#just not things that their smell is hidden

[sunsburns]

the complete knock — bob reynolds

⟢ synopsis. you’re only here to try and understand why bucky’s suddenly gone off the rails and joined a new team, leaving you, sam and joaquín in radio silence. the last thing you expected was to find comfort in a stranger. a kind stranger named bob.

⟢ contains. spoilers for thunderbolts*, takes place during the 14 month later period. nothing too crazy, mostly plot. reader is described as female. bob is a cutie!! reader and joaquín are sambucky children of divorce :(

⟢ wc: 9.7k+

⟢ author’s note. wrote this with a vague idea and a dream. i don't know. don't ask pls.

You were here strictly for business.

The lobby was all polished glass, military-grade charm, and propaganda dressed in gold. Cameras flashed like fireworks along the crimson carpet, catching every inch of shine from designer suits and sharp smiles. A towering digital screen looped the promo again: "The New Avengers: Built for Tomorrow." You watched from the fringe as the montage played, the images slicing together in quick succession—John Walker throwing the shield with over-practised precision, Yelena Belova dismantling a room of dummies in under twelve seconds, and Ava Starr phasing through a concrete wall with a smirk. Hero shots. Sanitized. Manufactured. All of them.

You didn’t blink as you were ushered to an elevator.

Growing up, the Avengers Tower never really felt real to you. Sure, you’d seen the photos, the documentaries, the endless footage of press conferences held on its front steps. Hell, you’d even walked past it with your parents whenever you visited New York—but it still felt like it belonged to another world entirely. Untouchable. Almost mythic.

You never imagined you’d walk inside.

And yet now, riding the elevator up with a slow-climbing hum and nerves that prickled beneath your skin, all you felt was dread.

It was a strange kind of emptiness—the feeling of finally reaching something you once admired, only to realize it had been gutted and repainted in someone else’s image. The marble floors had been waxed clean, but the history here wasn’t. You could still feel the ghosts under the polish. Somewhere between the seams of the rebuilt walls and reprogrammed elevators, there was once a legacy. Real one. But it didn’t belong to the people in charge of this event.

You were crammed in with a handful of Congress members and defence contractors, all of whom smelled like cologne and quiet greed. Congressman Gary was there too, smiling too much, already half-drunk from the limo ride there. (He said it would be the only way he’d survive an entire night listening to people praise Valentina Allegra de Fontaine). Gary had been the one to suggest your attendance might smooth things over. It might make the New Avengers feel like someone from Sam’s camp was willing to listen. Get on their good side—that whole thing.

But you were here for an entirely different reason. His invitation was exactly what you needed to get in, though.

Underneath your gown—sleek, formal, and designed to draw no conclusions—you had a mic stitched into the seam of your strapless bodice. Hidden, but live. Your earpiece buzzed softly with Joaquín’s voice, casual as ever.

“If Sam finds out we’re doing this, we’re so dead.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to be overheard as the elevator operator gave a rehearsed speech about the tower’s restoration—how it stood now as a symbol of “unity, rebirth, and strength.” You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. The tower didn’t feel like a symbol. It felt like a stage.

“He’ll take away your wings at most,” you murmured, gaze fixed forward. “Relax.”

You could practically hear Joaquín pouting through the comms.

“I just got them back.”

“Then let’s not make a scene. Gary said it’d be good optics to have someone on our side here. We’re doing Sam a favour.” A pause. Then, quieter: “I’m surprised you didn’t want to come with me. You’re cleared for field work.”

“No, thanks. As much as I adore red carpet politics, I don’t think I can be in the same room as de Fontaine without committing a felony. Might get myself in trouble.”

“And I won’t?”

“You’re better at smiling.”

“You’ve never seen me smile.”

“Exactly.”

You exhaled through your nose, the tiniest edge of a grin forming before you could stop it.

“Just... try not to piss anyone off for five minutes, yeah?”

You didn’t answer. The elevator chimed. The doors slid open with a muted ding, and you stepped into a wall of flashing lights and artificial warmth.

The event space had been reconstructed on the upper floors, a showroom designed to impress donors and government officials alike. White marble floors stretched endlessly beneath towering banners that hung from the ceilings like monuments. Each one bore the new emblem of the team—sleek and stylized, but hollow. You could see the press eating it up already.

A digital display behind the podium read:

WELCOME TO THE FUTURE.

MEET EARTH’S NEWEST MIGHTIEST HEROES.

Your stomach turned.

“You still with me?” Joaquín asked.

“Yeah.” You nodded once, moving deeper into the room as your eyes scanned the crowd for familiar faces. “I’m here.”

“I’m gonna need camera access,” he said. “There’s a chip tucked under the gem on your bracelet. If you can slide that into an outlet somewhere, I’ll be able to map out the floor’s electrical system. Should help me locate the control room.”

“Guy in the chair,” you muttered, lips twitching into a faint grin. It was impressive—his gadgets, his confidence. Typical Joaquín.

Congressman Gary had vanished into the crowd, but you didn’t mind. Better alone than attached to a man who introduced you as a pet project. You plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray, the cold stem grounding in your fingers, and sidestepped toward the edge of the room.

An outlet revealed itself by a floor-length curtain. You knelt, as if adjusting your heel, and casually broke the gem from your bracelet, slipping it into the socket with practiced ease.

“Okay,” Joaquín said, voice clearer now. “Give me a minute to get my bearings. While I’m working on this, try not to look like a loser in the corner. Mingle or something.”

You scoffed under your breath. “Easy for you to say—you can talk anyone’s ear off.”

“You calling me annoying?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. Go see if you can find Bucky while I work on this, would you?”

Right. Bucky Barnes.

You weren’t here to mingle. You weren’t here to sip champagne or shake hands or sweet-talk your way into the New Avengers’ good graces. You were here for Sam. And more specifically—for Bucky. Wherever the hell he was hiding.

The plan was simple enough in theory: Get a read on what Valentina was playing at. Try to talk to Bucky. Get ahead of whatever fallout was brewing between him and Sam before it turned into a full-blown civil war again. You’d offered to go because no one else would.

Joaquín was trying to stay neutral (and failing). Isaiah had dismissed Bucky as a long-lost white man with too many ghosts. And Sam refused to speak to Bucky since the news broke about the New Avengers. And Bucky hadn’t said a damn word back.

So here you were. You were the only one left who might still be able to stand in the space between them without setting off alarms, even if you were biased.

You still didn’t understand how Bucky could do it. How he could go from testifying before Congress about accountability and reform, to standing beside Valentina Allegra de Fontaine like she hadn’t personally undone everything they’d fought for. Like he hadn’t been there when Ross tried to throw his friends all in cells. (Sure, you weren't there for it either, but Sam told you all about it; the accords were one of the reasons the Avengers broke up.)

Valentina wasn’t just dangerous—she was calculated. Clever. The kind of dangerous that worked in the shadows, smiling for cameras while quietly tying strings around people’s necks. She had her ex-husband arrested, sabotaged Wakandan outreach missions, and picked through the wreckage of post-blip heroes like she was drafting a fantasy football team. The fact that she now had a unit of enhanced individuals marching under her payroll and calling themselves the New Avengers made your stomach turn.

And Bucky was one of them.

You believed Valentina was guilty the second Bucky first mentioned she’d recruited John Walker. Walker—who had murdered a man in public, with blood still wet on the shield—and somehow walked free. Charges vanished. Headlines redirected. Now he was being repackaged as a hero again, and Bucky was standing next to him like nothing had happened.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. No matter how many angles you looked at it from, it didn’t make sense. And the more you thought about it, the more it burned in your chest.

What was he thinking?

Why hadn’t he said anything?

Why wasn’t he here?

You pulled in a slow breath as you stepped further into the room, letting the sound of clinking glasses and diplomatic small talk wash over you like static.

The room was grand in a gaudy way—shiny surfaces and marble floors that reflected the chandelier light too harshly. Everything screamed polished excess, like they were trying to distract from the blood under the polish.

You tried to scan the crowd for Bucky, but there were too many faces, too many government suits and PR smiles, none of them him. You told yourself that when you did find Bucky, he’d have some kind of explanation—something to loosen the knot in your chest, something that could push down the rising anxiety. Something that could explain how the man you once trusted was now parading around in a suit under Valentina’s thumb.

Instead, you found Congressman Gary. Or rather, he found you.

He was already three glasses of champagne deep—five, if you counted the shots you’d seen him down on the way—and he beamed like he’d found a shiny toy in a sea of suits.

“There she is,” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulder like you hadn’t just been avoiding him for fifteen minutes. “You have got to meet some of these people. Big names. Big wallets.”

You were too polite to shrug him off, even as he dragged you into a circle of De Fontaine’s investors. Their grins were just a little too sharp, their eyes a little too eager. The way they looked at you made your skin crawl, like you were a chess piece they hadn’t quite decided how to play yet.

You smiled tightly. Shook clammy hands. Answered vague questions. Nodded while they spoke about “opportunities,” “rebuilding legacy,” and “rebranding heroism.”

One man leaned in closer, his breath thick with bourbon. “You know,” he said, voice oily, “with your background, you’d be a perfect candidate for the new team. Valentina has a real eye for talent, and we’re building something bigger than what came before. Something better. You could help shape it from the inside.”

You swallowed your disgust with a sip of champagne. “I’m not really looking to join anything right now.” That was a lie. You already had a seat in the team Sam was putting together. But he did not need to know that.

He chuckled, as if that wasn’t an answer.

“Okay, I’ve got eyes,” Joaquín said suddenly in your ear. His voice broke through the haze like a rope thrown across stormy water.

You exhaled in relief. “Excuse me,” you told the group, already turning away. “I need to grab a drink.”

They nodded, already moving on to the next opportunity in heels. Gary wasn’t too happy, though.

You drifted from the circle, walking slowly toward the open bar. On the way, you passed a tray of themed hors d’oeuvres—tiny “Avenger” sliders with edible logos, cupcakes shaped like shields and guns.

A mounted camera in the corner caught your eye, its red light blinking lazily above a velvet-draped sculpture.

“See me?” you muttered.

“Yeah, I see you,” Joaquín replied.

“Still no sign of Barnes.”

“Scanning crowd pings now,” he said. “Either he’s ghosting the place or he got another haircut and I can’t recognize him. Which would be so like him, by the way.”

You sighed and accepted another drink from a passing server, something dry and too expensive, and kept moving.

You figured you’d shaken at least six hands tonight that belonged to people who’d love to see your head on a stick—if not for the lucrative optics of you standing here at all. You were an opportunity to them. A symbol. A bargaining chip in a war they didn’t even understand.

Your dress caught suddenly.

You stumbled—only a step, but enough for the chilled drink to slosh dangerously near the edge of the glass. You turned on instinct, hand rising to fix the silk scarf that had slipped from your neck and shoulder.

A man stood behind you, wide-eyed, hand half-raised like he’d been about to catch you.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he stammered. His voice was low, a subtle rumble barely audible over the layers of clinking glass, conversation, and ambient music. “—stepped on your dress. Sorry.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

He looked like he didn’t belong here. Not in the way the others did. No glossy name tag, no designer smugness. His suit was clean, but not flashy. Understated.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, instinctively adjusting your scarf where it had slipped from your shoulder. You shook out the fabric of your dress around the ankles, heart skipping in the echo of that voice. Something about the way he said it—apologetic, soft, like he genuinely meant it—caught you off guard.

“Sorry,” he mumbled again, even quieter this time, eyes dropping to the floor. His dark hair fell over his face, almost like he was trying to shrink three sizes. You could hear a faint, awkward laugh in his voice. “Uhm… yeah. Sorry.”

He didn’t linger. Just turned and slipped back into the crowd before you could even process anything. No second glance. Just a gentle pivot and a few long strides back into the crowd, swallowed instantly by the sea of shoulder pads, press passes, and sharp perfume.

You stood there for a second, staring after him.

He moved differently from the others. No performative swagger. No politician’s posture. No tray in his hand, so he’s definitely not a server. He was quiet in a way that made you feel like you’d imagined him, like he’d only brushed through this reality for a second before vanishing into another.

You didn’t recognize him.

And you should have.

For all the files you’d scoured, the profiles and photos, the research you’d buried yourself in to prepare for tonight, you’d made it your job to know every player in this room. Who to watch. Who to avoid. Who might be useful.

But not him.

You turned back toward the bar, but your mind didn’t follow. Not entirely.

Who the fuck was that?

You were just about to ask Joaquín to pull a facial scan when something in your periphery stopped you cold.

John Walker.

He was only a few steps away, mid-conversation with some high-level sponsor, until his gaze landed on you. And then he froze.

The look that crossed his face was quick, recognition, discomfort, maybe a flicker of guilt, but he buried it just as fast, turning away without a word. He pivoted like a man avoiding a ghost, ignoring the way the sponsor he spoke to called after him.

“Walker just made a hard left into the hors d’oeuvres,” Joaquín muttered in your ear, low and amused. “You see that?”

You exhaled, more irritated than surprised. “We’re not here for him.”

“Yeah. I think he knows that too. That’s why he’s pretending he’s got important shrimp to eat.”

That pulled a faint smile from you, biting down the urge to laugh.

Typical. The last time you’d seen Walker in person, he was seated in a courtroom with his jaw clenched so tight you thought he’d snap a molar. You’d testified in his case, alongside Sam, Bucky, and everyone else who had to witness what happened in Madripoor—what he did to that man in the square. The shield, slick and red. The silence afterward, heavier than any explosion.

You never fought him. Never had to. But you'd been on opposite sides of that mess, and he knew it. Hell, you’d spoken directly to his discharge. Your words were probably still echoing in the back of his skull.

The way he turned away just now… yeah. He remembered you.

“I’m surprised he didn’t start barking about national security,” Joaquín quipped in your ear again. “Do you think we should trail him?”

You hesitated. You didn’t want to. Just the idea of following in Walker’s smug footsteps made your jaw clench.

But Joaquín pressed, “He might know where Bucky is.”

And that was the problem—he was right. And you hated how much sense it made. Of course, Walker would know. You also hate how Walker and Bucky were probably friends now.

A camera flash caught your eye, and you instinctively straightened your posture, smoothed your expression. No time for a scowl, even if that’s all you wanted to wear.

You adjusted your gown, tugged lightly at the hem, checked the wire hidden at your waist, and started walking in the direction Walker and that ugly barret he wore had vanished.

The crowd shifted around you like tidewater—polished politicians and strategic handshakes, investors with too-white smiles and drinks that cost more than your rent. Every few steps, someone waved. A few shook your hand like they knew you, like you were an old friend they’d been waiting for. A woman asked for a photo. Another leaned in and whispered, “Are you joining the new team?” like it were a secret worth selling.

You deflected with a nod and a vague smile, each interaction leaving a layer of static behind your eyes.

It was strange how quickly the attention shifted now that you were in the spotlight. Recently, you’d spent most of your career standing behind Isaiah while Joaquín and Sam did the talking. You liked it there. It was quieter. Easier to breathe. Now, suddenly, they were holding out chairs for you at the table.

The whole thing felt like theatre. Scripted and glassy. Lines rehearsed. Costumes ironed. Every player doing their part beneath the blinding stage lights.

You still weren’t sure what was worse—that Bucky accepted Valentina’s funding, or that he and his new friends let her call them The Avengers.

Sam was right to be angry. He should be. He’d already turned down President Ross’ private offer to hand him the reins of a military-funded global response team. The same offer that Valentina had repackaged, repurposed, and handed off to people who were too coward to say no.

“He’s on the east end, talking to Ava starr and another woman. I think she’s Valentina’s assistant. Oh—shit. He just pointed at you.”

Your chest tightened. You turned too fast, momentarily losing your bearings in the rotating lights and mirrored walls. East—east—

And then someone stepped into your path.

A wall of a man appeared in front of you so suddenly, you nearly collided with him; broad-shouldered and bearded, dressed in a burgundy suit that looked just a size too tight across his chest.

He smiled widely, eyes bright like he’d been waiting for a moment like this all night.

“I know you,” he said, voice thick with a Russian accent. “I’ve seen you on the televisions. You shake hands with the new Captain America.”

You blinked. “I—uh, yeah.”

“Ah!” He laughed, clapping one heavy hand to your shoulder with surprising gentleness for a man who looked like he could punch through drywall. “Very brave of you. Very good. You look different in person. In a strong way. Like a panther. Or mongoose.”

You tried for a diplomatic smile. “Thanks, I think.”

“Oh! Where are my manners,” he said, dramatically straightening and offering his hand. “I am Alexei Shostakov. The Red Guardian.”

You knew that, but you didn’t know he’d be so... loud.

You took his hand, his grip warm and firm. “Pleasure to meet you, Alexei.”

“Kind. Very kind,” he said, eyes gleaming. “You remind me of my daughter! You have same fire in eyes. Around same age, too—you could be friends! Yelena is always looking for new friends.”

Yelena Belova. That name lit something up in the back of your mind. You’d seen the files. The attempted murder of Clint Barton. Her brief status as an independent threat before being absorbed, quietly and conveniently, into Valentina’s new game.

And suddenly, Alexei’s smile widened even more.

“Yelena!” he bellowed, cupping his hands to his mouth as if you weren’t standing in the middle of a very public, very polished gala. “Come meet new friend!”

Several heads turned. Cameras flashed—bright, blinding. You winced against the burst of lights, regretting everything from your dress colour to your decision to show up at all.

But it was too late. He leaned in beside you, one arm suddenly draped over your shoulder like you were posing for a family Christmas card. “Smile!” he boomed, and before you could protest, he struck a dramatic flex, biceps pressing into your back like steel girders.

You caught a whiff of expensive cologne and vodka.

In the corner of your eye, a flash of short, bleached blonde hair was making its way through the crowd with frightening determination. Elegant, yes—but there was no mistaking the sharpness in Yelena Belova’s gaze. She wore a sleek black suit like it was made of knives, a funky eyeliner design, hair slicked back and every step carved with purpose. And beside her—

Your heart dipped.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Poised. Smirking. Watching everything.

“Be careful. Yelena is coming your way with Valentina.”

Thanks for the warning, Joaquín. Delayed. But thanks nevertheless.

You stood up straighter, willing your heartbeat to slow down even as Valentina’s eyes zeroed in on you like a predator clocking a foe.

Wonderful.

You leaned slightly toward Alexei, trying not to seem as panicked as you felt. “Can I ask you something? About Bucky Barnes?”

“Ah!” he exclaimed, cutting you off before you could finish the question. “Bucky! Yes, yes. The Winter Soldier. Very cool. Very handsome. Like Soviet James Dean.”

You blinked. “I mean—do you know where he is?”

But Alexei was already on another tangent. “We fought in Uzbekistan once, did you know this? I threw him through a door. He did not like that. But I like him. I like him very much. Quiet, serious type. You know he never answers my texts?”

“Right. Yeah. That tracks.”

And then—

“Oh, what a pleasant surprise,” said a voice sharp as champagne fizz and just as bitter. De Fontaine. She cut into the conversation with the smoothness of someone who was always in control, grinning like she knew a secret you didn’t. A glass of bubbly dangled between her fingers, catching the light just enough to draw attention. As if she needed help with that.

“I was just about to introduce you all,” she said, placing a perfectly manicured hand on Yelena’s arm as the blonde finally joined your little nightmare circle.

“What is this?” Yelena asked flatly, eyes flicking between you and Valentina.

Valentina didn’t bother to answer—just gave a smug little hum and tugged Yelena closer, corralling her between you and Alexei. The four of you shifted automatically into position, an unspoken reflex in rooms like this.

You could feel the cameras turning like sharks in bloodied water.

Flashes burst across your vision. The moment was already captured—your stiff shoulders, your frozen smile. A picture-perfect lineup of cooperation.

And you could feel it: this wasn’t a coincidence.

This was intentional.

Valentina leaned in, voice cool and sugary against your ear as more bulbs burst. “I am so pleased to see you here,” she cooed, “considering how close you and Sam are.”

“I mean, I had to come congratulate you,” you said tightly, lips barely moving. “Recreating the Avengers. That’s… big.”

She beamed at the cameras, teeth white and wolfish. “Someone had to.”

“Of course.”

Another flash. Another frozen pose.

You winced. Sam is going to kill you.

Valentina fielded the sudden swarm of questions like she was born in front of a podium—deflecting, redirecting, charming. Every answer was deliberate, each word chosen like a chess move. Stability. Legacy. Global confidence. Alliances.

They lapped it up like champagne, snapping photos, nodding, laughing. You stood beside her, barely blinking, jaw tight behind your polite smile.

You weren’t meant to be part of this show. You were supposed to be on the outside looking in from the in the crowd.

When the flashes finally began to die down and the clamour shifted elsewhere, Valentina turned with that too-perfect, too-white grin. She glanced at Yelena and Alexei like she were dismissing children.

“Would you two mind?” she asked, breezy as ever. “I’d like to have a quick little chat.”

Yelena’s gaze flicked toward you. Not unkind. But cautious. Reading you like a live wire.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, her brows subtly knitting.

“Oh, everything’s perfectly fine,” Valentina replied before you could speak, her hand already at your back. “Go fetch a drink. Mingle.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

You barely had time to glance back at Yelena—at the slight, suspicious narrowing of her eyes—before the crowd swallowed her and Alexei whole.

Your earpiece crackled to life. “She’s taking you to the balcony,” Joaquín said, voice low and taut. “There are no cameras there. I won’t be able to see, but I can still hear you.”

