#it’s so funny literally just think about it

[meowdei]

the psychology of men (a guide to understanding how they work) — ft. phainon

if nice guys didn’t always screw you over, you’d have an easier time trusting that phainon isn’t the good guy full of bullshit. but he’s still nice enough to patiently wait for you to give him one chance, though

❤︎ word count: 10.3k words — in literally one day. ONE

❤︎ before you read: female reader ; college au ; reader has a shitty ex boyfriend and trust issues — she is not perfect but she is human. be nice to her ; strangers to friends with benefits to lovers ; reader has a crush on mydei at first LOL ; mentions of alcohol and drunk sex ; phainon is a YEARNER ; resolved angst, miscommunication, and arguments ; phainon is down bad and reader is simply in denial that she is too ; cunnilingus ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; not proof read

❤︎ commentary: i didn’t care about this dude until today. he possessed me so hard i wrote 10k words in less than 24 hours. white hair and blue eyed freaks will do that to you

LESSON ONE: MEN ARE ALWAYS PLANNING SOMETHING. THE NICER THEY SEEM, THE MORE SINISTER THE SCHEME!

You meet Phainon for the first time while you’re freshly out of a relationship, nursing a broken heart. Your ex-boyfriend pursued you with that heartfelt, fairytale sort of devotion, and you thought you’d be telling people at your wedding one day that you knew he was “the one” early on in your relationship. 

And then he dumped you as quickly as he “fell in love” with you. It wouldn’t be right, he’d said, it just isn’t fair to keep you around when I don’t feel the way I used to. He leaves you with not so much as a tear of sorrow, and you’re left with the aftermath of a devastating heartbreak. 

Not the sad, lingering kind—this one is the sort of heartbreak that makes you hate all men. Especially the nice ones—the ones that manipulate you into thinking they’re the good guys who won’t turn on you, but they do. They always do. The nice guys are the ones with the most potential to turn out dangerous. They aren’t upfront about their assholery. That shitty ex of yours is a prime example, and you refuse to fall victim twice. 

Your first impression of Phainon happens in some boring college class you take just for the elective credit and an easy gpa boost. He’s the sort of guy your attention doesn’t instantly latch onto—he’s sweet, sure, and funny but a little too gentle to be real. Too good to be true. Too much of a green flag to be interesting. Exactly the kind of guy you’re avoiding—exactly the sort of person who can worm his way into your heart slowly and lethally and then bite. Hard. (That sort of mindset is too pessimistic to be any good, of course, but you’re only just barely in your twenties as you navigate your dramatic breakup, and your prefrontal cortex is still developing.)

You find his friend a little more intriguing for the longest time, if you’re honest. The brooding blonde next to him always made your eyes linger for a second too long. 

“Hey,” he whispers, poking your shoulder from behind. You turn, slightly irritated by the fact that some guy is interrupting your dissociation in the middle of class—doesn’t he know you have false scenarios to run through your mind while you pass the time? Professor Anaxagoras has a strict no-phones-in-sight policy if you want to keep your participation points up, so the only thing to entertain you is your own head. Sheepishly, as if sensing your irritation, he murmurs, “Sorry. Can I please use your laptop charger?”

“I’m using it,” you blink. 

“Yeah, but it’s almost fully charged,” he practically pleads. The puppy eyes on him are unreal—you feel almost compelled to cave just at the sight of them alone until you realize it’s your charger, and he’s bargaining with you about why you don’t need it. Absurd. “I can see the green battery sign.”

“Are you serious,” you stare at him blandly, “it’s barely twelve pm. Why is your laptop already dying anyway?”

“I charged it,” he pouts, “but she’s old and on her last legs. It doesn’t last if I take the charger out for too long—I forgot to bring it with me. Please. If it dies in the middle of this assignment, it’ll make me start over! It took me an hour to google all these answers.”

Well. He’s convincing in that pathetic sort of way. Just the perfect mix between nice and genuine but still a tad bit needy that just tickles your gut in the right place to loosen you up. Without a word, you unplug your charger with a roll of your eyes and hand it to him as he smiles gratefully. 

“You’re the best!”

“You’re pathetic,” his friend grunts to him from beside him.

“Don’t be rude, Mydei!” he whispers through a wounded voice. 

They continue to bicker back and forth, but you tune it out—there’s only one thought on your mind for the remainder of your time in that room. 

You spend the rest of class thinking about the deep sound of his friend’s voice to care about anything else. Fuck, you think—you’re almost debating that strict no more men rule you’d set for yourself after your break up, ready to throw it all away for the grumpy looking blonde with red tips behind you. He’s hot. And honestly, he seems a bit rude and crabby, so really, he can’t be that bad—and yeah, everyone would think he’s the red flag, but you know how men go. You’ve figured out their psychology. The ones who are prickly on the exterior are actually very soft inside, and they’re not half as bad as the soft, cuddly type of men who turn around and bite you as soon as you’re close enough. 

This guy could be different. He could be worked into devotion instead of smothering you with it early on, only to have ulterior motives and get bored. What was his name again? Mydei? Sounds decently moanable in bed, you reason. He certainly seems like a keeper. 

It’s not long before the lecture ends, and you walk off with all your thoughts consumed by the grumpy blonde guy who said maybe only three words that you properly heard before he possessed your mind like a fucking demon. So much so that you forget to ask for your charger back, and that clever asshole never gave it back on his own accord like a proper human being. 

So, the next time Phainon walks into class, you’re glaring at him right at the entrance of the room with an outstretched hand and an unimpressed curl of your lips. 

“My charger,” you say blandly, “you took off with it last class. I need it back.”

“Oh!” he flushes, quickly digging into his bag and pulling it out—at least he kept it in very good condition. Men are not to be trusted with things you need because they are irresponsible. Case example: not returning what they borrow. “Sorry,” he says earnestly, “I meant to return it, but I forgot. Which, I was thinking…maybe we should exchange numbers—you know…to contact outside of class if we ever need it.”

You blink, seeing right through him. Why else would you ever need it again? “You walked off with my charger just so you could use it as an opening to ask for my number?”

He flushes a deeper shade of red, creeping up to his ears and down his neck like he didn’t expect you to call him out on his so very blatant scheme. “W-well…did it work?”

You contemplate for a moment before you respond, “No.”

“How about if I throw in some assignment answers?”

“…Okay, fine.” You never pay attention in this class—the tests are open notes, and the weekly assignments are easy enough when you have the internet at your disposal. But still, having someone present the answers to you is a much faster route, and you have other non-elective classes to worry about, so all in all, if a semi-annoying guy messages you here and there, it’s not so bad.

And the better part is that his friend is hot, so you can snag the details on him, too. Men don’t really worry about the concept of loyalty—they don’t stay far away from the people their friends show an interest in for something like friendship. You know how they work. Phainon’s number can lead you to Mydei’s, and Mydei can break you free from your awful, terrible descent to madness from heartbreak, and when you inevitably have a happy, healthy, and loving relationship that lasts, you’ll never think about your bastard ex again.

Foolproof.

“Great!” Phainon beams. He hands you his phone, and you type your number in.

And that starts it all. 

────────────────────────

LESSON TWO: SEX DOES NOT EQUAL INTIMACY. WHEN THEY SAY IT’S JUST PHYSICAL, THAT’S TOTALLY FINE. BUT IF YOU SAY IT, YOU’RE OUT OF LINE!

Exchanging phone numbers with Phainon was supposed to be a simple way to have at least one contact for a class—a very important measure you should take for every class you’re in—and perhaps, if you’re lucky, you could also somehow get closer to that hot blonde friend he has named Mydei. 

It was never supposed to become a real friendship.

But, well…shit happens, and things don’t go according to plan. It also doesn’t help that Phainon is a consistent texter—almost to a fault. What sort of man doesn’t text sporadically and with a tone as dry as concrete? Phainon, apparently—which is not like any sort of man you’ve ever known. 

You even start sitting with him in class instead of in front of him—that’s a terribly unplanned development. The bright side of it, however, is that you quickly get over his friend. Mydei is nice, but he’s a little too bored. Or maybe he just isn’t interested in you; you’re not so sure. No amount of flirty comments gets a flush out of him, not a smirk, not even a smart retort back. He is just…bored. (Or maybe he’s secretly just one of those good friends who doesn’t flirt with the girl that his friend is actively trying to pursue, but that option does not align with your very complex understanding of men, so you shove it aside. He’s probably just bored, and that’s just truly unfortunate. He was hot.)

But you grow fond of Phainon. As a friend. Sure, he’s clearly been interested in you since day one, but he’s not pushy, and a hint here and there that you’re still bitter about your previous relationship makes him keep a respectful distance. But he’s definitely smitten—and you? Well, you’re lonely. And he’s a good guy. A good guy who keeps you good company as a good friend and nothing more. He knows that, and you don’t think you’re stringing him along if he’s aware that you’re nothing more than friendly. 

And sometimes, friends go to parties together. And sometimes, they also drink together. And sometimes, they also end up staying at the other’s apartment afterward because it’s closer and safer than trying to get back home alone. And…sometimes, although not a lot of times—but sometimes, they wake up in bed together, nude with no recollection of the previous night and love bites scattered on their necks as proof that something very, very physical happened between them.

It’s not always a common occurrence, but it’s certainly not a rare one. Does it complicate things? For certain—but you think that you and Phainon are good enough friends and mature enough people to know that sex does not equate to intimacy. Most men are super clear about that, anyway—it’s almost ingrained in their nature to say “no strings attached” before they fuck your brains out in every position they can think to try. This should not be a foreign concept to him. 

But it doesn’t make the morning any less awkward. 

“Oh my god,” you say in disbelief, pulling the sheets over your bare chest as you stare at Phainon like he’s grown two heads. He stares back at you like you’re some figment of his imagination—unsure if you’re real but painfully hopeful that you are. And then you take a quick glimpse around his room and realize he’s a space nerd—there’s a poster about Saturn on his wall. “I didn’t think you were into space. You seem a little too air-headed for that.”

“Hey!” he pouts, “you don’t know me! I can be very smart!”

You snort, eyeing him in amusement. Except staring at him for too long means that you are forced to look at the hickey you left on his neck, almost like you were a raging, horny teenager last night and not an adult. You would be more embarrassed if one glimpse down at your chest didn’t tell you that he was even worse. 

“So…” you start awkwardly. 

“So…” he echoes. 

You don’t know where to take it from there. There’s a beat of silence before you say, “We’re good, right Phai?”

He softens, looking at you with those large, round eyes that house every shade of the sky and her beauty before he nods and murmurs, “Yeah. We’re always good.”

“Good,” you breathe, “I’m glad. I want us to be good.”

“Well,” he rubs his neck, “we are, in fact, good. So…yeah.”

In the end, you sheepishly turn around so he can get out of bed, find his scattered clothes and put them on, and leave, and you—once you’re certain he’s far enough in the kitchen and the faucet is running—scream into his pillow before slipping out of bed and putting on your own. You’re pleasantly surprised he doesn’t have only one pillow. But his sheets are navy blue, so you dock a few points for that. Not a good look.

He makes you breakfast before you leave. Something about sitting and sharing pancakes while he has tousled hair feels so natural you almost feel sick at the thought of leaving. But you tell yourself that he’s an easy friend to have and feel comfortable with, and force yourself up and to the door when the time inevitably comes. 

He sees you out with a soft, “See you later?”

“Yeah,” you hum, “later. Bye.”

“Bye.”

—————

You wish so badly that you could be an ideal individual, but you are as flawed as the rest of the humans you share planet Earth with.

You and Phainon fuck again. Sober, this time. Still as friends. Not by accident, or through the influence of alcohol, or by forced proximity, or by anything that you can use to excuse it. You can’t excuse it. It’s entirely an act of free will that you consented to—because he does take consent very seriously, you learn—and it starts to become abundantly clear that sex is beginning to get a little too frequent in your time together.

The first time it happened after the initial accidental night, he was over at your apartment helping you build your new desk. The old one was too small, and you needed an upgraded space badly. He spends the evening hammering and drilling pieces away and fitting them together, and like some cliche joke from the universe, when you slip on the instruction manual on the floor, he catches you as your face hovers dangerously close to his. A kiss later, and suddenly he’s fitting into you and drilling you instead of the wood. 

And then it starts to happen everywhere. 

Sometimes in the back of his car before he drops you off at home after class. Sometimes on your kitchen counter when you’re supposed to be washing dishes after he’s over for dinner to study. Sometimes after he’s got a bad exam grade to blow off some steam. Sometimes when you’re particularly stressed over a busy week with too many assignments due on the same day and too many hours of your part-time job to work. 

Every time it happens, you go back to acting like you always do afterward. Like it never even happened. Never mentioned, or questioned, or brought up. He never questions if something is shifting in your relationship, and you never bring it up. Sometimes, two people can have a physical relationship and still be friends and nothing more. It’s not impossible, and it’s not bad.

If anything, it makes you closer friends. You start to understand each other better. You talk more—really talk. No silly banter, or heated debate, or stressed-out vents. Just you, Phainon, the sheets that cover your bodies and a quiet room that lingers with the scent of sex.

He tells you about how much he misses his hometown. How small it is, and how everyone knows everyone. How leaving home and his young triplet sisters was the hardest thing he did, but a good degree and stable job is even harder to come by where he’s from. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity. 

And you tell him about your ex. About how sweet and nice he was. How badly he wanted you. How good he was at doing things right and reading you for what you craved. How to love you like you always wished. How to spend time with you without burning you out and depleting your social battery. How to know your ticks and know when he’s pushing your buttons too far and when a joke doesn’t feel like a joke anymore. How to make you feel seen. 

No man has ever loved you like that. None have cared to, either. Learning you is a lot of work—you have years and years of life and stories and feelings and fears and everything’s to share. Teaching them is a lot. Learning them is even more. 

You liked to think that boy from your past was a ticket to something good. Some better life for yourself where it’s not just you and yourself, and that’s it—a life where you were you and someone else cared to see it. Have it. Cherish it. Keep it. 

You don’t know how someone could pour in so much time, do everything first, want things all on their own, and still walk away and tell you that they just don’t feel the same anymore.

You think it’s just a man thing. Men bore easily. 

Phainon snorts at that. 

“They do have short attention spans,” he tells you. 

You smile tightly, humming as you blink back tears. “Or maybe I’m just boring.”

“Aw, c’mon,” he gasps dramatically, reaching over to swipe the tears like it’s always been his job to—it feels so natural when he does it. “You’re not boring! You’re at least a step up from boring because boring is Professor Anaxa, and god knows what he drones on about.” 

“Gee,” you huff, but the tears are easier to subside when it’s him. They’re gone quickly like a fleeting reminder that sorrow exists but shooed away like they’re unwelcome when he’s around. He’s around more and more these days. “Thanks. I’m glad to be just a step up from boring. Maybe in a year or so, I’ll be two steps up from boring.”

“Nothing is ever impossible,” he winks. “Some day, with enough hard work and determination, you might even be three steps up.”

“You suck,” you giggle. 

He laughs, and the sound of his voice is enough to lull you to sleep. You sleep good next to him—always do.

—————

One thing you count on is that it’s always easy when it’s you and Phainon. Phainon and you. 

Just two people who exist with each other, and nothing else really needs to be thought out. You don’t worry about what you wear around him or how you look. He doesn’t care too much about what you’re doing or where you’re going. As long as it’s you and him, him and you, and nothing else—it’s okay. He’s good. He treats you good and makes you feel good, too. Inside and out. Physically and mentally. 

He might even be your best friend. You don’t know if you should tell him that—men get weird about definite titles like that. But then again, maybe not Phainon. He’s like an anomaly of sorts, sometimes. 

But you forget sometimes that Phainon was never hoping to just be friends. And you suppose letting him feel you come undone for him more than once is like dangling his desires right in front of his face because it all blows up on you very fast. 

Perfect one second, like the calm before the storm, and a disaster zone the next, leaving you no time to evacuate before the tornado has hit and done its damage. 

“Mydei wants to come with us to try that new cafe you mentioned,” Phainon hums, watching in sheepish amusement as you sigh and mutter under your breath while picking up his dirty socks from the couch and tossing them across the room. (Men are all the same, aren’t they?) “He said something about there being a pomegranate beverage he wants to try.”

“Fine by me,” you shrug, slumping onto his couch, “if he doesn’t find it awkward, then I don’t either.”

“Why would he find it awkward?” he looks at you in bewilderment.

“I think he’d have to be oblivious to miss the way I was flirting with him,” you huff out a snort, “I don’t think most men jump at the opportunity to hang out with a girl they ignored advances of, but maybe he’s just too passionate about pomegranate to care.”

Everything feels like it pauses as soon as the words come out. You thought he’d known this whole time—you could have sworn he’d known. How would Mydei have never mentioned it to him? Aren’t they best friends? Don’t men at least tell their friends when a girl is hitting on them regularly in passing? Is Mydei really that bad at giving life updates, or is he more clueless than you gave him credit for when it comes to romantic interaction? 

Nothing makes sense, and you’re not entirely sure about anything. The only thing you are sure about is that Phainon is staring at you like you’ve been disloyal to the worst degree. 

“You liked Mydei?” he asks in hurt, staring at you with those god-awful puppy eyes. You feel like you kicked one, too, with the way he stares at you. 

“W-well, no,” you stutter, “I mean, yes—but like…not really, you know?”

“No, I don’t know,” he shakes his head, “you’re not making any sense.”

“I liked him for a very short time,” you say quickly, “like…like a small crush, you know? He was attractive, and I am not immune to an attractive man, so it just…b-but it never lasted for long!”

