suppress something deeper.

“Shit, sugar…” He stepped forward and pulled you into a sudden, tight hug. His arms wrapped around your waist with a desperate kind of force, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

His voice, buried in the crook of your neck, came out raw:

“Ain’t no one ever done nothin’ like this for me. Not in my whole damn life.”

You held him as long as he needed. You didn’t speak. You didn’t move. Just let him feel it — the effort, the love, the fact that someone saw past the blood and the wax and the broken bravado.

And later, when you finally sat down to share the cake, Bo reached across the table, fingers lacing with yours. His smile was small, lopsided, but real.

“You keep doin’ shit like this,” he drawled, “and I’m gonna start thinkin’ I ain’t the monster everyone says I am.”

Then he leaned across and kissed you — slow, deep, no rush. A kiss that tasted like chocolate, bourbon, and all the emotion he’d tried to bury.

That night, long after the candles burned out, he stayed up holding the Polaroid against his chest, eyes wide open. Not sleeping. Just... processing.

For once, Bo Sinclair didn’t feel like a wax figure in someone else’s horror story. He felt alive.

And it was all because of you.

.

Billy Loomis (Ghostface)

Billy never really celebrated his birthday. Not since his mother left. Not since the world showed him it didn’t give a damn if he existed or not. Most years, it was just a date. A reminder. Of abandonment. Of what he lost. Of what he became.

He didn’t tell you when his birthday was. You found out on your own — through a dusty school file he left around, or maybe you coaxed it out of Stu when he wasn’t paying attention. Either way, you kept it quiet. Planned it all behind his back.

And when the day came, he woke up like any other — cold, guarded, sarcastic. He didn’t expect anything. Maybe a lazy kiss. Maybe a joint. But nothing more.

When he stepped into the apartment and saw the dim red lighting and horror-themed decorations — blood-spattered paper streamers, black balloons with Ghostface doodles, a table covered in slasher VHS tapes and vintage horror mags — he just stood in the doorway.

Frozen.

His brows knit together. His lips parted like he was about to say something — mock it, probably — but then his eyes landed on the cake. It was chocolate, his favorite. Dark frosting, red drip icing like blood. Candles shaped like knives. You even managed to write “Happy Fuckin’ Birthday, Billy” in that jagged font you knew he liked from horror movie posters.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Then you came out from the kitchen, wearing one of his oversized flannel shirts over fishnets, eyeliner a little smudged, hair messy from running around all morning. You were beaming.

“Told you I was good at surprises,” you said with a grin.

He stared at you like you had just stabbed him. “What… is this?”

“It’s your birthday, idiot. You didn’t think I was gonna ignore it, did you?”

When he didn’t move, you took his hand and guided him to the living room. That’s when he saw the gift basket on the coffee table. At first, he looked annoyed — like you were trying too hard. But as he sat down and actually opened it, the sarcasm melted into something quieter.

Inside:

A rare VHS copy of the original Halloween, signed by an obscure cast member you hunted down online.

A handmade mixtape labeled "Songs That Make Me Think of You (In a Good Way)".

His favorite black cherry candies from the video store you two always hit.

A worn, secondhand horror trivia card game you said would be perfect for the nights you guys “terrorized the neighbors” with Stu.

A small framed photo of the two of you laughing, mid-pillow-fight, messy and real.

And at the bottom: a letter. Sealed with black wax.

He hesitated. Fingers hovered over the envelope like it was burning. But he opened it.

Your handwriting. Raw. Honest. You wrote about how much he meant to you. How you saw the rage and the pain and the chaos under his skin—but loved him anyway. You didn’t try to fix him. You just wanted to know him. Be there.

You ended the letter with:

“Happy birthday, Billy. You’re not broken to me. Just sharp. And I don’t mind getting cut.”

For a long time, Billy didn’t say a word. He just stared at the letter, jaw tight, eyes flicking back and forth as he reread it.

“…You’re insane,” he finally said, voice quiet, almost stunned. “You’re literally insane.”

Then he kissed you. Hard. Desperate. Like he was trying to shut you up before you felt how much this meant to him.

Afterward, he sat on the couch with you tucked under his arm, rereading the letter like it was some kind of incantation. Every so often, you’d feel his lips brush your temple — absent-minded, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

Later that night, when you fell asleep, he stayed up.

He traced the handwriting with his thumb. Studied the gifts. Looked at the decorations. Everything you did.

And in the silence of the room, for the first time in years… Billy let his guard down. Just for a second.

He whispered, “Thank you,” so softly even he almost didn’t hear it.

The next morning, he didn’t talk about it. Didn’t mention the party. But he kept the letter in his coat pocket like a talisman. And every time the world got too loud, too fake, too hollow—he reached for it.

.

[lilbluustar]

you won't come back

pairing— toxic and obsessive boyfriend!sungchan x fem!reader

wc— 2.5k

content and warnings— toxic relationship dynamics, possessive/jealous behavior, dubcon, controlling partner behavior, obsession themes, alcohol involved, emotional manipulation, rough handling (non-violent), power play, dirty talk, not romanticized, nsfw (18+ mdi!!), unproteced sex.

note— this is the first time i write something like this, i decided to get out of my comfort zone of what i usually write about and uhm.... don't have too many expectations, it's my first attempt at doing something stronger, but i won't deny that i enjoyed doing it heheh ngl.

Sungchan had always been the perfect boyfriend, gentlemanly, attentive, loving and caring, you trusted him completely and he trusted you, he had always treated you as if you were made of glass, your friends kept telling you how lucky you were to have found a boyfriend as sweet and gentle as him, even if you did something that bothered him, his anger never went too far, even in moments like that, he was caring and loving and treated you with a lot of communication.

but everything changed drastically that day...

you didn't know that Sungchan was on his way for you.

you had invited him earlier, but he declined your invitation.

he himself had told you that he wouldn't come, that he was tired, that he didn't want “unnecessary noise after the week he had had”.

but there he was.

at the entrance to the party, dressed in black, his face tense, his gaze dark as a storm, his jaw clenched.

you saw him after you had uploaded another story. one more. one where you were dancing. where you saw in the background that boy who once confessed he loved you, and a group of girls surrounding you as if you were the sun and they were the planets.

and he... he had seen it all.

he pushed his way through the crowd without a word. no one dared to stop him.

he found you at the edge of the room, laughing with cheeks flushed with alcohol, swaying your hips to the music, provocative without realizing it. or maybe you did.