There was a pause, then: “I’ll keep looking for Bucky.”

You barely managed a breath of relief before Valentina cut in, sharp and smiling.

“Bucky’s not here tonight, if that’s really why you’re here.”

You stiffened mid-step.

Joaquín swore in your ear. Something heavy hit a surface—maybe his fist against a table—and you heard the scrape of a chair.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice light, falsely sweet. “I came to celebrate you.”

You crossed the threshold to the balcony.

It was quieter out here, eerily so. The muffled pulse of the gala was dulled by glass and distance. The cold kissed your skin through your dress. You could feel it biting at your exposed arms, but you welcomed the sting. It was honest.

Below, the city stretched like a glowing circuit board. Skyscrapers hummed with light. Traffic moved in golden veins. It was beautiful in the kind of way that felt removed. Untouchable.

Valentina’s heels clicked once against the stone floor, then stopped.

“Cut the bullshit,” she scoffed, voice low now. “We both know that’s not true.”

You turned your head, slow and steady. Her eyes were already on you. Unflinching.

“Where’s your friend?” she asked casually. “The little Mexican one?”

You flinched—just barely. Your jaw clenched tight.

Valentina smiled wider at that.

You opened your mouth to answer, to lie, to throw her off, to say something clever, but she leaned forward before you could, voice barely above a whisper.

Her lips were close to your collarbone, eyes locked on your chest. On the mic she couldn’t see.

“Hola, Joaquín,” she murmured, velvet-smooth. “¿Cómo estás? How’s the arm? Still broken?”

She pulled back with a grin full of satisfaction. Joaquín didn’t respond—not a breath. But you felt the burn of it in your gut. He heard her. She knew he was listening. And that was the whole point.

She got what she wanted. You could see it in the eyes, the tilt of her head, the calm sip from her glass, the curl of smugness just under her lipstick.

Valentina turned her back to the railing, facing you fully, her glass catching the amber light of the city. Her smile didn’t crack once.

“You know,” she began, like she was catching up with an old friend, her voice silked with charm, “you don’t have to keep playing both sides. It’s exhausting, isn’t it?”

You said nothing. Not because you didn’t have something to say, but because the words wouldn’t form. Your brain was too busy calculating exits, signals, whether Joaquín could hear any of this, or if he was already doing something stupid like storming into the gala uninvited.

“You show up with a wire,” she continued, waving her champagne flute like it weighed nothing, “a dress like that, pretending you’re just here to smile for the cameras.”

Her eyes dipped slowly, then back up.

“You do look stunning, by the way,” she added casually. “But we both know you’re not here for the press or to butter yourself up to me or my team. You’re listening. Recording. Digging...”

The flute met her lips again. Sip. Deliberate.

“Looking for Barnes,” she said. “Like he’s going to whisper some grand truth that’ll fix whatever little crisis your friends are having.”

You could feel your jaw tighten. Every word she spoke landed like pressure against a bruise you didn’t want to admit was there.

Valentina tilted her head, studying you with the kind of gaze that belonged in an interrogation room, not a rooftop party. “You’re sharp,” she said. “Good instincts. It’s why Sam keeps you close, right?”

Still, you stayed silent. Because anything you gave her, she’d twist. She already was.

“But let me ask you something,” she said, voice a shade lower, softer. “What’s loyalty really worth—if the people you serve are always the ones left bleeding in the dirt?”

A pulse of heat shot up your neck. You didn’t move, but she saw it.

Of course, she saw it.

“And for the record,” she added, twirling the stem of her glass, “I don’t have anything against Sam Wilson. Poor guy. I pity him, actually. The shit he’s put up with just for carrying that shield—God.”

She clicked her tongue with exaggerated sympathy.

“I’d kill to have Captain America on my team. The real one. Not Walker. That man is a pathetic as it gets. Hair-trigger temper, zero emotional intelligence—”

“Sam would never work with you,” you said, sharper than intended.

Valentina’s smile widened because you finally said something worthwhile. “Oh, I know,” she said, almost gleefully. “He’s a purist. One of the last. His morals are steel-tight. Fucking unshakable. A real Boy Scout. Steve Rogers made a good choice.”

And that was the part that hurt—the part that made you swallow back a flicker of doubt you hadn’t expected to feel.

“Where’s Bucky?” you asked, voice quieter now. “I just want to talk to him.”

She didn’t even hesitate.

“Bucky’s not missing or anything,” Valentina said. “He’s busy. Doing a job for me in Pennsylvania. Cleaning up some loose ends, you know the deal.”

You felt it before you could stop it—that tiny, invisible shift in your expression. Something cracked. Something gave her an answer you hadn’t meant to give.

“That supposed to scare me?” you asked, though it already kind of did.

“No,” she said. “It’s supposed to make you think. About options. About what someone like you could do with the right resources. With the right funding. Imagine it: you with your own team. Autonomy. Access. No more red tape. You make your own shots. We clean up whatever mess you leave behind. And, get this, you even get paid for it.”

You glanced toward the city, anything to avoid her eyes. Lights. Windows. Warmth. All of it felt so far away.

“And if I say no?”

“Then someone else says yes.”

She stepped back, brushing something from her blazer sleeve. “Just think about it,” she said, all silk and sugar again. “We could use someone like you. You belong in rooms like this, you know. Not chasing ghosts, or waiting for Wilson to approve your next move. You’re already breaking. I can see it. You wouldn’t be here tonight if you weren’t. I’m sure Captain America won’t be happy seeing your name in the headlines tomorrow morning: The Next Potenital Avenger.”

Her smile held, framed in the cold, glittering dark of the balcony. Then she turned and walked past you, the soft graze of her shoulder against yours more intimate than it had any right to be. A mockery of closeness.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said, already stepping back through the doors. “Tell Sam I said hi.”

The glass door shut behind her with a quiet click.

And the cold came in fast.

Not just the air, but the after. The silence. The wrongness of being left alone up here, the wind biting now that you weren’t so focused on not showing fear.

Your body finally remembered it was yours. Your fingers hurt from gripping the railing too hard. You eased your hands free, flexed them, saw the white draining slowly from your knuckles. You still couldn’t feel them.

Your mic hissed faintly to life, and Joaquín’s voice filtered through the static like someone calling out to you underwater.

“…you okay?” he asked, strained. Urgent.

You didn’t answer right away. Your mind was still racing through what Valentina had said, how easily she’d dodged your defences, how easy she was to turn your presence into a publicity stunt, how well she knew you—or at least thought she did.

She must be blackmailing Bucky. That must be it.

You kept staring out at the skyline like it might give you an answer. It didn’t. Just glass and steel and lights that blinked too slow to feel alive.

“No,” you finally muttered.

It didn’t come out strong. It came out cracked. Like the inside of your chest had gone hollow, and you were just now realizing it.

Joaquín exhaled through the comm, like he’d been holding his breath.

“I think legal action is our next step,” he said, tone snapping back into focus like a lifeline. “We can sue them for the name. Trademark it. Or maybe—maybe Sam tries to talk to Bucky again? We’ve still got options.”

You didn’t respond. Not yet.

The railing under your palm felt like ice. You blinked hard, fighting back the sudden sting in your eyes. Not from fear. From frustration. From the way every word she said still echoed in your head, sticky and sharp, leaving splinters behind.

You dragged in a breath.

“…that fucking bitch,” you scoffed.

“Yeah… I don’t like Valentina either.”

You jumped.

The voice came from somewhere behind you, softer, unsure. You spun around on instinct, stepping away from the railing.

That man.

The one who stepped on your dress earlier. He was sitting now, low in one of the patio couches near a sleek electric fireplace that flickered lazily against the dark. The flames glinted off the patio doors and caught the edge of his profile—brown hair, downturned mouth, eyes wide like he was the one who got caught.

You hadn’t noticed him when you came out here. And now that you really looked… you realized why.

He wasn’t trying to be seen.

He sat in the farthest corner of the couch, hunched slightly, knees close together, hands clutched like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like someone had planted him there and told him to wait. The firelight danced across his face, softening him. He didn’t look threatening. Just... startled. And oddly apologetic for existing.

He offered a small, nervous smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, like… scare you.”

There was genuine concern in his voice—concern for you, not about you. That was rare.

“It’s fine,” you said, because you didn’t know what else to say.

“Who’s that?” Joaquín's voice cracked through your earpiece.

You didn’t answer right away.

Your eyes stayed on the stranger, and for a moment, you debated whether or not to even breathe too loud.

“I don’t know…” You muttered.

“Okay, uh… I’ll try to do a voice match or something—see if anything comes up. Keep them talking.”

The man must’ve noticed the way you were half-turned, the way your fingers brushed against your ear.

He shifted slightly. “Who’re… who’re you talking to?”

You froze. And then, with a wince: “Uh… just… myself. Thinking out loud.”

There was a pause.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I do that too. All the time, actually.”

You weren’t sure what to do with that. You weren’t sure what to do with him.

He looked different now compared to earlier. Still awkward, still nervous—but less like he was trying to shrink into himself and more like he was trying his best to meet you where you were. His eyes held yours this time. Not for long, though. They dropped to his hands and shoes after a while. But it was long enough to feel it.

You took a cautious step forward, angling yourself toward the fire, toward him, but still keeping a healthy distance.

“You um… You know Valentina?” you asked. Stupid. Of course, he did. Everyone at this party did.

“Uh… yeah. Something like that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t like… eavesdropping or anything. It’s just—there’s a lot of people in there. And it’s… quieter out here.”

He hesitated, then added: “I’m Bob, by the way.”

His voice wavered, but not from dishonesty. He said his name like he wasn’t sure it would mean anything to you. Like he just told you his name to be kind.

You gave him a nod. Not a smile. But not cold either.

“Hi, Bob.”

A beat passed.

You debated telling him your name. Joaquín would probably advise against it. But you weren’t feeling tactical anymore—you were feeling tired. Bruised in a way you couldn’t name. And maybe you just needed to feel like a real person again. Like someone who wasn’t being puppeteered.

So, after a pause, you gave him your name.

Bob blinked. Then he offered a small, shy smile that cracked at the edges.

“Cool. Hi,” he said, breathless. His brows furrowed as his gaze dropped lower, his eyes catching on your waist, your hips. “Uh—sorry again, about your dress. I didn’t mean to step on it earlier. You looked like you were in a rush and I—well, I was definitely in your way.”

You felt your lips twitch. The barest curve, not sharp or defensive. A faint grin. Delicate. “It’s alright,” you said. “Bound to happen at places like these.”

His head tilted slightly, curious. “You come to stuff like this often?”

“Not often. Just sometimes.”

And it was only then that you realized you’d stepped closer.

Your arms had casually found their place against the back of the couch across from him, hands gripping the cool metal frame as your scarf drifted with the breeze behind you. You weren’t leaning in exactly, but the distance had shrunk.

When did that happen?

You tilted your head, letting your eyes linger a little longer now, more curious than guarded. You assessed him with a little more attention now.

“I’m guessing you don’t come to these events much?”

Bob immediately shook his head, a nervous, breathy laugh escaping his lips like it was running away from him. You could see the cloud of it in the cold night air, swirling and vanishing between you.

“God, no. This is my second one and it’s—it’s been a lot. I think I’m gonna ask to just stay in my room next time.” He gave a little shrug, slouching a bit. “It’s not like I do much anyway. I mean, I’m allowed to talk to people, and I like talking to people, but I’d rather not sometimes.”

That made you blink. Allowed?

The word snagged on something in your mind. There was something disarming about the way he said it, like he didn’t mean to offer that information but also didn’t think it was worth hiding. You couldn’t tell if he was joking, oversharing, or both. But it was too strange to ignore. Like it slipped past a filter that wasn’t built right. It made you hesitate, if only for a breath.

But he wasn’t watching your reaction. He was staring at the flicker of the fire, letting the silence sit between you like it belonged there.

You folded your arms gently across your chest, the smooth material of your dress whispering beneath your fingertips.

“You seem to be talking just fine with me,” you pointed out, softer now.

Bob looked down at his hands. Then back at you. Then away again.

“I… well…” he stammered, voice catching on another shy, almost embarrassed laugh.

And then you saw it.

The blush. A warm pink crawling up from the collar of his white shirt to the apples of his cheeks. Subtle, but not subtle enough to miss. Especially not in the glow of the firelight, which danced over his skin like it had a crush of its own.

“I… yeah, I... I don’t know. Some people are easier to talk to than others, I guess.”

Your mouth twitched before you could stop it.

“Yeah,” you said, “I’d say so.”

The smile that tugged at your lips came easier than you expected. Not just polite. Not guarded. Honest. Probably the first one you’d let slip all night.

Seriously, who the hell is this guy? And why did he make the night feel a little less awful?

He was cute. Not the kind of handsome that announces itself the second someone walks in the room, but the kind that sneaks up on you, quiet, awkward, totally unsure of how much space he takes up and trying not to be a bother. Like he wasn’t used to being looked at for too long and didn’t know where to put himself when he was.

You’d seen a lot of people in this world wear confidence like a costume. Bob didn’t even try. He wore uncertainty like a second skin, and somehow, it made him feel… real.

You liked the way he didn’t crowd you. Didn’t puff out his chest or pretend to have all the answers. He sat with his knees slightly knocked together, most of his hands swallowed by the sleeves of his jacket, like even they were too bold to leave out in the open. Maybe he was anxious. Maybe a little broken in the places that never healed right, but he felt safe. Your gut told you so.

And that made you more nervous than anything else tonight.

You caught yourself watching him again. The way he kept his hands mostly hidden in his sleeves, shoulders rounded forward. His suit was clearly tailored but still seemed a size too big, like someone had tried to wrap him in something expensive just to prove he belonged. And still, it worked.

His hair was brown and shaggy, a bit longer than most people would have it at these events, barely even styled, but you kind of liked it. It gave him a strange charm, even if the loose curls hid his eyes whenever he ducked his head.

You weren’t used to thoughts like this. Not ones this soft. Not ones that fluttered in your chest like nervous birds. Not often. Not like this. Not here. Not in places like these.

You came for Bucky. That was the plan. Show up, find him, talk. Clear the air. Maybe start patching things up with your broken little found family—cracks and all. But Bucky wasn’t here. Valentina played you like a fiddle, and now the whole night had soured. Tomorrow, you’d wake up to press statements and headlines, scrambling to explain why your name wouldn’t be on the next New Avengers roster. You’d spin it clean, of course. That’s what you did.

But none of that mattered yet.

In this strange little pocket of quiet, just outside the hum of power plays and champagne politics, you kind of just wanted something normal. Not mission normal. Not cover-identity normal. Real normal. A conversation that didn’t hinge on leverage or patriotism. A moment that wasn’t already weaponized.

Maybe you could stay for another half hour before you disappeared and joined Joaquín in the van downstairs, counting your losses.

And maybe it was the firelight, a flicker here, a flicker there, warmth and glow dancing in the night that influenced you. But you found yourself leaning forward a little more, walking around the couch, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress. You straightened your spine, trying to will yourself into being brave.

“Would you...” You paused, “um. Do you wanna grab a drink with me?”

Bob blinked, eyes flicking up to meet yours. He sat up straighter at the invitation, startled, like a puppy hearing its name for the first time. His lips parted. For a split second, you swore he looked excited. Maybe even hopeful.

But then he deflated.

His shoulders fell, his expression shifting to a quiet sort of apology as his eyes darted away. “I... I can’t. Sorry—”

“Oh.” You blinked, trying not to let your smile falter.

“I want to,” he rushed to say, almost stumbling over the words. “I do.”

“It’s okay—”

“No. No. I would. It’s just... I’m—I’m sober now.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry—” he added quickly, like he was terrified he’d ruined something.

But you shook your head, even stepping a little closer without realizing it.

“No. Don’t be sorry,” you said gently. “Seriously. Congratulations. That’s a big deal.”

He smiled at that, small and grateful. A little crooked and thin-lipped. It was cute.

“Thanks.”

You hesitated a moment, then tilted your head. “Can I ask how long?”

“Uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking upward like he was counting the months with the stars. “I think about a year now. I’ve only really started keeping track since I moved here, so... maybe like, seven? Eight months?”

You smiled softly, your heart unexpectedly warm.

“That’s still a long time.”

He gave a sheepish shrug, and his cheeks pinked again, like he didn’t quite know what to do with your praise. Like no one gave it to him often enough for it to feel normal.

“Some days feel longer than others,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching at his own tease.

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you, quiet, but real.

“What are you…?”

Joaquín’s voice fizzled to life in your ear, cracking the quiet like a crowbar to glass.

“Are you flirting right now?”

You froze, the smile instantly tugging at your lips again despite yourself.

When you didn’t answer, he laughed.

“Oh my god, you’re totally flirting right now! It’s so bad, but you so are! Who even is this guy?”

You turned ever so slightly, subtle as you could manage, and pressed a knuckle into your ear to mute him. Your cheeks warmed in tandem with Bob’s.

Bob blinked. “Sorry… did I, um—was that weird?”

“No, no,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly. “That wasn’t you.”

He just nodded, like your word was more than enough. Like you could’ve told him the moon was fake, and he’d say, huh, never really thought about that before.

You moved to take a seat across from him, the fireplace crackling softly between you like a low, slow heartbeat. The warmth of the flames painted him in golds and ambers, the flickering light catching the softness in his eyes and the loose fall of his hair.

You fidgeted with your fingers out of instinct. And across the fire, he mirrored the motion—thumb twisting around his knuckle, pinky tapping rhythmically against the inside of his sleeve. There was something strangely reassuring in that shared nervousness, like you were both waiting for the same storm to pass.

You let out a quiet breath, tension easing from your shoulders. “You said you moved here? Like, New York?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. His shoulders dipped too, visibly relaxing just a touch, like your voice permitted him to breathe. “I… uh, I lived in Malyasha for a while. But I’m from Florida. Born and raised. Where—where are you from?”

You tilted your head slightly, watching how intently he tried to keep eye contact and how quickly he broke it again. “I flew in from Washington.”

“D.C.?” he asked, and you nodded.

His eyebrows lifted, eyes wide for a split second. “Wow. Do you work in the White House or something?”

You huffed a laugh, smiling into your words. “Sure. Something like that.”

His head bobbed along with the answer.

“So you’re like… a really important person here.”

You laughed again, this time wider. Your teeth showed. It surprised you how easily you let your guard down. “I wouldn’t say that.”

But he was smiling too, softer now. Less anxious.

“You are,” he said, more sure of himself now. “I saw the way people looked at you tonight. Not—not that I was watching you or anything… just, it’s hard not to. You’re, um…”

You saw the moment he lost his words, saw them spill and scatter like marbles across a floor. His blush deepened, blooming across his cheeks in a full, unmistakable deep red colour. He ducked his head, eyes falling to his shoes again, and you watched him fight a shy, apologetic smile.

“…I can see why they’d want your picture.”

And just like that, your heart softened.

You leaned in a little, elbows resting against your knees. “Thank you, Bob. You’re really sweet, you know that?”

Bob looked up again, startled by the compliment, his mouth parting slightly like he didn’t know what to say to that. You weren’t sure if anyone had ever told him that before, and if they had, you could guess they didn’t mean it the way you did now.

He didn’t belong here. That much was obvious. Not with people like Valentina, not with cold smiles and polished lies. Not with mercenaries, politicians, and millionaires who hide behind their money. You could see it in the way he sat too stiffly on a velvet chair meant for lounging, in the way he tugged at his sleeves or tucked his hands away when he felt exposed.

“What’re you doing in a place like this, Bob?”

He blinked, tilting his head like he wasn’t sure what you meant.

You smiled, eyes squinting a little as you leaned forward more. “I mean, are you like, a sponsor? Investor?”

The words didn’t even sound right on your tongue, not when directed at him. The image of him swirling champagne and talking stocks was so laughably out of sync with the shy guy currently pressing himself into the couch cushions like he wanted to disappear.

“I don’t think you’re here for the politics,” you added, and there was a touch of something playful in your voice.

He chuckled softly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Me? Gosh, no. I don’t… I don’t do politics.” He scratched the back of his ear, sheepish again. “That’s Bucky’s thing. I’m here for my friends.”

And just like that, your whole world tilted.

Your smile dropped before you could stop it. A subtle shift, but you felt it everywhere: in your spine, in your lungs, in the weight of your hands resting suddenly still on your knees.

You straightened. Slowly.

“…You know Bucky?”

The question came quieter than you intended, and Bob must’ve heard the change, the sudden stillness in your voice. His smile faltered, and he went still, too, sensing the tension without understanding it. His posture shrank, as if unsure what he’d stepped into, as if trying not to take up more space than he already had to upset you.

He nodded, a cautious kind of affirmation. “Yeah. He’s my friend.”

That stunned silence stretched long between you.

“I… I know he’s your friend too,” Bob added quickly, the words spilling out like he was trying to fill the void before it grew too wide. His voice was quieter now, softer around the edges, almost apologetic. “I heard you talking about him to Val, I—I thought maybe…”

You weren’t sure why he kept talking. Maybe because you hadn’t said anything. Maybe because your smile had disappeared too fast, and he could feel the way the mood had shifted even if he didn’t know why. His nervous ramble wasn’t meant to hurt, you could tell that. But it did. It did because the moment he said Val, something in you knotted tight again.