“Did you still like him when we got together?” he asks quietly. Got together—you physically have to stop yourself from flinching at those words. Some part of you feels a little bit bad that he sounds so wounded, but the other part of you feels like this is all so absurd. That he’s starting to get worked up over nothing. He has to know you were never together—you never did anything that implies two people that are…together. It’s always been a good fuck here and there, and that’s what you kept it as strictly. 

(Distantly, your mind gnaws at you and screams that two people who just fuck and nothing else do not do the things that you and Phainon do. Sure, you were friends first, but two people who draw the line at sex don’t seek each other to FaceTime until three am, and they don’t bring each other soup when they’re sick, and they don’t hold each other when they cry, and they don’t, under any circumstances, tell each other about their deepest insecurities that they’ve never voiced before about shoddy exes who ruined their ability to trust and feel loved. You can’t be the closest people in your lives and just have sex—but your mind has never been your number one supporter, so you shove the voice down.)

“No,” you admit, and for a second, his shoulders sag in relief. Like he doesn’t care or feel threatened that you liked his friend as long as it didn’t bleed into your time together—and that’s when you start to wonder if Phainon is too good for you. Too kind and genuine in a way that is not dangerous. Too sweet in a way that doesn’t slowly kill you like poison but just gives you something to look forward to. Maybe he’s a good one—a good guy who is just good and nothing else. Still, you kill his heart anyway with a harsh blow to his chest as you add, “I didn’t like anyone when we started getting physical. And I still don’t, Phainon.”

Getting physical. Whatever that means. You say it like it puts some distance between the sex you have and intimacy. You say it like it rationalizes everything you do with him—you get physical, which is only human nature, and in the mix, if you develop a good, long-standing friendship, then there is nothing wrong with that. 

But are you really okay with just friends? Yes. You are. Are you sure about that? Absolutely. You don’t seem so convinced. This is a positive, for sure, one hundred percent true reality. Phainon is just a friend. You’re shooting yourself in the foot. 

You force yourself to stop arguing with yourself when you notice the way his eyes flash at the words: still don’t. He processes the words that you still don’t like anyone, and the look in his eyes is devastating. Betrayal. Confusion. Hurt. Anger. Something else that you don’t quite understand, but it makes you filled dreadfully to the brim with unease. 

“Every time we’ve been together has just been physical to you?” he asks quietly, croaking out the words as if they’re acrid on his tongue and taste awful. “You’re lying.”

“I thought I made it very clear we were just friends, and I wasn’t looking for a relationship,” you furrow your brows, “you can’t act like I’ve been stringing you along—”

“Before we started, fucking, sure! But I thought it was pretty mutually clear we were slowly turning romantic when you willingly took my dick down your throat every now and then.”

“We’ve never had a ‘hey, what are we?’ discussion,” you cry exasperatedly, throwing your hands up as though this is all…so, so, so absurd—and for a second, you feel like it is. You made it clear that you weren’t trying to date. Not him, not anybody. Sure, that silly blonde friend of his clouded your judgment for a bit, but that was never more than a phase. “Don’t you think it was a red flag to never discuss what we are or what we’re doing if we were getting romantic?”

He falters. Something in his face makes him look so unrecognizable. So fragile and knocked down a peg that you’ve never seen from him. And something about the way he looks at you makes you almost feel like he doesn't recognize you. 

“I thought you were avoiding the conversation on purpose,” he whispers, voice cracking just as he says: you. “I thought…I thought you were just nervous about labels after everything from your last…” he clears his throat, like even mentioning the word relationship kills him, “and…and that I was just waiting for you to be more comfortable…”

You don’t know what to say. And frankly, nothing seems like it’ll make him feel better. He’s fighting the trembling of his lips and blinking back the moisture in his eyes like all he has left in his control is to not shed tears in front of you. 

You extend him that much grace. (Men don’t like being vulnerable, you reason. They hate showing emotions.)

“Phainon, I think I should go,” you murmur softly.

“You want to leave?” he asks, gutted. It’s got two meanings—you know that. You know exactly what he’s asking.

Everything feels wrong when you say, “Yes,” through a soft whisper, “I do.” But you still don’t take it back.

And nothing feels right when he lets out a watery chuckle and lets the first few tears slip. “Well, you know where the door is,” he spits.

He doesn’t walk you out. You’re not sure why that feels so heavy—it’s not because you’re guilty. You know that. It’s something else, and you can’t quite understand it. 

────────────────────────

LESSON THREE: NOT ALL MEN. SURE, MOST HAVE A VERY BAD STREAK, BUT NEVER THE WHITE-HAIRED AND BLUE-EYED FREAK!

You barely last two weeks before you call Phainon. 

At first, you thought being without who is maybe your closest friend at the moment was just eating away at you, and that’s why you missed him. You threw yourself into your social circles, making plans left and right to fill that gaping hole of his presence. It didn’t work. 

And then it slowly starts to click in place. 

Your friends send you a picture of your ex’s new fling, calling him an asshole and how she’s too pretty to be his next victim. You don’t feel even the slightest bit jealous or hollow. In fact, you’re bored by the news—you have more pressing matters. 

Then, you start to see what feels like fucking propaganda for romance everywhere. Every social media timeline is filled with some stupid, cheesy, cringe trend that rubs in your face how painfully in love two people are. You get ads for fucking wedding rings. Your friends are all magically starting to get out of the talking phases and actually have something exclusive and official. Your old high school friends are getting engaged, and invitations are coming in. You’ve RSVP’d one in spring and two in fall already. 

Everywhere you look, it’s something that feels like the universe is promoting a relationship in your face as if it’s a poorly disguised paid sponsorship by some celebrity online, and all you want to do is throw a rock at the sky and hope it lands on whatever divine being is playing tricks on you straight in the face. 

But it slowly becomes clearer and clearer why it unsettles you so much. Why it all makes you bitter and annoyed and tired and…and sad. You’re sad. And it’s because you miss Phainon, and every couple reminds you of the hurt you caused him and why it’s your fault he’s still not in your life. Because you wanted your cake and to eat it, too. Even if it meant taking advantage of his feelings and the heart he didn’t even bother wearing on his sleeve. He just pinned it to yours and let you wear it. 

So you call him. When that doesn’t work, and you get sent to voicemail, you go straight to his apartment. You knock on his door incessantly for two minutes straight (you know he’s home—his car is there) before he opens the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes despite it being three in the afternoon. 

“Mydei, can you at least come bother me to eat a little later in the da—oh.”

He notices you and quickly straightens up, smoothing out his wrinkled t-shirt as best as he can and fixing his ruffled hair (that doesn’t do much but ruffle more) as he looks at you with what is his best attempt at a nonchalant look and clears his throat. “Yes?”

“Hi,” you say nervously, “how are you?” (What else do you say? You’re at a loss.)

“Oh, you know,” he shrugs casually, “nursing a broken heart and trying to integrate back into society as a functioning member. The usual. How about you?”

You flinch at his tone, at the way it’s so clipped yet so emotional at the same time. 

“I called earlier—”

“I know. I ignored that, by the way, if that wasn’t clear,” he says as if being petty and angry is the only thing he has left. (It might just be, and you certainly won’t blame him for it.)

“I know,” you whisper, “but I still wanted to talk. And see you. Which I know I don’t deserve, but I guess I’m clearly not perfect, huh?” you shrug softly, giving him a sad smile. 

“Well,” he says flatly, “you came all this way, and I’ve already opened the door. Might as well say the groundbreaking thing you came to say.”

When Phainon is hurt is the only time he does not know how to be kind. He spends so much time not hurting others, not letting them feel the pain of their feelings being overlooked, that he doesn’t quite know how to handle it. How to stomach that, yes, there are hurt people in this world, and, yes, they do the hurting, too. And he might fall victim to it. And he might even be the cause of someone else’s hurt, too, intentional or not. 

He’s not good at processing pain. He’s too good of a guy to ever have to dwell on how badly his actions have impacted someone. Not because he’s perfect but because he’s gentle enough by nature to avoid the necessity of it while he can. 

“I’m sorry,” you say earnestly. Because you are. You are. “I knew you were interested early on, and having sex as often as we did was leading you on whether I meant to or not, and you got hurt because of it, so I’m sor—”

“Unbelievable,” he scoffs, shaking his head with a bitter laugh. 

You blanch. “What?” you ask, mildly frustrated. He doesn’t have to forgive you, but it’s certainly an honest apology. “You don’t have to forgive me if you don’t want to. But I just felt it was right to tell you that I—”

“I’m not upset because you don’t like me or you that led me on,” he interrupts, making you blink in confusion. He looks at you for a moment—really looks at you, and before you can say anything, he lets out another disbelieving chuckle. “You still don’t get it, do you? Do you even understand it yourself—why you’re even here?”

“To apologize, of course—”

“No.” 

He says it so seriously. 

Phainon is hardly ever so serious. It’s what you always liked about him, even if you hated to admit it. He’s good at taking serious matters and making them feel like they’re not so serious. Not in a bad way—he’s just good at making them feel less soul-crushing with that carefree smile and those light-hearted words. He comforts you without ever letting you feel the shame of needing comfort. It’s nice.

You forget that even he is capable of being solemn. 

“No one apologizes for breaking someone’s heart unless it breaks theirs too—do you see that? Do you see that you care? I’m not upset that you don’t care about me or that you don’t feel the same. That would be easy to move on from. It kills me because you do—you care, and you feel exactly the way I do, and you just won’t admit it—do you know how much that sucks?”

You swallow thickly. It’s getting to that dangerous territory. That fragile, vulnerable place in your mind that you don’t like because then you have to admit that, yes, maybe you fucking fell hard and crashed onto the ground for Phainon. Asphalt and rocks still digging into your arms with raw and bleeding skin. Yes, maybe he’s that nice, kind, genuine guy who you fell for and who has no other motives than to spend his time being nice and genuine to you. And maybe, if you’d met him sooner and not later, you could have loved him and not some other asshole in disguise, pretending to parade around like a good man, like some wolf in sheep’s clothing. 

Maybe that would have saved you the constant fear of it inevitably going all wrong—of giving and giving and giving, and one day, even that’s not enough, and someone doesn’t even want to take from you anymore. That one day, someone doesn’t even find you worth taking advantage of. 

That stings.

It’s this twisted sort of rejection you can’t handle. This sickening sort of feeling makes you think it’s better to be needed for selfish reasons than to be discarded like a useless, meaningless waste of time. And Phainon wouldn’t take advantage of you, right? He’s too nice of a guy—he’d reel you in, make you think he wants you so, so badly, and then when he doesn’t, he’ll play that nice guy trick again and make you think he’s doing you a favor by letting you go. Letting you go so you’re not being used by making it known you’re unwanted and not enough. 

As if he didn’t spend so much time making you want him. Condition you into thinking being loved by him was such a treasure. Convince you into needing the devotion he hands so easily for free. 

But you’re wrong, aren’t you? Maybe he’s not like that at all—maybe he’s just a nice guy because he really is good. Maybe he’s not nice because he needs to be to get what he wants. Maybe he’s nice because he wants to be, and it earns him what he wants the honorable way. Maybe you’ve fallen for Phainon, and maybe you were wrong about that being a bad thing. And maybe you just really fucking hate to admit when you’re wrong. (Your prefrontal cortex is still developing, after all. The men of your past are not very helpful to that slow development.)

“I don’t know how I feel anymore,” you whisper, tears littering your eyes. And god, you feel like a witch—using those sad, doe eyes with the wet, teary gaze that you know will soften him up like butter. Because he does. Even if you don’t do it on purpose, it makes sure he softens right up in front of your face because he hates the sight of your sadness being so tangible that he can feel it on the pad of his thumb in the form of a wet, warm rivulet. 

Like clockwork, he wipes the tears and sighs, and you let out a shaky breath. 

“I don’t know how I feel about anything because every time I think my feelings are right, they’re fucking wrong,” you sob, “I am always wrong, and I don’t know how to stop being wrong.”

His arms wrap around you and pull you close, pressing your body flush against that sturdy chest that feels like a brick wall—strong enough to keep you away from all the harm and cruelty of the world around you as long as he stands in front of you. Sometimes, you think that’s all it takes. Just Phainon standing there, and that’s it. That’s it to be okay. 

“You can only stop being wrong once you’re right,” he hums, giving you a sad, innocent little smile, “isn’t that the whole point of it all? To find the person who’s right? There’s gotta be a few wrong answers here and there, don’t you think?”

“I don’t want to keep crying over the wrong answers,” you sniffle, “it’s dehydrating me.”

He laughs. It sounds good. It feels good, too, with the way his chest rumbles against you. He always does. Everything about him is just good. The way he smells, and feels, and sounds, and just is. Phainon is just good. You like just good—no catches, no curveballs, no fine print. Just good. 

“Hey,” he tilts your face up and presses his forehead to yours, wiping your tears valiantly still, even as they keep coming. And he’s hurt. You did that—you hurt him. But he seems more focused on the fact that your heart is crumbling than his own. “I can’t promise you won’t ever cry because of me—I’m not always the brightest, okay? But I can promise that I’m going to stay and wipe every last tear if I mess up. And then I’m going to keep staying. I will always stay so I can wipe the next round of tears and hydrate you again for your troubles. We’ll figure out the rest as we go. It doesn’t have to be perfect, yeah?”

“You don’t want it to be?” you snivel, “you seem like the type to hopelessly daydream about perfect romances with not much luck.”

“I’m going to let that dig slide because you are emotional right now, and we all say things we don’t mean when we’re emotional,” he rubs your back, rocking you slowly from side to side. 

And…well, you think you’re wrong. About him. About Phainon and now he’s nice in a way that’s too nice and too good to be true. You’re wrong because he’s just nice, and it’s just nice enough that it’s good, not devious—and for once, just this once, you don’t mind being wrong.

Not if it’s for him. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “for being confused and scared and unable to realize I care about you. I will get some help or something to be a functioning member of society.”

“Well, when you find help, hook me up,” he snorts, “because I need it, too. You’ve done a number on me.”

You’re both laughing. And then, at some point, you’re both kissing. His lips are on yours, and yours are on his, and it’s just a mix of each other that feels less like it’s right and more like nothing about it was ever wrong in the first place. Sometimes, it doesn’t have to be right as long as it’s just not wrong. Sometimes, that’s enough to keep things going. Sometimes, they become right along the way, all on their own. 

You cup his cheeks, making him pause his assault on your lips against his will as he lets out a soft noise of protest deep in his throat. You’ll fall hopelessly harder for him because of that later—first, you have more pressing matters. 

“I’m serious,” you whisper, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I do care about you—so much that it scares me. I care about you and I promise this time I’m going to stay and keep caring. So be ready.”

“I’m ready,” he smiles, all wobbly lips and a shaky voice and trembling fingertips. They dig into your hips as his head buries into your neck, and you hold him—latch onto him and clutch his shirt because feeling him is all that ever felt good, and you don’t think you can stomach letting it go a second time. “I am so ready to be the only thing you care about.”

“Maybe not the only thing—”

“Did you hear that? That weird crack sound? That’s the sound of my heart breaking a second time. Any more, and I’ll be collecting shards off the floor.”

“C’mere loser,” you laugh, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him into a hard, deliberate kiss that knocks the wind out of both of you. It makes your stomach twist and form knots and there’s this weird tickle in your chest that feels like you’re about to implode. Phainon is so good at that—at making you feel so, so unwell but well at the same time. You’re sick and nauseous from how badly you want him, but nothing else feels right until you have him. 

So you wrap your arms around him, pressing nearer, closer, harder up against him and kissing him until both of you are gasping for breath in between every press of your mouths together. Your hands find his hair, carding through it wildly and pulling on the strands when he nips at your lips, and when he groans into your mouth at a particularly harsh tug, you know it’s starting to become a scene that should not be happening at his front door where anyone can pass by.  

“Inside?” he pants, pulling away for just long enough to say the word.

You kiss him hard once more, making him groan again before you decide that, yes, it probably needs to move indoors. “Inside,” you breathe, labored and unsteady, “now—now, please.”

“Whatever you want,” he chuckles, “you don’t have to beg. You always get what you want—don’t I always give it to you?”

“Then quit talking and give it to me.”

That shuts him up really fast. With a dark glint in his eyes, he pulls you in, closing the door swiftly and pressing you against it. You’re caged—nothing but him, you, and the throbbing ache between your legs that seems to be a common denominator between the two of you. 

“I want you so bad,” he groans, kissing your neck, inhaling your scent along your sweet, delicate skin, “want you so bad I never want you gone. Don’t ever leave.”

“I won’t,” you gasp as he bites—and it’s a little hard. A little mean almost, but he kisses it better with a soft peck afterward that you forgive him on the spot and melt. “I won’t.”

“Good,” he hums, nose trailing along the column of your neck before he drags it along your jaw, kissing the corner of your mouth before he murmurs, “but I’ll make it hard to walk away this time just for safe measures.”

It feels like a literal and metaphorical promise. Before you can even respond to his cheekiness, he has your mouth hostage again—kissing and groaning into it enough that you have no choice but to soften and become pliant under him. You swallow up his sounds as the bulge in his pants presses against your own heat, the slow, desperate pressure of him grinding against you, making you shiver against the door. 

Good—he always feels so good. Everything about Phainon is always so damn good. 

“Feel that?” he croons, gasping as you roll your hips in tandem with his own movements, “feel how hard I am for you? You’re telling me anyone else will want you this bad? No one. I’m it for you. I’m not giving you up. Ever.”

His voice is a low, almost dangerous promise—and if you weren’t dripping at your core from the sound of him alone, you’d be less than inclined to admit that you like the sound of that. But you do, don’t you? You want him to want you so badly, so desperately, that the thought of letting you go makes him his own worst enemy. And he does, doesn’t he? He wants you so badly that you’re almost scared. 