“love,” he said with a strained, false, venomous smile. “we have to go home. let's go.”

you turned slowly. your expression froze.

“what are you doing here? i didn't even call you to come already...”

your voice trailed the effect of the alcohol, the words soft, confused.

your friends came closer, noticing the change of atmosphere.

“sungchan, wait... let her—”

“i'm fine,” you murmured, though clearly you weren't.

he didn't hear them.

he grabbed you by the wrist with disguised strength and began dragging you toward the exit.

"what are you doing, channie?!”

“shut up.”

his tone was low, but dry as a whiplash.

the walk to the car was a mix of stumbling and arguing cut off by the music in the distance. he barely managed to get you into the passenger seat, slamming the door in pent-up rage.

you climbed in, started the engine, and the silence was so tense that not even the song on the radio dared to play.

“you're crazy.”

“you think so?”

he didn't look at you. his hands were clenched on the steering wheel, his knuckles white.

“you can't come after me like i'm yours.”

"and you're not?"

you looked at him. and you saw something dark in his eyes. something that wasn't just jealousy. it was possession.

"do you know how many people were looking at you?”

“i wasn't doing anything wrong—”

“i saw you.”

his voice trembled.

not of sadness.

of anger.

"dancing like you wanted to be seen. to be touched."

"that's not true! you're sick—"

the car came to a screeching halt in front of your house.

before you could get out, he was already at your door. he opened it, unbuckled your belt with jerky movements.

“what's wrong with you? let me go, Sungchan!”

“you're going to listen to me.”

he carried you on his shoulders leaving you no choice followed by giving you a hard spank on your right ass cheek, ignoring your weak kicks, your halting moans. he unlocked the door with the key he still had, walked in, and dropped you with controlled force onto the living room couch.

"you're drunk. flirting. smiling like nothing."

his body leaned over yours, his shadow covering you.

“do you know what you made me feel?”

he cupped your face, his thumb running over your bottom lip.

"i felt like ripping you away from there. to scream at everyone not to look at you."

you pulled away sharply, your breath hitching.

"you can't do this to me. you can't—"

he grabbed your arm as you tried to get up.

his voice lowered, cutting.

“you're not going back to the party.”

and he pushed you gently back onto the couch, but firmly.

“or do you really want me to lose control?”

his fingers tangled in your hair as his forehead touched yours.

there, in that instant, between desire and poison, between fear and fire... you knew there was no turning back.

your lips opened to say something, but he wouldn't let you.

he kissed you. hard. hungry. as if it was punishment, as if every second you spent away from him needed to be bitten away.

his hands went to your waist in desperation, pushing you back against the couch again as he settled on top of you, controlling every inch.

“is that how you like to be looked at?” his voice crawled against your ear, husky, low, hot. “is that what you wanted, to provoke? for everyone to fantasize about you?”

his teeth grazed your neck, marking it, leaving bites that you knew would leave marks for a few days. leaving that mute threat of what was to come if you weren't his.

his fingers snuck under your dress, caressing the skin of your thighs as if gauging how far he could go before he broke you.

“but you're not going to,” he murmured. “because you're not going anywhere.”

he looked at you. fixed. hard. with that rib-shaking intensity.

"you. you are. mine."

you swallowed spit, eyes glittering from the mixture of rage, adrenaline... and something else you dared not name.

“and i'm going to make it so clear, you're not even going to be able to walk tomorrow.”

he bit your lip. not out of tenderness. out of desperation, hurting it. which caused every kiss to be laced with the alcoholic, metallic taste of your hurting lip and his saliva.

his hands clung to your hips, making you feel how much it had affected him to see you there, dancing without him, ignoring him, shining for other people's eyes.

every kiss he gave you now was punishment, every caress, a way of marking territory.

“are you sorry yet?” his fingers trailed down your back. “because i don't regret going to the party and bringing you home"

he spun you around in a dry motion, pushing you against the backrest.

his body pressed against yours, panting against your neck, his voice roaring in your ear with every word.

“i want you to remember this every time you go out without me. i want you to feel my hands here when you dance...” he squeezed your thighs tightly. "...and here.” his hand brushed the curve of your ass cheekily. "and know that no one else can touch you here. no one." he said, bringing one of his hands to your pussy and one of your breasts, squeezing them in a way that made you let out a moan from the pain it caused.

the atmosphere was burning. and there was no music.

just the rhythm of your ragged breathing, the creaking of the couch, and your halting sighs as tension mingled with desire, and desire with something darker, wilder.

"are you going to go out again without me?” his lips trailed down your neck, leaving a trail of fire. “are you going to let someone else look at you as if they could have you?”

you didn't answer, you couldn't speak, you had never seen Sungchan like that, you were still so surprised that you were unable to formulate a response. a dry, humorless laugh escaped your lips.

"no, baby. i swear...next time, i won't let you go that far."

and then he kissed you again, as if with that he could erase everyone else.

as if his tongue could wash away your memory of other people's stares.

as if the only one who mattered— the only one who could touch you— was him.

and you, between the fear, the adrenaline, and that excitement you didn't know whether to hate or need...

you just gave in.

your legs were already shaking as he leaned over you, holding your face with a firm hand, forcing you to look at him.

“look at me,” he growled, his voice like a knife cutting through the air. “i want you to look at me when i tell you.”

his thumb stroked your lower lip, slow... until he pressed it. he opened your mouth effortlessly, slipping two fingers in as if he didn't care about anything else.

"that's how you were... weren't you? mouth open, eyes glistening, as if begging to be touched..."

he pulled them out with a wet pop and brought them straight to your thighs, down your bristling skin until they left a sticky trail that made you hold your breath.

“do you like teasing me, do you like seeing me like this, watching me lose control for you?”

his mouth found your neck again, this time licking, biting without delicacy.

“look what you're doing to me,” he whispered against your skin, his voice so low and warm you felt it vibrate all the way to your stomach. “you've got me sick.”

he pulled your legs hard, making you slip until your hips were right on the edge.

“they were looking at you like they knew what you were hiding under this dress.” his hands came up slowly, pinching, marking. "but only i know. only i can touch you like this."

he tucked his head between your legs and rested his cheek on your thigh as he looked up at you from below, his lips leaving wet kisses on the sensitive skin of your thighs.