The warm glow you’d felt around him moments ago started to dim, curling in on itself like a candle snuffed out mid-flicker. Your heart gave a small, stupid lurch—embarrassed at how quickly you’d let your guard down. Of course he knew Bucky. Of course he was close to Valentina. The pieces slid together too easily now, fitting into a picture you didn’t want to look at.

You tried to pull yourself back together, quickly and quietly. You reminded yourself this wasn’t supposed to be about comfort. It wasn’t about soft smiles or normal conversations or maybe asking someone out for a drink. You came here with a mission, no matter how personal it was. To find Bucky. To set the record straight. This—this moment of peace with a stranger who felt safe—wasn’t supposed to happen.

He called her Val. Like they were friends. Like they knew each other beyond just work. Like he wasn’t just some shy, nice guy who complimented you under his breath and blushed when you smiled at him. Jesus, were you that easy?

A strange bitterness bloomed in your mouth. Not anger, more like disappointment. At yourself, maybe. For forgetting, even just for a second, what kind of place this really was.

You stood up.

The decision was sudden, impulsive, a small motion made louder by the way Bob flinched. His eyes followed you, something tentative and uncertain flickering across his face.

You reached for your earpiece, thumb brushing over the button to unmute Joaquín.

But Bob stood, too. Slowly, almost clumsily, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to follow you or stay where he was.

“Did I—did I say something wrong?” he asked.

You froze. Your fingers stilled over the earpiece. You hadn’t expected that.

You turned, not quite facing him fully, but enough to catch the look on his face. His brows had drawn together, confusion etched faintly into his expression, and one of his hands was lifted just slightly, hovering in the air between you like he’d started to reach out and changed his mind halfway through. There were still several feet of space between you. The fire crackled low between you both, casting shadows across the expensive furniture and marble tiles.

“I’m sorry if I did,” he said, voice smaller now. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

That stopped you. “No… you didn’t…” You said, the words stumbling out, half-formed. You didn’t know why you tried to soothe him. Maybe it was the way his eyes had gone wide or the way he seemed to dread the thought of you walking away just when he was finally starting to settle into himself. It stirred something in you. Something that made your chest tighten.

You could’ve said never mind. You wanted to. Pretend his words hadn’t struck a nerve, hadn’t made your heart twist in your chest. But they did. It bothered you.

“You didn’t upset me,” you repeated, softer now. “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

Bob blinked at you. “Oh,” he said, so gently it almost got carried off by the breeze.

A silence fell between you again. You wrapped your arms around yourself against the wind as you turned to look at him.

“Who are you, Bob?”

He straightened, caught off guard. “I’m... I’m Bob,” he said. “Just... just Bob.”

You tilted your head. “That’s it?”

He opened his mouth like he was about to say more, but nothing came out. His lips parted, then pressed shut again, the words retreating back into him like they were scared to be seen. He just shrugged helplessly. Like that’s all he had left.

And yet he kept looking at you like he was begging you not to go. Not yet.

You sighed, bringing your fingers up to your temple, pressing cold skin to your warm forehead. There was a pulse pounding there now, dull and insistent.

“I just…” You started, voice cracking faintly. “I came here looking for Bucky. I thought maybe I could get him to come home.”

“Home?” Bob asked carefully, his eyes soft.

“Yeah. With Sam. With us.” You hesitated, glancing through the tall windows behind him. The light inside spilled gold across the floor, where laughter echoed and people clinked glasses without a care in the world. Your eyes landed on the group you’d been avoiding all night—Bucky’s new team, huddled together with drinks, grinning like it was just another night to celebrate.

It made your chest hollow out.

“Ever since he joined Valentina’s little fuckass team or... whatever this is,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the gala behind you, “everything’s just been so... shitty.”

You looked back at Bob, surprised to find that he’d stepped a little closer. Just enough that you could see the way his jaw twitched, like he was working through something he didn’t know how to say.

“Sorry,” you muttered, suddenly self-conscious. “Not to, like, dump all that on you.”

The cold bit into your arms. You rubbed them quickly, wishing you’d brought a coat.

“It’s not...” Bob started, and then, more firmly, “It’s not a fuckass team.”

You blinked. “Sorry?”

“They saved me,” he said, voice trembling just a bit. “Lena. Bucky. The others. They’re my family. We... we take care of each other.”

You stared at him, something icy curling low in your stomach. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said again, earnest. “I know it probably doesn’t look like it from the outside, but... they gave me a chance when no one else would. They didn’t treat me like I was broken. They... saw me.”

You wanted to believe that. You really did. But it felt like trying to swallow glass.

“Right,” you muttered, too tired to argue. “I have to go.”

You turned, reaching for your earpiece.

“Wait,” Bob said suddenly, like he’d only just realized this was goodbye. “Will I... will I see you again?”

You paused, fingers still hovering near your ear. The balcony lights flickered faintly behind you, and the sound of the city buzzed low in the background, as if the world were holding its breath.

You didn’t turn around right away.

Part of you wanted to say no. Make it easy. Clean.

But when you finally looked back at him, at the boyish worry carved into his face, the way he stood there with his hands half-raised like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or let you go, you felt that ache again. The one that whispered that maybe, despite everything, he meant what he said. That maybe there was still something worth salvaging in the strange, quiet warmth you’d felt earlier. Something real.

And you desperately wanted it to be real. You wanted it to mean something.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Bob swallowed. Nodded like he understood.

But his eyes lingered on you like he hoped the answer might change.

[grotesquevi]

18+ mdni, collage au, use of marijuana, high sex, blink and you'll miss perv!vi, you smoke while she eats you (feral), spit, stoner!vi that got out of hand. fic directory, requests?

if you recognize this it may be because it's from my previous account aka @vicorices who got deleted out of nowhere, i'm trying to get all my work back up again cause i'm not losing three months of writing. bare with me pls love me back this was good soup back then.

dealer!vi who’s deep down a damn loser when it comes to you, an unmeasured crush that started out when you bought weed for the first time and she got your number under the premise of talking to you whenever she had good stash.

she stares for a good while at her phone after, trying to find out a reason to talk to you without sounding lame, the last time she was so afraid to talk to a girl she was what? sixteen? so fucking lame.

dealer!vi who leaves in the middle of a party cause you texted asking is she was up and well, it's her fault when she's spoiling you rotten, constantly selling to you her very best stuff at a stupid low price: she wants you to keep coming to her, so she makes sure of making an undeniable offer.

she's knocking at your door and it's way to late to be in the streets, standing with her hands shoved inside her jacket as she waits for you to open up.

dealer!vi who's impressed actually by your rolling skills cause how the fuck did you learn how to roll a joint like that? you have such a good technique she finds herself looking at it, fingers in perfect control as they swiftly pour the green from your purple grinder into king-sized pink rolling papers — is it indirect kissing when you're licking the paper and she can visibly see strings of your saliva? must be.

she looks at you when you light up the joint and the air is quickly filled with the intense smell of weed, a subtle fruity and citric aroma as you passed her the joint. indirect kissing. indirect kissing when vi's smoking from the very same spot you did, sitting close to you after selling you a good amount of weed and accepting a sudden invitation to stay for a while and smoke, make the journey at least a bit more worth it and not leave after five minutes with you.

it doesn't have to be just pure business.

you're oblivious to it, but her gaze lingers in your legs and the subtle way your shirt rides up showing more and more skin without you noticing, worried you'll find out she's right there high and dry in your sofa.

stoner!vi who laughs at your jokes, leaning forward when talking to you cause even high she just thinks about how beautiful you are, eyes red, half lidded, relaxed in the comfortable of your small apartment close to the uni.

and like a good stoner she forgets about she's holding the joint at some point, too busy with the conversation, your company and the atmosphere you’ve so easily created, the ashes falling to the ground now. she has sold you marijuana for months, yet she's not able to talk to you for more than explaining you what strain she's carrying to sell until well — now.

liking your photos, flirting but not at all, it's absurd the amounts of times you appear on her mind without even trying to, messy haircut, she's sure you have a tattoo hidden under the winter clothes cause she can be a proud stoner, but she pays attention, at least when she wants something, when it comes to you.

"are you ever going to make a move on me, vi? cause i'm getting tired of waiting for you to snap out of it."

and maybe it's the weed, that dizzy and nice sensation on her chest that makes her smile, cause she's sure you're pulling her closer even when she's the one moving on her own.

"a move, you want me to make a move on you?"

you're taking the joint from her fingers and she swears it's the hottest thing she's ever experienced, the way you were suddenly so close to her only to pull away after, letting the smoke linger in the air when you light it again: she has felt that very same thing before, the awful need of pulling you into a kiss.

"i thought it was obvious when i texted you in the middle of the night, but you don't seem to get it much" the music seems to drown her unsteady breathing, the loud guitars by the speaker in the table while your bratty attitude only seems to turn her on even further. "should i spell it out for you? send a formal invitation?"

stoner!vi who's really bad in controlling her force when high, cause her hand fist in the fabric of your shirt and she's finally erasing the distance she was once polite to keep, moving you without much effort across the cushions to pull you closer to her, make you lay on the sofa to pin you down beneath her.

her muscles flex on top on you and she's finally aware of the effect she has on you, when she's finally kissing you and you're responding to her even when she barely touches you — so maybe it's not as lame as she thought, cause her kisses travels down your throat, messy, sloppy open-mouthed kisses she places as she holds you there, still and where she wants you to, not lame at all when you cannot control yourself either, squirming, already asking for more.

and fuck it's good. she can smell the subtle smell of weed in your clothes, and swear could choke 'cause you're parting your legs for her, a silent invitation she just gets with no need to spell it out for her now.

"gonna smoke it all by yourself?" vi's messing with you at first, watching you take the joint you forgot in your fingers to place it over your lips — "or are you gonna share that with me?"

stoner!vi who fantasizes with the thought of spitting right over your parted lips when she's helping you smoke, lighting up the joint as she sits on top of you. she's slower, but her hips press down against yours just right, and trapped in between her thighs is a damn sight. her blushed cheeks match her cherry hair who's much longer now since the first time you meet her, and you, a demon as always, let your hand find the skin beneath her shirt, the pad of your fingers roaming against her hip bone, trailing it down her pants.

with two fingers, she places the joint over your lips. your breathing collides against her hand, and she can feel the softness in your lips for a moment before you're blowing the smoke in her direction, slightly and for nothing more than five seconds but enough to make her think about kissing you again, yearning when she's stealing kiss after kiss, taking away the joint to have you pay attention to her instead. needy.

the weed makes her like that she'd say, but in reality vi's going to pieces even before her eyes become glassy. shambles when the music on the speaker is not enough to muffle your gasps, the irregular sound of your breathing after she slowly begins to ask you for more — hungry even when she's full fed.

she's building you up, taking her time since she dreamed about this a lot, and she desperately wants it to make it last, savor it as long as she can have it, so vi's dragging your shirt upwards, enough so she can see the obvious lack of a bra, latching on the skin of your breast until it's bruised and sensitive, purple because of her.

you do have a hidden tattoo, only for her to see.

yet it's her name on your swollen lips what she enjoys the most, how she's there in your lungs inside you, the sound of your moans when you ask if she could keep going. your always perfect hair lays now messy, and god she just want to imprint the sight of you in her brain, how your skin shiver when she's kissing the expanses of your belly, that flirty look on your face she can see even when she's completely on her knees for you already.

"you forgot about the joint again, peach" vi mutters against your navel, her chin presses against your stomach and the mere contact makes your skin burn "you okay up there? 'cause last time i recall i was invited to smoke with you love, you're making me feel a little betrayed here."

stoner!vi who likes the fact you're smoking from her weed. may seem stupid but she damn prides on knowing you choose her every time even when uni is fucking plagued with providers all around: you praise about her quality, chanting about how good your high was, how she never disappoints.

the world seems to stop against your skin, the time dies between your thighs, the intense smell of your arousal clouds her with longing and her mouth waters at the compulsion to lean forward.

"it's not fair, making me feel so- fuck so-" the words die on her tongue, cause your panties are soaked through, clinging to your folds and she's already drunk on it, lost in the haze as she looks up to you, barely illuminated by the lights in the apartment, the ember of the joint lighting every once in a while.

"talk to me," your voice is rough as your hand reaches down to her hair, taking the long strands of the mullet between your fingers — "how do i make you feel, huh? tell me vi."

stoner!vi who's a chaotic eater. she whimpers at your praises as her tongue laps from over your slick underwear, drool escaping from the corners of her mouth as her nose rubs against your sensitive cunt and she doesn't really care if she stinks like pussy after, if you're gushing all over her cheeks as she's making your underwear to the side; she's surrendering entirely, spreading you with her fingers and sinking her face in your puffy, swollen lips already sticky with a sheen of arousal.

she cannot seem to have enough, one arm tangled around your leg as she's comfortable enough to gather a good amount of saliva on her mouth so she can let it fall against your already leaky pussy, scooping it with her fingers to use it as lube when her digits are forcing themselves against your entrance, opening you up for her as vi's mouth sucks greedy around your clit.

so you forgot about the joint laying between your fingers as you hold her face against your sex, moving your hips against her mouth until she's looking at you through half lidded eyes and you can see how her face seems to glisten thanks to you. vi seems to be hitting all the nice places when her fingers scissor inside you, rubbing on your walls as you become pliant in her touch, inviting as you seem to suck her in deeper.

stoner!vi who pays attention, cause she's fixated in your face when you fall apart, dissolving into pleasure, splintering in lust for a brief moment she prolongs as much as it's possible, slowly pumping her fingers inside your tight entrance to keep seeing that pretty face all constricted in need, babbling about how good she's eating you, how full you are when her fingers fuck you dumb like that.

stoner!vi who shoves her fingers in your mouth right after fucking you, using her thumb to trace them along the seam at first, coaxing you to open them for her, pushing down on your tongue as soon as she's granted permission.

it's her turn to smoke now.

[wendichester]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ two winchesters walk into a bar²,

summary. making a quick stop at harvelle’s has never been more fun

pairing. dean winchester x jo's cousin!reader genre. smut ( mdni )

wordcount. 1888

notes / warnings. needless to say we're the worst cousins in the world // explicit sexual content, exhibitionism, teasing, dirty talk, power play, alcohol, mild possessiveness, dean being the cockiest little shit

ᯓ★ read part 1

You should’ve left this morning.

Packed up your things, kissed Jo on the cheek, and peeled off down the highway like you always do — wind in your hair, music too loud, heart untouchable.

But instead? You’re here.

Back at Harvelle’s. Same stool. Different outfit. Lower neckline.

You claim it’s just another whiskey before the road. But the truth? You’re here because Dean said don’t be a stranger — and your spine’s still tingling from the way he looked at you when he said it.

He’s already there when you walk in. Feet up on the booth across from him, arms spread wide like he’s posing for sin itself. He spots you, and that smug little smirk curls up slow.

“Back so soon?” he drawls, voice like warm gravel.

“Jo owes me a burger,” you lie.

He doesn't buy it for a second.

“You sure that’s all you came back for?” he asks, eyes flicking down your frame like he’s checking for hidden weapons. Or weakness.

“Depends,” you say, sliding into the booth beside him. “You still being friendly?”

He hums low. “That depends.”

“On what?”

Dean leans in just a bit — his shoulder brushing yours. “How well you can handle your cousin being jealous when she sees you sitting here.”

You laugh, soft and dangerous. “You want to mess with the girl that fixes your drinks?”

He doesn’t answer. He just tilts his beer to his lips and lets the silence burn between you like a slow fuse.

Jo’s behind the bar when she spots you two — and her expression instantly flattens. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Dean grins. “She missed me.”

You wink. “He’s a bad influence.”

“No shit,” Jo mutters, slamming a glass down a little too hard.

Suddenly, you're having way too much fun.

It starts small.

Dean orders you a drink before you can. Slides it across the table like it’s a peace offering laced with something illicit. His hand lingers too long when your fingers brush. He leans in to whisper something snarky — and doesn’t pull away.

He’s warm. Smells like smoke and soap and the kind of laundry detergent that makes you think of motel rooms and leather seats. His thigh brushes yours. Once. Twice. Then it just stays there.

You shift. He doesn’t.

Jo’s watching like she wants to throw a holy water bottle at both of you.

Dean catches her glare and leans closer, voice low. “She’s gonna kill me.”

You smile, all teeth. “Maybe you deserve it.”

He chuckles — and it’s dangerous, that sound. Makes your chest tight.

“You’re cruel,” he murmurs.

“You like it.”

You should’ve left. You really should’ve left.

An hour in, you’re on his lap.

Not intentionally. Not… not intentionally, either.

The booth’s too small, the group’s grown — someone brought cards and a second round of drinks. Jo has retreated to the bar like a defeated general. And Dean? Dean just patted his thigh and said, "You want room or not, sweetheart?"

So yeah. You slid in.

Now you're perched sideways across his lap, one leg crossed over the other, dress riding high and a little wicked.

And Dean?

Dean’s hand is on your thigh.

At first it’s harmless. Friendly. Maybe even gentlemanly, if you squint hard enough and lie to yourself.

But then his thumb moves.

Just a stroke. Absent-minded, casual — if casual felt like a live wire.

You shift slightly, pretending to adjust your dress. His hand follows.

Higher.

A little higher.

Your breath catches.

He doesn't look at you — just keeps talking to Ash and sipping his beer like he’s not drawing invisible circles on the sensitive skin of your leg.

And when his fingers creep even closer to the line where your thigh meets heat?

You squeeze his arm.

Hard.

He grins against his glass.

"You okay there?" he murmurs, voice like silk over sin.

You hum sweetly, leaning in to whisper in his ear. "Touch me like that again and we’ll be the reason Jo torches this place down.”

He makes a noise — low and rough — like you just threatened him and turned him on.

“Wanna test her patience?” he asks.

You pause. Smile.

“Dean,” you whisper, voice like a dare, “I am.”

Jo storms over ten minutes later like she’s had enough of the flirting and the smug and the thigh-touching that isn’t subtle at all anymore.

She slaps down a plate of fries in front of you like she’s trying not to aim for your head.

“You,” she points at Dean. “Out.”

Dean blinks. “Me? I didn’t do anything.”

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh.

“You think I don’t see what’s going on over here?” Jo hisses.

“I’m just sitting here.” Dean grins, hand now completely still on your thigh, a picture of innocent corruption. “She’s the one in my lap.”

You raise your hand. “Guilty.”

“Jesus,” Jo mutters, glaring between you both. “You’re like gasoline and a goddamn match.”

Dean leans forward, still grinning. “Yeah, but you’ve gotta admit — we make a hell of a fire.”

Jo throws her hands up. “I hate both of you.”

You sip your drink, smirking. “Love you too, Jo.”

She storms off.

Dean chuckles, soft and satisfied. His fingers trace one last teasing line just under the hem of your dress, and this time? You don’t stop him.

“You always this much trouble?” he murmurs.

You glance at him, eyes dark. “Only when it’s fun.”

He raises his brows. “And this is fun?”

“Dean,” you murmur, words syrupy slow, “this is so much fun.”

His grin goes full wolf.

“Can I make it even more?”

You barely have time to blink before his hand is on the move — slow, deliberate, fingers skimming up the inside of your thigh like he’s reading Braille in a dirty novel. You jerk, instinctively, but it’s too late — the dress doesn’t stop him. Nothing does.

And suddenly, he’s touching you.

There. Right there.

Skin to skin under the hem, where no one can see but you feel everything — the graze of his knuckles, the unmistakable slide of fingers stroking over your panties, testing the dampness like it’s a damn compliment.

You choke on your breath.

The table bursts into laughter at something Ash says. Dean just chuckles — all cool and casual, like he isn’t two seconds from breaking every decency law in the zip code.

You shoot him a look. Sharp. Wide-eyed.

His eyes flick to you for the briefest second, lazy and smug, like he knows.

He presses his fingers in.

Just slightly.

And oh — oh you’re wet. Already. Your cheeks go scarlet.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” he mutters under his breath, lips brushing your ear like it’s an inside joke. “No one’s got a clue.”

They don’t.

Jo’s still at the bar, but she’s watching you like she’s waiting for Dean to try something. She has no idea it already started.

And Dean? He’s playing it cool — talking to Ellen now about hunting routes and some crap you can’t even hear because all the blood’s rushed between your legs.

You shift on his lap, trying to breathe, trying not to grind down, because his fingers are back — two of them now, stroking slow over the soaked fabric like he’s savoring it.

“Keep that poker face,” he murmurs. “Or they’ll all know how bad you want it.”

You squeeze your thighs around his hand, but it does nothing. If anything, it traps him tighter. His knuckle drags against your clothed clit and you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you taste copper.

“Dean—”

“Hm?” He’s sipping his drink again, calm as a cat in the sun.

“You’re such a fucking—”

“A gentleman?” he offers sweetly. Then dips a finger under the edge of your underwear. Just enough to make you jolt.

You gasp — and laugh immediately after, high-pitched and breathless, covering your mouth like Ash just told a really inappropriate joke.

No one questions it.

Dean’s fingers dip again.

Lower.

Skin to slick skin now, fingertips barely ghosting your folds. He doesn’t even move much — just rests there, warm and teasing, a whisper away from slipping inside.

You shiver. You want to grind against him. Instead, you sit stock still like a statue carved by lust itself.

Jo glances over.

You smile. Pink-faced. Shaking a fry like it’s your new personality.