But you like it. Love it, even. You fucking love that he needs you, and you want him to need you so badly he might just die without you. 

“Don’t,” you whisper, lifting the bottom of his shirt up to his shoulders. He lets go just long enough to pull his arms up and let you take it off of him, tossing it to the ground before your fingers run your nails along the hard plane of his abs. He shivers, letting out a soft, barely-there sound at the feeling. “Don’t let me go. Ever.”

“Whatever you want, princess,” he grins. Phainon leans in again, kissing you impatiently like being away from you for that short period of time was enough to have him on edge. Maybe it does because he only melts and relaxes when his lips are against yours again. His fingers trail to the edge of your pants, toying with the waistband as you quiver at the feeling of his rough fingertips rubbing against the skin of your belly. 

“Need you,” you whine.

“You got me,” he reassures, “just wanna take my time, yeah? You can handle that, can’t you? Let me have a little fun with you so I cheer up before I fuck you right against this door?”

You whimper. He’s mean sometimes, too. He’s so, so nice, but sometimes, it’s like a switch flips, and he’s mean. Not cruel—just teasingly mean to keep you on your toes and have you falling apart for him. It’s so mean, but it’s so careful and thoughtful and meant just for you—like he thinks only about you. 

“Just hold onto me, okay, baby?” he asks gently, pecking your lips, “I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”

Before you can even ask what that means, he drops down to his knees, spreading yours and pulling your pants and underwear down in one go, helping them off your legs as they get thrown somewhere in the back along with his shirt. You realize exactly why you need to hold on as soon as a finger prods your entrance, splitting your folds open as he peers into them and hums at the way you’re wet and slick. You gasp, grabbing onto the nearest thing—which happens to be his hair as he chuckles. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, “I hardly did anything yet. But don’t worry, you can pull if you need—I don’t mind.”

Just like that, his mouth is between the apex of your thighs, tongue tracing your sweet, precious little clit before he licks a stripe along your folds, humming against your cunt and sending vibrations as you mewl at the feeling. 

“Ph-Painon…fuck—”

He hooks a leg over his shoulder, letting you half sit on him as he props you up and devours you. Devours you like you were the only thing on his mind. Like he was starved and dying in this apartment, and the only thing to sustain him is you. His tongue dips past your folds and fucks into you before pulling away just as quickly and flicking over your clit. Two fingers gently prod at your entrance this time—only they don’t tease you. No, instead, they fill you up and slip into you as far as they go, curling into a sweet, sweet spot in your walls that has your knees wobbling. 

You think you will fall for a moment. You think holding onto his hair and tugging him so harshly is not going to keep you steady, and the weight he takes as he props you up on a shoulder, is not going to hold you.

But he makes good on his promise. He doesn’t let you fall or slip for even a fraction, even as your legs get weaker and your orgasm draws nearer. 

“‘M close, Phai—s-so close,” you whimper. 

He pulls away. With a smug, stupid little grin, he looks up at you as you stare down in disbelief. “Say you care about me.”

“What is wrong with you—”

“Ah ah, that’s not what the magic words are!”

“Phainon—”

“That’s not a bad guess, but still not the right answer!”

“Fucking hell,” you hiss, “I care about you, asshole.”

“A little more aggressive than necessary, but I will accept it,” he hums, rewarding you with a soft kiss to your clit. “Now tell me you know I care about you. That I want you, and I want to stay.” 

“Phainon,” you plead, “please, can’t we do this later?”

“No,” he says firmly, “because then it’s just getting physical, and I am not getting physical. I am getting intimate. Tell me what I want to hear so there’s no mistaking things.”

He’s throwing your words right back at your face. And the only way you’re going to get what you want is if you own up to them, even if it’s against your will. So you do. With an exasperated sigh, you tell him what he wants to hear.

“I know you care about me,” you say impatiently, “I know you care, and you want me, and you want to stay, and god knows you’re not good at leaving me alone, so I guess I will just have to get used to you.”

“Atta girl,” he murmurs, giving your clit one more kiss before he’s back to lapping at your cunt like he’s parched. Your slick coats his chin and makes his skin glisten as he traces your clit with his tongue, curling his fingers just right into your heat. They brush against that spot again—he has it perfectly memorized, and just like that, you fall apart, gushing around his fingers and coating his lips with even more of your essence. 

“Fuck,” you sob, grinding against his face as you ride out the shockwaves of pleasure, feeling him groan against you right where you need him. 

He lets you stay like that for just a moment, resting half your weight on his shoulder and half your weight on one leg before he abruptly stands and grabs your waist, hoisting you up as your legs wrap around his hips. You’ve done this before—at that point, you’d considered it just any other step to getting physical with someone. 

Now, you realize you were beyond oblivious to how much you needed it to only be him you were doing all these motions with. It almost feels silly. 

“I’ve changed my mind,” he grins.

“What?”

“I don’t want you against the door anymore. I want you on the bed—my bed. And you’re staying there, and you’re going to like it.”

You laugh, breaking into a fit of giggles as he jogs over to his room with you in his arms. And when he drops you unceremoniously only to the bed, flopping on top of you and attacking your neck with kisses, you can’t help but break into another fit of giggles, feeling his playful nibbles and licks against your skin. It feels so easy. So natural. Only with Phainon, you realize. Only ever with Phainon. 

“Hi,” you breathe when his forehead presses to yours. 

He gives you a bright, toothy grin, murmuring, “Hi, yourself, pretty.”

And then he's kissing you again. His lips are soft and slow this time around. Pressing against your mouth, slotting into the space like it’s his to fit into—and it is. It’s always been his, whether you were willing to admit it or not. His tongue glides against yours languidly, no rush or impatience or desperation like usual. This time, he kisses you like you’re his and always have been—like he knows what you taste and feel like, and he knows it’s always been his and always will be. He kisses you like he’s reminding you of it, one painstakingly slow second at a time. 

“You broke my fucking heart,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice raw and vulnerable but never not soft, “you know that? You broke my fucking heart.”

Your hand presses against his chest, feeling the erratic beating of it under your palm as you whisper, “Seems like it’s working perfectly well to me.”

He chuckles at that. Lets out another toothy grin before he tilts his head back and laughs. It’s cute and precious and so fucking sweet—he sounds just like what he is. Tooth rotting sweet.

“You’re always so smart with your words,” he drawls, pressing wet, hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw.

One hand slowly pulls your shirt up, inch by inch, before you slowly help him take it off of you. The bra comes off next, and you’re bare—under him as nothing else but his. Nothing else that covers or keeps what’s his away from him. 

And when you eye his pants with a petulant, pouty look, he chuckles before throwing you an amused look as he takes them off slowly, not taking his eyes off of you.

You and Phainon have fucked. But you’ve never been intimate—not by the real standards, at least. The proper kind where you take the time to really take in each other’s bodies, commit each dip and curve to memory, know it inside out and like the back of your hand. Where that scar starts and ends from his childhood shenanigans, where your little moles scatter along your body in hidden crevices. And when he slowly frees his cock, and you can really stare without having to tell yourself you shouldn't, you take a good look. 

You take a good look at the flush of his pretty cock—pretty, just like the rest of him. A nice, soft, muted pink at the tip that oozes with the beginnings of pre cum, and it’s sensitive as it twitches under your delicate thumb when you smear the dribbling essence along the head of his cock. 

“Mmh,” he makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, fluttering his eyes closed and panting as you touch him. Feel him. Want him. 

You finally want him, and it’s almost enough to make him spill into your hand alone. But he forces himself to composure, grabbing your hand and pinning it over your head—and then goes the other. He holds them in place with one large hand, watching as you squirm under him impatiently. 

“No touching,” he whispers, “first, I’m gonna teach you not to take me for granted. Then you’ll never want to take your hands off of me.”

“If you just ask me nicely, I’ll never take my hands off of you,” you offer. 

He laughs, boyish and charming and so fucking smooth, you feel something flutter at the base of your stomach. Something stirring in your guts and twisting them inside out in anticipation. “Persuasive,” he hums, “but I still have to teach you not to take me for granted.”

When the tip of his cock brushes against your entrance, your wrists struggle against his hands to break free. You need to feel him—to know he’s there against you and real. To feel his hair and tug and hear him groan in response. To scratch along his back and feel his warm, damp skin, the way he shivers under the pain and likes it. To pull him closer and feel him practically melt against you at the gesture. 

You want to feel him. Because you need to know he’s yours. And you never, ever want to take for granted Phainon again. Your Phainon. The nice, sweet, gentle boy who stole your charger for a day to get your number. Who knew before you knew, long before you were ever willing to know, that he would love you. Even when you didn’t want to, he did it from a distance. And when he thought you finally would, that you’d finally let it happen, he still did it quietly, stripped of labels and titles even though he wanted to announce it to the world. 

For you. Everything was always for you. 

“Please, Phai,” you plead, “please, please, please—let me touch you.”

“Yeah? You want that, huh?” he grins, pretending to think for a moment before he hums, “tell me why.”

“So I can feel you and know you’re mine,” you lean up and breathe against his ear, “don’t you want to be mine?”

It’s a silly question. It’s all he’s ever wanted, so he gives it to you easily. Lets your hands go and lets them wander over his sculpted body as he sinks deeper into you—no more taking his sweet time to draw out the teasing. He’s impatient now—just as impatient as you. Maybe even more. He’s been waiting longer than you have to make this happen. To take you and make you his and have you admit that he’s yours, too. 

“Fuck,” he groans as he sinks the final few inches of this thick, girthy length, “fuck you’re so fucking tight. You feel that? Feel me? How deep I am?”

“Yes,” you mewl, “yes—so deep. F-feel so full. You feel so good.”

He groans at that, pulling out almost completely before slamming his hips into yours, cock burying deep into you and burying to the hilt. The tip of his sensitive length kisses against that sweet, delicate spot against your walls—your spot that he knows and memorizes so easily. 

He knows you. Knows your body. He’s felt it so many times under him and made it react for him the way he wants, but finally—fucking finally, it reacts to him and only him. He knows it’s him and only him. Only ever will be if he has anything to say about it. 

“God, you drive me insane. So insane, you know that?” he grunts, rolling his hips hard and fast and drilling into you like he has something to prove. Every slam of his hips and every brush of his cock along your sensitive folds makes you pull him closer, kissing him hungrily—desperately. So needy. 

You need him. You’ve always needed this—someone to want you and need you and find you worth it to stay. How could you think Phainon didn’t want to stay when he was so clearly happy with just pieces of you because you didn’t want to give the full of you? When he stayed and stayed and stayed and happily took the little shards you dropped, even if they were sharp, and cut his fingers because they were pieces of you. When he was just happy to have you whichever way you let him because it was you. 

All he wanted was you. You get that now. You’re not going to forget. 

“‘M close,” you pant, breathing against his mouth, “g-gonna cum. With me…with me, please.”

“Yeah? Whatever you want, princess,” he groans. 

His hand moves to find your clit, rubbing quick circles as his own pace quickens, and you can feel the telltale signs that both of you are not going to last much longer. He lets out a particularly deep, sharp thrust—and you’re gone. 

Plummeting off the edge in a hazy fall. You mewl his name, chanting it over and over and over as your walls constrict around him tightly. Spasm around him uncontrollably. And your fall coaxes him into his own. He falls into his release with a soft, drawn-out moan of your name, hot, thick seed filling you up through quick ropes of cum. His cock twitches with each rope, painting your insides white with him. 

“You feel so good,” he rasps, “so fucking good—you were made for me. Only me. Knew…knew you were perfect for me since the first day.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him as close as he can get without physically merging into your bones. His head tucks into your neck, and you both ride out the aftershocks of your highs. You feel him breathe, and he listens to your soft breaths, and it’s just you and Phainon. Phainon and you.

It always has been.

“Don’t leave,” he mumbles tiredly after a while, sleepy words said through a petulant warning. 

You chuckle, kissing his sweaty forehead as you promise, “I won’t.”

“Good. Won’t let you.”

“Good. Don’t.”

Your own eyes start to grow heavy with exhaustion, slowly fluttering closed until—

“Who’s that?” you look at him in confusion as you hear an incessant knocking on the door. 

He chuckles sheepishly, rubbing his neck. “Ah,” he sighs, “right. That’s…that’s just Mydei. He’s coming to make sure I eat instead of starving to death from sadness.”

You blink, and then you throw your head back, laughing loudly. He watches you for a moment, smiling softly at the sound of you flooding his space. “You’re hopeless, Phainon.”

“Am not!”

“Go tell Mydei to leave and that you’re alive.”

“...Okay.”

Idk what this is. It’s 10k words of pure babbling and hardly a single coherent thought. I’m sorry dfksksjr this isn’t my best work but . I needed to get him out of my system

I also think writing a reader that is younger than me and navigates life and its challenges through a less mature and experienced lens was a fun project. She is not perfect but she is certainly a human who is trying her best and wants to be loved and I think that’s endearing

[mylovesstuffs]

OT13 reaction to you being sore the morning after they went hard

Request: Can you pleaseeeee do like Ot13 s/o being sore all of their body after sex? Or like their body being sore the morning after. Like what are their reaction to their s/o being sore after being fucked harddd lmaoooo

A/N: Minghao.

Seungcheol: You're walking funny and he just smirks, “Can’t handle your man?” he teases while already scooping you up bridal style. Kisses your temple, massages your thighs later, but doesn’t promise to go easier next time. In fact, he’s kinda proud.

Jeonghan: He's a devilish little shit, “aww, baby~ did I break you?” Fake sympathy and coo-ing while dragging you onto his lap. Whispers “You were begging for more last night” in your ear with a sly grin. He'll then run a bath for you and act like a saint. Manipulative menace.

Joshua: As we know, he can be an angel turned demon. At first, he’s all, “Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, right?” But when you admit you’re sore, his ears go red, but he smiles a bit cockily. “Guess I got carried away, huh?” Helps you stretch… but starts teasing and touching you again. Trouble in disguise.

Jun: This man is blunt and cocky. “You’re sore?” Grins. “I warned you.” Slaps your butt playfully as you wince, but then offers a massage and actually follows through with warm oil and expert hands. Still whispers, “Want me to make you sore again tonight?” You might actually throw soap at him and die.

Hoshi: Oh, he's a tease too, “babe… are you limping?” starts laugh-laughing, but when you glare, he panics, “Wait wait wait—are you okay?!” Gives you one of his precious tiger plushies from his sacred collection as an apology. But he's high-key proud. Very proud.

Wonwoo: He watches you struggle to sit and just lifts an eyebrow over his pc. “So you’re feeling it.” Says it so casually like it’s a weather update. He’ll tug you into his lap and rub your back gently, murmuring, “You’ll get used to it.” NO YOU WON'T!!!

Woozi: “...You’re sore? Huh. That’s… that’s not my fault. You told me not to stop.” Cue him looking away, ears turning pink. Makes you coffee while avoiding eye contact. He’s embarrassed but lowkey flattered, but planning to do it again tonight. There's no stopping him.

Dokyeom: “OH NO DID I BREAK YOU?!” He’s so apologetic even though he was the one destroying you six hours ago 😭 Will carry you around, feed you snacks, kiss your forehead 50 times. Cries a little inside, but if you say you liked it—he lights up. And this will repeat all over again...

Mingyu: Golden retriever smug. “Can’t move?” He’s grinning so wide while helping you get out of bed. Literally acts like you just won a championship. “That’s my girl.” He’ll cook you breakfast and wink every five seconds. Zero shame. Very shameless. Very, very shameless.

Minghao: I think he's very chill but lethal about it; notices the way you’re stretching weird and just goes, “Hmm.” Nothing else. Then comes over and whispers, “But, you were so loud last night.” Kisses your neck while handing you tea and I don't really know what the fuck that means but he's very into how ruined you look. Might go again just because.

Seungkwan: “You’re SORE?? I—did I go too hard?!” Full-on pacing in his pajamas, hand over heart, but when you admit you liked it, he blushes like hell. “Well, of course you did.” Helps you change and wraps you in a blanket. King of extra aftercare. He's the softest among all these 12 shits.

Vernon: Idk if it's surprising but he's lowkey a menace. “Damn. Wasn’t even trying that hard.” Says it all deadpan while watching you limp to the bathroom. Doesn’t tease too much but will absolutely throw in a You look hot, though while sipping water like nothing happened. Might poke your thigh just to see you flinch.

Dino: It's probably an overachiever moment. “You're sore?” Confused. “I didn’t think I went that hard… unless—” Pauses. Slowly starts smirking. “Well, guess someone couldn’t keep up.” He tries to act cool but fails when you start whining and hitting him. Still massages you. “Next time, stretch first.”

[cosmic-dust-poltergeist]

Pt 4 of the Danny is Tim's 99th attempt at cloning Kon. A 3 year old Danny finally meets his not dead anymore template.

[Pt 3: here]

Danny is so nervous he feels like he's going to throw up. His Template, who was dead and now isn't, is coming over to meet him. He knows his dad wouldn't let the guy near if he thought he'd react poorly to Danny, and Danny is excited about maybe having an adult (barely, technically, since he's 18) to help him figure out his new alien heritage, but he's still scared shitless. He wants this to go well so badly.

"Danny," Tim sighs in fond exasperation, "Come here, sweetheart."

Danny floats himself into dad's lap, tucking himself to his chest.

"Kon has been just as nervous to meet you." Tim kisses the top of Danny's head, just before Danny turns a wide-eyed look towards him. "He's the sweetest himbo and has been gushing about meeting you, but he's terrified you won't like him."

"Rweally?"