“do you want me to tell you what i thought when i saw those stories? i thought about doing this same thing...but with your friends watching. so they'd know you're not as sweet as you look.”

he bit there, right where you knew it would leave a mark. it hurt, in response, you arched up. your hands clutched at his hair, half trying to push it away, half begging him to stop.

“don't do that,” he whispered, holding your wrists with just one of his hands “don't you dare run from me again.”

he climbed up your body like a hungry predator until he was on top of you, his knee pressing steadily between your legs and his eyes burning.

"you know what i want? i want you to be unable to look in the mirror tomorrow without thinking of me. i want that when you sit down, you'll remember my hands. and when you take a bath... you'll still feel me on your skin."

he kissed you again hard, almost angrily.

his tongue darted out without asking permission, and your whole body shuddered.

“you're going to beg for me, do you understand? and when you do… i'm going to take you so slow, so deep… you're not going to be able to say anyone else's name.”

he turned you around, leaving you face down against the back of the couch, his chest pressed against your back, his breathing agitated, hot.

“you wanted intensity? well, here, love. because tonight… i'm not letting you go."

and with one hand slowly moving down your back —possessive, dominant, desperate— beginning to spank hard on both of your buttocks, there were so many in such a short time that the moment came when because of the force he exerted in spanking you, you were unable to feel the others, they seemed to be numb now because of the pain, he reminded you that when Sungchan gets jealous, he doesn't think anymore. he only acts.

followed by the sound of your clothes being ripped was the only thing that filled the silence for a moment and made you react.

your fingers barely managed to cling to the back of the couch as he leaned you closer, pushing you from the hip until your back formed a tantalizing, humiliating, perfect arch for him.

"look at you… you're like this because of me. because you know there's no one else who could have you this needy."

he pinched and began to aggressively squeeze your sensitive boobs, taking one by one of your nipples into his mouth, biting them until they were incredibly red and sore, with quite a few marks painted on both of them.

his voice was choked, as if what he felt could no longer be contained.

his hands were everywhere— holding your waist tightly, down to where your legs trembled, up again, scratching, marking.

“you knew what you were doing when you postedd those stories,” he growled against your ear. "you wanted this. you wanted this Sungchan."

his mouth slid down your neck as one of his hands moved down until he began to insert some of his fingers inside you.

it was painful.

even your first time you hadn't experienced that kind of pain, you weren't wet enough and his long fingers were already working quickly inside you.

you were scared

he had you trapped, as if he had to leave his breath on your skin to make sure no one else could imagine himself there.

and then, he came in.

all at once.

without warning.

without pause.

a scream broke from your throat, and he smiled. dark. devilishly satisfied.

“shh, don't cry now, baby... this is what you provoked, remember? now you hold on, beautiful.”

each thrust was deeper, more desperate.

there was no tenderness in his movements - only hunger. rage. jealousy transformed into unchecked desire.

he pulled your hair back, forcing you to arch even more.

“look at me. i want you to watch me while i do it. let it be well recorded who it is that breaks you like this.”

your moans mingled with his breathing, with the broken gasps he let out as he continued to mark you from the inside, as if his body needed to erase all traces of anyone who ever looked at you.

“do you still want to go out? do you still feel pretty in front of others?”

he caressed your face with one hand while with the other he clutched your hip as if you were going to run away—as if you belonged to him, completely, forever.

“you are mine. all of you. every bit of you.”

he took you harder, his movements bordering on punishment, out of control, until your legs could barely hold you up.

“and when you're done begging me... i'm going to leave you so full of me... you're going to walk around thinking about this all day.”

his name escaped from your lips, broken. and he leaned in, sticking his forehead to your back, drenched in sweat, panting as if his life was passing away with you.

“say it again,” he commanded. “say it like you really mean it. tell me who breaks you like this.”

and you said it. you shouted it.

because in that moment, you were no longer you.

you were his.

you felt your orgasm approaching even though sungchan this time was not dedicated to give you pleasure like other times.

but before you were able to reach your long awaited climax, he seemed to read your mind and went ahead to tell you:

"you are forbidden to touch yourself, you are not going to finish, you don't deserve it..." you remained silent, you didn't answer, at that moment, you knew that if you tried to contradict him, it could turn out worse.

and then he...

he finished inside you, with a low, guttural moan, filling you completely and deeply with his warm essence, as his hand sank between your thighs one last time, making sure every corner of your body knew his name.

[lostatsea-blog]

oh brooo you‘re edging us😞😞😞

Hopefully this one will put an end to that. I hesitated in the last part because I am not 100% confident in writing these parts of the stories so feedback is welcome.

Battle Lines Part 4

Lucy Bronze x Ona Battle

Warning 18+ adult content

Ona’s POV

The rest of the night seems to be my introduction into what it is like to be Lucy Bronze’s date. She is so attentive and thoughtful; constantly checking to make sure I am comfortable. She seems to be in permanent contact with me. Her fingers brushing my hand and my arm throughout and each touch making the hairs on my body stand on end. There is a fire building in my blood, consuming my every thought; no crush has ever had this impact on me before. After the plates from the main course have been cleared, Lucy meets my eyes. There is a twinkling behind the deep green which tells me she knows exactly the effect she is having on me and that it had been her intention all along. Gently trailing her hand down my palm, she speaks is that heavy Northern English accent.  

“Do you want a dessert or do you want to head home?” She asks and I feel disappointment settle in my stomach. I am not ready for this night to end. In light of recent misunderstandings between us, I decide it is best to just voice my thoughts.

“I am not ready for the night to be over” I admit and watch the smile that spreads across her face.

“I said nothing about the night being over; I said get out of here” she winks and all the moisture in my body seems to have pooled between my legs. How can this woman be so charming.

“So, what did you have in mind?” I ask but I already know how this night is going to end.

“Well, I have a nice bottle of white back at my place; I thought we could share it and get to know each other a little better” she suggested. I nod my agreement and Lucy is quickly signalling for the cheque. I go to grab my wallet but she brushes me away; she will not let me pay anything towards this meal. We quickly grab out jackets and head outside to wait for our uber. The atmosphere between us is charged and we haven’t even kissed yet. Her hand is on the small of my back as we walk towards the door and I feel like my skin is on fire. As I turn to speak to her, I catch her struggling with her crutch and I am once again filled with shame and have to divert my eyes.