“Everything okay?” she calls, suspicion laced into every word.

Dean’s the one who answers.

“Peachy,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “She’s just a little warm.”

You swear you’ll kill him later.

He slides one finger inside you.

You nearly drop your drink.

The heat between your legs is electric. He doesn’t go fast — just enough to remind you he’s there. Inside. Real. And you’re on his lap, legs spread, heart pounding like a war drum while he finger-fucks you in a goddamn bar booth.

No one knows.

No one.

Dean's hand stays hidden, his body blocking any curious eyes. He murmurs something about cars to Ash, never missing a beat, while his finger curls — just so — and your eyes roll back for half a second before you blink them wide again.

You’re breathing through your nose like you’re in labor. Every shift, every twitch of his hand sends a wave of ohmygod rolling up your spine.

And the worst part?

You're close.

So close.

You clench around him without meaning to.

Dean exhales — low, dark, impressed.

“You’re filthy,” he whispers. “I fuckin’ love it.”

You fist the edge of the table, lips pressed shut in a fake smile.

And then—

He adds another finger.

That’s it.

Your hips jerk just slightly. Barely a twitch. But enough that you know you’re not gonna last. Not like this.

“I need air,” you gasp suddenly, rising so fast you nearly knock over your drink.

Dean lets you go with an amused little smirk.

“Want company?”

You glare at him, flushed and trembling. “I swear to god—”

But he’s already standing.

You don’t wait for approval. You bolt toward the back door of Harvelle’s like a sinner sprinting from church.

Dean follows.

The door swings open and slams behind you — the back lot bathed in silver moonlight and shadows. The cicadas are loud. Your heart’s louder.

You don’t speak.

Dean grabs your wrist, turns you — slams you gently against the Impala’s side with a thud and a dark, dangerous smile.

“You’re soaked,” he says, mouth brushing yours.

“You’re a fucking menace.”

His hands are on you again before you can finish — shoving your dress up, dragging your panties down just enough.

“I could’ve made you come in there,” he murmurs. “Right on my fingers. Bet no one would’ve even noticed.”

“You’re such an asshole,” you gasp.

“Yeah?” His mouth moves to your neck. “But you’re the one who sat on my lap.”

You kiss him then — hard, desperate, filthy. His hips pin you to the car, and the metal’s cold but his body’s burning. You can feel how hard he is through his jeans and it only makes you wetter.

He drags a hand between your legs again.

“You want me to finish what I started?” he growls.

You nod, breathless. “Please.”

And he does.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[starktonyx]

Nothing’s gonna stop us - Thunderbolts* x Reader!

Word count: 4k.

Requested by @doctoriletyougotogalaxy : Soooo what about a karaoke night at the towerrrr the reader can sing "nothing's gonna stop us now" by starship! and lottsss of family dynamic and interaction with bob and yelena and bucky and ava and alexei and john omg i can't choosee.

Description: An attempt at homemade cookies, ridiculous requests to Valentina and a karaoke night will have you finding out you have a hidden singer in your team.

Note: Avengers tower fics are so back. I hope I made your request justice, this is pure fluff and many interactions between our beloved thunderbolts. Loved writing this, hope you enjoy! I recommend listening to the song when the karaoke starts for full immersion lol.

Masterlist

Laidback nights at the Watchtower didn't happen very often. Nights when no one was off on some random mission in the middle of nowhere, no last minute invitations to stupid events, not one single call from Valentina.

It was perfect.

These nights were simple in the way that mattered, space to breathe, to laugh, to learn the little things about each other that didn't come out in broad daylight. And, even if you hadn't picked it in the first place, this had become what you called home.

Not that you would ever say it out loud, or anyone in the team really, but it meant everything to you.

You'd just pulled the last cookie tray out of the oven, the kitchen felt warm as the air filled with the sweet smell of melted chocolate chips. Bob stood beside you, fidgeting with the sleeves of his hoodie, clearly proud but, as always, kept his thoughts to himself. He had spent the entire week casually hinting at wanting to bake, dropping recipe tiktoks in the group chat, mumbling things like "If anyone wants, we could maybe ... try these?" When passing around the group.

You knew he would never get the motivation to get up and actually do it on his own, and if he ever did, he would drop it halfway through. Maybe that's why he hinted it the whole week. When it came to Bob, who never ever wanted to bother anyone with his needs, you gladly took that as progress.

Now, you didn't know shit about baking. Neither did Bob, really. But if it meant getting him out of his room and doing something other than quietly fading into the background, you were all in.

So, as tonight the whole team would be home to enjoy some homemade cookies, you cornered him in the kitchen and made it happen.

The open kitchen, completely visible from the living room, was a mess. The counters dusted in flour and so many dirty bowls and spoons laying around. Your teammates had been throwing curious glances at you the whole afternoon, and it was funny how John, the one who insists to act like he's the most disinterested person in the building (he goes neck to neck with Bucky on that one) had been lifting his head ever so slightly from the couch to look over the counter way too many times to count.

There had also been complaints about you 'taking too long' but, 6 hours wasn't bad at all for amateurs, right?

All that time for the cookies to end up looking lopsided, but at least the smell was heavenly, and judging by Bob's quiet excitement, they were a masterpiece.

"Cookies are ready, everyone!" you called out, lining up the cookie trays on the counter that faced the living room.

Bob smiled nervously as he scratched the back of his head "Um... take as many as you'd like".

Big mistake, when you had three supersoldiers waiting like hawks.

He didn't even finish his sentence before John took three long strides to reach the counter, leaning over the trays to examine the cookies with his arms crossed.

You rolled your eyes. "You need a magnifying glass or something?" You huffed, and the fucker only fake smiled at you as he used his finger to flip a couple of cookies that looked darker than the others.

"Didn't even burn 'em" he muttered with approval, nodding at both of you before popping two into his mouth without hesitation, despite the fact they were still steaming.

"You angels!" Alexei exclaimed right behind him, grabbing a handful. "You will make strong wives one day" His thick accent muffled by a mouthful of cookies he was trying to chomp down at super soldier speed.

"Wow ... okay" Bob clears his throat as he turned red from the weird compliment.

John snorted at the ridiculous comment, as he kept grabbing one cookie after another like they were infinite. Bucky dragged his feet reluctantly to the counter, offering you a small side smile at you as he approached the tray, muttering a quiet thank you when he grabbed his batch of cookies before turning back to the couch.

"Jeez, leave some for the girls" Ava complained, making everyone jump as she fazed through the kitchen cabinets.

She hid her smirk like she didn't notice, but she loved doing that.

She raised an eyebrow at the almost empty trays, with her signature judging look. She grabs one with casual confidence, took an uninterested bite and froze mid chew. Her face shifted into reluctant surprise.

"I'll be damned" she muttered, grabbing another. "These aren't bad at all"

Bob was beaming.

And if he was beaming, all of you were, too.

You scanned the room, eyes darting toward the hallway before they almost finished the stash.

"Where's Yelena?" You suddenly remember, Bob's eyes go wide.

Right on cue, she makes appearance strutting through the hallway.

"Gather 'round losers, it's karaoke time" Yelena announces as she walks past the group, collective grunts immediately followed.

She stopped dead in her tracks, mid stride, her cute nose wrinkling as she caught the sweet scent coming from the almost empty trays.

"Wait, the cookies were ready and you didn't call me?"

"We literally took them out of the oven five seconds ago" you said, hands up in mock defense. Bob nodded profusely beside you.

"YEH"  "it's true" "sure", the super soldiers tried to back you up, but the crumbs on their shirts made them guilty as charged.

Yelena narrowed her eyes at them, then made her move. "Let's see these–hands off, Walker!"

She smacked John's hand just as he reached for the last two cookies. He groaned, but decided it was better to go back to the couch instead of fighting with the blonde girl for a goddamn cookie.

Yelena took her first bite, eyes widening as she chewed. "Mmm ... oh my god, Bob. These are amazing" 

Another praise that made him visibly shrink a little. "Y/N helped me" he said quickly, deflecting the compliment.

You gave him a sideways glare. He caught it and fumbled a bit.

"Uh ... I mean, thank you, Yelena"

Her mouth was still full, but her smile was unmistakable.

She gave him a little nod, eyes soft as they always were with him. Then, without missing a beat, she turned toward the living room again where Bucky and John were sulking into the couches.

"Alright! Now that you've been fed, it's showtime"

That girl couldn't half ass anything in her life, so if she said it was showtime, it was freaking showtime. And you always backed her up with the same energy you'd bring to a bar fight.

You walked over to the TV and powered on the freshly installed karaoke system, with a whole disco ball included. Val had, very reluctantly, been forced to install it. It had been your demand of the month.

Since Valentina Allegra de Fontaine technically worked for you now, courtesy of the mountain of dirty, dangerous secrets you had on her, you made sure to remind her of the power dynamic whenever possible. Monthly demands had become a tradition.

She hated it of course, which only made it more fun. The team’s demands just kept getting ridiculous at this point.

"Val, I want a fireplace in my room"

"You are on the 29th floor"

"Exactly, gets cold"

"Val we need a private jet"

"You have access to five military grade aircrafts"

"Yeah, but I mean like ... a superstar jet. With champagne and mood lighting"

"Val, I hate the tile in my bathroom"

"It's marble"

"Ugly marble"

"Val, I want to meet Harry Styles”

"...What?"

So yes, in the grand scheme of things, a tiny disco ball and a karaoke machine wasn't the worst of your requests.

The very first karaoke night had been just you and Yelena. No fancy setup, just too many vodka shots that had you standing on the coffee table, using the TV remote as a microphone while screaming lyrics off YouTube.

Bucky had come back from a long mission that night. Exhausted, annoyed, and probably still bleeding somewhere, when he walked straight through the living room just as you both hit a particularly off key chorus of Total Eclipse of the Heart.

"You know" he muttered, barely sparing a glance "all you're missing is a disco ball"

He said it like a joke. But when you told Bob about it, he loved the idea, even if he never participated in the singing.

So, a disco ball was next on Valentina's, or actually Mel's, shopping list.

Karaoke nights were still ... just Yelena and you singing. Mostly. Alexei being the only one willingly joining without you even asking. But at least now, everyone gathered around to watch your performances, and singing or no singing, you were just glad they were there.

Now here you were again, reunited in the living room. The glittery ball spun slowly overhead as the lights dimmed and the first hum of mic feedback buzzed through the speakers.

You always opened karaoke night.

Standing in front of the team gathered on the couches, you took a moment to analyze your audience for the evening.

Bucky sat like a sulky cat on the left corner of the main couch, head supported by his metal arm, elbow resting on the armrest. And, clearly, regretting his life choices once again.

John sat stiff on the opposite end, acting nonchalant, like whatever he was watching on his phone was more important than your song choice tonight.

Alexei, who had disappeared for a few minutes to put on his ridiculous 'New Avengerz' onesie, was now seated in the middle, radianting excitement. Nothing filled his heart more than seeing his daughter happy, enjoying moments like this with her little weird crew. But it was fine, he thought, daughter is also weird.

Bob took the beanbag next to John, the eager smile on his face making your heart pinch a little. He looked like he'd been waiting his whole life to be invited to something like this.

Ava chose to stand, lazily leaning on the wall near John's seat, with her arms crossed. Yelena, as always, sat closest to you, perched on the edge of an armchair.

"God ... if Alexei tries to harmonize again I'm tasing him" Bucky squeezes his eyes shit, his hand already rubbing his temple.

"Hey ... the people love my voice"

"The people called the police last time, Alexei" Ava rolled her eyes, her accent made sarcasm sound dead serious.

"What will they do? Arrest the New Avengerz?" He protested, making sure he emphasized the 'z'.

"Dad, please" Yelena sighed, already embarrassed by his outfit.

"I guess we'll find out if Val's soundproofing system works now" John muttered, eyes still glued to the phone.

"Alright alright, don't get too excited" You joked, holding your hands up to calm down the 'crowd'. "For tonight's performance, I have decided to grace your ears with my very own rendition of 'Nothing's gonna stop us', our new signature song" You announced enthusiastically.

Bob was the only one who clapped, sinking deeper into his beanbag when only Alexei's heavy claps followed.

"Since when is it our signature song?" Ava questioned, her head tilting to the side.

"Since Bucky was humming it in the jet last mission..." Yelena teased, shooting you an amused look.

Bucky exhaled sharply. You'd been pestering him about that song ever since you heard him hum it. And of course, you'd dragged Yelena into it too, you two were basically a single chaotic unit at this point.

"You have to be kidding me"

You ignored him completely as Yelena pressed play. The lights shifted to a soft pink hue, bouncing across the room thanks to the disco ball.

The beat of drums kicked in, followed by the soft melody. You started swaying from side to side, and from the corner of your eye, you noticed Bob doing the same. John unconsciously began tapping his foot to the rhythm, as he scrolled through muted reels. Bucky sat completely still, fighting with his inner demons not to join in.

"Looking in your eyes, I see a paradise

This world that I found is too good to be true..."

It didn't take longer than the first verses for yelena to ditch the chair and join you, taking another microphone as the pre chorus played.

"Let them say we're crazy, I don't care about that

Put your hand in my hand, baby don't ever look back..."

The others looked mildly amused as you and Yelena swayed in perfect sync.

"Look at them" Ava chuckled, whispering to John. "Deadliest couple in at least three time zones, and they perform like their lives depend on it"

"They're cute. In a 'definitely killed people' kind of way" Bob added softly, barely audible over the music. But Yelena caught it.

"See, Bob has taste" Yelena interrupted her singing to flip Ava off. She just rolled her eyes.

By the time the chorus hit, Yelena and you were giving it your all.

"And we can build this dream together, standing strong forever, nothing's gonna stop us now..."

"Come on Ava, let us hear you!" You called to her, fully expecting to be ignored.

You hadn't managed to convince Ava into karaoke yet. She was definitely one of the girls, someone you could always count on for advice, or you know, a quick murder. But you weren't at 'let's perform like lunatics in front of the group' level just yet.

Or so you thought.

Maybe it was the sugar rush from the cookies she had earlier, cause she didn't protest. She just shrugged like she had absolutely nothing better to do and walked over to the TV, picking up another mic.

You blinked as she tapped it to check it was on. Everyone leaned in, waiting.

"I'm so glad I found you, I'm not gonna lose you

Whatever it takes, I will stay here with you"

To everyone's horror and awe, her voice was perfect. Like, radio perfect. Smooth, clear, and effortless.

John finally looked up from his phone, his jaw threatening to drop to the floor. Even Bucky raised an eyebrow, suddenly intrigued.

"Beautiful ... like funeral" Alexei thought out loud, earning a sigh from Bucky, it was his fault for being interested in the first place.

"What the fuck, Ava" John cursed as she wrapped up her solo, his eyebrows furrowed trying to understand how that angelic voice came out the most insufferable woman he'd even met.

"I spent years alone in a lab" Ava replied casually. "Singing passed the time" she shrugged like it didn't matter in the least to her, and returned to her usual spot by the wall.

"You were like ... singing singing" You emphasized, as the instrumental continued alone in the background. "And here I thought I was the talent"

"You are" Yelena said, patting your shoulder. "Just not vocally" You blinked at how that was supposed to be a compliment.

"You guys are missing the song" Bob pointed out, gesturing to the screen where the lyrics kept scrolling by.

You extended the mic to Bucky, but he didn't take it. He stared at it, then at you, then back again at the mic. "Come on Bucky, it's your song" You whined.

"Sing, sing, sing!" Bob chanted enthusiastically, until Bucky shot him a death glare and it died down mid cheer.

With a long suffering grunt, Bucky stood up. He wasn't about to let this drag out any longer, it was better to get it over with so you'd all leave him alone.

Bucky took the mic like it offended him. Like he might throw it across the room, but he'd already committed, no way was he backing out now.

"Okay, but I'm only doing one verse" he said, like this was some negotiation.

You and Yelena just nodded excited in unison.

Alexei leaned towards John and whispered, "What if he sings like sexy ghost?"

"What does that even mean?" John muttered, his face scrunched up.

And as the bridge kicked in, Bucky sang.

"Oooh, all that I need is you

All that I ever need"

His voice cracked a little at first, like it hadn't been used like this in years. But then it was rough, smoky, deep. It suited him.

"And all I want to do is hold you forever

Forever and ever"

By the time he sang the last line of the bridge, you saw the shift in his posture, his eyes half closed, his shoulders loosening, the furrow in his brow easing.

Yelena gasped dramatically and tapped his shoulder with both hands.

"James Buchanan Barnes" she said, placing a dramatic hand on her chest. "Was that emotion I just witnessed?"

"Shut up" he muttered, handing the mic back and slumping into his seat .

Bob, not scared this time, clapped gently, as if trying not to startle him. "That was really, really good"

Even Walker had the decency to nod, raising his eyebrows. "Okay. Didn't expect that".

Bucky didn't reply, but at least he didn't look miserable anymore.

You smirked, eyes scanning the room until they landed on your next victim. You extended the microphone towards Walker, your other hand making a grabbing motion in the air.

"You're up, soldier" you said.

You could see it in his eyes, he wanted to. He'd never admit it, but he'd been waiting for someone to invite him.

"I don't sing"

You rolled your eyes. My god, why did this man try so hard to act like he doesn't care. You knew he did. You glared at him, and it surprisingly it seemed to work the first time.

Huh. Looks like sugar really was the solution all along.

He recluctanly, not really at all, took your hand and jumped in front of the group, as the chorus hit one more time.

"And we can build this world together..."

His rendition was... decent. Maybe a little too much air punching, but honestly? He was selling it. You and Yelena danced behind him for support.

Alexei didn't take long to get up to dance beside you and yelena, not without offering his hand to Ava to bring her along as well. You did the same to Bucky, dragging him towards the dance floor as he shook his head amused.

You all moved to the beat of the guitar while John finished his verse and joined the dancing, mic still in hand. Bucky finally started loosening up, throwing in a few of his old 40's moves. God, he really had been a dancer back then.

You giggled when he grabbed your hand, twirling both you and Yelena at once. Across from you, John twirled Ava. And Alexei? He twirled... himself.

"Can I ... C-Can I try?" A quiet request from the beanbag in the corner made you all freeze in place.

Somehow the music suddenly paused, and the disco ball stopped spinning.

Bob. It had to be Bob. Everyone turned to look.

And there he was, slowly rising from the beanbag, hands wringing nervously, covered by his hoodie sleeves that were way too long.

Yelena blinked. "You've never ever joined us before"

"I know" Bob said quietly. "But... you all looked like you were having fun"

John smiled gently and handed him the mic. "Take it away, Bobby"

The music kicked in again, courtesy of Bob, and the final chorus began. He brought the mic to his lips.

And it wasn't just a timid little try.

No, Bob sang like a miracle. Your very own Bob, who got startled if someone opened a soda can too fast.

You'd expected soft and shy, and maybe a little out of tune. But instead, you got his entire soul poured into every word. He gave Sam Smith. He gave Adele. His voice was deep, haunting, like all his pain had been laced into every note.

"Nothing's gonna stop us now..."

Bob finished the chorus with his eyes closed, holding onto the mic for dear life with both hands as the song died down.

You could've heard a pin drop. Or Yelena's jaw hitting the floor.

"I'm never singing again" you whispered.

"You're our lead singer now!" Yelena yelled, launched into a side hug.

"Seriously" Bucky said, pointing. "That was something special, Bob" He admitted, patting his shoulder.

Bob blinked up at everyone, wide eyed. "I just... wanted to be part of it”

"Part of it? Bob you are it!" you said, grinning. "Next time, you're opening the night, if you'd like to of course"

"We've been listening to these two lunatics for so long" Ava shook her head, gesturing between you and Yelena "and all this time we had you just sitting there"

John clapped a hand on Bob's shoulder. "Well Bobby, looks like you're officially promoted"

"To what?" Bob asked innocently, face flushed from all the attention.

"Karaoke King”

Bob just smiled, quietly thanking everyone as they patted his shoulder. He looked like a kid on the playground who'd just been told he was cool for the first time in his life.

As the adrenaline wore off, the group began to scatter. John and Ava went straight to the kitchen in search of water. Bob followed behind, as Yelena and Alexei congratulated him again for the cookies.

You collapsed onto the couch next to Bucky, head draped over the back cushion as you caught your breath.

Your fingers found their way into his long, wavy hair, absentmindedly playing with a few strands. Bucky didn't even flinch, he was used to random hands in his hair ever since Valentina's infamous "makeover".

His eyes stayed glued to his phone, thumb scrolling through what looked like an eternal flood of congressional updates. Completely zoned out, his foot tapped against the floor as he began quietly humming to himself.

"Huungry eyes..."

Your hand froze mid-stroke. His voice did too.

He closed his eyes, and slowly turned his head towards you. The horror on his face said it all.

You were already on your feet, rising like a cartoon, microphone in hand and a wicked smile blooming on your face.

"Let's go, Barnes" you said, extending the mic like a challenge. "The stage is all yours"

[coffeeanddonutscafe]

Astarion’s Hidden Strength — Headcanons part 2

The Switch is Sudden — And Terrifying

One moment, he’s lounging against a tree, half-laughing at Gale’s latest ramble. The next — a twig snaps nearby. His spine straightens. His head tilts unnaturally sharp. And his eyes? Red. Alert. Starving. No transition. Just predator.

The Shift Is Physical. Violent.