"Yeah, one of his deepest desires and deepest traumas is his want of family. But he doesn't want to pressure you into accepting any sort of relationship with him." Tim explains before cracking a sardonic smile. "Which is a big mood. I'm pretty sure most of the younger heroes have imposter syndrome."

"Why?"

"For many reasons. Kon was, and sometimes still is, discriminated against and frankly abused for being a clone. I forced my way into the Wayne family and was repeatedly told I didn't belong. Jason never had a stable life. Damian was a rape baby and raised in the LoA til he was 10. Dick was kicked out by Bruce once he aged out of fostering age. Jason's "not" boyfriend, Roy, was shunned for developing a drug habit after gaining significant trauma." Tim lists off. "A lot of the younger heroes couldn't lean on the adults in their lives, and it leaves scars. We've all found our footing, and deserve everything good we have in our lives, but the feeling of unworthiness is hard to escape."

Danny hugs his dad around the neck. He knew some of this dad and co lore, but it makes him sad each time. No one in his new family family has had easy lives, but are still so nice.

Tim suddenly looks mischievous, "All that to say, Kon has been texting me all morning about what he should wear, do I actually think you'll like him, if he should bring a gift or would you think he's bribing you to like him-"

"Tim!" A guy whines as he enters. He's wearing a leather jacket over a band t-shirt and black jeans. He clothes don't hide how he's shredded and probably 6 inches, at least, taller than Tim. He's holding a puzzle box and looks flustered and embarrassed.

"It's true!" Tim grins at the newcomer, before adjusting his angle to give Danny a slightly better view. "Danny, this is Kon, your DNA donor. Kon, this is my- our son, Danny."

Danny shyly waves as a blushing Kon sputters and protests Tim's choice of introductions.

"What? I did all the work, you just provided the DNA. Maybe if there's a next time, I'll let you help." Tim teases, and is hilariously oblivious to the gutter Danny can see Kon's mind drop into.

Danny has found his dad to be absolutely oblivious to anytime someone is into him, outside of Ra's. Danny watched so many people try to shoot their shot, and Tim cluelessly rebuff them. Danny thought he was doing it on purpose at first, but soon realized, no, his dad just has low self-esteem and truly doesn't think anyone finds him desirable. It's as funny as it is sad.

"So mean." Kon pouts before holding up the puzzle box for Danny to see the design. It's a thousand piece nebula puzzle. "I ended up getting you this puzzle. Tim- Your dad told me you love space and are super smart, so I thought you'd enjoy this puzzle."

Danny blinks, looking between the barely adults, before deciding to be funny. He says in his gravest voice. "So you chose bribery."

Danny gets the glorious view of Kon's face dropping in shock. Tim is literally shaking as he tries not to laugh, knowing Danny is pulling the guy's leg. The Drakes let him flounder for a moment, trying to find a response to that, before Danny can't help giggling, which pushes Tim over the edge and start cackling, startling Kon into silence.

"You should have seen your face!" Tim wheezes.

Kon gets a dopey look on his face. "You're just messing with me."

Danny nods with a grin. He wiggles to be put down, which Tim complies with, still giggling. Danny trots up to his template.

"You're silly." Danny informs him before holding his arms up and demanding. "Up!"

Kon quickly sets the puzzle on an end table near him before picking Danny up. He looks a little nervous when Danny stares hard at his face. "Um?"

Danny takes in all the shared features between them, some harder to see with the 16 year age difference, but it's sort of soothing to see. He gets distracted when he notices Kon's piercings, gasping and taking a closer look.

"How!?" He excitedly, but gently grabs Kon's ear piercings. Danny had gotten similar ear piercings when he was a ghost, and he misses them, but figured he wasn't going to be able to get them done in this body. It being nearly indestructible and all.

"Oh, my piercings?" Danny nods, leaning forward to take a closer look. "I'm sure you noticed it's hard to hurt us, but there's a rock called kryptonite, and depending on the colour, different things can happen."

"I thought kryptonite just hurt?" Danny asks, pulling back to look at Kon's face.

"It can. Green kryptonite is the most common, and it will hurt you. It turns off your powers and slowly poisons you, and if not taken away quickly, can kill us. Gold kryptonite is the rarest type and will permanently remove kryptonian abilities and usually leaves permanent injuries. So please do your best to avoid those types." Kon explains, "Red kryptonite should probably also be avoided, it makes kryptonians angry and turns off your inhibitions, but it won't technically hurt you to be exposed to it. The last colour I know of is blue. Blue kryptonite doesn't harm you or mess with your mental abilities. It just turns off all of your kryptonian abilities for however long it touches your skin. I have a blue kryptonite necklace I wear whenever I want tattoos or piercings."

Danny turns pleading eyes to his dad. "Can I get ear piercings??"

Danny can't help, but notice an infatuated smile on Tim's face before the man huffs a laugh and walks over. He runs a hand through Danny's hair.

"If you still want them when you're 5, I'll let you." Tim hums, "I don't want it to be an impulsive decision, and people will be less weird about a five year old getting their ears pierced. You might still get weird looks since you're a boy, but that's their problem, not yours."

"Okay!" Danny cheers. He hasn't told his dad about his past life/afterlife, so he can understand the hesitance over letting 3 year old get a body mod, even if it's just a single set of ear piercings, on what seems like a whim. He's honestly surprised he only has to wait til he's 5. Tim can be a bit of a helicopter parent, but then again, Tim really wants Danny to be his own person, never once shaming him for not fitting into a mold.

His aunts and uncles and grandpa have all made comments when they think he can't hear about how different or similar he is to Kon. Or when he shows gender non-conforming interests. Tim gets mad at them anytime he realizes Danny heard them. He doesn't want Danny to feel bad about any of it. Siting that "no shit" there's going to be similarities and differences, that's how children work, clone or not, and how gender is a social construct. He usually starts picking apart all of his siblings' behaviors at that point, pointing out what they inherented from Bruce, what is trauma born, and what's uniquely their's so he assumes they're from their respective parents, as well as all the things they do that don't fall under what society thinks their gender should do. It's funny, but also very nice. Danny loves his dad.

The true question right now, though, is: will he love, or even just like, his template? Danny doesn't hate what he's heard and seen so far, but actual fondness or affection needs time.

"How about we head to the gym?" Tim says, "Kon can show you some of his powers."

"Can I fly higher?" Danny isn't allowed to fly more than 4 feet in the air. Which is annoying, but fair. Again, he's 3.

"Only if you stay in arm's reach of Kon when you do."

"Okay!!" Danny cheers, purposely flailing around. Kon's hold on him tightens slightly to make sure he doesn't fall, but it's not painful. Another point to the DNA donor. That's about five in his favour during this interaction alone.

"Already flying, little man?" Kon grins.

"Yeah!"

"He figured out how to fly before how to run." Tim chuckles, "Now he does both any chance he gets. It keeps things lively."

"I imagine." Kon's grin turns a little gooey, before letting himself float and zip to the gym. "Let's have so fun!"

Danny can't help his chuckles. Kon flies there faster than Danny's allowed currently. It's fun!

Danny also can't help but notice Tim isn't in a rush to catch up. Meaning Tim fully trusts Kon with Danny's life. That's a trust that took the rest of the family months to gain, even though Tim knew they wouldn't hurt him. Danny isn't sure what to make of that knowledge, but it definitely makes him more inclined to like his template.

And by dinner time, Danny does genuinely like the guy. He respects everything Tim and Danny have to say, shows Danny a bunch of fun tricks with their powers, and let's Danny lead their games. He's fun, nice, and most importantly, not creepy. He clearly likes his dad in a more than friends way, but is hesitant to act on it, clearly not wanting to fuck up with either Tim or Danny.

Unfortunately for Danny, he can see Tim likes Kon back, but his dad is an idiot and doesn't realize it. So now he has to figure out how to get his dad to realize he's into his template without it being weird.

But really, what was Danny expecting? Trying to clone your "best friend" a hundred times isn't exactly hetero behavior. He decides he's going to enlist Uncle Damian and Uncle Jason. It's for his dad's own good at this point.

He also debates on if he's going to try to parent trap them. He likes Kon, but he doesn't know him well enough to commit to the bit just yet. He'll decide later, once he knows more.

[lmaowhatt]

MEET. . . LOVER BOY!JJ

˗ˏˋ ❥・✎ lover boy!jj who. . . ALWAYS says the i in 'i love you,' 'i miss you,' and even the occasional 'im sorry,' when he knows hes in the shithole.

˗ˏˋ ❥・✎ lover boy!jj who. . . met you at a bonfire he hadnt wanted to go to in the first place, going to brush you off when you spilled some beer on him, but being hooked the second his eyes landed on you.

˗ˏˋ ❥・✎ lover boy!jj who. . . pined, and i mean pined, after you, regardless of the consequences and who warned him to back off. constantly sent you flowers, whether it was emojis, or to your address every other week after the first time you two hung out. even dropped comments like "im always here for you, sweet girl," because why not.

˗ˏˋ ❥・✎ lover boy!jj who. . . almost threw a party the second you agreed to go out with him because he wanted you for oh so long. took you to your favorite place on the island, barely containing himself when you leaned in at the end of the date.

˗ˏˋ ❥・✎ lover boy!jj who. . . constantly sends you selfie updates while hes at work or out with john b and pope. sometimes he keeps them silly, doing goofy faces or holding a funny pose, other times... he knows exactly what hes doing.

˗ˏˋ ❥・✎ lover boy!jj who. . . will work himself to death if it means he can buy you something youve wanted for a while, and he wont ever make you feel like shit if he stole it.

˗ˏˋ ❥・✎ lover boy!jj who. . . conspires with john b and pope to come up with new date ideas because hes damn well sure hes overused most of them by now. usually will find a, what he considers, new date idea, still repeating old ones but adding a spin to them.

˗ˏˋ ❥・✎ lover boy!jj who. . . will constantly be touching you because hes gotten that used to you being there. whether its an arm around your shoulders, your pinkys looped, him rubbing a hand up and down your arm, kissing your shoulder, anything.

˗ˏˋ ❥・✎ lover boy!jj who. . . always texts you about how much he misses you, even after hes just dropped you off after a date. always sweet, sometimes frisky. an 'im thinking bout you,' sprinkled in there. an 'i love you,' and even an 'i miss you and the scratch marks on my back, mostly you,' which is always followed by a 'come over, baby?'

˗ˏˋ ❥・✎ lover boy!jj who. . . is very protective. plain and simple. he doesnt allow anyone to disrespect you, he lets the occasional joke slide from the pogues when he knows theyre messing around. but its best to not poke the bear.

˗ˏˋ ❥・✎ lover boy!jj who. . . sends you songs that remind him of you, has pet names for you, (baby, princess, sweet girl) saved every voice message you send him, would screen record calls between you two if his storage wasnt so full with pictures of you and the pogues.

˗ˏˋ ❥・✎ lover boy!jj who. . . doesnt know whether to go hard or take it slow during sex. because on one hand, he loves 'making love' to you, as corny as it sounds, relishing in the moment and not just doing it to do it. but on the other hand, loves when you entice him to go further by doing literally anything.

↓ LOVER BOY!JJ WORKS HERE ↓

a/n: im ACTUALLY in love?? pls send asks about lover boy!jj because im about to have a TIMEE.

[weasterberry]

ha ha, this one sucks.

Like, everyone understands why this one sucks right?

Like smooth sharks is funny because it doesn't matter. Swanboy can think sharks are smooth as much as he wants and it wouldn't affect anything. "I'm incapable of dying" is funny because obviously it's a lie. But this one is like... both important And plausible? Like... the only evidence we have that OP isn't literally in danger; Something that I'm sure a lot of us thought early on; is the level of insistence they have that everything is fine. So like... the people continuing to go "actually that's a bomb" aren't silly dupes arguing about nothing with an internet jokester they're concerned citizens double and triple and quadruple checking that some stupid teenager isn't going to blow their hands off. See? Like, if OP was like "I'm drinking radioactive goop and it is delicious" and someone was like "hey you should go to the doctor" and OP was like "why? my mother has fed me radioactive goop since I was a child and it makes me bigger and glow green" then anyone who didn't get the joke would be a fool because that's insane. But "my phone is acting weird and getting warmer than normal and is a bit puffy are all believable stupid things? Right? Like... it took 5 posts by OP before I was like "oh they're probably fucking with people" and 7 to be confident enough that I wasn't worried. And I am a full time internet jokeman who is allergic to taking things seriously.

This is the OSHA version of people saying something genuinely racist/sexist/homophobic and then claiming they're "just trolling". It's only trolling is being upset about the thing they said is stupid and so you're the idiot for getting worked up. If taking the thing you said seriously would make sense if you WEREN'T joking... it's not trolling. It's just telling a bunch of strangers you're walking around with a bomb and don't understand that. The people responding aren't ANGRY. They're concerned for someone's safety.

recently my elderly shattered-up phone started letting me charge it to 107% which I've been using to get let's just say a little bit extra out of it on long days

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

I remember you making a post about possibly making a neglected hero/vigilante reader so all I'm thinking about is nh! Reader just acting or being DC's version of moon knight and having beef with a DC villain or the DC version of Dracula. like we act unhinged with the batfam as a coping mechanism so they just see us as batshit crazy and impulsive but everyone else gets the more strategic and thoughtful side

(Omg I'm sorry this turned out so much longer then needed -💠)

(SORRY THIS TOOK ME SO LONG YOU BARELY DONT EVEN REMEMBER SENDING THIS ASK AHHH)

Reader is definitely Red x. No question, ask they're definitely.

Red X reader has too much fun terrorizing the Teen Titans and Young Justice at the same time. You basically stole big brother Dicks whole flow by taking his costume. You get to fit in while taking his weapons and being inspired by some of his other gear, like his batons, and making them way more lethal. He'll be absolutely shocked and confused why somebody has his old Red X costume and how come they look way better in it than he does. It's just not fair. You're having fun bullying Damian and Jon, pushing those boys around like rag dolls as they try to take you down. Villain or hero, you're just in it for the fun, really. Sometimes, you will team up with the bats, but other than that, you’re ruining them. You trashed Bruce’s Batmobile on a joyride with some of your villain friends. Got to say, the kids at the H.I.V.E. really know how to party. You stole Jason’s motorcycles and modified them to match your whole Red X aesthetic. Tim literally hates you. Back when he had a crush on Connor, you were too busy flirting with him. You're messing around with Damian any chance you get, being the cooler older sibling that his teammates from the Teen Titans look up to—simply just bullying him because he's shorter. Wait until those Bruce Wayne genes kick in! But the funny thing is, none of them know you're actually Red X. You keep it hidden to the point where they honestly believe that you two are different people. And here you thought Bruce Wayne was a good detective; he doesn't even think his own kid is Red X! Last time you left your costume out in the open in front of Steph, you joked that it was for a cosplay. Thank goodness she was dumb enough to believe you. And being Red X, you can talk as much trash as you want. Duke is your permanent op when he signals, but you two are pretty indifferent about each other. You pick a fight with Cass every moment you get, having trouble learning your body language and fighting style. You're just so weird and confusing that she almost figured you out during a fight; you pretended to be weakened and hopeless just so she would get off your back. Idiots, I swear, it's fun being the outcast of the family.

[bakedgoodsforbucky]

Thinking about tbosas from the other perspective is so funny to me because imagine you’re Lucy Gray and the way you make a living is by singing and being a charming, charismatic performer. The people in your district love you, you have a nice family, sure your parents are dead but things aren’t so bad.

Then you get Reaped because your boyfriend cheated on you - so now you have to fight for your life in an arena.

When you get to the Capitol you’re met by a guy around your age who says his job is to take care of you in the arena, so you figure you should probably use some of those charms you live by on him so you have a better chance at survival. So you flirt with him a little, save his life etc. It works! He helps you! Now you’ve won the Hunger Games! You get to go home and see your family! Thank you random Capitol guy for your help, bye bye now.

And then you’re singing on stage, with your family who you literally killed people to see again, thrilled to be alive and this fuckin Capitol guy has followed you home.

Oh and also he’s a peacekeeper now so is legally allowed a gun.

And now he kind of won’t leave you alone - the charm worked too well and he’s obsessed with you. Brilliant. But you’re a survivor. So you let him get closer, just enough to feel safe. And as you get to know him better, maybe you’re thinking, hey this guy isn’t so bad, he’s kind of cute with his buzzcut and he seems to really like you, maybe this could be something. Also it might be useful to have a peacekeeper on side - everything in your district is about survival.

Things are going well, you write a song about him, he cries, your little cousin loves him.

And then he murders someone in front of you and you’re like oh shit he crazy. And THEN you realise that because of the person he murdered, the mayor is now out for your blood and you’re probably gonna die so you have to get out of there ASAP so you say bye to this guy and he INVITES HIMSELF TO YOUR ESCAPE PLAN and you have to be like “oh sure, that’s super news, would absolutely love to have you along with me, I’m so glad you asked.” So now you’re stuck with him again.

And THEN you’re in the middle of escaping and he fuckin tells you he’s murdered an extra person you didn’t know about and when you ask him who, he says his old self and now you’re thinking oh shit he CRAZY crazy. And THEN he finds the gun he used and you realise that if he destroys that evidence then you’re the only loose end and he has a kind of crazy look in his eye so you’re like, okay time to nip this in the bud, I’m outta here gotta go pick some katniss. So you run away from him and THEN he follows you again and fuckin shoots at you so you run FASTER and now you’ve disappeared and no one will ever find out what happened to you which drives him absolutely crazy for 60+ years.

Oh and also they’re going to erase all footage of your Games so no one will remember you and he’s going to become a tyrannical dictator who has personal beef with three different sixteen year olds from your district over the years, all because you hurt his feelings one time.