“When are you going to stop letting the guilt eat away at you” her voice cuts through my self-depreciation and I snap my eyes back to hers “You didn’t intend to hurt me and you have to let it go now”

“I have never lost control before” I admit and realise quickly that those words might not have been the best choice. A flirtatious, suggestive grin lights up her face and I know immediately she is thinking of us in a less than platonic situation

“Lucy!” I sold affectionately

“What?” she laughs “You can’t say something like that to me and expect me not to imagine all the ways I want to see you lose control” A gasp leaves my throat as they register her words and I am left in no doubt as to the direction of this evening.

Lucy’s POV

The uber home was filled with tension but not the bad tension that had existed between us before. It was the sort of tension that let you know, very soon you would be tearing each other’s clothes off. Throughout the drive, I rested my hand on Ona’s knee drawing lazy patterns on the inside of her thigh. Deciding to test the waters a little, I let my hand travel higher with each pattern. I could see the muscles in her throat as she swallowed against the moan she wanted to release. She glanced sideways, giving me a look of warning but all it did was make me bolder.

We had barely made it inside my apartment when Ona pushed me back against the wall and attached her lips to mine. Her kiss was hungry and demanding and let me know that she was not going to let me get away with my actions on the ride home. After a few intense minutes she pulled away her chest heaving

“That wasn’t fair Lucy” she scolded but there was no bite to her words

“And yet, it got us here” I replied, leaning back in and capturing her lips. I managed to turn us (even with my crutch) so that her back was against the wall. The moan that was ripped from her throat when I pushed my body into hers was all the encouragement I needed. My free hand tangled in her hair, scratching gently at her scalp and again I was rewarded with a deep, guttural moan; god this woman was doing something magic to me and I felt an urgent need to take her. My hand trailed from her hair and down her neck. I stopped briefly at her pulse point, which was thudding wildly beneath my hand, before continuing my journey down her body. She moaned even louder as my hand brushed over her breast, I could feel her nipple beneath my fingers so knew she wasn’t wearing a bra. I could not resist giving her nipple a gentle tug and was rewarded with a press of her groin into mine. The clattering of my forgotten crutch as it fell to the floor briefly broke the heat between us as Ona was reminded of my injury.

“Maybe we should get you off your feet?” she suggested

“Not a chance” I grinned “I am not done listening to you whine and moan; I am going to take you here and then we can go to the bedroom and I can have you again and again and again until you beg me to stop”

Ona’s POV

“I am not done listening to you whine and moan; I am ging to take you here and then we can go to the bedroom and I can have you again and again and again until you beg me to stop”

I think my heart has literally stopped beating as Lucy’s words register in my brain. Her hand, which had been tugging gently at my nipple continues its descent downwards and even if I wanted to, I am unable to stop my hips thrusting into hers. Her nails drag over my abs sending shots of electricity straight to my core and all I can do is hold on to her to stop myself from crumpling to the ground. Her hand cups my centre and I grind down trying desperately to get more friction. If I don’t feel her hands on me soon, I might just combust. Within seconds, she has the button of my jeans open and her hand slips inside my underwear. A deep grunt escapes her lips as she feels the wetness and she presses me harder into the wall

“Fuck Ona, you feel incredible” her fingers quickly find my clit and start rubbing in tight circles

“No teasing Lucy, not for this one” I whimper and she nods in understanding. Her fingers slip from my clit to my entrance preparing me for what I hope is to come. She does not disappoint and very quickly I feel the protrusion of her fingers at my entrance. A whisper of ‘please’ is all she needs to slide in. The stretch of her digits feels incredible and I pull her in even closer burying my face in her neck as she begins to pump her fingers all the while keeping her thumb circling my clit. I don’t know if it is the tension that has existed between us for months or just Lucy’s natural skill but I know I am not going to last long. I can already feel the heat building in my belly. She is hitting all the right spots and I have no idea how I am still standing. I don’t even want to imagine the sounds I must be making. Without warning she changes the pace of her fingers; she slows down but presses harder and deeper finding that elusive spot inside. None of my previous partners have ever been able to find that spot but this cocky English woman has found it first try wile fucking me up against a wall in her hallway.

“I’m so close” I manage to whimper out still clinging desperately to her strong frame

“Let it go baby” she whispers in my ear the use of the term baby does something that I am not read to unpick “Let go of all the tension”

I am swept up in a wave of pleasure that starts deep in my core and takes over my entire body and just as my orgasm hits I feel her lips close to my ear “I am so sorry for ever making you feel like you were not good enough – you are perfect”

Tears flood my eyes without permission as the tension leaves my body and I slump heavily against her. Lucy holds me tightly in her strong arms grounding me in a way that I have been missing since moving back to Barcelona. She is making a soft humming noise against my ear as she waits for me to compose myself. I wipe furiously at the tears not wanting her to think I am weird but she grabs my hand in hers and instead kisses away each tear.

“I’m…..” I begin to say but she quickly shakes her head

“No, you are not finishing that sentence” She gives me the most incredible smile I have ever seen before the cocky grin replaces it “We are not done with this night” ….

There will be other parts to this including what happens when they get to Lucy's bedroom. I would love to get your ideas on what you would like to see in the next part of this story.

[jjwolves]

Hey!!!

Just wanted to request something and say that I really like your writing and your sona! Really silly

Anyway, if you can, may I have some general ‘x reader’ headcanons for Bellham/Suspicious Man from DBBQ?? I don’t see a lot of content of him on tumblr or anything else, and its a shame, I REALLY LIKE HIM!!!!

Thanks you!!!

SAMADHI ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

What: 5 Headcanons for Suspicious Man X Reader

Who: Suspicious Man from ENA Dream BBQ (By Joel G)

How Much: ~900 Words, ~4 mins

Warnings: Stalking (?)

Suspicious Man is confusing, and it’s not remedied by the fact that he rarely elaborates on anything he says unless prompted, and even then, you need to ask the right questions. It follows, then, that you hadn’t even realized that you two were dating until you were halfway through an admittedly romantic glowing bonsai tree-lit dinner and he said, “I’ve been waiting. To find someone like you. For. A while.” Taking a break from eating a gourmet Medicine Branch, you asked what he meant. “Well. I am glad. That our paths. Crossed. Crossed? Intertwined.” Deciding to get bold, you elected to ask if he loved you, because you were pretty sure you loved him. He was such a unique guy; you doubt he’d make fun of you or be rude about it. His ominous smile grew a little wider, two sets of hands interlocking conspiratorially. Was he feeling amused or bashful? Hard to say. “Yes! I thought that I. Was being obvious.” He was not.