His elvish grace no longer looks delicate. It looks lethal. Tav once described it as, “Watching a silk ribbon tighten around someone’s throat.”

His Teeth Click When He’s Agitated

Like a predator baring warning. A little click, jaw twitching. You’ll hear it in the quiet moments before a fight. Tav once heard it and simply muttered, “Oh, he’s gone feral again.”

He Smells Fear

Literally. His nostrils flare. His mouth parts slightly. He can scent it like perfume. Tav once saw him smile — wide, teeth too long — just as a cultist backed away trembling. “Oh yes… you’re ripe.”

Then he steps forward, slow and graceful, and whispers:

“Run.”

After all, the chase is half the pleasure.

He Growls Without Meaning To

Not just in battle. When someone touches Tav without permission. When someone speaks of Cazador. It slips out low in his chest, a growl deep and ancient, not meant for words. Everyone hears it. No one comments.

His Hands Are Always Cold

Not icy. Not corpse-cold. Just… unsettling. Like marble left in shadow. When he touches your wrist, it’s like the blood in your veins pauses for just a second. He likes the contrast — your warmth against his chill.

He Stalks Even in Combat

While others charge, Astarion prowls. Circling. Waiting for the moment a neck is exposed or an enemy is distracted. And then—he pounces. Not a fighter, but a hunter. It’s never messy. It’s swift. He doesn’t brawl — he strikes, like a serpent through lace.

He Watches Like a Beast Studies Prey

He doesn’t just look at you — he studies you. The jugular. The pulse under your jaw. The way your chest rises when you panic. Gale once caught that look and quietly moved behind Lae’zel.

His Smile Is Not Always Human

Sometimes it stretches too wide. Sometimes he smiles with too many teeth.

And when he tilts his head — when he’s deciding whether to toy with you or tear you open — it’s pure predator, wearing lace and lies.

Eyes Like Knives in the Dark

They gleam when he’s fighting. When his blood is up.

When the world slips into slow-motion for him, those red eyes cut through fog and illusion — tracking prey with the patience of something who’s stalked forests longer than you’ve been alive.

They don’t blink. Not when he’s hunting.

When He’s Hungry, His Voice Drops

That usual flirty sarcasm? Gone. Instead, there’s this deep, low thing to his voice — velvet, but tight like it’s being forced through clenched teeth. Astarion doesn’t snap when hungry — he becomes still. Watching. Breathing slow. Every sense on edge. It unsettles even the bravest of the party.

He’s Stronger When He’s Angry

Not many people get to see it, but when he’s truly furious — not playacting, not sarcastic — something ancient floods up from his blood. His voice drops. His muscles tense. He doesn’t roar — he hisses, low and guttural, and the very air feels like it wants to step back.

He Doesn’t Break a Sweat — He Breaks Necks

Literally. No drama, no battle cry. Just movement: quick, quiet, final. There’s a predatory efficiency to it when he stops pretending to be “the pretty one” and shows what vampiric instincts can do.

He Has No Fatigue Like Mortals Do

It takes hours, days even, before he slows. While others sleep or rest, he stays unnaturally still — and when it’s time to move, he’s instantly alert.

It unnerves the others sometimes, especially Karlach, who once joked, “I swear you just power-nap with your eyes open like some kind of murder statue.”

Sometimes He Forgets to Breathe

Hours can pass. Astarion will sit motionless, unreadable, utterly still — not even blinking.

Only when someone speaks too close does he return to himself — with a blink and a hiss, like a cat waking mid-hunt.

……………………………………..

Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it.

Alright, so here are my Astarion headcanons, everyone! I know he’s technically a spawn, but I love leaning into his full vampiric self.

What really gets me is the contrast between his angelic elven beauty and that feral, beastly vampire side.

It’s like—rawr—my adorable little murder baby has claws and everything. 💖

Here’s a part 1 btw.

Masterlist with my Astarion fics

[jungwnies]

to lovers | kimi antonelli

୨ৎ : featuring : kimi antonelli ୨ৎ : synopsis : best friends to lovers, what else do i need to say.

୨ৎ : genre : fluff ୨ৎ : word count : 447

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ 10k event | masterlist ୨ৎ

it started the way these things always do — with a look.

not a loud declaration. not a dramatic kiss in the rain. just… a look.

you’d known kimi since you were both teenagers, your lives forever intertwined through circuits, red-eye flights, and late-night karting sessions that turned into lifelong memories. he wasn’t one for big emotions or flowery words. but he looked at you like you were everything.

and you pretended not to notice.

the two of you were curled up in the quiet of his hotel room in barcelona, post-practice, post-pasta, post-everything. the air smelled like his cologne and the faint citrus of your body spray, mingling into something comfortably familiar.

you were scrolling through his phone, teasing him over his terrible camera roll.

“why do you have five pictures of a pigeon?”

“it looked funny,” he mumbled, face hidden under a pillow.

“and blurry,” you added, snorting. “god, you’re so bad at taking pictures—”

“yeah?” his voice was muffled but steady. “you’re in most of them.”

your heart stuttered.

he peeked out from under the pillow, eyes a little too open, a little too serious. “don’t look at me like that.”

you blinked. “like what?”

“like you don’t know what i’m talking about.”

the tension hung there — thin but heavy, buzzing in your ears like a radio tuned just off-station. you tried to laugh it off, but it came out nervous. “kimi…”

“i’m just saying,” he said softly, “you always ask why i don’t talk to girls or go on dates. it’s because no one else is you.”

silence.

“kimi,” you said again, this time quieter. “we’re best friends.”

his jaw clenched, just a little. “yeah. i know.”

you sat up slightly, trying to get your thoughts in order, but they were all crashing together in one stupid, messy wave of oh.

because now it made sense — the way he always stood a little too close when you were cold. the way he let you rant for hours even when he didn’t care about the topic. the way he always drove just a little slower when you were in the passenger seat.

you reached for his hand, your fingers brushing. “so what if i don’t want to be just your best friend?”

his eyes flicked to yours. “then i’d probably do this.”

and then he kissed you.

soft. steady. like he’d been holding it in for months and now that the door was open, there was no going back.

when he pulled away, his voice was low, almost shy. “don’t look at me like that either.”

you smiled, leaning in again. “like i’m in love with you?”

he exhaled. “exactly like that.”

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[dulceamore]

love hangover

pairings oldman!joel miller x sunshine!reader

summary you talking to joel’s dick like it’s a human being and calling it ‘princess sofia’ catching him off guard. “does princess sofia wanna come out and play?”

tags grumpy x sunshine, minors dni cuteness overload. established relationship, unspecified age gap, jackson era. drunk reader, joel becoming confused as fuck, explicit language, dirty talking. joel calling you sugar, baby, & sweetheart.

masterlist

joel fumbled with his keys at the door, trying to keep his balance while holding you up. you were leaning against him like a sleepy sloth. the party that tommy had sponsored had been wild.

joel hadn’t even had more than one beer, but you? well, you had lost count somewhere between the fourth shot. the world was pleasantly blurry and the ground beneath your feet shifting when you least expected it.

joel sighed, opened the lights, and kicked the door shut behind him, amusement lining his words as he muttered something about your inability to pace yourself, but his grip was unwavering.

joel caught you elbow just before you walked directly into a coat rack.

“easy there,” he said with a chuckle. “that rack ain’t done anything wrong to you, sweetheart,”

sensing your unsteady sway, without hesitation, swept you up into his arms, carrying you bridal style. the sudden lift made your stomach flip in surprise, but his grip was steady, firm, effortless.

“you alright, darlin'?”

“i feel like i’m on those things that goes round and round on a horse? a merry-go-round, yeah, that one, ”

“you’re hopeless,” he murmured. you barely had the energy to protest, only managing a content sigh as you pressed closer against his chest. he smelled like fresh laundry and the lingering traces of cologne.

with you in his arms, he moved through the dimly lit livingroom, lowering you carefully onto the couch. the moment your head hit the armrest, a satisfied hum escaped your lips.

joel lingered for a moment, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, his touch feather-light.

“stay put,” he said but you seem to be in a different planet.

“i love you,”

“i love you too.” joel smiled, kneeling to unlace your boots.

with a tired sigh, joel finally let himself sink onto the couch beside you. the cushions shifted under his weight, his arm naturally draping over the backrest as he tilted his head back, exhaling slowly.

he let his hand rest lightly against your thigh, his fingers absentmindedly tracing invisible patterns.

you leaned into him, warm and soft and buzzing with end-of-the-night chaos.

then you looked down and paused.

you leaned in close, “i’ve been thinking…”

“that’s ‘lways concernin’.”

you pointed at his crotch. “we need to talk about her.”

joel blinked and looked at you. “who?”

she grinned devilishly. “princess sofia.”

there was a beat of stunned silence.

joel squinted. “am sorry but who the fuck is princess sofia?”

“princess sofia. that’s what i’ve just now decided to call your—” you waved vaguely at his groin.

“what? ain’t no way you’re s’posed to go namin’ things while being under the influence.”

“but she’s been hidden away all evening,”

you poked his hip with exaggerated gentleness. “you’ve been hiding her from the world, joel.”

“...my pants?”

you didn’t answer. instead, you sat in his lap with your legs in between joel's. your fingers moved up to his chest, swift and mischievous, and began unbuttoning his shirt. fast and precise.

joel blinked, startled. “whoa, sweetheart, we doin’ this right now?”

“shh,” you said, still working on the buttons. “this is important.”

“what?”

you looked up at him, eyes gleaming, then dropped your gaze once again and whispered with all the sultry seriousness you could muster.

“i miss you,” you said dramatically, now addressing his lower half as if it is your lover instead.

"damn sugar, i'm over here,"

before he could protest further, you leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to his bare stomach, just above his waistband.

joel inhaled sharply, his hands grabbing hold of your waist.

you pulled back, looking up at him with faux-seriousness.

"that was for her. princess sofia.”

he stared at you, stunned. “am i the one ya callin’ princess sofia?”

“she deserves affection, joel,” you whispered, fingers gently grazing his chest. “she’s been neglected. lonely. cold.”

“she’s ain’t cold— i'm not—” he tried to argue, then stopped himself, rubbing his hand over his face.

“baby— you’ve had plenty enough of wine.”

you grinned devilishly, your gaze dropping, and your focus locked below his belt like you were staring at a treasure chest, ready to claim the crown jewels. then you leaned in.

“does princess sofia wanna come out and play?” you whispered, full of playful mischief.

joel froze, eyes widening in horror. “wait, what?”

“whoa now—ya talkin’ ‘bout my—" joel sputtered, clearly trying to process what was happening, his eyes darting around like he was trapped in some bizarre dream.

“no, no, no... ya ain’t—”

“your member, joel.” you looked at him and leaned in even closer, voice rich with seriousness. “the meat wand?”

joel just stared at you in wide-eyed disbelief. his face contorted in an expression of utter confusion.

joel continued to sputter, face red.

“who… who are you?? what happened to my sweet, normal girlfriend who don’t go throwin’ words like ‘meat wand’ ‘round?“

you smiled innocently. “she evolved.”

joel buried his face in his hands. “this is the weirdest... funniest... most terrifying thing that’s ever happened to me,”

you paused for a moment, “are you denying princess sofia her royal liberation?”

“ain’t nobody ever talked ‘bout my thing like this before. this some weird dream?”

“let’s make this dream come true then,” you said, eyes twinkling.

but you were already moving. your fingers dropping to the front of his pants and before joel could catch up, you were hurriedly unbuckling his belt, the metal clinking as you tugged at it like a woman on a mission.

“whoa—baby, wait—” joel stammered, caught entirely off guard, eyes wide as your fingers worked fast.

“she’s waited long enough, let her breathe, joel.”

joel caught your hands before you got the zipper undone.

“okay, alright—time out, princess. we ain’t doin’ this while ya narratin’ my junk like it’s a medieval artifact.”

you leaned back with a sigh, dramatically resting your head on his shoulder. “you never let me have anything.”

joel wrapped an arm around you, kissing your temple. “you can have breakfast. and a very intense conversation about your namin’ conventions tomorrow.”

“she’s going to file a complaint.”

“she can talk to hr.”

“her royalness is hr.”

joel just shook his head, grinning as he tucked you under his arm.

“goddamn help me, i love you.”

you smiled into his chest. “and she loves you, too.”

the next morning, joel was flipping pancakes, grinning as he caught a glimpse of you, wrapped in a blanket, trudging into the kitchen.

as the two of you sat down to eat pancakes, the tension of last night melted into something warm and easy.

joel handed you a syrup-covered pancake and you bit into it. “just for the record, though... i wouldn’t mind a bit of princess sofia’s return.”

you narrowed your eyes at him as you chew the pancake joel had fed you. “do not remind me of last night.”

joel’s brown eyes twinkled as he grinned, clearly yearning for you.

“princess sofia doesn’t mind playin’ today.”

you raised an eyebrow, feeling a mischievous spark.

“oh? how does princess sofia want to play today?”

joel chuckled, then leaned in close. “ain’t sure but princess sofia deserves the world. she’s earned it.”

“well, maybe your huuugee intimidating friend, princess sofia, can get it… after breakfast.”

[bloomness]

AMBER HAIR & SUN-KISSED SOUP

↳ your boyfriend is sick, and who better to take care of him than you?

ft. kaminari denki

contains: gn!reader, established relationship, fluff, like one barely suggestive joke, 2.4k words

the spare key labeled 301 dangled from the doorknob and turned with a soft click. you pushed the door open, a cool cast from inside the dark room spilling out into the hallway and brushing past your school shoes. you pulled the key out and slipped it into the pocket of your uniform. 

when you stepped into the room the first thing you noticed was how cold it was. denki liked to run the ac in his dorm room like it was his source of breath. you’d gotten used to the low temperature he kept it at but now it was colder by at least five degrees. 

you huffed out a stabilizing breath and turned to close the door as quietly as you could. without causing denki any startle you closed the door, darken the room once more. you just as quietly stepped out of shoes, leaving them at the lighting bolt designed mat by the entrance of the room. the underlying smell of a pineapple scented candle—that you had actually bought for denki after complaining about his harsh cinnamon scented one—lingered in the air, likely being lit by denki the night prior. 

you squinted across the shaded room to spot a denki-shaped lump hidden underneath a thick blanket and duvet on top of that. you let out a somewhat relieved sigh at the sight. for whatever reason just seeing your boyfriend—even if he was terribly sick and hidden under his covers—brought a type of warmth to your chest. the plastic shop bag that rested on your wrist rustled slightly as you tipped toed over to the bundled up figure. 

you reached denki’s cluttered bedside table successfully without a peep or shuffle from the sleeping boy. you pushed back a black bandana, a small notebook, and a pack of pokémon cards to make space for the bag. inside the bag was a fresh, hot container of soup, a bottle of liquid cough medicine, and a pack of watermelon sour patch kids, only for him to eat when he was feeling better. 

now that you were closer you could see the slow rise and fall that came from beneath the mountains of blankets denki was under. you sighed, a soft, light one and walked over to denki’s balcony to open the blinds—not too much but just enough to let the morning sun shine and paint the walls an enlightening white. 

you walked back to the bed, taking a seat on the edge near the headboard and watched the duvet for a bit; the way it went up and down in a slow, steady motion. it was calm and collected, like there’s nothing outside of room that could disturb it. well, other than you. 

carefully, you peel back the covers and as reverent as ever was your sick sleeping boyfriend. his was resting on his stomach with his cheek stuffed into his pillow, mouth forming a small ‘o’ that allowed soft murmurs to escape his lips. 

you pushed his overgrown golden mane back to feel his forehead with the back of your palm. hot, but not horrible. a cold that’ll pass over in a couple days. you sighed again, now fully relieved. 

you removed your hand from his forehead causing his nose to scrunch up. his eyelids fluttered momentarily—it was a sight that you had gotten used to after many shared midday naps. 

denki mumbled something so soft that you couldn't quite decipher it but it didn’t matter because within a second his eyes blinked fully open. he groaned, stretching his arms over his head before his eyes trailed over his ceiling and landed on you. his body froze and his eyes defaulted to a squint, like he had to focus his sight to confirm that you were really there. 

you choose to speak first. soft and slow for the sick boy your voice rang, “hi.” 

“y/n?” denki croaked, his eyes half lidded. he looked disoriented, like he was still unsure if this was real or just a really good dream.  

“yeah, it’s me.” you watched the double layered duvet tumble down his t-shirt as he brought himself to lean back on his elbows. his blonde hair was sticking up in so many different directions that he resembled something close to a porcupine. his mouth lay slightly agape as he rubbed the sleepiness from his eyes, yawning.

you had to use everything in your power to not tear him apart right there. though you kept your focus, you’re here for a reason. 

you turned to the bedside table and pulled out the soup from the bottom of the bag. denki’s head perked up at the scent of the fresh, hot, miso soup, “sorry to wake you. i didn’t think you’d be asleep by the time i came back.” you placed the tupperware on your lap followed by the spoon it came with. “the line was so line for no reason like, who’s going to the store at seven in the morning?” you rhetorically asked. you ripped open the plastic that was concealing the spoon and opened up the soup contained bowl to stir the liquid remedy.

denki shook his head slowly, “no, no, it’s fine.” his gaze hadn’t left you since his eyes blinked opened moments ago. his blinds were open, they weren’t when he woke up this morning so he knew you’d opened them when you came in. he was glad. the sun's early glow on your skin reflected in a way only a sinless guardian angel could, and it felt like you were his savior sent down to help him in this time of headaches and stuffy noses. 

you were in your uniform, dressed as perfectly as always with your hair already styled for the day. denki was sure you were already up and ready by the time he texted you, you were organized like that—unlike him. it was one of the many things he admired about you. 

and now you were missing class, blowing on his soup to cool it down as you tended to his sick ass—who only got sick in the first place because he didn’t wear a scarf when sledding the other day even though you insisted on it. 

denki looked up at you with absolute admiration in his eyes and for a second he wondered if sometimes he was too much for you. 

when you lifted up the soup bowl bringing it close to your face to see if the temperature was cool enough, denki’s head quickly replaced the empty spot on your lap. 

“baby…” he whined softly as his arms found their way around your waist. “i’m sick.” 

“yeah, denki. i know.” you responded as you continued to blow on the hot soup. you didn’t flinch when he made contact with you, already so used to your boyfriend’s touchness. 

“why are you here?” he asked. the question made you still for a moment. you couldn’t see denki facial expression as he was currently nuzzling into your thigh like an unneutered cat in heat so you couldn’t quite tell what message he was trying to convey. 

“because you're sick denki.” 

you wanted to say more: ‘because i hate to see you hurt’ ‘because i want to take care of you.’ ‘because class isn’t fun without you doodling on my paper or trying to talk to me from across the room.’ ‘because you're my boyfriend.’ 

but before you even had time to fully collect all your thoughts—

“you’re so obsessed with me.” denki mouth cracked into a big sloppy grin as he rubbed his cheek along your side, peering up at you with sleepy, but alive, eyes. 

you rolled a playful eye and placed the spoon in the bowl, “you still act like this even while you're sick?” you mock, tone rolling in a teasing attitude.

“can’t get rid of the real me.” he cheesed. denki kisses the side pocket of your uniform before sitting up fully. one of his hands remained on your waist, grounding. “you gonna feed me too or am i out of luck today?” he ask, grinning way too big for someone who’s temperature should have him sweating in a deep slumber.

“can’t feed you while you're talking now, can i?” denki just smiles and when you motion towards his mouth saying, “open up,” he obeys. 

“mhmm… this from armin’s place?” he hums as he slurps up a spoonful. 

you nod, “even asked for more mushrooms for you.”

denki lets out an actual groan, “you’re the best.” he vowed and his shoulders seemed to relax. “actually.” he adds and drinks up another spoon. “i’m the luckiest guy ever.” 

you don’t comment on the fact that he is slurring like a desperate hummingbird. you don’t comment on the fact that he's definitely wearing your edgeshot merch. you don’t comment when he jokingly says “i usually skip this part.” 

you just sit in the quiet buzz coming from the ac and soft approving hums coming from your boyfriend as you let your shared world fizz out around you. 

“aren’t you missing class?” denki inquired with an open mouth.

you brought the spoon up to his lips and he drinks, “not really. i got katsuki to take notes for us.” you exalted with a cheeky smile. 

“what the hell? babe!” denki exclaims, his entire face lighting up. “that’s like winning the lottery! you’re actually goated!” his almost shout is followed by a gut wrenching cough. and another. 

your face pulled into a grimace—whether it’s due to his use of ‘goated’ towards you or his awfully crunky cough, you won’t declare. “okay, let’s clam down.” you bring a hand up to his back and rub it soothingly as he clears his throat. “i’m gonna give you some medicine, that okay?”

he coughs one last time, “yes ma’am.” he mutters and is back to being all smiles, “you know, maybe we could do some rolepla—“ you shot him a glare before he could finish his sentence and he quickly nodded in understanding.

you put the half empty bowl of soup on his bedside table and grab the medicine from the bag. he takes it with no complaints. you put the medicine away and denki settled back down onto his mattress, propping his elbow up and resting his chin in the palm of his hand. 

you give him a soft smile, “i still have to go to class though… you know how aizawa is.” you crooned, not wanting the untouched softness that lingered between you two to fade away just yet.

“but you'll stay a little longer right?”

you weighed the consequences of staying. you were already late and that short text you sent iida earlier definitely wouldn’t cover you for longer than an hour. but having denki right here in front of you, looking stupidly boyishly charming, asking you to stay, wanting you. it settled everything. 