[elysianstarfall]

blue lock boys w/ a super expressive reader (hcs)

summary: your emotions are always written all over your face, and your actions are also a dead giveaway. what does your boyfriend think?

characters: isagi yoichi, bachira meguru, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, itoshi rin

a/n: god i hope this makes sense

i. yoichi

LOVES IT. SO MUCH.

he's always using so much brainpower trying to figure out what his teammates/opponents are thinking

so when he can tell how you're feeling with one look at your face, he's genuinely so happy

his brain is fried, he deserves a break

doesn't mean he doesn't care about you though!!

still has to figure some stuff out, but most of the time he notices your mood and adjusts to match it

you're really excited about something? he tries his best to get into it too

you're lowkey depressed? he softens his voice and listens to you intently

gets you whatever you need

the second he sees you're uncomfortable or something he tries his best to get you out of the situation even at his own expense

will embarrass himself to make you feel better

you always tell him he's the best bf ever but you seriously make it so easy for him to be

b. meguru

"you're just like me fr..."

yeah he's basically the same

you guys literally just sync up by accident

like if one of you is happy, the other one's mood just instantly gets better too??

bluetooth ahh relationship

also, miscommunication? what's that?

you know each other's feelings so well that misunderstandings are pretty much nonexistent

if something's wrong, it's so obvious

like if you're moping he'll make you talk things out with him or tell him what's wrong

same if he's feeling sad

thinks it's adorable when you're excited and your eyes just straight up light up

he just gets a stupid smile on his face which makes you even happier

cue the never-ending cycle of emotions

you guys are so soulmates

n. seishiro

he's so, so grateful

he doesn't have to put in any work deciphering your emotions? sign him up

consider yourself not a hassle!

it's actually perfect for a lazy guy like him

finds your facial expressions really cute

even when you're just voice calling, he can hear everything you're feeling

like when you laugh or when he can hear your smile when you're talking, he can relax

happy gf = he's doing something right

oh but when you're mad...

save him, he has no clue how to fix it

actually scared to talk to you because you look like you're gonna beat him up

and when you don't even look mad, when you act nonchalant and distant and he can't tell how you're feeling?

yeah, he's cooked and he knows it

will give you an apology with tears

he'd rather avoid that so he tries to keep you happy

m. reo

ok idk why they're all grateful but yeah. he is too.

he's been dealing with nagi's unemotional ass for forever, so he's pleased that someone actually shows their emotions and lets him know how they're feeling

finds it really helpful when he gets you stuff since he knows whether or not you actually liked it

like if your reaction is clearly fake as hell he knows not to get you something like that again

he doesn't take it personally ofc, just uses it to refine his gift-giving abilities

really likes it when you're genuinely happy because of something he gave you

you cannot stop him from blowing insane amounts of money on you

in his eyes you deserve it

just let it happen bro

also he's kind of a romantic and he loves seeing your reactions when he does something cliché or stupid

tells you horrible pick up lines out of nowhere and thinks it's so funny when you actually get flustered

i. rin

he couldn't care less.

JK he's secretly very happy

there's only room for one emotionally unavailable partner in the relationship (him)

so at least one of you can tell how the other's feeling!

thinks it's nice that he can tell when you're mad at him

because let's be real he's lowkey insecure

abandonment issues are not for the weak

so when you reassure him and your expressions and actions are backing it up?

he just fell for you even harder

but when you are mad? ouch

he's a "my gf is mad at me i hope i die" kinda bf but he keeps it very lowkey

will just sulk until he gets so sick of you ignoring him or being mean to him that he awkwardly breaks down and gives you a very sincere apology

hopes you never change because he loves you the way you are

[honeyhotteoks]

yunho's fromm messages this morning.......... (and some extended thoughts on this man and his very obvious dom vibes, we've got a brand here at honeyhotteoks and i need to talk about it again before i die)

the messages in question:

🐶: yes, yes, you're such a greedy one (a little selfish one) 🐶: be mine, you're mine. 🐶: yes, yes, i'm yours.

transl credit to @/jyhcomfort on twt, i know there's a few alternate translations floating around that say "i'm greedy" or "i'm a greedy one" / one of my friends said via context it makes more sense to be "i'm greedy" but for delulu purposes..... either way..... my feelings are the same under the cut

cw: nsfw discussions about dom/sub dynamics and various connected kinks. as always, i am not being so delulu about this that i actually think i know him. this is all fun and speculation and at this point he's just my muse for the romance novel version of him. okay.....

i tweeted the below the other day (video link here) but like seriously he just keeps proving me right and i have thoughts i gotta get off my chest before i combust.

so i've just been thinking about this whole thing since someone on twitter made a little joke about him being a bitchless kpop idol, which like... i know people got upset, but i'm sure that was just a joke, and that's not really what this is about i've been seriously cooking on the duality of this man for the past few days and have things to say.

first of all...... i've talked about this a million times, but when i say this man is a dom what i mean is that he has the potential for all this stuff, i have no idea what he's actually doing in his private life. he could literally be waiting for marriage for all i know, but i do think you can tell in someone's personality who would kind of be good at something 'naturally' if they got into it / went that direction.

something yunho's been doing a lot recently is showing more of himself physically / showing more skin / being a little more suggestive overtly in his content which is something pretty new for him. he's always been hot and has been sexy on stage, but as far as his personal content, this is pretty new for him. this to me is classic like.... he's gained confidence in the past few years, gotten into his mid twenties where you start to get a little more self assured with your own body or expressions of sexuality, etc. BUT the way that he's sharing this content i think is interesting and indicates to me that he knows what kind of reaction this is going to get from his fans, and he enjoys it.

he's been burying sexier pictures within his ig albums as not the first picture, with the first one being a little cute or just regular idol style pics. prime examples below --

in both of these cases, these are the "sexy shot" but he puts them in the middle of the albums. then when fans freak out or ask him about it on live/fromm his responses are usually something along the lines of "ohhh it wasn't too much was it? ah, no ofc i'll keep it just to that" etc. it would not surprise me in the least if he enjoyed the thought that we're all losing our shit when we swipe to these pics / our reactions online after not only give him a bunch of compliments but shows how riled up we are. that is CLASSIC dom behavior.

in a sexual context, this might look something like..... a dom casually touching or implying sex to their submissive over the course of a day but not really acknowledging it / playing off their submissive's reactions as cute/funny or in a meaner context, ignoring it all together. at the end of all that teasing though is the dom in control and verbally messing with their sub while finally, finally delivering the pleasure they were hinting at. this is something i am so positive yunho would excel at with the right partner.

that combined with the way he talks to hotteoks in fromm really gives the impression that he knows they enjoy being teased, and i truly don't think he would act like that if he didn't like it. he's been in the idol game long enough, if he wanted to set different boundaries or speak to his fans differently, he absolutely could. meanwhile he's out here playing straight into the delulu trends with birthday lockets and wedding flowers and boyfriend-y pics all the time on ig. not to mention the zayn song.... like he knows what he's doing.

he often teases hotteoks about being so flustered over him, plays into how 'jealous' he can be, and overall just leans in hard to d/s dynamics in a way that tells me it's quite natural for him. even just how often he says things like 'you're mine' / 'i'm yours' / 'you know you're mine right?' / 'yes you belong to me' etc. in his fromms just reads completely as a dominant establishing and reinforcing those ownership dynamics.

when it comes to other parts of his personality, i've talked about that at length in other posts (eye contact, natural leadership, body language, active listening, etc.) but i've really noticed a shift in him recently and can't get it off my mind.

on top of that, there have been a few moments on stage or with other members lately that really ring dominance. i'm very specifically thinking of the way he interacts with mingi and wooyoung, which i've written about before, but...... he's consistently holding eye contact with them lately, teasing them in ways that are platonic yes, but also just part of that natural part of him that wants to mess with someone who will break. like.... did yunho have to hold wooyoung's jaw while they were kneeling during halazia? probably not, but he did it. and the smile afterwards when wooyoung got a little flustered was clear satisfaction with the reaction he got.

generally i think there's an impression that some people have that because yunho's so "nice" or so goofy/dorky/sweet/thoughtful/bashful etc., that means he doesn't have as much rizz or like wouldn't be into dynamics like this or harder kinks. i have to say..... that to me always reads like inexperience, with men potentially, maybe sex, and/or these dynamics in particular. in my experience, it's often the sweet guys who can switch it up in bed, and i would even say they often make better/safer doms because they are caring/considerate/attentive to their partner's comfort and pleasure, not just their own or if they're being perceived as sexy. it's not a hard rule of course, everyone's different, but i'm just saying, yunho being a nice guy doesn't mean he couldn't or wouldn't enjoy teasing the fuck out of his partner.

all of this is to say........................ if hasn't figured out his dom potential yet, i sincerely hope he does because i think it's such an obvious fit for him.

[writerslittlelibrary]

Sharing a safehouse

masterlist

summary: after a mission gone wrong, you and Natasha are forced to lay low in a small safehouse somewhere in the countryside of England. It’s small, uncomfortable, and you’ve never been able to really connect with Natasha during your time on the team. what happens when you and Natasha are basically forced to connect?

pairing: Natasha x teen reader

warnings: none

genre: fluff

words: 1645

a/n: I would like a standing applause for the fact that I am posting another fic in the span of a month. it has happened. the apocalypse has struck 

also, have I written this trope before? yes, yes I have. will I be writing this trope again? yes, yes I will

You do not have my permission to repost, copy or translate my work

 |——————————— ⴵ ———————————|

The silence is unbearable. It’s not like you were against the quiet, on the contrary. You liked  a calm, quiet environment to work and relax. No, it was the quiet with Natasha that you couldn’t bear. 

You and Natasha never were the best team, mainly because it seemed Natasha just didn’t want anything to do with you. 

You didn’t blame her, truly, you didn’t. You weren’t afraid to admit you were a pretty odd kid. You liked stuffed animals, cartoons, and sometimes, when you were certain no one was watching, you’d open your drawer and take out your dolls. 

It wasn’t like you got to have any fun things when you were a child, and something as simple as a doll would have been harder to acquire than literal gold. 

You weren’t shy about admitting you had a fucked up childhood, and you weren’t shy to be watching Winx Club in the living room of the Avengers compound. It was funny, really, how at first Sam made fun of you, yet slowly started to get more and more invested to the point he would ask you when you were going to start the next episode. 

He was a total Winx Club fan now. 

The rest of the team seemed to pretty much ignore your childish side. Not in a rude manner, but rather in an uninterested manner. They didn’t think you were weird, and you liked it that way. 

Natasha, however, wasn’t at all holding back when she saw you watching a cartoon or coloring at the table.

It wasn’t like she’d get angry, but she would walk away, or give you a look like you were vermin. 

You never quite understood where her disdain for you came from. She was your favourite superhero, yet she treated you like dirt under her shoe. She wasn’t gentle when making her comments, either. 

Sometimes, when you were drawing, she’d make a comment about how you were far too old for such things, and while you were watching a cartoon she’d scoff like you were insane. 

It was a literal cartoon, not the end of the world. 

You had gotten pretty good at ignoring her antics over the past year, but you couldn’t deny that they still stung. Why did she despise you breathing so much?

At the moment, Natasha was caught up in writing her mission report while you were curled up on the couch, which doubled as the bench for the table and the bed you would be sleeping in. 

Tony was fucking loaded. Why the hell was this safehouse a literal trailer?

You were reading Rainbow Magic; Ruby, the Red Fairy. Occasionally, you’d glance up from your book, and you’d catch a glimpse of Natasha’s disapproving stare before she’d continue working. 

Okay, fine, maybe bringing the Rainbow Magic series wasn’t the most strategic plan with such a fairytale hater, but who could blame you? Those fairy books were actually very enjoyable. 

You ignored Natasha’s judgement, finishing your book before you got up, walking to the small cupboard and pulling open the doors.

Expecting for some form of entertainment in this trailer was clearly too much to ask. 

The cupboard didn’t hold much, safe for a few spiders and a bucket of cleaning supplies that looked to be at least two-hundred years past their expiration date. 

And then, at the far top shelf, you could see a chessboard peeking out amongst the shelves.

You had to stand on the tips of your toes to reach it, but you got it. 

By now, Natasha had finished her mission report and was studying your every move. Of course, you caught up to her staring almost immediately, and you turned to face her while holding up the chess board. 

“Do you play?” 

Natasha frowned, before sighing and giving you a singular nod. Well, more excitement was clearly too much to ask. 

Natasha leaned forward, clearing the table of her papers and reaching for your book. She half expected her to just throw it on top of your bag in the corner, and you were more than surprised when she picked it up gently and handled it with much more care than you thought her to be capable of. 

When the table was cleared, you put the chess board down, handing Natasha the box that the white pieces were stuffed in. 

“I’m always black,” Natasha said while frowning at the colour of the pieces in the box. 

“Sure.” You passed the box with the black pieces to Natasha while arranging the white pieces on your own playing field. 

Once all the pieces were put in place, Natasha made the first move, to which you immediately responded by putting her piece back in its place. 

“White starts,” you mention as you make your own move.

Natasha huffs but doesn’t protest, instead moving her own pieces to defend against your attack. 

The game continued far into the night, and after playing for nearly three hours, you finally made your last move, trapping Natasha in a check-mate. 

“I let you do that,” Natasha says before rearranging her own pieces. 

“Sure you did,” you respond before placing your own pieces back on the board. 

“Don’t you have to go to bed? It’s far past your bedtime,” Natasha asks, glancing at the clock on the whole. 

“I don’t have a bedtime,” you remark, making your move with the chess piece. 

“You act like a child, yet you don’t go to bed on time?” 

To your surprise, you didn’t hear any judgement in Natasha’s tone. Just pure confusion. A genuine question not meant to insult you. You didn’t expect that. 

You look up at her, frowning before shrugging. 

“Can’t sleep. Nightmares,” you say, counteracting Natasha’s move by blocking her piece. “And even if I wanted to, we’re sitting on my bed.”

As if the evening wasn’t surprising enough, Natasha lets out a huff of amusement. 

“We can share the big bed. It’ll help with the nightmares,” she suggests. 

“Why?” you ask, keeping your eyes on the game in the hopes of preventing awkward eye contact. 

Natasha shrugs. “I dunno know. Another presence helps with preventing nightmares or something. There’s a study on it.”

“No, I mean why are you so nice? Why offer to share your bed with me when you normally can’t even stand to share the same room?”

At that, Natasha looks up, a hint of guilt mixed into her usual calm facial expression. 

“It’s not personal,” she says, moving her chess piece. 

“Then what is it? You’ve barely shared one conversation with me since I joined a year ago.”

“You’re a child,” Natasha suddenly says after a moment of silence. There’s venom in her voice, yet you can feel it isn’t directed at you. 

“You should be able to play with your dolls without having to feel the need to hide, and you should be able to go to school and make friends and stupid decisions. You shouldn’t live in a compound with superheroes and fight super villains weekly. You are a child, and you should be able to be one.” 

You fall silent for a moment, shocked at her revelation of knowing about your dolls, and shocked at the amount of emotion hidden under her confession. 

“You don’t hate me?”

Natasha’s head shoots up, tears glistening in her eyes. 

“Hate you? What ever gave you the impression that I hate you?”

You shook your head. “You avoid me, you scoff wherever I’m drawing or watching something in the common room. It feels like you judge me, daily.”

At that, Natasha’s facial expression softens, and her expression turns glum.

“I never meant for you to feel like you were in the wrong, and I am so sorry for that. I wasn’t judging you, I was judging the situation you’re in.” Natasha inhaled a sharp breath, turning back to the chess board and making another move. 

“Fury gave you a choice. Either prison, or joining the Avengers. You never even did anything wrong. You were just a child, graced with powers that no one understood and everyone feared. You didn’t deserve prison, and you didn’t deserve the threat of prison. You deserved a family.”

You sighed. 

“And in a way, I got a family. The Avengers are nice-”

“They’re not your family, they’re your team. There’s a difference. Sure, they care about you, but if they were your family, they’d want you to live a life, rather than become a superhero.”

Natasha fell silent, and at her words, so did you. 

Was she right? If the Avengers were your family, would they want you to live a normal, domestic life somewhere else, rather than the superhero life you were living right now?

“I didn’t have much of a choice. Besides, it’s not like I hate my life. Just the paperwork,” you remark, moving your queen to once again trap Natasha in a check-mate. 

“I want to work something out, if you’ll let me,” Natasha then said, pouting when you took her king. 

“Like what?” you ask.

Natasha shrugged. “I don’t know yet. Something that’ll put you off missions, at least until you’re twenty-one or something. Maybe older. Something legal. I mean, you’re not even allowed to drink in the United States. Why the hell are you allowed, or better said, forced, to risk your life daily?”

At that, you snort.

“You make a good point.” 

“We’ll figure something out, I promise,” Natasha states, helping you clear the chessboard and standing up from the bench. 

“Now, it is time for bed. Tomorrow we’ll see if there’s a bakery or something in this god forsaken place.”

You snicker, taking Natasha’s hand and allowing her to lead you. Maybe she doesn’t hate you as much as you thought she did. 

Bonus a/n: rainbow magic; Ruby the Red Fairy is the first ever book I read in English.

Permanent tags: @marvelnatasha12346 @lesbionion @papimapileon @darkstar225 @saraaahsstuff @marvelwomenarehot0 @screechcat @iheartjohansson @tia-thesimp @swaqcenix @karmasgxrl @marvel-lous3000 @l1kepeps1cvla @lorsstar1st @superlegend216 @ravensinthedaylight

[santa-argues]

hi again!