Suspicious Man is a creature of hedonism and scholarship. When he’s not experiencing the highest cosmic highs of senses, he’s busying himself with extensive study of anything he feels would be worth learning. He’s extremely knowledgeable, and as such, he seems to know a lot of things about you that you don’t recall ever telling him. “It is habit. For us. To go. Where I want to go. So. We must go. Where you. Want to go. Which is presumably. Presumably? The Blooming Heaven Well.” Well, you did want to go there—it’d been one of your favorite places in all of your travels. But how did he know that? “I study. Things that. I like. That fascinate me. Hehehe!” You should recoil, but you like him too much, so you squeeze one of his hands instead. It’s only for a moment, but his mouth drops the shady smile and adopts a surprised ‘o’. “You know. Feeling this is. Different. Than reading about it.”

It’s not long before he introduces you to his favorite place, a dark winding place of bookshelves and pipes and dust which floats off of the floor and forms little shapes for you. And deep, ominous bells playing far away, yet echoing all around you. It’s creepy and macabre, but knowing Suspicious Man gives you the sense that he’s showing you something personal and close to his heart, so it takes on a warm, intimate atmosphere. One of his favorite things to do here is feast on strange but delicious food with you. Flesh branches dipped in candle sauce. A cornucopia of colored triangles. Gray biscuits with ghostly faces on them lathered in some sort of psychedelic glaze. It is completely epicurean. It’s absolutely an endless chasing of the senses. But being together for a meal gives it a sense of wholeness, like there’s meat beneath the spice that is pleasure. Like there’s substance to this time spent. Suspicious Man thinks that he might have found a new favorite activity. “I think. We’ve found our own. Form of. Enlightenment?”

It might not come as much of a surprise to anybody, but Suspicious Man might be a little… evil. He enjoys putting hexes on entities who annoy him. He likes vexing and mocking his bell servants. At the very least, his evil tendencies are directional—he’d never do anything to hurt you or even inconvenience you. He does like to test you, though—see if you’d like to have a taste of the dark side. Not necessarily because he dislikes your goodness. In fact, he enjoys it. He simply likes to offer you the experience, like offering someone a glass of wine after you’ve already poured yourself some. Once, after you had been rudely denied passage by a doorkeeper entity, you found them tied up and squirming around in red string, suspended above the ground of Suspicious Man’s realm. Suspicious Man handed you a cursed talisman and playfully wiggled your arms around. “What. Ever. Will you do?” You were pissed at the entity, sure, but it wasn’t worth cursing them and turning them into a mango or whatever this talisman did. You elected to set the doorkeeper free. “Sad choice! But fair choice. Either way. I like your choices.” Sometimes his minions seem a bit relieved when you're around; it's like he kicks them around a little less whenever you're watching. Whether he's doing this to see if you'll say something or because he cares what you think, you'll never know.

Your incredibly sinister boyfriend has a funny habit of tying the red strings on his fingers into different shapes when he’s talking. You want to see the limits of his special ability. He gives an amused sigh. “Okay then. Let us. See.” You want him to do… a bunny! He fiddles around for a few moments before forming a rabbit’s face. “What an. Interesting creature. You’ve chosen.” OK, now do a spider. The result is a bit wonky but it definitely looks the part. “I am. Quite fond. Of this one.” Hmm… Now he should do an ENA. He creates a very simple outline of an ENA’s face. “I have. Studied them. Them? Extensively. A face is. Easy. Easy? Enough.” OK. You tell him that, since he’s done so well with the other ones, he should come up with one that he wants to do, and you’ll guess what it is. He takes a few moments to pull the strings in different directions, thoughtful. When he’s done, it’s a cartoony rendition of your face. His other hands pull the strings into hearts. You blush. “I think. This one is quite. Enchanting. If I do say so, myself.”

A/N: I kind of headcanon him as someone who is, like, the opposite of a Buddhist. Like he understands the entrapments of the physical world and of desire but willingly flies headfirst into it because that is how he chooses to exist. A very intentional self-destruction (or perverse kind of self-fulfillment).

[imawreck]

Essence

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Original Character

Summary: An undercover OP forces Bucky and Max into an interesting predicament. Wills are tested, and tension runs hot. Could this be what forces Bucky to face his feelings, or only serve to fuel the flames of their never ending feud?

Author’s Note: A little something me and my bestie thought up for funzies. This has very little to do with the main storyline I’ve written for Bucky and Max so I wouldn’t try and put it into a timeline or anything! Lmk if you want a part two! Thinking about making one.

Warnings: Adult themes, strip club, lap dances, suggestive content, Bucky being absolutely down bad, Sam being Sam (slightly annoying), cursing, canon violence, probably a lot more but that’s the main stuff.

Word Count: 2,432

“This is fucking stupid.”

Bucky sat in the muggy atmosphere of ‘Essence’, a strip club rumored to be frequented by their current target; Oliver Cade. Cade was a drug dealer and very well known in the sex trafficking ring. Recently, he’d made a suspiciously large amount of money very quickly. So, a select few Sword and Shield agents were put undercover to take him out.

That’s the only reason he’d ever find himself in a place like this. Missions took him to a plethora of unsavory places he’d rather never return to, and he was beginning to think this was crawling to the top of that list.

Maybe it was because of his age and the time period he grew up in, or maybe it was the fact that the scantily clad men and women of the club were just a little too lewd and unsavory for his taste. There was just no part of this scene that sparked what most people chased in a place like this.

“Language.” Sam snapped back, yanking Bucky back out of his head. The sass filtering through the comm tucked away in Bucky’s ear only fueled his irritation. “Steve wouldn’t approve.”

Bucky clenched his jaw, “Don’t say that. You’re not Steve.”

“But he would say that if–.”

But Sam didn’t get to finish his retort before Bucky cut in again, “Where’s Max? Didn’t you say she would be here by now?”

Sam chuckled in his ear, “She’s managed to impress the club owner and snagged herself a top spot as their main act. Means anyone wanting a private show will pay a pretty penny to have her, including our guy. It’s perfect, really. She’s exactly what he goes for.”

Anger roiled in Bucky’s veins as Sam prattled on. He hated these types of missions. Not only were they unpleasant, but they made agents particularly vulnerable. Minimal clothing meant no way to hide a weapon, which is exactly why Bucky and a few other agents scattered throughout the club were carrying concealed weapons. They were the backup if things went south, but with the crowded room and the close proximity in which the dancers had to be with clients, it was practically guaranteed the undercover agent was in harm's way.