“of course.”

denki watched with a smile criminally too wide as you tidied up his bedside area before returning back to the edge of his mattress. “comfortable?”

denki half nodded, “could be more comfortable…” his finger drew shapes onto his comforter as he peered up at you. 

“yeah? how so?” denki lifted his blankets, indicating for you to join him under the covers. you raised a brow, “really?”

“aren’t you cold?” 

you bit the inside of your cheek, amused. slowly, you crawled onto his bed and under the sanctuary of his warm covers. you rested your head on the pillow parallel to denki’s. face to face with him now, you looked at your sick boyfriend—really looked at him. his red nose, slightly puffy eyes, chapped lips, and that barely there smirk he typically sported after he had just won something. “almost like this was your plan all along.” you breathed out in the close distance.

denki smiled, voice level lowering to match yours. “almost.”

he threw the sheets over you, properly tucking the both of you in. all you could see was his head just barely poking out from the sheets and all you could feel was his warmth radiating onto you. 

you couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh, “you look funny.” you pestered, though denki’s dorky smile didn’t falter at your obvious teasing. “and your hair’s a mess.” you added, looking up at his abundance of untamed hair.

denki rolled his eyes, totally unmoved by your words, “you’re so obsessed with my hair. i’ve been growing it out just for you, you know.” 

you scoffed, “no, you haven’t.” denki stared at you. “have you?” 

“wellll.. you said, and i quote, ‘guys with long hair are soooo hot’ and—“ denki paused.

“‘and…?’” denki’s eyes narrowed sheepishly, his eyes floating behind you before finding your gaze again. you huffed out a breath, “you don’t remember?” you asked, though his darting eyes already confirmed your assumption. still you had to double check, “you grew your hair out because of something i said that you don’t even fully remember?”

“baaaaabe.” he full on whined, “i heard what i had to hear and i took action!” he shook his head, “whatever, whatever, that’s not the point…” denki trailed off and suddenly he had that weary look in his eyes, “so…do you like my hair?”

your eyes soften. “well… i said what i said, right?” your hand came up to ruffle his hair. 

denki’s nose creased as you did, “you know, i don’t hate you so i can say i actually like your hair how it is.” you shoved his shoulder and chided a soft ‘shut up’ and he laughed.

a glowing lilt painted on his face as denki reached forward. slow and gentle, he trailed his hand along the side of your face, tracing your hairline and pushing your hair back. you watched his eyes fall into absolute focus as he ran his fingers through your hair. “soft.” he mumbled. “i really do like your hair.” 

you let out a satisfied hum, letting your eyes fall close as denki danced his fingertips through your scalp. 

eventually, the message came to a stop but you were already in a deep sleep by then. 

“you. next time just go to recovery girl, you could’ve gotten all your classmates sick and you missed class for no reason.” aizawa pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head.

“yes sir! sorry sir!” denki apologized profusely as he bowed.

“and you.” your teacher stared in your direction and you felt your posture immediately straighten. “don’t let this happen again.”

“yes sir!” you nodded quickly. 

“now get to your seats, you have a lot of work to make up.”

you both turn around and headed back to your seats snickering softly at each other as you did.

masterlist

[authorellasallow]

The Sallow List

pairing(s): Sebastian Sallow x Reader

words: 6.3k

summary: Sebastian Sallow sneaks into your dormitory and finds a list hidden in your bed, one filled with names of girls who want him. All except yours.

When you find him reading the list, offended and curious, he decides to prove exactly why your name belongs at the top.

warnings: contains nudity, sexual themes and mature content that is not advised for younger viewers. descriptive smut. sebastian being competive and possesive. idiots in love. all characters are aged up!

a/n: you could also find this Ao3 too.

dedicated to @kelseyreads22 for the light peer pressure. and my discord peeps for never failing to support the stupid feral shit we all just agree with all the time lmao. you could join us for laughs and content here's the link too. enjoy xx

“What?”

Sebastian Sallow sat mortified on the edge of your neatly made bed. A crumpled parchment with scribbled writings clenched on his hand, still in a blend of a confused and deafening expression.

He hadn’t planned to be there, in your dormitory. Let alone, holding his find. He’d only planned to enter your common room and ask for something, but when he saw the dormitory door slightly ajar, curiosity took the best of him.

And he knew the parchment was yours. It was your bed. It smelled like you — the faint hints of your scent that had lured him in since your arrival the fifth year.

The stemming scent that kept him up late nights when the wind slept and his mind didn’t.

The thought alone ticked Sebastian, and he brought his senses up, his eyes flickering back on the bloody list.

Yes, a list.

Girls. Every name written like some twisted Quidditch scoreboard.

Some from every house, some he’d recognized, and some that he never expected to see there.

The most quietest ones held the most pride in signing this list.

The Sallow List

Sebastian didn’t need much context behind it. The doodles beside the signatures were enough.

— Cressida Blume,  his hair looks really soft

— Gracie, his voice?? His moans are probably so deep.

— C. Greengrass, his lips are so pink. They have to be kissable!!!!

— Lenora, I seen how fast his fingers move when he has a quill…what else could they do?

“Ergh,”

It felt invasive to read, but it was a list about him. Curiosity ran thick in his blood, especially on something about him. Something that was in your property.

A slow, vexed frown began to form on his face after re-reading the scribbles. The thickset of his brows furrowed as he looked for one name in particular. Yours.

You weren’t on it.

It felt too ironic for him to know you held this list in your belongings, yet, no evidence of you was there.

He even flipped it over, then back again, convinced he might’ve possibly missed it, knowing you and your small writing he often made fun of — but you weren’t on the list.

And it bothered Sebastian’s ego.

All these girls wanting to snog him, but the one whose bed he was currently sitting on; the one he’s seeking wasn’t among the names.

How annoying — how pesty of you to orchestrate such a thing like this and not be on it.

“Typical,” Sebastian murmured to himself. You always knew how to wind him up without even fucking trying — always with him, but still out of reach after all these years.

The pulse trip you gave him of endless ventures he’d spend with you. The almost ‘what-if’s’ but too cowardly to admit, so instead, he’d spend his growth cycles just wanking himself with your scent and hoping for the best.

The consequence? Your name not being on the list.

You entered breathlessly into your dormitory without notice. Everyone had gone to Hogsmeade for the weekend, including yourself, but you’d forgotten your coin pouch, so you ran back.

When the door swung shut, your steps creaked toward your side before finally finding the person in your space.

“Oh, shit—Sebastian?”

You weren’t even phased by his arrival. The patterns you’d learned about the Slytherin man throughout the years stuck with you, so his presence wasn’t ghostly.

What was ghostly was looking at the crumbled parchment you had sworn was hidden well beneath your pillow, now sitting still over his long fingers, in his possession.

Oh shit.

The list.

The fucking list.

Sebastian didn’t flinch. Hell, he didn’t even bother to act like he’d been in trouble. He had mastermind too many times getting caught by Scribner — but with you finding out he found the list? He just threw a smirk.

“W-What are you doing? Where did you find—“ You didn’t mean to stutter, but the list was a limited item you hid from him for years. An inside joke he now knew about.

The titled smirk didn’t fade from his face. You saw how his eyes laid on the parchment, the wrinkly freckled skin over his lids squinting as he spoke. “Wasn’t aware this was part of the female’s newsletter.”

Your heart dropped, but you passed your saliva and wind a hand up, using a non-verbal Accio spell to get the parchment out of his hands.

Sebastian curved your spell and snatched the paper back to himself.

“Hey,” Your feet worked again, and inched closer to him on your bed, wanting to get the paper from him. “Give me that!”

With a smooth motion, Sebastian stood up from your bed rapidly, and of course, with his ridiculous height advantage, he lifted the parchment enough out of your reach.

“I don’t think so.”

He was tall. And even with the swift motion of holding the parchment upward, you could sniff the manly scent as you tippy-toed a jump to grab it, but it was a fail.

“What is this, eh?” Sebastian asked you.

A blow transmitted out of you mid-dormitory. Your cheeks had been tomato red by now and you’d hope Sebastian didn’t notice the trickle of sweat outlining your forehead as you ignored his question.

“Seriously, Sallow,” You jumped again, but he was ridiculously taller than you. “—give me—“

His gaze was gawking at you. You’d known he was directing his attention at you for an answer, but you’d been busy wanting to take away the list on his hand. “You’re dodging my question.”

“It’s just a stupid list. It’s a joke.” You lied.

It wasn’t really a lie. It started a little after the sixth. Snogging began to occur often in the secretive halls of Hogwarts, and rumored lists would often lure. Considering you were the closest to Sebastian Sallow, one drunk night with the girls led to the list. Thanks to you.

A strange scoff emitted from him. “Oh yeah?” He cooed. There been a roughness in his playful voice that made you feel challenged. He’d always been manipulative for answers, but you didn’t want to give it to him today.

You scratched your forehead with your fingers with a sigh, surrendering to grab the item, and then faced Sebastian.

Both of your eyes met.

It hadn’t been fair really. Besides the height — it was foul to see how stupidly attractive the Sallow man truly was.

A few strands of his brown hair flopped over his forehead, nearly covering the brown eyes that peered at you.

You’d seen him more than any of those girls on the list. None of them were this close to him though. They didn’t manage to see the freckles that kissed the top of his cheeks, or how the color of his brown eyes turned lighter like honey in the light.

You've seen him so much, you could debunk the notes in that list. ‘I want to touch his clear skin’ one would say — but it was flawed with scars that only one would see up close. ‘His lips are so pink, he would be a good kisser’ you couldn’t debunk that, yet.

You passed your saliva, “Why are you stirred up, Sallow? If you read the list, your ego should probably be the size of a quaffle by now.” You spat, crossing your arms and breaking the eye-contact. You only stared at the dent he left on your bed from sitting long.

Sebastian had been in another state though. Not enough names could boost his ego in that fucking list. Not any compliments, not any assumptions — anything, but the one name that wasn’t there.

Wanting to avoid any tension, you began to pace around the space, focusing on what you really came in here for, your coin bag, and pretending like you hadn’t done this cut-off every time there was tension with you and him.

The friendship had been strong. You two have seen the worst and the best out of each other. In battles, in class, in parties — one thing would lead to another, but when there was a hint of something more, usually one pulled away or one became a coward.

“Ugh, where is that damn bag—“

“Does the creator of the list exclude themselves from it?” Sebastian asked.

He stood in the same spot, asking questions, but also watching you waste time to find the coin pouch. He was desperate for an answer. An answer that he wanted to hear and his scheme of manipulation took over. Sebastian wasn’t going to stop until he got it.

You chuckled, “Who said I created it?” Your body bent, going through some drawers at the end of the dormitory.

You were a bit far, but you heard the chuckle from him. It resonated more when nobody else, but you two were the only ones in the dormitory.

“I don’t know, let’s see,” Sebastian said, but there was a tip of annoyance in his tone as he projected his truth to you. “ I found it in your bed. Your pillow. And I know your handwriting by now. The title of the list — it’s your writing.” He pointed his finger at the bolded letters.

You froze at how attentive he’d been. It shouldn’t come off as a surprise, but you had to pause your hand digging in your drawer and blink at his words. There, you stood in place, turning slowly over your shoulder and glinting. “What’s your point?”

Sebastian was pissed at how calmly you took this matter. It was only proving that you really did not care about him finding the list as much as he imagined you to. This ticked him off because he was good with girls. He understood why there was a list. He had his way of words to lure and hypnotize them, but you?

The parchment crackled under his grip and you heard it far and clear but didn’t comment. The list became useless at this point if the main ingredient of it found it.

“My point?”

The Adam's apple in his throat moved a little heavier in visual view, but you didn’t notice because your head turned back to the drawer.

But your heart was beating fast. You’d learn throughout the years to avoid conflict. To hide away your real feelings, so to battle such a topic with someone like Sebastian Sallow — it was tough.

“Sebastian, you have like half of Hogwarts tallied up on that list and you’re still complaining?” You snarled, closing the drawer and taking a breath, your coin pouch nowhere to be found.

“All I’m wondering is why your name didn’t make the list.” He said bluntly.

This caught you now. The need to look for your item died down and all you could do was turn to him.

Sebastian held his stand in the same spot you left him in. In the side of your dormitory bed, the list no longer in the air from his height, but on his side, crumbled up in madness.

You swallowed, your steps taking tardiness as you approached him again.

Only you knew the truth, but the least you could’ve done was sign your name. The risks of prioritizing your feelings first rather than wanting to keep a friendship with Sebastian Sallow were high. You were not going to risk it again.

“My name?” You laughed it off, looking to the side. “Why the hell would my name be there?”

Sebastian didn’t laugh. You didn’t even hear a wince of a scoff or chuckle. He wasn’t matching your energy, so you stopped looking to the side and looked up.

There was a grave expression on his face. Those honey-like eyes you were admiring minutes back became dawn darkness from your words and you raised your brows at him.

Sebastian tilted his head a little and blinked with a mocking questioning. “Am I not your type?”

A nervous laugh spilled out of you. It was not funny. It was more of a laugh of hiding away the truth. You could no longer tell if he was teasing as he always was with himself, or demanding truth.

“Are you being serious?”

“I am.” He narrowed.

The air thickened, but you pursed your lips and then pressed them with a hesitant nod. “I just—I—“ you didn’t mean to stutter, but it was getting to you. “We’re…we’re friends,…and…and…”

“You’d known me more than anyone else in this castle, more than Ominis. I’d guess to boost my ego you could’ve written down a few compliments or so in this list to help. Don’t you think?”

You gulped.

Sebastian stepped closer, barely a hand’s length now between the two of you. He’d now begged himself for you to self-confess. Perhaps, it’s become a mutual feeling now, but you were a hard rock to break. It was impossible.

“And then what, Sallow?” You weren’t afraid of his closeness. You have been close to him many times, but even with an empty room with so much space, this one killed you. “Be part of this list too?”

His jaw clenched at your words. It wasn’t even a tease. You were just asking a question as you stared, but it still bothered him. It wasn’t enough.

“Am I not fuckable enough for you?”

It hadn’t even been a joke anymore. There was no cracked smug over his mouth. No glint in his eyes. Just a cold sting of frustration, pride, and something lower — something he didn’t want to admit.

As he asked that, the same list he had crumbled in his fingers crackled under both of you.

Your breaths were higher now and even if you wanted to take your eyes off him, you couldn’t. There was this appalling appearance in you from his question and you knew by now that he’d taken notice of how your chest raised in and out from the nerves.

“I bet if this list said Weasley, your signature would’ve been the first on top, wouldn’t it?” Sebastian dug now. There was a possessive and impulsive timbre in his voice. He hated mentioning the redhead, but he couldn’t stop himself.

Your eyes widened, not expecting him to cross lines now, unplanned. “Are you out of your mind?”

Sebastian’s breath shifted, slower and heavier from your reaction. He looked like he wanted to respond, but it caught between his teeth.

Your eyes glazed on his, then on his flushed cheeks. The little tint of pink that lay on his sides wasn’t there and before you could question anything, you twirled, walking away. “Whatever, Sallow. Just go have fun with the list of names—“

The steps you took from your bed to the door didn’t make it far. Sebastian moved fast, but your Ancient Magic moved faster, sensing his follow and before he could make a stop on you, you turned around facing him.

On unfortunate luck, he’d been close enough for you to step backward and feel your back touch the wall from behind. You took a heavy breath, watching Sebastian lift an arm over your shoulder, flatly on the wall beside you, and bend to stare down.

He’d caged you, so you wouldn’t leave as both of your heights reached the same scale.

It’s like his stare burned into you. Only the sound of his breath blew on your nose from how close he had been. You watched how he lifted his right hand in slow motion, wanting you to watch him show you the crumbled list in his grasp.

The list was fucked at this point. From his anger.

“You think I give two fucks about the names on this list?” He asked you.

You were staring at the paper, but even with that, you sensed his stare stalling at you with every word he said.

The air on the empty setting tightened now. That little humor you were bringing on earlier set off and now things felt serious.

“It’s…it’s a lot of names in there, Sallow.” Your throat itched demanding a sentence to him, but his breath seemed to win over.

“And yours?” Sebastian asked, again. He didn’t back off. He stayed closed, watching you like the truth was buried behind your words.

Your eyes met the frame of his jawline. It’ll pinch with his questions and you weren’t brave enough to stare into his eyes anymore.

But Sebastian didn’t hold his limits anymore. He stepped closer, much closer than he’d ever dared, and lowered right in the inch of your earlobe, his lips brushing on the outline and you shivered.

“What do I have to do,” He murmured in a deliberate struggle. “—to make you write your name in this list?”

The whisper held you under your skin now. This tension coiled between the two of you and the restraint in his voice only made you clenched, not in your throat, but in your core. You’d been afraid if you pressed your legs together, it’d clench faster from his position.

“S-Sebastian…”

“Tell me,” He demanded. “I’d spent the last years doing enough to think you’ll write your signature in such a list about me, yet,” his breath blew inside your ears. “…it wasn’t enough.”

You’d always had your eyes prying on Sebastian Sallow, since the fifth year, but the blockage of friendship and comfortableness layered it.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t enough.

It was that you’d never dared to let yourself want him openly — because if you did…it would never be just 'wanting'.

“Do I have to prove it to you?” Sebastian’s voice cracked over the last word. It sounded like a prayer. To have this blessing of allowing him to take this to his advantage.

Sebastian struggled. He struggled enough in the past years. He couldn’t keep holding back on this very moment. It had been enough in the cycle, and this frustration of rejection — he couldn’t stand it. Not from you.

He couldn’t stand how you stood below him, innocently, pretending like not one inappropriate thought crossed your bloody head this entire time, but he liked a challenge.

There was this competitive thrill for Sebastian Sallow to prove himself right. To have this source of ability to prove something. Persuading something — persuading you.

Pleasuring you.

His nose kept tickling over your ear, and he took the benefit of that scent of yours. To smell the small strands of your hair behind the ear as he kept his eyes closed, waiting for an answer, but also holding in the strained hardness that flexed over his pants below.

His cock twitched with every breath of yours.

“Speak up, sweetheart.” He said roughly, not having the great ability to hold back, but your lack of answers were edging him. “We could answer all those assumptions about me in this,” with one hand he un-crumbled the list again and brought it to your eyes. “…list.”

He was silly, but the butterfly feeling between your legs at the moment said otherwise from his intense tease.

“You don’t wonder how my fingers,” Sebastian read off the list, rephrasing the jotted lines of girls handwriting. “…write so fast with a quill…imagine what else…” his hands journeyed to your hip, giving the first touch before tracking down your skirt. “…they can do?”

Your leg shifted in a twitch from the touch. He’d only rested the warmth of his finger a little below your skirt, into your skin, but you gasped at his words.

“‘His lips are so pink’” He read off. You could still feel his face near your ear, but he came back up and faced you. You’d been a flush of a mess, but Sebastian edged closer as he kept reading. “…how kissable are they?”

A menace. He was a fucking menace.

But he transferred the curiosity to you. You always found yourself wondering how soft his hairs really were. Or if his lips really were —

Sebastian gave up on the silence. His hands let go of the parchment and let it fall onto the floor. Before you could watch the fall of the list, you were blocked by a pair of lips on yours.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It was all in frustration and force. Of wanting something that had been sitting for years. A breath-stealing kiss two parties yearned for enough to make a fair moan from just a kiss.

The one hand that held a list now cradled over the side of your face and a thumb brushed your cheek as you were grounded with a sloppy make-out session that both of you clearly ached for too long.

Sebastian kissed good. Dangerously good.

He held you captive over the wall, his tongue dancing over your own, guiding permission. His brows frowned, not from anger, but from how good kissing you felt. It was an ecstatic feel and it was just kissing.

You were in no help of a stop. Instead, your hands reached in an instinct, clutching at the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer. Your hands threading through those soft brown hairs everyone wondered about.

It was a hard study between heat and examination. You gripped the hairs, softer than ever — Sebastian groaned into your mouth from the pull and his fingers clutched the side of your hips from resisting.

They were, in fact, really soft.

Your back pressed the bed soon after. The make-out session on the wall quickly transferred back into your dormitory bed and with a soft thud, Sebastian threw you onto the pillow, making you reach for a breath.

“Oh, we’re not finished yet,” Sebastian warned huskily. “Everyone’s at Hogsmeade…and I’m here to prove my point.”

He dove back into your mouth with more need than before. The weight of his hand on the side of your hip found its way beneath your shirt, feeling the raw aspect of your stomach before scrunching it up.

Over grounded mouths, you’d often breathe heavier than usual when the air of the dormitory felt colder on your skin as Sebastian folded up your shirt above your chest and reached over a breast.

His finger traced the middle of your breast, purposely tickling you and triggering the hardness of your nipples. You both watched his actions and you flushed, wanting to return the invasion by bringing your hand downward over his pants and attempting to find his bulge.

He’d been hard and thick. You palmed him lightly, but it was a hard reach from his height to yours. You’d only been able to get a sense of what he hid behind the fabric and you could only now imagine how he would feel inside of you.

You weren’t always stuck in an inappropriate daze. There wasn’t shame in touching yourself in the quietest hours of the night in a bath or empty dormitory. It was easier than admitting how much you wanted him all those years when the sun was up and walls were closed.