1) you said "thats just straight up false, sorry. you seriously NEVER see trans people silencing conversations about male privilege..." i told you my personal experience, even said that i acknowledge it isnt everyones experience, especially in other places, and you said that its false. that is you telling me my personal experiences are false. maybe you didnt intend it that way but saying its false, not clarifying what, then immediately doubting my anecdote reads off as if thats what you were saying

2) i am not biphobic, you didnt read the context and are mad about something you dont understand. if you didn't read it, you cant comment on the contents. whats kinda funny is that you getting mad and calling me names literally proves my point about how those types of generalizing and harmful statements dont actually encourage conversation. i took quotes that radfems have said about trans people when talking about how the patriarchy applies to trans women, applied it to bisexual people to show you how trans people might feel when seeing those types of "discussions", and you called me biphobic, a disgusting piece of a shit, and told me to fuck myself. you weren't mad because you think bi people who are with members of the opposite sex experience the same scrutiny that same sex couples do and that theres no inherent privilege that comes with appearing to be straight (much like how trans people arent mad about the suggestion that they benefit from the patriarchy). you were mad because what i was said was generalizing, and harmful, and biphobic, so you didnt listen to whatever point was hidden under all that hate, you shut down the conversation. you said that i compared calling males male to bisexuals, which implies and leads me to believe that you have no problems with those points when theyre levied against trans people. how is one bigoted and the other is not? its the same points, both applied to queer people. i think both are bigoted and inappropriate, but you have been defending one and just condemned the other.

‘closeted trans woman’ so a man. a regular man but now other people (and we know you mean women bc you dont care what men say or do) shouldnt talk about how men are privileged for their sex bc they MIGHT secretly have dysphoria or some other interiority that checks them out of the patriarchy. whew the antifeminist backlash is working overtime

[clownprincesshq]

Hey! I've been reading your works for a while and wanted to request something if that's alright.

Main! Mark Grayson X Rocket Raccoon! Inspired Reader! Super smart, a little unhinged, some jokes or comments go over her head, and then sensitive - which is more so just because I am a very sensitive person and feel emotions really sttingly tbh.

I love what and how you write and how you've studied Mark's character, I've been thinking about writing something for him, any tips? <3

mark grayson x rocket raccoon!inspired reader headcanons + tips on writing mark (sfw + nsfw)

from the very first meeting, mark knows you’re different.

you’re mouthy. smart. wired a little too tight.

you patch a hole in his suit while insulting his fighting, and then when he thanks you, you just blink at him like he spoke another language.

"what? it’s basic engineering. you’re welcome, dumbass."

you don't always catch sarcasm. or jokes.

mark will make some dumb comment like, "guess i'm indestructible now, huh?"

and you’ll nod seriously and launch into a three-minute explanation about stress points in viltrumite anatomy.

he LOVES it. he teases you about it constantly but he loves the way your brain works.

you’re cocky in fights but weirdly shy about personal compliments.

he says you’re amazing and you short-circuit.

literally just fumble whatever’s in your hands and mumble

something like, "shut up before i bite you." (he grins. he grins so big.)

you mask your sensitivity with confidence.

call yourself "the baddest bitch on this planet"

but if mark slightly raises his voice at you, your ears flatten metaphorically and you feel bad for hours.

he catches on real quick.

when you're overwhelmed, he doesn’t push.

he gets quieter. brings you food. taps your shoulder lightly before touching you.

“hey. it’s okay. you’re okay.”

you invent things for him without him asking.

upgraded earpiece? check.

modified suit? check.

a taser glove just because you think it'd be funny, even though he doesn't need it? double check.

your love language is acts of service and aggressive protection.

if someone so much as looks at mark wrong, you’re already stepping in front of him like a furious tank.

"he asked for no pickles"

(he’s a viltrumite. he can punch planets. but still. he lets you.)

the first time he sees you cry, it wrecks him.

you try to hide it, making some stupid joke about "malfunctioning tear ducts."

he just pulls you into his arms, no questions, no teasing.

and you cling. hard. like you’re scared he’ll disappear.

(he won’t.)

he loves how chaotic you are.

the way you swear under your breath while fixing his gear.

the way you throw random science facts into conversations like grenades.

the way you forget basic social cues but remember every single thing he’s ever said about what he likes or wants.

you pretend you’re too cool for cuddling.

(you are not.)

he calls you out on it every time.

"you can come closer, you know. i don't bite."

"no, but i do."

(five minutes later you're in his lap, snoring into his hoodie.)

he thinks you're the best thing that ever happened to him.

you're smart and brave and weird and you care so much harder than you ever let people see.

and he sees it. all of it.

and he stays.

always.

TIPS FOR WRITING MARK!

SFW (his personality/emotional side)

• he's emotional but not weak willed mark feels everything super heavy, love, anger, guilt, all of it. but he doesn’t just curl up and cry about it. he gets hurt, yeah, but he keeps fighting. he’s built to take the hit and keep moving because he has to.

• acts on feelings without overthinking he doesn't sit around planning what to say. if he’s happy, he smiles and grabs you. if he’s scared, he says it. if he loves you, it comes out before he even realizes it. he’s messy and raw in a way that's actually honest.

• stubborn as hell mark will dig his heels in and argue with god himself if he thinks he’s right. even if it’s dumb. even if he’s dead wrong. you have to drag him by the collar sometimes to get him to listen.

• loyalty that hurts him he sticks with people even when they don’t deserve it. it’s not because he’s naive it’s because once he loves you, you’re in his heart and it’s damn near impossible for him to shut that off, even when it’s killing him.

• confident, but still figuring shit out he knows he’s strong. he knows he’s capable. but he’s still learning who he is, where his limits are, what he really wants. he fucks up and second guesses sometimes, but he doesn't quit.

• real as hell mark’s not trying to act cool, or hot, or mysterious. he’s just him. sweaty, loud, stubborn, tender. he doesn’t play at being something he’s not and that’s why people fall for him.

NSFW (the way he is in bed)

• not shy, not cocky just needy mark isn’t giggling or stammering if you touch him. he’s already reaching for you. he wants it and he’s not scared of showing it. half the time he’s hard just because you looked at him a certain way.

• messy, greedy, not ALWAYS gentle unless you need it he fucks like he’s starving. not sloppy like he doesn't know what he's doing hungry like he needs to feel you everywhere. he’s rough without meaning to be rough. he just wants you too much to pace himself.

• gives a shit about your pleasure mark’s not the "one and done" type. your moans get him off. if you’re not falling apart under him, he’s not done yet. fingers, mouth, hips whatever it takes. he's not just trying to get himself off, he wants both of you wrecked.

• physical as hell he’s grabbing your thighs, kissing you so hard your lips bruise, pressing you down into the bed like he can’t get close enough. half the time he doesn’t even realize how rough he’s being until you’re literally clawing at his back.

• emotional even when he’s fucking your brains out he doesn’t lose the tenderness. even when he’s fucking you hard enough to shake the bed, he’s holding your hand, burying his face in your neck, groaning your name and saying he loves you like you’re the only thing keeping him alive.

how fandom sometimes mischaracterizes mark vs how he actually is:

fandom: turns him into a shy, blushing virgin who can't handle basic flirting reality: mark is horny, direct, and wants physical closeness he doesn’t freeze up, he leans in fast. he's human.

he's awkward socially sometimes, yeah but when he’s with someone he wants? he’s bold. he touches, kisses, asks, takes. he’s not as scared of sex or intimacy as everyone thinks he is.

fandom: makes him cold and emotionally shut off to seem "cool" or for a plot point reality: mark is warm, intense, and sometimes too open with his feelings.

he says "i love you" too soon. he fights for people even when he shouldn't. he throws his heart into everything and deals with the fallout later. he’s not aloof he’s raw.

fandom: flattens him into perfect boyfriend energy with no real flaws reality: mark is sweet, stubborn, impulsive, emotional and a goddamn mess sometimes.

he loves like breathing, he fights like bleeding, he fucks like breaking apart. he’s not perfect. he’s real. that's what makes him hit harder than some made up ideal version.

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺 everything about mark, the way he loves, the way he fights, the way he fucks, comes from the same place he feels too much and he can’t hide it. he’s not built to be quiet, careful, or perfect. he’s built to burn hot, crash hard, and pick himself back up bloody and stupid + try to do better next time because that’s who he is. if you’re writing him, let him be loud, raw, and real.

[missimaginx]

CELEBRITY CRUSH | KM12

pairing: kimi antonelli x f!brazilian!tennis player!reader

plot: where kimi needs to introduce the paddock to you, his celebrity crush.

warnings: narrated in first person (kimi's pov); female reader; italian-brazilian female reader (but you can just ignore that); female tennis player reader; kimi being a nervous and lovesick mess around the reader; possible grammatical errors; english is not my first language :).

a/n: images taken from pinterest. this is my first time writing a one shot 🥹, hope you like it (wc: 3k)

remembering that this is just fiction, all the people portrayed here have their own personalities and their own relationships.

MIAMI GRAN PRIX — 2025

I’m sweating.

Like, a lot.

And I’m not even wearing the race suit yet.

“…and it would be great if you could show her around the paddock, Kimi. She’s Mercedes’ special guest because of the shared Adidas sponsorship, so be nice. Engaged. Natural.” The Mercedes PR finishes with that professional smile that, at this point, feels like the devil’s grin.

I nod. That’s all I can do. Because, honestly? I’m speechless. In shock.

Y/N L/N is going to be here.

THE Y/N L/N.

The girl who lives in my head like she pays rent. The tennis prodigy. The one I watched playing at the Australian Open when I was sixteen and became absolutely certain she’s the love of my life—even though she doesn’t even know I exist.

I’ve seen her on TV. On Instagram. On TikTok. In interview replays. I’ve read articles from Brazilian sites in Brazilian Portuguese and tossed them into Google Translate. I know what brand of racket she uses. I know she likes passion fruit juice and has a superstition about a red hair tie.

And now she’s going to be here.

With me.

Getting a paddock tour.

And I HAVE TO BE NATURAL.

“You’re pacing.” Ollie says, sitting on the press room couch with the most bored expression in the world. “Again. You’ve literally circled the table three times.”

“I’M SHOWING HER AROUND THE PADDOCK, OLLIE.”

“Yeah, you said that. Three times. In different volumes.”

“She’s going to look at me and think ‘who is this idiot?’ And then I’ll stutter and trip over myself and maybe even throw up! Ollie, I MIGHT PUKE IN FRONT OF HER!”

“You’ve raced in torrential rain with zero visibility. You can handle a girl.”

“She’s not just any girl! She’s Y/N L/N!”

“Right. The love of your life you’ve never said ‘hi’ to. Got it.”

“You don’t get it! She’s incredible. She’s focused, determined, elegant, funny—she laughs with her head tilted to the side, and when she’s concentrating on a match she wrinkles her nose in this way that—”

“Okay. That’s it.” Ollie throws his head back, laughing. “Kimi, for the love of God, breathe. You’re just going to show her around, and if it all goes terribly wrong, you’ll never see her again.”

“NOT HELPING!”

“But… what if it goes right?”

I freeze. What would ‘going right’ even mean? She noticing me? Laughing with me? Following me back on Instagram? Calling me ‘Kimi’ with that cute Italian-Brazilian accent?

“You should ask her out,” Ollie says.

I turn to him like he just suggested I break into the FIA president’s office.

“Are you insane?”

“Why not? You’re the same age. She’s an athlete, you’re an athlete. She’s Italian, you’re Italian. You’re both young, rich, good-looking… basically an Adidas commercial couple.”

“I won’t even be able to say ‘hi’! You want me to ask her out?”

“Get ice cream. Ask her out for ice cream.”

“I’M NOT ASKING Y/N L/N OUT FOR ICE CREAM!”

“Why not?” he crosses his arms, laughing. “You think she’ll say no? That she’ll laugh in your face?”

“Yes! No! I don’t know!”

The door opens and Gabriel walks in, energy drink in hand and looking like he was dragged out of bed.

“Good morning to you too,” he says, flopping into the chair next to me. “Everything okay? Kimi looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

“He has,” Ollie replies before I can defend myself. “Or, well, he’s about to. The love of his life.”

Gabi frowns. “Huh?”

“Kimi’s had a crush on a girl for like three years and just found out she’s gonna be here today. In the paddock. As a Mercedes guest. And he has to give her the tour.”

Gabriel blinks, processing. “For real?”

“Totally. He’s already planning his escape through the Williams garage.”

“Who is it?”

“Y/N L/N,” Ollie says.

“Y/N?”

My stomach drops.

“You know her?” I ask, trying to sound casual. (Failing completely.)

“Of course. We’ve known each other since we were twelve. Her parents are friends with my uncles. And she’s INSANE on the court. Just won the Miami Open, did you see?”

“I DID,” I answer with something close to religious fervor. “I watched the whole match. Twice.”

My world tilts.

Gabriel Bortoleto knows Y/N L/N.

GABRIEL. KNOWS. HER.

“What’s she like?” I ask before I can stop myself. “I mean, off the court. Does she like music? Movies? What’s her favorite ice cream flavor? Is she talkative? Quiet? What’s her favorite color? Has she ever dated? Does she—”

“Mate,” Gabi laughs, slow. “Breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

“Doesn’t seem like it.”

Ollie laughs out loud. “Told you it was serious. He’s had a dossier on her since 2022.”

“I just want to be prepared!” I protest.

Gabi looks at me like he’s finally getting the full picture.

“Mate. You’re in love with her, even though you’ve never met?”

“Not in love in love. Just… maybe. A lot. Since forever.”

Ollie grins, the smug smile of someone enjoying someone else’s drama way too much.

“And you still think you shouldn’t ask her out?”

I sink into the chair.

“This is going to be a disaster.”

And Ollie, beside me, pats my shoulder. “Or it’s going to be the beginning of a story we’ll laugh about at your wedding.”

“Not helping.”

“But it’s true.”

And, for the first time, I let that wild thought creep into my brain.

What if… it’s not a disaster?

I’ve only been waiting for two minutes.

But it feels like forty-seven years.

The Mercedes hospitality is quieter now… or maybe it just feels that way. There are still people around. An engineer leaving a meeting room, a kitchen staff member switching trays at the buffet, a couple of marketing folks talking quietly on a corner sofa. But to me, everything seems in slow motion. Like the whole world has faded into background noise while my thoughts race faster than my W16.

I’ve done all the interviews. Talked to more journalists than I can count, answered the same questions so many times the words lost all meaning, and even smiled genuinely when asked about the race. Now there’s just one thing left…

Her. Y/N L/N.

I shift in my seat for the fifth time in two minutes. Run my hand through my hair. Zip and unzip my jacket. Try not to sweat. Fail miserably.

The PR said she’d go get her and bring her here. Told me I just need to be polite. “Natural.” As if that’s possible when I’m about to meet the girl who’s lived rent-free in 90% of my brain since I was sixteen.

I rest my elbow on the armrest, trying to look casual, but my knee’s bouncing. I force myself to breathe—and that’s when I hear it.

A laugh.

Light, crystal clear. With an accent. That kind of laugh someone gives when they’re being polite but genuinely kind.

And I know it’s her.

It’s ridiculous, but I know. The sound hits different. Like the universe has been waiting for her to show up so it could finally be in color.

I hear the PR’s voice along with hers, getting closer every second, and something inside me switches on. I straighten up. Run my hand through my hair again. Try to remember how to say “hi.”

And then she walks in.

And nothing—absolutely nothing—could’ve prepared me for it.

She steps in beside the PR, eyes wandering curiously around the room, and my brain shuts down. Like, literally. Total blackout. Blue screen.

Y/N L/N walks through the door like the universe hit pause so she could have time to exist. The mint green dress—yes, mint green, because she once said in an interview that it’s her favorite shade of green—looks like it was made for this soft lighting. It matches her white sneakers and the dark green lanyard hanging around her neck. It brings out the warm tone of her skin, the insane green of her eyes, the waves of dark brown hair I’ve seen in so many videos—but live, it’s different. It’s better. Everything is better. Every detail.

She smiles, a bit shyly, and glances around like she’s still adjusting to the new environment.

And me? I’m frozen.

She’s… smaller than I imagined. For some reason, in pictures and videos, she looked taller. But now, standing a few steps away from me, her shoulders slightly hunched like she’s shielding herself from the attention, she looks… real. Human. Beautiful in an almost unreal way.

“Y/N, this is Kimi Antonelli. Our driver, and your official tour guide today,” says the PR, lightheartedly. “Kimi, this is Y/N L/N, who you probably already know, but just to remind everyone—she just won the Miami Open.”

But I don’t hear any of that. Or, I do, but it’s all background noise behind her image. I’m too busy… existing in a trance.

She extends her hand, smiling.

“Hi,” she says, with that adorable Italian-Brazilian accent that makes me want to write poetry. “Nice to meet you. And thank you for having me here.”

I look at her hand. Then her face. Then her hand again. Then—

Do something, Kimi.

I shake her hand like it’s made of porcelain. The touch is light, but it feels like a shock. Not the bad kind. The kind that wakes you up.

“It’s… it’s a pleasure,” I say, voice slightly higher than usual. “Like. Really. A lot. I mean—welcome.”

Y/N smiles. God help me, she smiles.

“Thank you,” she says again, with a tiny laugh that makes her nose scrunch up. Just like I love. “I’m a little nervous, to be honest. I’ve never been in a paddock before. Everything looks so… serious.”

“It’s… yeah. It is. But not always. I mean, yes. But also no. It’s fun. Sometimes.”

STOP TALKING, KIMI.

She laughs again, and by some miracle, she doesn’t seem to think I’m completely insane.