Max, fortunately, was a weapon in herself. That was one of the few reasons Bucky didn’t feel like he was going to crawl out of his skin.

The other reason was the burning curiosity keeping him seated on the plush velvet booth encircling a dance poll. A poll that was currently being used by what looked like an airbrushed mermaid.

The Essence Club was known for its more extravagant and odd caterings. For instance, tonight was a themed night. The dancers were all dressed and done up to appear ethereal in some sort of way. Some were decked in bejeweled gowns and tiaras, others with their skin painted blues and greens to mimic nymphs of fairy tales.

A part of Bucky was looking forward to Max’s performance, but the stronger part dreaded it. Why? He didn’t want to face that particular answer.

Max and Bucky teetered on a fence of mild tolerance and outright warfare. Max was every bit the morally grey individual he was set out to put down, and yet he couldn’t. Bucky respected her skill and grace in their field of work, and despite her questionable methods, she was efficient and her casualties were low.

Not to mention the fact that their pasts were interwoven in ways he couldn’t yet decipher. The memories of a certain white-haired assassin were faded and muddled in his mind.

It made him uneasy. And so did the heat that always bloomed in his chest when she caught his eyes.

No, Bucky had decided he despised Max, but it was his job as her partner in this to make sure she made it out.

So, he begrudgingly remained in the stuffy club and nursed a glass of bourbon.

Seconds later, the lights shut off, and a spotlight illuminated the center stage. A rather gaudy individual bejeweled in a black and red dress addressed the club goers in a sultry smooth voice. “Good evening, and welcome to Essence where fantasies become realities. How is the crowd tonight?”

There was a chorus of hoots and shouts of excitement from everyone around Bucky, and he sunk a bit lower in his seat.

“How lovely! Well, you're in for a treat tonight.” They quirked a brow, red painted lips tilted in a sly smile. “We have been visited tonight by a special guest. A rarely met Fae of great beauty and even more alluring talent. A being capable of shapeshifting and illusion, a manipulator of minds and dreams…”

The crowd rumbled with curiosity, and Bucky himself sat up more as the introduction neared its end.

“I bring you,” a long pause followed their words, drawing out the anticipation, “Sidhe.”

The spotlight fades, as does the crowd's murmurs as the curtains draw to reveal the silhouette of a woman.

A very scantily clad woman that definitely looked too familiar.

Bucky swallowed hard, trying and failing to tear his gaze from her as the spotlight enveloped her in a blue light.

Max looked like a goddess.

She was covered in what looked like sheer silver silks. The fabric wound around her body, accentuating every dip and curve of her as she walked. The ends of the silks whispered across the floor behind her heels, flowing across the floor like a silver stream of starlight. Bucky couldn't blink, couldn’t breathe. Every inch of her was barely covered, barely withheld from the gazes of dozens of drunken men.

Barely withheld from him.

Bucky watched as she drew her hand up, her fingernails long like claws and painted a glossy opaque, and trailed them up her throat as her head fell back just as a thrumming music began.

And then she was moving. Not like he’d seen her do a million times on the battlefield, with her sharp clean precision and power. Not harsh and violent. No… no, the way her body moved now?

Bucky had never been so captivated.

Her claws wound into her wild white hair, tousling the short white locks as her hips swayed rhythmically, flowing with the music and drawing everyone’s eyes to the way her body followed the beat.

Those blue eyes glinted under the lights, like the mirrored pupils of a predator stalking prey; flickering over each of her admirers. The sight would normally make people feel unsettled. To see such a strange quality on a human being in broad daylight. Here in this moment though, as she drew her hands down the lean muscles of her abdomen, it was nothing more than erotic.

Bucky’s pants grew tight, and he tore his eyes from her. He shouldn’t be here. Maybe a high beam, or the back where he couldn’t see her. Where he couldn’t be tempted by her.

Because that’s what he was. Tempted. And he was utterly terrified of the feeling.

Max had always been open with her attraction to him, he knew how she felt. He knew that he’d— that the Winter Soldier— had something with her. Something more.

And it was starting to bleed into his own feelings towards her.

But they were co-workers. Partners. He couldn’t feel that way for her.

The soldier's attention was drawn back to the stage as Max dropped to the floor, the thin fabrics of her dress fluttering down around her. A few gasps were echoed, and several men leaned forward to check if she had fainted.

Bucky found himself leaning too. Glass forgotten and eyes searching, worry blooming in his gut—

Those mirrored eyes were on him. Focused, purposeful, as the music grew more melodic and the base thumped louder. She ground her hips into the air, a smirk growing on her face as she trapped him within her gaze.

She wanted him watching.

“She’s, uh, really playing her part.” Sam coughed into his ear, startling him enough he pressed his back harshly into the booth seat to put some distance between himself and the temptress in front of him.

He’d forgotten they were on a mission. Shit.

Sam sounded off again, “Our target still isn’t as interested as we need him to be. She’s gotta do something to get his attention.”

There was a pause as Sam patched Max into the comm line. “Max, you need to take it up a notch. Target still isn't chomping at the bit for you yet.”

Sam’s sudden intrusion on comms didn't seem to interrupt Max at all, not a moment of hesitation interrupting her performance. In fact, the intrusion seemed to spur her even more.

Bucky watched with bated breath as her hips lifted up, up, up. The fabric of her dress pooled on the glossy black stage, slipping higher and higher on her legs to reveal those supple thighs. Her skin seemed to glow in the light, shimmering and soft. The sight betrayed the true power he knew her body possessed.

Max hooked her legs around the pole before him, her back arching as she lifted off the floor. The pole spun with her momentum, showcasing her dance like a doll in a display case.

Bucky was both enraptured with her, and utterly disgusted with himself for the vile thoughts that began tugging at his mind at the sight of her. Here, like this, he couldn’t deny his attraction to her. The curves of her body, the spark in those glass eyes…

Fuck.

She moved towards him, eyes locked on his, her body moving with fluid grace. Max looked every bit like an ethereal huntress as she dropped from the stage and prowled forward.

His eyes track her movements, the sway of her hips with each heeled step towards him. Bucky suddenly felt too hot, too constricted in his clothes under her haughty gaze.