But now it became difficult when Sebastian, the real Sebastian, pressed against you, kissing you like he’d been waiting for this too. To prove a point of a name.

The thought made your thighs want to press together again, to get the same heartbeat notion between your legs, but now, the body of Sebastian blocked it. You couldn’t press them and he noticed that.

“Open your legs,” Sebastian ordered, feeling your denial.

“I just—oh,”

He moved quickly, pressing the longness of his fingers under your skirt. His touch circled around the thin fabric of your underwear before pressing three fingers lightly over to feel the dampness outside of you.

“Sebastian,”

A breath hitched out of his mouth. He’d lost count of how many times his cock twitched, begging for an out as he found out how soaked you were for him. For him.

“Agh,” He said in satisfaction, almost amazed from the feel. “…they said they wondered what else these fingers,” you felt them nibble the bud of your clit, still with underwear on as he spoke over your whimpers. “…do besides writing fast.”

The touch was gentle, but so powerful. Sebastian had stopped kissing and now paid his full attention to his fingers beneath you, under your lifted wrinkled skirt he dragged up and watched his own fingers trigger your sensitive nerves even more.

And he felt how you clenched with each nub.

It felt humiliating. Humiliating to know that once his fingers moved your underwear to the side, he was going to feel how wet you’d been over the course of the hour. How with such an unnecessary proof of point, you exposed yourself too on your feelings.

“Merlin,” Sebastian fought over himself, not caring about his truth out loud. “I just want to bury myself inside of you like this, but…”

He didn’t say much after, and before you could question his denial need of fucking you, you gave a low whine when two fingers entered between your folds carefully, a slushy sound echoing over the ears from the arousal.

They’d been long. His fingers. Sebastian kept it slow and gentle, examining how far he could go with them. He lifted his head once wanting to see how you’ll react. You were already a beautiful mess, giving gentle moans and biting your lip constantly from his movements.

“…how can I when the sound of your pleasure brings lullabies to my ears,” Sebastian resisted, fingering you faster, “…my cock.”

A thumb reached the outside of your clit, rubbing slowly and you clenched much slowly, feeling the triggering effect of Sebastian learning what pace you moan louder from his fingers.

“Are they,” he would curl a finger inside of you for a ting of tease and you yelp as he spoke. “…really faster than a quill, hm?” He challenged.

What a provocative little shit.

You couldn’t even talk well to insult him. You’d been so lost in his pace that when he removed his fingers from you, a mushy sound electrified and you breathed.

Sebastian lifted over you, and with the small movement of that, you saw the outline of his cock fighting in his pants. His hands reached down his belt and he raised his eyes like a wild animal looking for prey as you watched him.

Embarrassed from catching you eyeing him, you felt colored again and looked away, giving the privacy of undoing himself, but only a bubble of a laugh threw you off.

“I recall someone scribbled,” Sebastian began to remind you of the list of assumptions as he pulled his pants down. “‘I wonder if his cock is as thick as his ego.’”

You kept looking at the opposite perspective, not wanting to see. Also, to hide the blush that crept over you from what he was saying. All you did was blink at the stupid window across the dormitory.

“Darling,” Sebastian threw a pet name on you for attention. He would sometimes throw them in over the years with a silly friendship thing, but now it sounded heavy and with direction.

You licked your lips, but then felt a hand weight down beside you. Your saliva lingered over your throat as you felt that Sebastian had finally hovered over you again, and once you turned around, he’d be right there.

“Don’t you,” You shivered feeling a few fingers trace your collarbone and down the buttons of your shirt, starting to undo them. “…want to know if is as thick as my ego?”

You let him undress you, but it took a good portion of seconds to gain the courage to turn your head at his nude body before yours.

Cock wasn’t the first thing you saw. It’d been his broad chest — the way his tanned skin vibrated perfectly on the freckles that stamped him. They weren’t only on his face, but they reached down his shoulders, onto his back. A few down his abdomen until you saw him.

He was big. You saw the outline, but now in a raw view, you swallowed from the veins that strained out of it. It stared at you, like a mind of its own and it clearly showed the wanting of Sebastian to you. His cock dripped with pre-cum and it twitched from its pink tip, prepared.

It became stupid when you felt the same familiar heartbeat between your legs again, despite him fingering you pleasurably, you wanted more. You wanted him.

“Hey—“

“Get inside me.” You begged.

By now, from the severe distraction of admiring Sebastian’s body, you’d been nude yourself from his help. The buttoned shirt you once wore had been hanging on the tip of another girl’s bed and you shivered.

You overthought your command, sounding needy and stupid. “I mean—“

Sebastian didn’t think twice about your needs. You felt his lips land on yours, but your once-sitting bodies now lay back down over the pillow. His hand sprawled over the side of your face as he went between your legs and played around himself.

You hummed, feeling his tip linger around the outside of your skin. It rubbed over your drenched cunt on its own as Sebastian kissed you passionately.

The temperature felt hotter as Sebastian brought a hand down under your bodies and eyed the moment before taking a glance at you. “Yes?”

“Please.” You closed your eyes.

Sebastian stared at you. In his head, it crossed that he watched you right now, waiting for you to start writing what none of those girls could ever, ever, write in that list.

He didn’t enter you gently.

His entrance was rough and within gasp, he shut his eyes, squeezing them — hoping for the best of his fucking ego to not cum in that very second as you clenched. “Fuck.”

Your nails dug into his back from the shift of his hips slamming into you and gasped loudly, having to break the kiss.

“F-Fuck…” Sebastian went out of you but kept his tip stuck in your entrance. “…I’m trying to be gentle, but—“

“You were proving a point, weren’t you?” You throw in.

It was a dangerous commitment. There wasn’t turning back on what you had said. To prove a point. Sebastian didn’t hesitate on your words and stood by his words.

He crawled his hand under your body, bucking it up a little before he plunged inside of you like a slap. You both gasped and then he began to fuck you endlessly as time depended on it.

His cock buried inside powerfully. Sebastian didn’t play. He would go deeper and deeper with every rapid thrust, wanting to angle himself perfectly to feel the depth of your cervix and mark himself enough for it to remember him forever.

He’d watched as the pretty little mouth of yours parted with each movement. How your breasts bounced perfectly beneath him and he’ll go back to watching himself thrust into you, in and out, deep and deeper, harder and rougher — oh, he loved it. He loved you.

Your moans and expression sent him over the edge. His goal was to satisfy you to bring your name into the list — but it was never really the stupid list. It was just you. His heart had always been on you. And to finally have you tied on him, finally, he wanted to prove all those lost times of just ‘being friends’.

“Oh,” You moaned.

“Y-You’re so…tight around me, you know?” He complimented, bending forward to caress your cheek with his thumb. “…I could feel you…pressing around — shit — my co-cock with each thrust.”

You did clench with each thrust. He’d been so thick and long, that you couldn’t help the feeling of hugging him inside your walls and keeping him there forever.

The bed made squeaking sounds over the dormitory. It was loud and if Sebastian kept the pace he was doing, the bed would most likely hit the wall across the room.

Neither of you could hear the bed as much as the squelching sounds of skin-to-skin in the air. The way Sebastian drilled into you as his balls slapped beneath your cunt over each motion making you whimper and moan.

But Sebastian became attentive to the noise of the small bed. Sure, he enjoyed your sounds, but his easily distracted mind didn’t allow him to enjoy it fully — so he cuffed you under his arms and carried you to the nearest wall again.

“Sebastian!” You gasped, feeling your back against the cold wall, but it was soon replaced by heated pleasure again as Sebastian pressed into you.

His chest rubbed over your breast as he held you tightly and made you bounce up and down over him on the wall. “Yes?”

One hand gripped your ass beneath you for a force and the other hand of his rested flatly beside you on the wall, using it as a control to keep himself in balance and submerge every inch inside of you.

You’d won over the list. That list that you’d convinced yourself that with all these girls wanting Sebastian Sallow, your chances would lower — but you’d been wrong. Super wrong.

“D-Do you know…” Sebastian breathed, bringing his forehead against yours. Your breaths were heavy and his sweaty hairs touched yours. “-how long I waited to do this with you?”

You gave a half-laugh half-gasp at his honesty over the sex. You were both sweaty, but as your head bobbed over each other, you couldn’t help, but kiss again, passionately.

“But,” Your body took a freeze when Sebastian let you down and turned you around to the nearest dresser, the same one you were indeed dying to look for your coin pouch. “I feel like I haven’t proven enough…”

He bent you gently, letting your hands grip the edges of the small dresser before he inserted himself from behind.

The sex became rougher.

You felt how Sebastian twirled his fingers over your hair like a ponytail and used it as a control to inject his cock back inside of you harder. He’d watch as your behind bounced with each pump and whimper from his actions.

his voice?? His moans are probably so deep. Someone had written on the list.

They were deep.

His moans were deep.

His cock was deep.

His words were deep.

“Oh, yes,” He’d moan over your ear. “Perfect.”

You’ll clench and he’ll let out rough groans, synchronizing with your moans.

“Oh yeah.” You murmured.

Sebastian didn’t think he’d get harder than he already was, but your sounds bricked him awfully. He’d often had to think about clown suits or Prewett dressed as a banana to keep himself going a little longer, but that just fucked his mind.

As he took you from the back, he leaned forward, moving strands of hairs from one side of your neck and becoming a sucking machine on you. He sucked your shoulder, up to your neck, and when you raised your head to see his actions, he found your mouth, clumsily kissing you.

The kisses became lazier and the movement became aggressive. You’d known that if Sebastian kept the pace he was going in right now, you’d reach an orgasm. More if his hand moved into your clit and rubbed it.

“P-Please…” You begged.

“Please, what?” He struggled. “Tell me…tell me what do you want, sweetheart?” He breathed, his voice blending with the slamming sounds.

There wasn’t an ability to talk. Instead, you responded to the hot breath vibrating near your ear before your head spun and met in a desperate kiss with Sebastian. Tongues tangled frantically and a hand of his snaked over your sweat-licked bodies.

His hand lowered and you tucked your stomach, feeling a steady rub of circles over your clit. Sebastian had read you well, determined to push you on edge with him.

“Was pinning you like this,” Sebastian hissed. “-w-worth it?”

The man had proved his point. From how ecstatic he made you feel right now, you were set to write your signature big and bolded over the fucking list. Hell, you’d even highlight it with your reasonings, but the idea of other women knowing how good Sebastian Sallow fucked didn’t allow you.

Perhaps, you had to make another secret list with him only knowing now.

“Yes, yes,” You pleaded.

With pleads and moans, Sebastian felt his cock draw up tightly, balls clenching as he signaled a finish.

It was chaotically messy. A disheveled moment of both of you reaching a coarse point with curses and final moans.

It was planted that you weren’t going to be able to walk for a while after Sallow’s moves. He made sure he gave his all to you in a short amount of time and you couldn’t envision how he would act in a normal setting of sex.

You found yourself like one of the girls on the list. Wondering with curiosity — if he fucks that good in sneaking minutes, how would he be with all the time in the world?

“Well,” Sebastian tilted minutes later, fully clothed, picking up the list that had fallen to the floor. A small tugging smile crept on him as he held it up to you, all sweaty and all. “—I’m sure you have a lot to say for this list, don’t you?”

His eyes peered on yours. He wanted a definite yes answer to it. The satisfaction of you admitting he pleasured you so well, you wanted to put yourself on this list.

Half-tiredly, your fingers conjured a pen over him, and the list was snatched from his hold before you brought it down to a flat surface on the wall and began to sign.

You made sure your name was big and bolded at the bottom, enough for anyone to see. Sebastian watched with you.

He’s HUGE and he’s mine.

He became flustered at the scribble but didn’t complain. He looked down, smiling to himself like he won the lottery of some sort.

“This list though,” You murmured, making it poof away with your magic. “Would only be visible to me and you now, Sallow.”

Sebastian gave a humming noise at your demanding tone. “Hm, yeah?” 

"Yes."  

[crowsofdarkness]

pairings: Dark!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

You stumble upon a scene that awakens something inside of you so Bucky helps you unleash it.

18+ CW's below the cut: arranged marriage, dry humping, blood, mentions of torture, licking up dry blood, pussy spanking.

I shouldn’t have done what I did, sneaking into the hidden room at the mansion, but Bucky had been so quiet about some things lately. I couldn’t help but be curious about what he was doing in that room. Especially when I heard screams coming from it. So when I followed him inside, I nearly fainted at what I saw. 

Bucky laying a vibranium fist into a familiar face. 

My ex boyfriend, the one I’d been with before my arranged marriage to Bucky. I confronted him about the bloody scene in front of me which only ended with Bucky dragging me back up to our bedroom. It was clear that I wasn’t happy with this arranged marriage but I had no choice. I needed to do this to keep the war between our families at bay. I didn’t love Bucky but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t attracted to him, especially right now covered in my ex’s blood as he towered over me. 

“This marriage isn’t real! You can’t defend my honor just because you feel like it. And you can’t kill everyone I ever dated because they touched me,” I yelled at him, holding my chin up high. 

Bucky’s nostrils flared, his anger radiating off of him in droves, and he leaned farther over me causing my body to fall to the bed. His arms locked me in on both sides of my head and I felt his scorching breath fanning over my lips. We were so close that if I titled my head up just a tad, I would finally be able to figure out what he tasted like; a month into this marriage and we had barely touched, even though I couldn’t deny I wanted to know what it felt like. 

“Let’s make one thing clear here. You’re mine, solnyshka. Anyone who disrespects you will pay a price, regardless of who they are,” Bucky pressed his hips against mine. 

I sucked in a breath when his cock brushed along my pussy, over the silk fabric of my pajama shorts. My hands shook at my sides, unsure what to do with them, so Bucky grabbed them and pinned both of them above my head; both wrists fitting in one of his hands. 

“Wh-what did you call me?” I choked out, suddenly realizing what he said. 

His nose brushed along my jawline, breathing me in. 

“Solnyshka,” Bucky almost purred. 

I swallowed thickly, doing my best to keep my strong hold against him even though it was faltering with every brush of his cock against me. He was slowly dry humping me and I was giving back to him with even strokes. There was still dried blood across his bare chest painting him in crimson, and I could still smell the lingering copper scent. 

“What if I don’t like it?” I panted, nearly gone in bliss. 

He groaned while grazing his teeth along my jugular. “Too bad because it stays. Solnyshka.”

With one of his hands still keeping mine locked about my head, his other slipped underneath my nightshirt to graze over my blazed skin. We were like a couple of horny teenagers that found their first moment alone with each other with how frenzied our movements were against each other. My orgasm was building slowly, the familiar tingling sensation in the base of my spine. It was so close, I could taste it on the tip of my tongue and I wanted nothing more than to scream out his name as I came undone underneath Bucky. 

“How wet are you, solnyshka?” He flicked his tongue against my earlobe. “I bet you're soaked just from this.”

I nodded, too far gone now to try and fight against him. I needed this release more than oxygen and it was almost as if Bucky understood because his hand slipped between us to tease my folds over my shorts. 

“I fucking knew it,” he chuckled darkly. “How bad do you want my cock, Y/N?” 

I bit the inside of my cheek, not wanting to give away how bad I actually wanted this. Instead I raised my hips up towards his hands, a silent beg falling from my lips. 

“Use your words,” Bucky demanded before smacking my pussy. 

“Shit!” I cried out. “Fuck you!”

He wrapped one of my legs around his back so he could press his clothed cock over my pussy at a different angle and it was everything I needed for the coil to snap. 

“Oh god,” my body convulsed underneath Bucky as I let my orgasm overcome all of my senses. 

White hazy stars danced at the edges of my vision. 

I could taste the blood from Bucky’s chest as I lapped at it, unknowingly. 

All the noises around me seemed to fade away. The only thing I could hear was Bucky’s grunts as he continued to dry fuck me. 

At some point he let go of my hands and my nails scratched at Bucky’s back, working myself through the aftershocks. 

The scent of his cologne hung along the edge of my nose as I breathed him in. 

“That’s such a good girl, Y/N. You sound so pretty when you cum,” Bucky praised while dragging his teeth along the side of my neck. 

My jaw fell slack when I finally came down from my high and Bucky began raising the hem of my shirt up over my stomach. 

“You can lie all you want, Y/N. But what you saw downstairs turned you on,” he flicked his eyes up at me from his new position over my belly. 

“You’re crazy,” I breathed, letting my eyes flutter shut. 

“For you,” before dragging my shorts down my legs. 

[baigepueckers]

Paige Bueckers X Reader

Game Time

You’re leaning against the hallway wall just outside the Dallas Wings locker room, iced coffee in hand, trying to look casual…but your heart’s racing like you’re the one about to step onto the court. You’ve been with Paige through so many milestones…college wins, long rehab nights, draft night tears…but this? This is different. This is the league. All she’s wanted.

A few staffers and media folks rush by, but you barely notice. The second the locker room door swings open, time just slows.

There she is.

Paige walks out like a dream in motion, dressed in her tunnel fit…a light pink button up with baggy jean shorts and pink nike cortez’s. The shorts cling to her hips but hang down incredibly low. Her blonde hair is in a slicked back pony, with the kind of precision that makes your knees buckle. She looks like she just stepped off the cover of Vogue…confident, lethal, stupidly beautiful.

You can’t stop staring.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter under your breath, half to yourself. “You’re gonna kill someone looking like that.”

She slows when she sees you, but the closer she gets, the more you notice it…the way her fingers keep adjusting the hem of her shirt… how she’s biting her inner cheek, her jaw a little tighter than usual.

“You okay, baby?” you ask, stepping off the wall and into her space, gently brushing your hand along her arm.

Paige exhales hard through her nose and leans closer, lowering her voice so no one else hears. “I’m trying to be. I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

Your heart tugs.

“Hey.” You reach up and cup her cheek, gently guiding her to look at you. “Look at me. You’ve worked your whole life for this. You’re here because you earned it. Not because of hype. Not because of name recognition. You’re one of the best to ever touch a basketball…and now you get to show everyone what that looks like in a Wings jersey.”

She leans into your palm, eyes fluttering shut for a second like she’s trying to draw strength from your touch.

“You think I’m ready?” she murmurs, almost like she’s not asking you so much as asking the universe.

“I know you’re ready,” you say, stepping even closer, voice steadier now. “You’re the smartest player out there. You’ve been watching film for weeks, you’ve been at every practice grinding harder than anyone. You’re smooth, lethal, unselfish…Paige fucking Bueckers. They should be scared of you.”

She exhales again, this time a little softer.

Then her eyes flick up and down your face.

“You’re really good at this pep talk thing.”

You smirk. “What can I say? I know how to talk my girl back into killer mode.”

But then you let your gaze drop…just for a second…back down to the way the button up drape over her stomach, the tiny peek of her Nike Pro waist band..and the faint glisten of her skin making your brain short circuit.

“You also didn’t have to go this hard with the tunnel fit,” you mutter, voice darker now. “Seriously, what do you expect me to do when you come out looking like that?”

Paige quirks an eyebrow, your favorite little smirk tugging at her lips. “You like it?”

“I want to ruin it,” you say bluntly, grabbing the shirt with both hands and pulling her close until there’s barely space between your mouths. “I want to drag you back into that locker room and….”

Her breath catches. “Y/N.”

Your voice softens…more teasing now, whispering against her mouth. “C’mon, baby. You need a distraction, right?”

“Here? Now?” Her voice is shaky…but not resisting. “You’re insane.”

You grin. “Only for you.”

She doesn’t push you away. If anything, her fingers curl around your hips like she’s begging you to keep going.

You don’t give her the chance to overthink. You tug her hand, weaving your way down the hallway and pulling her into a small, unmarked side room…half storage, half utility. You lock the door behind you. It smells like fresh jerseys and pine disinfectant, but it’s quiet, hidden. Yours.

The second the door clicks shut, her restraint snaps.

She grabs you by the waist, spinning and backing you into the wall, lips crashing against yours in a kiss that’s all tongue and heat and need. Her hands find the hem of your shirt, sliding underneath, dragging her palms along your skin like she needs to feel everything all at once. You tug her shirt off her shoulders just enough to get better access to her neck, pressing kisses there until she’s gasping softly, head falling back.

“Fuck” she breathes. “I needed this. I needed you.”

You hook a leg around her thigh, pressing your hips together, your fingers now undoing the first button of her pants. “I got you. Just let go, baby.”

It’s fast. Frantic. A flurry of hands and breaths and whispered groans. It’s the kind of moment born of fire and nerves and knowing exactly what buttons to push. You’re careful not to mess up her hair, but her lips are swollen, her cheeks flushed, and her breath coming in uneven bursts when you finally pull back.

She leans her forehead against yours, eyes fluttering closed, grinning like she’s drunk on you.

“I feel…better.”

You help straighten her clothes, fingers ghosting down the front of her top as you smooth it back into place. “You look dangerous.”

She kisses you again…slower this time, savoring it…then grabs your hand.

“Come watch me light them up.”

You laugh. “Oh, trust me. I’ll be courtside, drooling.”

Paige opens the door and steps into the hallway like a different woman…loose, confident, focused. The nerves are gone. Now she walks like the floor belongs to her, like she’s not just ready to debut…she’s ready to dominate.

And as you watch her disappear down the tunnel, you already know…this is about to be her league.