The PR chimes in, all cheerful:

“I’ll leave you two to walk around and get familiar with the place. Y/N, anything you want to know or see, Kimi can show you. He knows every corner of this paddock with his eyes closed.”

I nod. Maybe too quickly. Y/N smiles again. And for one whole second, there’s just this.

Her.

And me.

And the suicidal mission of not falling even harder.

The PR leaves us there and vanishes before I can beg her to teach me how to be a functional human being.

Y/N looks at me expectantly, a slight smile on her lips, like she’s silently asking, “So… what now?” I try to remember what the PR said. Show her around the paddock. Right. Easy. I know this place like the back of my hand. I’ve walked through here half-asleep thanks to jet lag more times than I can count. But now, with Y/N by my side, everything feels different. Bigger. Brighter. More… paralyzing.

“So… uh, welcome to the paddock,” I begin, trying to sound casual while gesturing like a school trip tour guide. “This is the Mercedes hospitality. It’s where we eat, have meetings, drink bad coffee, and try to pretend we’ve got our lives under control.”

She laughs. She laughs. And I feel like I’ve gained +10 confidence points… and -15 coordination points because I almost trip over one of the couches.

“It’s a lot calmer than I expected,” she says, looking around. “I thought it’d be, like… chaos. Loud. People running around with tires on fire.”

“Oh, that’s more outside, in the garages. In here we only lose it mentally.”

She giggles again, and I decide I could listen to that sound on loop for the rest of my life.

We start walking slowly, and I steer the tour toward the one place where I feel safer: the team garage. My territory. Maybe here I’ll seem less like a clumsy idiot.

“This is the team’s garage,” I explain, pointing like I’m showing her a sacred temple. “That’s where the cars are, over there’s the tires, back there’s the engineers’ station, and in the far back is where I pretend to understand everything Toto says when he starts throwing quantum physics terms around.”

Y/N watches everything with genuine curiosity. Not the polite kind of interest people fake just to be nice — she actually wants to understand. It’s real. And that somehow makes her even more perfect… and me even more in love.

“Wow… so this is where it all happens,” she says, almost reverently.

“Yeah. And also where it all goes wrong sometimes,” I add with a crooked smile.

“What’s the top speed again?”

“Depends on the track… but in Monza, for example, we can hit 350 km/h.”

“Three hundred and…?” She blinks, stunned. “You’re kidding.”

“I swear.”

“What’s it like?” she asks, her big green eyes—bright, locked on my very average brown ones.

The question catches me off guard — not because it’s rare, but because of the way she asks it. Like it’s magic. Like, for a second, I’m not just the Mercedes driver… but someone she truly admires. Someone she wants to understand.

“It’s…” I take a breath, searching for words that do it justice. “It’s like flying, but with the ground really close. Everything becomes instinct. You feel every movement of the car, every curve in your body. The adrenaline is insane, but at the same time… there’s a weird calm in the middle of the madness. Like time slows down for a few seconds.”

She stares at me, fascinated. A small smile forming.

“That’s… beautiful. And kinda crazy.”

I shrug, unsure what to do with the heat rising in my ears. She thinks it’s beautiful. This. Me. Help.

We keep walking, passing behind the garages. Some teams are organizing equipment, others just killing time. The sounds of tools and conversations blend into a kind of soundtrack.

At one point, we turn a corner and — of course, obviously — we run straight into them. Ollie and Gabriel, standing by the dividing wall between the Haas and Sauber garages, chatting, until their attention shifts to us.

“Look who finally showed up,” Ollie says, flashing that smug teen villain smile. “Our very own Romeo.”

Gabriel takes a bite of the sandwich he’s holding and raises his eyebrows when he sees Y/N.

“Y/N!” he says casually. “Long time! You good?”

She smiles—warmly. “Hey, Gabi! I’m good. You? Still cheating at Uno?”

Gabriel gasps in mock outrage. “I never cheated!”

Ollie laughs. “He cheats at rock-paper-scissors too, Y/N. Watch your back.”

Y/N bursts out laughing, and I smile… but there’s that tiny twist in my stomach. That annoying little reminder: they’re friends. She and Gabi have a kind of closeness I don’t have. Yet.

“Well, we don’t wanna interrupt the date,” Ollie throws out, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s not a date,” I say—way too fast.

“Of course not,” Gabriel says, smiling. “But if it were, you’d be killing it.”

Y/N glances sideways at me with that knowing smirk that makes me trip over my own thoughts.

We keep walking.

“Sorry about them,” I mutter, slightly embarrassed.

“Don’t be. They’re funny.”

“They’re insufferable.”

She laughs again. And this time, it’s freer. Unrestrained. That’s when I realize: she’s relaxed. The Y/N who was tense and reserved when she got here isn’t here anymore. Now it’s just her — and me, desperately trying to look functional next to the girl of my dreams.

We reach a more open part of the paddock, with a side view of the track. The sounds of drivers rushing between interviews, photographers clicking away — it all hums in the background, a reminder that the world out there keeps spinning.

“Tired?” I ask.

“No. I’m enjoying this.” She looks ahead, then at me. “It’s cooler than I expected.”

“You seem more relaxed now.”

“I am. You made it feel… lighter.”

And that’s when the moment shifts. It turns quiet. Intense—in a good way. In a way I’ll remember forever.

We stop near a low wall. The wind plays with her hair, and she tucks a few strands behind her ear, absentmindedly.

“Sometimes I feel kind of lost,” she says softly. “Like… everything happens so fast I forget I’m still just an eighteen-year-old girl.”

I get it. More than I should.

“Yeah… I feel like that too. Like I have to be a grown-up all the time. Responsible. Flawless. Representing the team, Italy… and deep down, I just want to be playing video games. Or… having time to figure out what I feel. To fall in love. Without it feeling like weakness.”

She turns to me. Her green eyes — beautiful in a way that doesn’t feel real — lock onto mine with something careful. Something interested. Something I don’t want to name yet, because maybe it’ll hurt if it’s not real.

And that’s when it hits me: this? This walk, this moment, this smile?

It might be the only chance I get to be like this with her.

I remember what Ollie said earlier. Ask her out.

It’s crazy… but what if?

If it’s a disaster, at least I’ll have a reason to drive like a maniac on Sunday and forget this ever happened.

Y/N’s phone buzzes. She checks the screen.

“My agent. I’ve got to go shoot with Adidas.”

No. Wait. I still—

“Ice cream,” I blurt out, stumbling over the words. “I mean, like… maybe… you… get ice cream with me, I mean, go out— we could— if you want, of course…”

She blinks. Then laughs. Tilting her head slightly, just like I’ve seen her do a thousand times on my phone screen. And for a second I consider quitting F1 and becoming a stand-up comedian if it means making her laugh like that more often.

“Are you asking me out or ordering dessert?” she teases.

“Asking you out,” I manage to say, finally like a functioning human being. “With me. Ice cream. Later. Someday.”

Her smile grows. Slowly. Beautifully.

“I’d love to.”

My brain reboots. Three times.

When my soul finally stops spinning at the speed of my heartbeat, I realize Y/N is pulling a pen out of her purse—one of those permanent markers fans bring for autographs.

“You got any paper?” she asks, uncapping the pen, looking at me.

I get lost in her eyes for a second. Here, in the golden light of sunset, they look more hazel than green. Gorgeous.

“I…” I blink a few times, trying to return to the realm of functional humans, patting my jeans for paper. “No… but…”

Her phone buzzes again, and from the way she groans, I know it’s her agent texting again.

“You can write it here,” I say quickly, holding out my hand.

Y/N blinks, looking at me. I blink back, looking at her. I feel the tips of my ears burning—and I see her cheeks turn pink.

She blinks once more and smiles before stepping closer and touching my hand. The lightness of her touch is already familiar since I shook her hand earlier. And it sends the same electric shiver up my arm, straight to my heart, making it pound even faster.

I watch as Y/N writes her number on my palm with the black permanent marker. And this is one of the rare times I thank the universe for my good memory—because I know I’ll remember how the wind kept tousling her hair, how the orange sunset lit up her focused face, and how her brows furrowed slightly as she tried to make the numbers as clear as possible.

When she finishes writing, I don’t know if it’s my lovesick mind playing tricks on me, but I swear her fingers linger on mine a little longer than necessary before letting go.

“Text me,” she says, smiling and blushing again. “And don’t take forever.”

Before I can come up with a reply, she leans in and presses a quick, warm, perfect kiss to my cheek.

“I honestly thought you weren’t gonna ask me,” she whispers, like it’s a secret.

Then she turns with a soft “see you soon” and disappears down the corridor.

And I just stand there. Frozen. Dazed. Touching the spot where her kiss landed like I’m trying to save it forever.

And for the first time all day, I think:

Maybe Ollie was right.

Because this… definitely wasn’t a disaster.

[kxsagi]

“𝐬𝐚𝐞’𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞”

a/n: I NEVER SEE ANYONE TALK ABOUT THIS

SAE'S MANAGER'S LAST NAME DABADIE IS PRONOUNCED AS "DA BADDIE" SKSBFKSLNAGNALGNS

“girolan dabadie… da baddie???” 

sae doesn’t look up from his phone. “you’ve said it ten times.” 

“i’m gonna say it ten more.” you poke his cheek while trying to suppress your giggles. “baby. BABY. why didn’t you tell me your manager’s last name sounds like he belongs in a rap video?” 

“you met him two months ago. this isn't new information.” 

“da baddie, sae.” you stare at him, eyes wide with disbelief and barely contained chaos. “that’s literally how it’s pronounced. your manager is unintentionally iconic. he sounds like the final boss of an instagram thirst trap.” 

“he’s in his fifties.” 

“and yet,” you dramatically press a hand to your chest, “he is da baddie.” 

sae finally puts his phone down and gives you the faintest smirk. “you’re the most annoying person i’ve ever met.” 

you nudge his thigh with your foot. “you love it.” 

“no,” he says, but you hear the softness in his voice. “you were literally crying laughing in the car on the way back from practice.” 

“because i heard someone call him mr. dabadie in full seriousness and i –” your voice breaks as the laugh bubbles up again. “i can’t believe i was shaking that man’s hand like, ‘nice to meet you, sir,’ while not knowing i was in the presence of a baddie.” 

sae shakes his head and mutters, “for fuck’s sake,” but he’s trying not to smile now. you can see the corners of his lips twitching. 

you grin. “do you think he knows?” 

sae raises an eyebrow. “that his name sounds like he runs a makeup brand and a secret fanpage on twitter?” 

you slap his arm and gasp. “you do think it’s funny!” 

sae exhales through his nose, a barely audible, actual laugh. “he signed an email once with just ‘– da baddie.’ i stared at it for ten minutes. but realized it was probably autocorrect.” 

“NO WAY.” 

“swear.” 

you throw your head back with a cackle. “he knows. oh my gosh, he knows he’s a legend.” 

“you can’t say anything.” 

“i would never.” you pause. “except i already made a fake commercial for him in the voice memo app.” 

sae blinks. “what?” 

“wanna hear it?” 

before he can answer, you press play. your voice echoes through the apartment in dramatic, sultry tones: 

“he’s not just a manager. he’s a lifestyle. 

he’s not just on time, he is the timeline. 

this fall, one man walks into the room, 

and everyone whispers… 

da baddie.” 

there’s a beat of silence before sae coughs into his hand, clearly trying not to laugh. 

you’re grinning ear to ear. “you liked it.” 

“that was stupid.” 

“but you liked it.” 

“i’m sending it to him.” 

you shriek. “sae!” 

he’s already air-dropping the file to his laptop. “too late. he deserves to hear his brand in action.” 

“what if he fires you?” 

“then i’ll become your manager. and go by ‘da worstie.’” 

you gasp. “we’ll be unstoppable. the baddie and the worstie tour 2025.” 

sae finally cracks and lets out a quiet laugh, the kind that makes your chest warm. it’s soft, rare, and entirely unbothered. 

“you’re so dumb,” he murmurs, but his gaze lingers on you fondly. 

you flop onto his shoulder. “and yet. i’m dating one of the world’s top football players.” 

“... and managed by da baddie himself.” 

you whisper reverently, “we are truly blessed.” 

sae just sighs again, but he doesn’t move away. he lets you rest there, quietly scrolling, while you start plotting a merch line in your head. 

you’re already designing a shirt that says da baddie energy. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[cassiemaebarnes]

Grumpy & the New Girl: Part 5

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Masterlist

Bucky x reader

Summary: She wasn’t supposed to meet him like that. He wasn’t supposed to let her in. But sometimes, things don’t go according to plan.

Word Count: 4082

The next morning, when you (slowly) made your way down to the kitchen for breakfast, it was completely empty. The other Avengers had one last meeting this morning, then the rest of the day off before they left for their mission in the evening.

You crutched over to the coffee pot, realizing it was completely full. Along with the freshly brewed pot was a mug and a note stuck halfway underneath it. You pulled it out to read it.

Y/n, the mug is clean, thought I’d grab it from the top shelf so you didn’t have to try to -Bucky

You smiled as you took the pot of coffee and poured yourself a cup. You just knew he got obliterated by the others for that. Or maybe he made sure he was the last one in the kitchen so he could do that in peace.

Either way, it made your heart flutter.

You took a sip before setting it down on the island. Then, you leaned your crutches against the counter and hopped around the kitchen, making yourself a bowl of yogurt with strawberries and granola. You finally sat down in a barstool, out of breath from all the effort.

When you finished your breakfast, you hopped around the island to wash your dishes, but you lost your balance as you went around the corner. You reached out to steady yourself with the hand your bowl was in, and the bowl fell out of your hand when you grabbed the counter. As soon as it hit the ground, it shattered into a million pieces.

You just sighed and stared at it for a few minutes, wishing for once that the others were there so you wouldn’t have to clean it up. But you finally hobbled over to the supply closet to grab the broom, then swept all the glass up into a pile.

You weren’t about to try to sweep the glass into a dustpan while balancing on one leg, so you just grabbed a plastic bag and sat down on the ground to pick up the pieces.

When you were about halfway done, Bucky walked into the kitchen, but you didn’t notice him at first.

“Y/n!” he yelled, causing you to jump.

He was next to you in an instant, crouching down next to you with a hand on your shoulder. “Are you okay? What happened?”

He was so focused on you that he didn’t even notice the plastic bag you were holding. “I just dropped my bowl, I’m cleaning up the pieces,” you said, holding up the plastic bag.

He finally looked down, but didn’t seem to even care about the half-full bag of glass. “Did you fall?”

You held back a laugh, finding it funny how concerned he was. “No, just reached out for the counter and dropped the bowl.”

“Why weren’t you using your crutches? Were you walking on it? You need to let it heal.”

Your laugh finally escaped, and Bucky was still looking at you with concern all over his face. “What?” he asked.

“You worried about me, Sergeant Softie?” you said, raising an eyebrow.

He blinked. “Sergeant – what?”

You grinned. “You heard me. I think you’re going soft. First coffee, now medical-level hovering? You feeling okay?”

He gave you a deadpan look, but his ears were turning red. “I’m not soft. I’m–”

“Don’t worry,” you cut in. “I won’t tell anyone. Your reputation’s safe with me.”

Bucky muttered something under his breath that definitely sounded like “menace,” but you could see the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Move over,” he said, reaching for the bag in your hand.

“I can finish–” you started, but he cut you off with a look.

“You’re literally sitting on the kitchen floor picking up shards of glass like it’s a relaxing Sunday activity,” he said, plucking the bag from your hand. “Let me help before you end up needing stitches.”

You held up your hands in surrender, scooting back with a smirk. “Yes, sir.”

Bucky crouched, gathering the last of the sharp pieces with practiced care. He even used a wet paper towel to sweep up the tiny slivers, like it wasn’t the first time he’d done something like this. When he was done, he tied off the bag and tossed it in the trash, dusting off his hands.

“There,” he said, satisfied.

You were about to thank him, maybe make another quip – but before you could move, he turned around and scooped you up off the ground like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Bucky!” you yelped, instinctively wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “I could’ve just stood up!”

“You were gonna hop,” he said, already walking you back to your chair. “With glass still on the floor. And you’re barefoot. Absolutely not.”

“You’ve got to stop carrying me like this,” you said, exasperated but mostly amused.

He shrugged, not even slightly out of breath. “You keep giving me excuses to.”

“You know there’s a difference between being helpful and dramatic, right?”

He smirked. “I’m versatile.”

You snorted, arms still looped loosely around his neck. “Well, at least you admit it.”

Bucky set you gently down in the chair again, scooting the chair in like this was all part of his daily routine.

“Comfortable?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

You gave him a look. “You gonna bring me a blanket next?”

He crossed his arms and leaned on the counter, smirking. “Don’t tempt me.”

You shook your head, trying to hide the grin tugging at your lips. “You’re unbelievable.”

His tone softened slightly, just enough to make your chest flutter. “You really okay?”

The teasing faded for a moment, and you nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for swooping in like a dramatic Disney prince.”

He grinned. “Anytime, princess.”

You just shook your head. “Don’t you have a meeting you need to be in?”

“We took a quick break, thought I’d come see if you were up. Obviously you can’t function without me,” he said, smirking at you.

You grabbed a napkin from the counter and flicked it at him, laughing. “Go away before I call you Sergeant Softie again.”

He took a slow step back, hands raised in mock surrender. “You keep saying that like it’s an insult.”

“Mhmm,” you hummed, leaning back in the chair. “If the shoe fits…”

He was still smirking as he walked away, muttering, “Not soft,” under his breath.

And you just smiled to yourself, sipping your coffee.