And that was absolutely nothing compared to the blaze he felt when one of those opaque claws scraped its way teasingly from his knee to his thigh.

If there was a god, Bucky didn't know whether to praise it or curse it into oblivion.

Max leaned over, that finger settling just below his hip and tracing figure eights. “Care to be my partner for the night? I need your help making good ole Oliver jealous, and you're the only one in his direct line of sight.”

Her voice was sinfully soft and ever so sweet. With her fingernail tracing his leg, the heat of her body so close to his, her breath on his ear… God, how was he supposed to keep his head on straight?

A gruff ‘sure’ was all he managed to say. Too distracted by the suffocating heat rising under his skin.

Max smiled, the image every bit sinful, as she eased herself onto his lap. His hands withdrew from his legs, raised in the air just inches from where her weight settled against him, eyes wide and heart pounding.

This would be the end of him.

“Come on Buck, act like you’ve seen a woman before.” Sam whispers into the comms, and it brings a sly smile to Max’s face.

Her hands plant on the back of the booth, nails clacking against the crimson stained wood as she leans forward. Bucky could smell her perfume and the mint on her breath, a cocktail of something deep and rich. A drug a part of him begged to let consume him.

Max shifted her weight, her ass pressing into his thighs and her shoulders swaying to the thrum of music. Her chest heaved in his face; dampened with sweat and shimmering under the lights. It took every bit of his self control to tear his eyes away and pin them to the ceiling.

And then she laughed. Soft and teasing. A thumb brushed his chin, the drag of those nails behind his ear and the press of her palm against his cheek bringing him right back to her.

“Target has some interest now.” Sam comments into the comms, but it’s barely a whisper over the thrum of Bucky’s heart and the heavy beats of the music.

Max leans forward, chest pressing into his own as her lips brush his ear. “Looking a little out of depth there, Soldier. Want me to do all the work?”

That lit a fuse in his brain, stirring his irritation. Irritation was good, distracting.

Except that she was poking at his dignity, and he was competitive at heart.

Before he could think it through, his hands were settling against her thighs and tugging her forward. It was a quick, smooth move that had her seated right over him and their faces inches apart. There was the slightest flicker of surprise in her eyes before a slow, satisfied smile settled onto her features.

He’d done it now.

Max shifted her hips as the beat changed, grinding them downwards on his lap. Bucky’s breath shuttered, and he could feel his heart pounding with the rhythm of the music she danced to. Her eyes were on him, drinking him up, and he just knew that she caught every micro expression he was desperately trying to cover.

Those nails grazed his scalp as she cradled the back of his head, moving forwards to angle his face into her chest, and tilting her hips just a fraction—

Stars exploded in his brain as she rubbed directly against him, pulling a groan from him.

“Someone’s worked up.” Her lips were brushing his ear again, his hands traveling up to grip her hips as she continued her torturous movements. “Makes for a good show.”

Frustrated, Bucky grit his teeth and held her eyes as he wove his metal fingers in her dress and pulled her down.

The delicate little sound she made nearly broke him.

But before he could short circuit and haul her somewhere private, Sam was in their ears. “Targets making a move. Looks like he’s heading towards the Owner with a wad of cash in hand. The plan worked.”

And then Max was moving off of him. She stood, smoothed over her dress, and turned to sway herself back to the stage as the men around whooped and whistled and begged for her attention.

Bucky’s chest heaved, dick aching as he watched her mount the pole again as another song started and began another dance.

Damn the mission, damn that stupid punk-ass target, damn it all.

He wanted to make her pay.

And he’d get his revenge by the end of this one way or another.

Tags <3

@savannahrilee-blog / @littlegreenjellybean

[devil-hunter66]

"Sweetheart, there isn’t anything "half" about our old man. He was a full on Devil, NO filters." The Son of Sparda turned around, hearing the sounds of more demons as they begun to appear! Vergil kept his hand near the hilt of the Yamato, his eyes narrowing as the two prepared to fight! But River seemed eager for them to leave before more Demons show up...That was when Dante got an idea...One he would not yet had thought of if River hadn’t mentioned it.

"..."Lots of LIGHT" huh? Well why didn’t you say so before!?~"

Suddenly dismissing the Devil Sword Dante in a burst of crimson flame...The Devil Triggered Demon slayer suddenly took a martial arts fighting stance, Vergil glanced over and watched as Dante's arms and legs glowed...a BRIGHT white light! The Dark Slayers eyes widened when he saw...now manifested upon his arms and legs...

-were a pair of powerful demonic gauntlets and graves! Each one flowing with a powerful compressed light element that shined bright! Which surprised Vergil...because THOSE belonged to HIM originally...

"...You...kept those...?..."

"Ha! If you want them back, Be my guest! Riiiiight after I do...THIS!"

Raising his fist UP into the air, it begins to GLOW as he CHARGED the demonic light-based weapon! Focusing ALL of his power into a single point where his fist was aimed. JUST as the demons came out to attack! Nobodies wearing wild masks and enraged...Dante charged up enough power...to SLAM HIS FIST DOWN into the ground!! unleashing an EXPLOSION OF BLINDING LIGHT that BRUST around ALL CORNERS of the area!!

"RIVER! COVER YOUR EYES!!"

He WARNED, Just as his fist was moving in to make CONTACT with the ground as the GREAT LIGHT blew UPWARD into the atmosphere! With the blinding light to his advantage, he then made the gauntlets and boots GLOW...before he KICKED and THREW the glowing LIGHTS at Vergil! prompting the eldest twin to JUMP up and SNAG the light onto his arms and legs! At last...with the light faded...Vergil was now wearing the BEOWULF once again!! He lands on his feet before he SPEEDS up towards the other demons! the familiar feeling of the gauntlets of infernal light giving him a sense of child-like GLEE that he had NOT felt in AGES as he KICKS! punches and LUNAR PHASES his way THROUGH Demonic BODIES!

"HYAAAA!!"

@devil-hunter66

River's wings felt heavy as the half-blood soar over Tartarus. She followed the river Acheron until she reached it. The crack in the ground where the water had been draining.

The half-blood just wanted a normal summer vacation at camp half-blood. Of course, that wasn't going to happen. The underworld at some point had been thrown into chaos, creatures from Tartarus finding a way to flee and raise hell upon the rest of hades. Now it was up to her to figure out the issue.