--

After Bucky had left, you'd migrated to the common room, propping your crutches against the coffee table and settling on the couch with your ankle elevated, an ice pack resting on top and a blanket thrown lazily over your legs. You grabbed a random book off the coffee table – not sure whose it was – and started flipping through it, mostly rereading the same page over and over, distracted by the lingering warmth in your chest from earlier.

The compound had stayed quiet all morning, but the second the meeting ended, you knew it, because the elevator dinged and voices immediately filled the kitchen.

“Finally,” Sam groaned. “Why do those meetings always feel like they’re six hours long?”

“Because they are,” Clint replied. “Steve gives one PowerPoint and suddenly thinks we’re in a TED Talk.”

“You’re just mad because you had to sit still,” Nat said, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.

Tony’s voice cut through the conversation next. “Alright, children. I’m ordering lunch. We vote like adults or I pick something obnoxious and expensive out of spite.”

“You do that even when we do vote,” Sam muttered.

As the group started gathering around the kitchen island to argue over lunch, Bucky walked right past them without saying a word and made a beeline for the common room.

He didn’t even hesitate – just walked straight to the couch and dropped down beside you, sinking into the cushions with a sigh.

You raised an eyebrow at him, nudging his leg lightly with your knee. “Meeting that bad?”

His eyes closed as he leaned his head back. “Worse.”

“That’s impressive,” you said, flipping your book shut. “Steve usually keeps it to only medium torture levels.”

“Medium?” he scoffed, cracking one eye open to look at you. “He made us go over the same intel report three times.”

You grinned, amused. “You missed me, didn’t you?”

He didn’t answer right away – but the way he relaxed further into the couch beside you was answer enough.

Before either of you could say anything else, voices drifted in from the kitchen.

“Hey–” Sam’s voice cut off, then came back louder. “Where’d Barnes go?”

“Don’t need a tracker to figure it out,” Nat said dryly. “He’s probably on the couch.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Tony’s voice, already smug: “Yup. He’s in the common room. Sitting next to Sleeping Beauty herself.”

You groaned, tipping your head back with a dramatic sigh. “It begins.”

“Barnes, you skipping the food vote?” Sam called out, poking his head around the corner. “Or are you just following your stomach straight to her again?”

Bucky didn’t even flinch. “You make it sound like I’m whipped.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “You left the kitchen mid-conversation and went straight to her.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t true,” Bucky said with a shrug, not looking even slightly guilty.

Tony leaned into view next, phone in hand. “Okay, so lunch order: one pizza, two sandwiches, and a large side of codependency for Barnes.”

You threw a pillow in their general direction.

Bucky smirked. “Careful. She’s armed.”

Nat leaned against the doorway, sipping from her water bottle. “Honestly, I’m impressed. We were mid-argument about tacos vs. Thai food, and you didn’t even blink before disappearing.”

“I already know what I want,” Bucky said with a shrug.

“Oh?” Sam said, crossing his arms. “And what’s that?”

Bucky finally glanced back toward the kitchen, completely deadpan. “Peace and quiet.”

The others groaned collectively.

“Wow,” Clint said. “Didn’t know the Winter Soldier ran on Hallmark movie logic now.”

“You’ve changed, Barnes,” Tony said, mock disappointed. “Next thing you know, you’ll be writing poetry and rubbing her feet.”

You raised your eyebrows at Bucky. “You write poetry?”

“No,” he said quickly.

“He totally does,” Sam muttered.

Bucky ignored them, turning back to you. “You hungry?”

“Kind of,” you said, adjusting your blanket. “I was thinking of hobbling over in a minute.”

“No need,” he said. “I’ll put your vote in. What do you want?”

“Hmmm…tacos sound good.”

Bucky turned and looked to the kitchen. “Two votes for tacos,” he yelled.

“Okay, tacos it is,” Tony said, disappearing from the doorway.

“Man, you can’t even vote for yourself,” Sam said, shaking his head. “You really are whipped.”

You just laughed and nudged Bucky with your elbow as he leaned his head back again and grinned.

--

After the tacos were devoured and the group slowly started drifting off to their rooms to prep for their evening departure, you and Bucky found your way back to the couch.

You shifted and nudged his shoulder. “I’m bored.”

He glanced at you. “You’re injured.”

“I’m bored and injured. That’s, like, double the reason to entertain me.”

He snorted. “What, you want me to sing and dance?”

You gave him a faux innocent smile. “Only if you also juggle.”

That earned you a laugh – and then, as his gaze flicked around the room, it landed on the closet in the corner, full of countless random things, including board games.

You followed his gaze, then pointed. “Monopoly?”

Bucky raised a brow. “That game ruins friendships.”

You grinned. “Good thing we’re not friends.”

He gave you a look. “Wow.”

“Kidding,” you sing-songed. “Come on. I’ll go easy on you.”

“Oh, it’s on,” he said, already standing and pulling the game out of the closet.

--

About an hour later, you were both sitting on the floor, completely surrounded by a war zone of fake money, scattered cards, and plastic hotels. You were leaning on the couch while Bucky sat across from you.

“You can’t do that!” you cried.

“I can do that,” Bucky said, smugly sliding one of your properties toward himself. “You didn’t pay the hotel fee.”

“I offered you a Get Out of Jail Free card and two railroads!”

“I don’t need charity.”

You let out an exaggerated gasp and threw a wad of Monopoly cash at his face.

He retaliated instantly, lunging forward and trying to block the money with one hand while using the other to snatch the card pile from you.

You shrieked with laughter, trying to twist away, but he caught your wrist with his metal hand while you pushed at his shoulder to keep him back.

“Let go! That’s my Chance card!” you giggled.

“You cheated!”

“I negotiated creatively!”

That’s when a familiar voice called out from the hallway.

“Do I even want to know what’s going on in here?” Sam asked, followed immediately by footsteps.

The chaos came to a screeching halt as you and Bucky froze mid-wrestle – your hand clutching a card over your head, his fingers wrapped gently around your wrist, the two of you way too close and clearly in a state of Monopoly-induced madness.

“Oh my god,” Sam said, walking fully into the room. “What am I even looking at?”

Wanda peeked around him and immediately burst into laughter. “Is this…flirty Monopoly wrestling?”

Tony arrived last, taking in the scene and slowly raising his phone to take a picture. “You know, I had a bet with Nat that the next time I walked in on you two, someone would be on top of the other. Technically, I win.”

“Not helping!” you yelled, yanking your hand away from Bucky’s and scrambling backward over the Monopoly board.

Bucky sat back, rubbing the back of his neck but clearly biting back a smile. “She started it.”

Sam just stared. “This is hands down the weirdest rom-com arc I’ve ever seen.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Please leave. I’m going to die of secondhand embarrassment.”

“Nope,” Sam said, smirking. “I’m staying until someone throws a hotel piece.”

Wanda crossed her arms, still grinning. “You two are ridiculous.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and stood, offering you a hand. “C’mon, princess. Let’s call a truce before they start live-tweeting.”

You took it, letting him pull you to your feet – and immediately winced as your ankle reminded you why you weren’t hopping around.

He steadied you, one arm slipping around your waist like it was automatic, and you didn’t miss the way everyone noticed.

Tony whistled. “That’s it. I’m changing the group chat name to ‘Pass Go, Collect Feelings.’”

You flipped him off as you leaned into Bucky’s side.

“Alright, alright,” Bucky said dryly, clearly done with the peanut gallery.

“Don’t fall asleep on him again!” Sam called.

You just rolled your eyes and let Bucky help you back to the couch.

--

Ten minutes later, the Monopoly war was packed up, the blanket was back over your legs, and a movie was playing on the screen in front of you.

Bucky sat next to you, stretched out comfortably, one arm resting on the back of the couch behind your shoulders. You’d shifted closer again, too tired to care anymore about appearances.

It was warm. Quiet. Easy.

You didn’t even make it past the thirty-minute mark.

Your head gently dropped against Bucky’s chest, your breathing slow and even. He didn’t say anything and didn’t dare move.

When the rest of the team came back through the common room, gear in hand and ready to head out for the mission, they saw you instantly.

You, fast asleep on Bucky’s chest.

And Bucky, completely unfazed.

Nat held a hand to her heart. “Okay, this is starting to get dangerously cute.”

“Three for three,” Sam said. “She’s officially turned the Winter Soldier into a weighted blanket.”

Tony snapped a picture.

Wanda gently pulled the others away. “Let them be. This is...weirdly wholesome.”

When the room cleared out again, Bucky finally looked down at you, peaceful and tucked into his side.

He shook his head with a soft smile, adjusting the blanket just a little higher over your shoulder.

And he didn’t move for a long time.

--

You woke up slowly, not entirely sure what time it was or how long you’d been asleep.

The room was dimmer now. The movie had long since ended, and the blanket still covered you, tucked in just a little neater than you remembered.

But Bucky was gone.

You blinked, sitting up slowly and rubbing at your eyes, your ankle aching beneath you. As you looked toward the kitchen, you saw several duffel bags now lined up near the front door. The low hum of muffled voices echoed down the hallway.

You pushed yourself off the couch, grabbing your crutches, and made your way down the hallway to the elevator, then down the hall, stopping at Bucky’s room.

The door was wide open, and there he was inside, crouched beside his bed, slipping something into the side of his bag.

He looked up the second you appeared. “Morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

You scoffed, crutching your way inside. “How long was I out?”

“Couple hours,” he said, glancing up again as you crossed the room. “I didn’t wanna wake you.”

You shrugged. “The couch is surprisingly comfortable once I stop feeling like my ankle’s gonna fall off.”

He zipped a compartment shut and set the bag down beside him. “Figured you could use the rest.”

You smiled a little as you reached the edge of his bed and dramatically flopped down onto it, dropping your crutches to the floor beside you. “And this is even comfier.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t fight it. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you?”

“I am,” you said, stretching your arms above your head with a grin. “This is your punishment for leaving me mid-nap.”

Bucky was halfway through folding one last shirt when a knock hit the open doorframe.

“Hey, Buck” Steve stopped mid-step.

His eyebrows lifted in amused surprise as he glanced from Bucky, packing like it was business as usual, to you, sprawled out across his bed like it was yours.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked, one brow clearly raised for dramatic effect.

Bucky didn’t even look fazed. “Nope. She broke in.”

You propped your head up on one hand. “Untrue. The door was open. I just wandered in like a stray cat.”

Steve chuckled. “This what you do on your days off? Nap in each other’s beds?”

“Technically, she was already napping in the common room,” Bucky offered.

“And now I’ve upgraded,” you added cheerfully, kicking your good leg over the side of the bed.

Before Steve could reply, another voice called down the hallway.

“Did someone say nap buddies?” Sam appeared behind him a second later, spotting you instantly. “Oh my god.”

You groaned, flopping your head back onto the pillows. “Nope. Nope nope nope.”

Wanda and Clint followed close behind, clearly drawn by the scent of juicy gossip.

“Wow,” Clint said, peeking over Steve’s shoulder. “This is escalating fast.”

“She’s literally just laying down,” Bucky deadpanned.

“In your bed,” Wanda said, hands on her hips and a knowing look on her face. “That’s a big step.”

Tony was next, of course, practically materializing out of thin air with his phone out. “This is rich. The team’s not even wheels up and Barnes is already shacking up.”

“Nothing’s happening!” you said, face half-buried in one of Bucky’s pillows.

Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed smugly. “Nothing’s happening yet.”

“You’re all insufferable,” Bucky muttered, sliding his last knife into a holster and shutting his bag.

You just grinned and patted the spot next to you. “You brought this on yourself, Sergeant Softie.”

Another chorus of oohs echoed from the hallway.

Tony actually applauded. “And there it is.”

Steve clapped Bucky on the back. “Wrap it up, Sergeant Softie. Jet leaves in ten.”

The group finally drifted away, still snickering, while Bucky walked over to the bed and looked down at you.

“You’re the worst,” he said, but his smile gave him away.

“I’m adorable,” you countered.

He grabbed your crutches and set them upright next to the bed. “So, you gonna help me with my bags or what?”

You just scoffed, then smiled up at him. “I’m gonna have to go with or what,” you said, pulling yourself up off the bed.

He just grinned at you, holding out your crutches, then reaching out to steady you as you stood up. He walked over and grabbed his bags as you crutched your way to the door.

You made it to the kitchen where everyone else was milling around, checking all their bags to make sure they had everything and grabbing some last-minute necessities.

“Well, well, well,” Sam said the moment he spotted you guys walking in. “Would you look at that. Barnes is finally here. Did you two say your goodbyes yet, or are we waiting for a tearful airport-style sendoff?”

“We’re not leaving until he lets go of her hand,” Clint added, appearing behind Sam with a water bottle in one hand and a smirk on his face.

“We’re not even holding hands,” Bucky said flatly.

“Uh-huh,” Natasha said, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve been saying goodbye for twenty minutes. You sure you're finally ready to leave, Barnes? Or should we give you another hour?”

“Do we need to play you a sad montage?” Sam asked. “We can all hum some dramatic music while you walk to the jet.”

“I hate all of you,” Bucky muttered, grabbing the strap of his bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

“I’m just saying,” Tony chimed in from the doorway, coffee in hand, “how are the two of you gonna survive without each other for a whole week? Tragic.”

“Oh please,” Wanda said, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed. “Sleeping Beauty’s not gonna be able to fall asleep without her emotional support Soldier.”

You covered your face with one hand. “I hate all of you more.”

“They’re right though,” Sam said, shaking his head dramatically. “This man’s gonna be staring at his comms the whole flight. ‘Did she text?’ ‘Is she okay?’ ‘Do you think she had coffee this morning?’”

“Okay, time to leave,” Steve called, clearly trying not to laugh as he herded the group toward the door.

Tony saluted you dramatically. “Don’t burn the place down, sweetheart.”

As they finally started to head out, Bucky looked down at you, his expression softening just a little.

“You sure you’ll be alright?”

You nodded, giving him a crooked smile. “Yeah, I’ll survive.”

He chuckled under his breath, eyes lingering on you for a second longer. Then, he took a step toward you and wrapped you up in a hug, resting his chin on your head.

You let out a little laugh, wrapping your arms around his waist. “Are you gonna be alright?” you asked, face buried in his chest.

Then, you felt the faintest press of his lips on the top of your head. So quick, you weren’t even sure if it actually happened.

He took a step back, arms still on your shoulders, and smiled down at you. “Yeah,” he said quietly, eyes not leaving yours. “I’ve got something to look forward to when I get back.”

Before you could say anything else, a voice rang out from the hallway.

“Barnes!” Sam called, exasperated. “We’re leaving, not planning a wedding!”

The sound of boots and duffel bags shuffled behind him, and a few more heads peeked back into the room.

Nat leaned against the doorway with a knowing smirk. “You about ready?”

“She’s not gonna disappear while we’re gone,” Clint added. “Let’s go, Romeo.”

Bucky sighed but didn’t take his hands off your shoulders just yet. He looked at you for one more second – just long enough to make your heart skip.

Then he gave your arms a final squeeze, let go, and turned to grab his bag from the floor.

As he started walking away, you stared after him, still unsure if that kiss had really happened or if you’d just imagined the warm brush of his lips on your hair.

He reached the doorway, nearly disappearing with the rest of the team – but just before stepping out, he paused.

He turned, caught your eyes across the room, and smiled – small, soft, just for you.

“Bye,” he said.

Then he was gone.

--

Part 6 | Masterlist

So excited to write the next part for you guys!! (and btw, I'm sure you all knew, but Bucky definitely kissed her😉🤭)

Tag list: @ordelixx @read-just-cant-stop @erinallene @crazycleo @magnoliamermaid @thewriters64 @nelachu2423 @kjah97 @awesompawsum @winchestert101 @buckyb-stan @crazyunsexycool @buckysmetalgoddamnarm @buckybarnesfic @ozwriterchick @multiversefanfics @blavikennbutcher @mysoggywaffle @nameless-ken @starfly-nicole @440mxs-wife @vicmc624

[cameronsbabydoll]

how is rafe a sub in the jewish au? idk i cant see him as a sub

okay i was just gonna give a short answer but i loveeeee this au so here’s a lengthy answer !!!!

so rafe isn’t a “submissive” man —he’s still rafe, he still drives a g-wagon and talks to contractors with a cig in his mouth—but when it comes to you? that man is down astronomical. like, "i’d do anything for my spoiled little wife" down bad.

he’s still the one in control 90% of the time—he’s throwing you over the sofa, pinning your wrists, calling you his wife like it’s a threat—but the second you whimper? the second you so much as pout? he’s on his knees in his brunello cucinelli slacks.

he eats you out like it’s mitzvah work. literal tzedakah. hands behind his back, like “go ahead, baby, sit on my face—i’ll keep quiet.”

he whines when you tease him. like if you’re wearing a little slip and being bratty? he’s grabbing at your thighs all frustrated and breathy like,

“you think this is funny? you think i’m not gonna ruin you later for this?”

but he still waits until you say he can.

his favorite position? you on top, dragging it out, milking him, calling him your perfect husband. he loses his mind when you’re slow and smug about it. “you always this easy for me, mr. cameron?”

aftercare KING. like brushing your hair behind your ears, sliding your diamond necklace back on, rubbing lotion into your thighs while murmuring,

“you okay, princess? need anything? need a drink, or a nap, or another orgasm?”

absolutely buys you gifts after you let him beg. you wear his favorite lingerie and edge him? you’re waking up to a birkin bag and a handwritten card that says

“to my wife. for making me lose my fucking mind last night.”

but he’ll still manhandle you. he’ll still pin your throat and say “that’s my pussy, say it.”

but the truth? if you told him to get on his knees, he’d be there in two seconds flat. still in his tom ford pants, eyes all glassy like, “you gonna ride me or tease me first, baby?”