"Alright. Father said this should be the way to hell." The half-blood check to make sure she had everything one last time. Rations? Check. Nectar? Check. Tools to maintain her prosthetic if it gets damage? Check. Weapon? Check. River took a deep breath and dived bomb down into the crack to hell. The quest prophecy ringing in her head.

She wasn't sure how far she was falling, or for how long. But eventually the air change. She opened her eyes to find herself in the demon world. Hell. "Okay..." She landed on the ground. "Now, how the hell do I find who I need to?" River said to herself.

With no better answer, she began walking deeper into hell. Keeping her scythe in it's cube form. But a hand around it just in case. She wasn't sure how long she had been walking, but it was at least felt like a few hours, until she finally found something else down here.

[moriarfer]

Experiment

A long, winding corridor with several paths into the Mind Flayer Colony led to somewhere lower and lower. There was a stench of fresh and old blood, something salty and rotten, and the stale air made it hard to breathe, causing wanderers to wrinkle their noses. There were symbols of Myrkul everywhere, corpses, body parts, bones and skulls. The corridors were lined with strange living membranes. The walls here, as on Nautiloid, didn't just look alive, they breathed, and that only served to spook the atmosphere of this place.

No one knew where to go, only Seylas slid his gaze along the walls of the Colony, feeling a sense of deja vu. He had been here once. But what could he be doing here? History swirled like a whirlpool, pulling him in, but the scraps of memories flashing through his mind weren't enough to make sense of anything.

Seylas didn't know how much he was absorbed in his thoughts, and only came to his senses when the door opened before him and he found himself in a spacious room. The elf cast a quick glance back to make sure the others were following him, and stepped forward cautiously. There were barely audible voices coming from somewhere in front. A woman. Seylas stopped, peering out from around the corner, and spotted four cultists, three of whom were standing with their backs to him.

''We need…'', the necromancer's voice trailed off for a moment. She frowned at Seylas, then stepped forward. The elf squared his shoulders, wanting to look even more solid and taller than he was.

''What are you doing here?''

And before Seylas and the others could even answer, her eyes suddenly rounded with wonder.

''I know you! It's... you! I can't believe you're still alive!''

Seylas didn't remember this woman. Not her face, not her voice, not even her scent.

''Do we... know each other?'', Seylas asked, more with fatigue than with a desire to actually know something. How many more familiar faces would he meet from past live that he didn't remember?

''Are you talking? What a lovely voice!'', her eyes lit up with fire, she changed in a second, transforming once again into an obsessed scientist.

''I knew you weren't like the others! Everything I learned about tadpoles I learned from you, my favourite experiment!''

''Experiment'' 

The word stabbed his ears, and Seylas felt uncomfortable. He'd been like that once in his past life. He'd looked at others as if they were nothing more than meat to be slaughtered. He'd never been a sympathetic person, and after he'd joined the Cult, he seemed to have lost what was left of his humanity. What a shame. The hunter has become the prey. It was only natural that he would end up on the torture table of an even crazier follower of the Dead Three than Seylas himself.

Kressa talked a lot, with passion and gusto. She savoured the details of how she had found Dark Urge on the verge of death here in the Mind Flayer Colony. He lay here, bleeding. He was battered, exhausted, and clearly had a tadpole in him. The perfect candidate for exploration!

Kressa was obsessed with him. She hid him from Balthazar, and spent all her time in the lab, wanting to learn the effects of the parasite on the host. She performed experiments that were more like torture. Because of the unusual way the parasite was introduced, everything about the a Myrkulite necromancer's new pet was special. The parasite secreted an oil that smelled like garlic. And the weakened Urge fought for his life to the last, almost strangling his «saviour».

Memory obligingly concealed all these horrors, only for a moment the elf felt a phantom pain. His ears rumbled and all his thoughts were focused on the words.

Kressa wouldn't let him go. Not for all the money in the world. And for Myrkul's followers, death would not be the end of it. She had demanded with passion and enthusiasm that her assistants return Seylas to the table to continue her experiments, and that was a reason to act.

Looking at her corpse, Seylas felt nothing. There was no pleasure, no sense of accomplished vengeance. Nothing. Just a few flashes of memory, blurred images and nothing else. He wasn't even sure if his name was his real name. And how much time he had spent here, being a toy in the hands of a cultist. His personality was completely erased, and left as dust somewhere here in the Lab. The necromancer had simply become another piece of the past. Seylas didn't immediately remember that he wasn't standing alone. And when he felt someone put a hand on his shoulder, apparently wanting to support him, the elf only jerked, throwing the other man's hand away.

''Don't…'', he asked threateningly, still not turning his eyes to the group. He didn't want to see their faces. Somehow he thought they were more shocked than he was.

''Come on, we don't have time for a requiem, we've been here too long already.''

[vivsicx]

Happy Birthday Ayn! (★ᴗ★)

I can’t stop thinking about his cn bday sr help

[sforzesco]

"Since you've named yourself after Julius fucking Caesar, perhaps I'll follow in your lead and choose one of the conspirators." "Interesting," says Giuliano. "Should I worry about finding you at the center of some kind of conspiracy that ends with my death?" "Not from me," replies Ascanio. He sounds tired. "Not anymore."

informally, some kind of. conversational follow up to the last comic. I'm trying to get the atmospheric conversational whimsy out of my system because I have a vision of the vatican as a body in active decay, a point of infection spreading out and poisoning the well, a jaw unhinged that people walk into over and over, and I am so close to figure out how to convey this visually. maybe.

[andoutofharm]

to be clear i am not trying to disparage everyone who attends wwwyf or anything like that. there are always some genuine fans who will go who care about the band and appreciate them and their growth in every era and dont wish for them how they were 15 years ago. if any of yall get to go i am genuinely happy and excited for you!!!

i just know that the overall atmosphere (of the crowd) is going to be one that is very counter to the type of fan experience i like to expose myself to, because there are a disproportionate amount of people who call themselves fans of a band but actively hate on the music and choices that reflect the healing and growth theyve undergone and only want them to be the way they were years and years ago.

[mamawasatesttube]

if i'm being honest i have to admit. i think byrne's supergirl saga is... so incredibly stupid 💀💀💀

[girlierest]

I do love that there is that pocket of people who feel an overwhelming amount of anguish, melancholy, and a seething uncontrollable darkness when the holidays approach and we all have to mentally steel ourselves for battle and performance.

I hate that for you, whoever you are, but also same 🤝🤝🤝🤝🤝