[softlysoul]

back to friends ☀︎ lee donghyuck x fem!reader

genre smut, angst, fwb to lovers

a/n first time writing smut kinda nervy

── .✦

You weren’t planning on showing up. Not to this kind of party, anyway.

But Ningning pulled you into her closet, Karina lined your lips with practiced precision, and someone put on music that made the idea seem interesting, at least. 

You figured it had been a while since you’d gone out with the girls, so, against your better judgement, you’d agreed to go with them.

Now you’re here, stepping through the front door of some overstuffed frat house that smells like sweat and cheap beer, and you already feel gross. This isn’t the kind of party you’d typically make an appearance at, there’s too many strangers drunk and stumbling around with sticky cups full of some drink that would probably make you hurl. You’ve always preferred the quieter parties, usually in a cramped kitchen with close friends, music low so you can actually hear yourself think, and people you actually liked being around.

Still, you look good tonight. You know that. You don’t need anyone to tell you, but they do anyway.

You walk through the crowd and you feel eyes trail after you. It doesn’t faze you. It never really has. You’re used to attention, even if you rarely care to return it. You’re looking for something that most people can’t offer, especially not in a place like this.

Karina’s already disappeared into the crowd. Ningning’s at the kitchen counter, mixing herself a drink. Giselle’s dancing. Minjeong’s flirting. You give them all a little wave, but don’t follow. Instead, you post up near the wall, one hand wrapped loosely around a red cup you don’t plan to finish, and you watch the night unfold around you.

And then you see him.

Of course you do. You always do.

Leaning against the doorway, head thrown back in laughter, his hair a little messy, rings flashing faintly in the light. He looks good—stupidly so—and he knows it. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, and he’s talking to Mark and Renjun, gesturing animatedly. 

You don’t let yourself look too long. Just long enough.

But he notices anyway.

His eyes find you through the crowd and there’s a flicker of surprise, quickly replaced by something smoother, more familiar. A smirk. A knowing tilt of the head. That look that makes your skin feel too tight, he’d always had a way of making you act and feel irrationally.

He starts walking toward you, slow and confident, and you fight the impulse to roll your eyes. You already know what this is going to be. The same teasing, the same game. And still, you don’t make any effort to get away from him.

"Didn’t think this was your scene," he says when he reaches you, voice warm and close. “Thought you were above this kind of thing.”

You sip your drink, shrug. “I contain multitudes.”

He grins. “You’re full of surprises tonight.”

“I’m always full of surprises,” you say. “You just don’t pay enough attention to notice.”

That makes his smile grow, somehow becoming even more cocky. He glances down at your legs, then back up, unapologetically checking you out. “Oh, I’m paying attention now.”

You raise a brow, unamused. “Try harder.”

He laughs, and for a second, it’s easy, talking to him always is. You’ve known Donghyuck since your first year. You’ve had countless late-night conversations, shared playlists and secrets and beds during those nights when parties ended too late and walking home felt too far. He’s always been a flirt, always been loud and reckless and half-hidden behind that grin, but you’ve seen more than that. You’ve caught glimpses of something quieter underneath. Something careful. 

And, fine — maybe you’ve always had a thing for him, but you would never tell anyone that. 

“Seriously,” he says, eyes drifting back to yours, a little less teasing now. “You look good.”

You don’t blush. You don’t look away. You know you look good, you made sure of it. But coming from him, the words settle in a strange place. 

“You say that to every girl at these things?” you ask, more curious than coy.

He shakes his head slowly. “No.”

You hold his gaze.

There’s a beat of silence, pressed thin between bodies and bass and the bitter taste of cheap alcohol. You’re aware of how close he’s standing, how warm the air feels now, like the room shrunk without warning.

“So why say it to me?”

He tilts his head slightly, the smirk softening into something you can’t quite name. “Maybe I say it to the ones I want to leave with.”

You almost laugh. Almost. Instead, you sip your drink again, let the drink coat your tongue, and answer with your eyes.

“You’re predictable.”

“You’re not.”

And somehow, that feels more dangerous than anything else.

Someone calls his name across the room, but he doesn’t turn. You don’t look either. You both stand there, holding something fragile and unnamed between you, both unwilling to break first.

You should walk away. You should rejoin your friends, find someone else to flirt with, keep pretending he doesn’t get under your skin. That’s what would be smart.

But smart isn’t what you’re feeling right now.

So when he leans in, eyes half-lidded and voice lower than before, asking, “Wanna get out of here?”

Stupidly, you nod, suddenly feeling reckless.

He grabs your hand and pulls you toward the door, the noise and chaos of the party already feeling like a distant storm behind you.

“Wanna Uber to mine?” he asks, voice low, eyes flickering with lust and a subtle touch of something softer.

You pause for a moment, considering it, but then shake your head with a small smile. “Actually... my place is close. We can go there.”

He blinks, surprised but amused. “Alright, lead the way.”

You push off of the wall, breaking the wall of tension between the two of you, and head outside, stepping out into the crisp night air. The city hums quietly around you, cooler than inside, less overwhelming. He falls into step beside you, his warmth a quiet promise against the chill.

── .✦

The walk is short, the streets almost empty, and the tension between you builds with every step, clouding your mind and making you sweat.

You barely get the door open before he’s pulling you inside, turning around and pressing you back against it, his body warm and unyielding. His hands find your waist, gripping just enough to ground you, while his lips land on your neck.

You catch your breath, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers grip your skin. The lock clicks behind you—he finally fumbles it shut, sealing the world out.

His mouth moves lower, trailing slow, heated kisses across your collarbone, and you can feel the sharp pulse of his breath against your skin. Your hands tangle in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, trying to get him as close as possible.

There’s no hesitation now, just the rush of wanting and needing. His hands explore your hips, each touch igniting something deep inside you, something that’s been simmering under all the teasing and banter.

You pull away, attempting to catch your breath. He takes the hint and moves to your neck again, placing open-mouthed kisses on your skin. 

Your chest heaves as you gently push his head away from you, “Maybe… we should take this to the bedroom.” 

His gaze flicks up, eyes dark and burning. He doesn’t say anything—just nods once, a little breathless, like he’s trying, and struggling, to hold back.

You take his hand and turn toward the hallway. Behind you, you hear him quietly shut the door, the lock clicking into place like a final answer. Then he’s following close behind, steps quick, like the anticipation is too much to carry.

You don’t make it far. As soon as the door swings shut, his hands are back on your waist, tugging you close until you can feel the rise and fall of his chest, the thrum of his pulse beneath his skin.

His lips find yours again, though they’re hungrier this time, messier. There’s nothing restrained about the way he kisses you now. It’s all urgency and heat, a low noise caught in his throat when your fingers slide up under his shirt, grazing bare skin.

He pushes you backward, gently but insistent, until the backs of your knees hit the bed. One look, eyes dark, pupils blown, and he presses forward, guiding you down onto the mattress, positioning himself so he’s leaning over you.

Your body yields under him, soft and warm, and his hands are everywhere — tracing the curve of your waist, slipping under your shirt and dragging slowly up your ribs. He leans down, mouth at your ear, breath hot. “Is this okay?”

You nod, your hands insistently pulling at the hem of his shirt. “More than okay.”

He peels his shirt off, and your shirt and bra follow, tossed somewhere onto the floor. Skin against skin now — and you can feel heat blooming where he touches, where he kisses, where his fingers linger too long.

He kisses down your chest, slow and reverent like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you in real time, cataloging each breath you take, each little sound that escapes you. When his mouth closes around your nipple, your back arches without meaning to.

“Oh god,” you whisper, barely audible, and he hums in response, one hand sliding lower, sliding underneath the waistband of your pants.

You can feel the question in the way his fingers pause there, tentative. He removes his mouth from your chest and meets your eyes, searching for permission. “Please.”

You nod, and he grins, pulling your bottoms and panties off in one go. You shiver as you feel the cold air of your room on your core. His hands are warm as they travel down your skin, over your stomach and down to your thighs. 

You gasp as he softly runs his fingers along your folds, featherlight and teasing, taking his time exploring you. He exhales slowly, like the sight alone is unraveling him. “You’re so wet,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, voice rough, thick with arousal. 

Then his finger presses in gently, and he watches the way your pussy reacts to the stimulation, slightly twitching. 

He slowly pushes in and out, enjoying the soft noises you let out as he teases you. He presses his bulge into the bed, seeking some sort of relief from how hard it was.

When his mouth replaces his fingers, it’s almost too much. He drags his tongue through you slowly, like he has all the time in the world. Your hands find his hair instantly, your hips lifting off the bed, chasing friction. But he pins you down gently, one arm flung across your stomach, holding you still. “Let me,” he whispers, breath hot against your skin. You try to force out a response, but are so consumed by the way he’s devouring you that the most you can muster is a loud whine.

He works you open with his tongue, slow and deliberate, as if he’s trying to burn himself into your memory. Every swipe of his tongue and brush of his fingers over your clit feels like it’s unraveling a tightly wound string inside of you, pulling and pulling until you’re frayed at the edges, trembling beneath him.

You can’t stop the sounds that fall from your lips, soft gasps and breathy moans that seem to spur him on. He hums again, pleased, and the vibration nearly sends you over the edge.

Your head tips back, eyes fluttering shut. “Hyuck—” you breathe, voice shaky.

His name in your mouth makes him groan. “Say that again.”

You do, over and over, like it’s the only word you remember, until your thighs start to shake and your hands grip his hair tighter, and you’re right there — on the edge of something dizzying.

You reach your climax, a long moan being pulled from your lungs, white hot pleasure searing its way through you. It’s messy, desperate, raw. 

You’re still trembling when he kisses your inner thigh, then your hip, then your stomach, slowly and deliberately making his way up to your mouth, His mouth brushes your lips tenderly, lips dragging over sensitive places, letting you come down soft.

The air between you crackles.

His weight shifts, body rising to meet yours, and he brings your hand up to his face, kissing the inside of your wrist before leaning in again. His eyes search yours, quiet and serious for once.

“You’re incredible,” he breathes, and the words send a pulse through your chest that has nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with the way you’ve always wanted him to look at you, exactly like that.

You reach up, curl your fingers into the waistband of his pants, voice barely audible. “Take these off.”

He smirks at you, a teasing glint suddenly forming in his eyes, “Say please.”

Normally, you’d get flustered at his teasing, but now, you’re too lost in your own pleasure to object. “Please, Hyuck…” You whine his name, and he swears he could’ve come in his pants just from the look on your face.

You trail your hands down the plane of his chest, to the waistband of his jeans. Your touch turns bolder, rougher, driven by the burn still lingering beneath your skin. He groans as your fingers brush over him through the denim.

“You’re really trying to kill me,” he mutters, forehead pressed to yours.

You smile, breathless. “I just wanna feel you.”

He doesn’t waste another second. The clumsy shuffle of jeans and a condom wrapper fills the quiet between kisses, hands moving too fast and not fast enough. When he finally settles between your legs, he pauses again — one hand resting on your face, thumb brushing under your eye.

“Still okay?” he murmurs.

You nod. “Yeah.”

When you feel the warmth of his cock on your folds, you whine, “Fuck, s’ too big.” He chuckles and brushes your hair out of your face, “You can take it for me, right?”

You hum in agreement, though it likely sounds more like a strangled moan, and squeeze your thighs together, trying to alleviate some of the pressure you feel in your core.

He smiles at your attempt at a response and kisses your forehead, “that’s my good girl.”

And then he’s pressing into you, slow and steady, the stretch sharp and stinging at first, until your body adjusts, until all you can feel is the deep burn of him filling you, inch by inch. You gasp as he bottoms out, his hips flush against yours, the air punched out of you in a shaky breath.

He groans, head dropping to your shoulder. His whole body is tense, clearly trying to give you time to adjust to his length.

Your back arches, hands gripping his shoulders, nails digging in as you try to ground yourself. He stills for a second, forehead pressed to your neck, letting you both catch up to the moment.

Then he starts to move.

Slow, deliberate thrusts at first, deep enough to make you see stars, then faster, more frantic, his control unraveling with each passing second. Your bodies find a rhythm — messy, breathless, greedy — and you cling to him as he thrusts in and out, his cock meeting that sensitive spot in your pussy with every inward movement.

His name tumbles out of you again and again, more prayer than plea, until your voice breaks and your walls clench tight around him.

“I’ve got you,” he pants, lips at your jaw, hand sliding between your bodies to rub rough circles against your clit. “Come for me.”

It crashes over you like a wave, your back moving off the mattress, a cry pulled from your lungs as your orgasm pulses through every inch of you. He follows moments after, groaning into your neck as he spills into the condom, thrusts turning sloppy before he finally stills.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your breathing, tangled together in the quiet aftermath.

He moves first, not away, not out, but just enough to ease the weight off your body and press a kiss to your shoulder. His hand lingers at your waist, fingertips brushing lazy, featherlight circles into your skin.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice rough from exertion and arousal.

You nod, a little dazed. “Yeah… I’m good.”

And you are. Bone-tired, muscles aching in ways that feel more satisfying than painful. 

He pulls out slowly, gently, and you wince at the shift. Without a word, he disappears down the hall and returns with a warm, damp towel, crouching between your knees with a quiet focus. He’s careful as he cleans you up, hands gentle, gaze flickering up now and then to check your face.

It’s silent, but not uncomfortable. The kind of quiet that feels comfortable, easy.

He tosses the towel into your laundry basket, climbs into bed beside you, and pulls you into his chest. His skin is warm against yours, his heartbeat steady where your cheek rests over it.

Neither of you says much. Just tangled limbs, slow breathing. You fall asleep like that, bare and wrapped around each other, his hand in your hair and yours pressed to his chest.

── .✦

When you wake, it’s to sunlight creeping through the curtains and the sound of your upstairs neighbor bustling around in their apartment.

Your bed is warm, but only on one side. His side is already cold.

You blink, still groggy, reaching out as if maybe he just shifted in the night. But there’s no weight beside you, no rustle in the apartment. No open bathroom door. No footsteps.

You sit up, heart in your throat.

No note on the nightstand.

No message on your phone.

Nothing.

You check the door, only to find it locked. Your apartment, still. Everything in place.

Everything except him.

And the only proof he was ever here is the soreness in your thighs and the lingering marks on your skin. The phantom of his hands. His voice in your ear.

You’re alone.

And you don’t know what stings more, the emptiness of the room, or the fact that you’re actually hurt that he left.

── .✦

You sit on the edge of your bed for a long time, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the screen. There’s a draft of a text in the box:

hey, did you make it back okay?

You stare at it. Backspace. Start again.

thanks for last night

No. That feels pathetic. You delete it.

The cursor blinks at you, waiting for you to type something, anything.

You finally type, you left super early this morning. everything okay?

You hit send before you can think it over, wanting nothing more than to crawl into a hole and die. The little bubble appears and then… nothing.

You set your phone down, check again a few minutes later.

Still nothing.

You tell yourself it’s early. He’s probably just asleep. Maybe he left for work, or class, or something important. Maybe his phone died. You try to believe it.

But by the time the sun has fully risen and the coffee in your mug has gone cold, you’ve checked your phone a dozen times. No answer. No typing bubble. No follow-up. Not even the courtesy of a “got home safe.”

He’s not just gone.

He’s disappeared.

You try not to let it eat at you, but it does. The silence presses in like fog, dense and confusing, and all the heat from the night before starts to feel like a hallucination. Like you made it up, or read it in a book and convinced yourself it happened to you.

You change your sheets. You shower. You put on clothes that aren’t the ones you wore to the party. You pretend that it didn’t matter, that it was casual, that you’re fine.

But when your phone buzzes, texts from your friends flooding in as they question where you went last night, your heart still stutters like it’s him.

And when it’s not, the pain appears again.

── .✦

You show up to brunch twenty minutes late, sunglasses on, hoodie up, and your hair in a braid that definitely looks like it was done by a toddler. The second you slide into the booth, four pairs of eyes land on you like a SWAT team.

“Oh my god,” Giselle blurts, mid-sip. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“Gigi’s right, you look like a mess, no offense” Minjeong says, lowering her sunglasses to squint at you. “Be honest, who’d you fuck last night?”

You blink. “What? What are you talking about?”

“Girl.” Ningning stares you down. “Don’t even start. You’re wearing last night’s lip gloss.”

Karina leans forward, resting her chin on her palm. “Was it Donghyuck?”

You freeze.

And that’s all they need.

“OH MY GOD,” Minjeong screeches.

“I KNEW IT,” Giselle hisses. “I knew something was up! You two disappeared like, an hour into the party.”

“I said I was getting air,” you mutter.

“You were getting railed,” Ningning says. “Don’t lie.”

You groan and cover your face. “Can we not do this here?”

“No. We have to do this here,” Karina says gently. “This is a safe space. We’ve all committed crimes at this table.”

“She’s walking funny,” Minjeong adds. “Confirmed.”

You drop your hands and sigh. “Fine. Yes. We hooked up.”

Four gasps. A collective sip of iced coffee. A shared eye contact moment of girl, finally.

“And?” Giselle prompts. “How was it?”

You hesitate.

And then you say, “Good. Like… really good.”

Another chorus of squeals.

But then you add, quietly: “But when I woke up, he was gone. No note. No text. Nothing.”

The vibe shifts instantly.

“Oh, hell no,” Minjeong snaps, sunglasses coming off entirely.

“He left?” Karina asks, tone flattening. “After sleeping with you?”

You nod slowly, wrapping your arms around yourself like you're trying to stay intact.

Ningning blinks. “Literally why would he do that?”

“I thought we had a connection,” you say, voice a little too quiet. “It felt… different.”

There’s a long pause, heavy with quiet fury and heartbreak.

Minjeong exhales through her nose like a bull about to charge. “I’m gonna kill him.”

“We’re going to ruin him,” Karina corrects calmly.

“Do we do it now or after pancakes?” Ningning asks.

Giselle is already opening Instagram. “I’m gonna text him”

“Please don’t,” you groan. You lean into Karina’s shoulder, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on you. Anger and disappointment swirl in your chest. But here, with your friends, you feel a little bit less alone.

Minjeong squeezes your hand tightly. “You deserve better than him anyways.”

Ningning leans forward, voice soft but firm. “He’s a bum, and you’re too hot to let him upset you.”

Karina brushes a stray hair behind your ear. “Let’s have a movie night tonight, try to forget about it.”

You manage a small, grateful smile. The pain is still there, simmering, but with them by your side, it feels less suffocating.

── .✦

Days pass, and you’re nowhere to be found around the usual places you and Hyuck’s friends used to hang out. Your absence doesn’t go unnoticed, especially by him. The guys had always been a good group of friends, close even without you, but your absence was a sharp reminder of how he’d royally fucked up.

Renjun, who shared the most classes with you and generally considered you to  be a good friend, especially notices. You’ve been avoiding him too, switching seats in class to put distance between you two.

Later that day, he brings it up to Donghyuck in Jeno and Jaemin’s living room, subtle anger underneath his words.

“Hyuck, what the hell did you do?” Renjun snaps, voice low but fierce. “Y/N moved seats away from me. Like, packed up her stuff and booked it across the room without a word. And she’s been ignoring my texts.”

Donghyuck rubs his neck nervously, trying to dodge the intensity but failing. “I didn’t mean for it to go this far…”

Before he can say more, Mark steps in, arms crossed. “You know how close she was with us. She’s not just some random girl.”

Jeno shakes his head, voice sharp. “And you left her hanging. You fucked her and then left?”

Dongyhuck winces, the harsh language of his friends putting everything into perspective for him. “Don’t be so harsh. It’s not like I told her we’d be a couple or anything.”

Jaemin clenches his fists. “That’s not the point. She’s pissed at all of us now. Just because you didn’t promise anything doesn’t mean you ghost her.”

Donghyuck swallows hard, guilt crashing down. “I messed up. I know. But I don’t know how to fix it.”

Renjun’s stare softens just a little, but the frustration remains. “Just be honest with her, don’t fuck it up again. You just need to talk to her.”

── .✦

A week slips by, seven long days of silence. No texts, no calls, no sign of you anywhere. Donghyuck’s phone lights up with other notifications, but none from you. Every time he opens your chat to check if you’ve at least read his texts, his heart races, only to fall when he sees no reply.

He’s tried everything, dozens of messages full of apologies, simple check-ins, even jokes to break the ice, but nothing breaks through the wall you’ve built. His thumbs hover nervously over the keyboard as he drafts yet another message, erases it, and starts again.

“I know I hurt you. I’m sorry. Please talk to me.”

Sent.

He waits, staring at the screen, willing his phone to buzz back, but the silence stretches on, heavier with each passing hour.

His friends have noticed his darkening mood. Renjun catches him staring blankly at his phone during class. Jeno and Jaemin exchange worried glances when he skips practice. Even Mark nudges him quietly, “Man, you gotta fix this before it’s too late.”

But every unanswered text chips away at his hope, and the regret grows like a flower in his chest.

── .✦

You sigh as you look in the mirror. The tired eyes staring back at you are heavy with exhaustion and something else, a dull ache that won’t fade. It’s been a week since that night, a week since you let yourself feel something real, and then had it ripped away without warning.

Every time your phone buzzes, your heart leaps, hoping it’s him, only to drop when it’s not. And when it is, your fingers freeze. You read his messages, the apologies, the desperate pleas, but you can’t bring yourself to respond. Not yet. Not while you still feel so raw and exposed.

You tell yourself you’re protecting yourself, that distance is the only way to keep your heart safe. But each day alone sharpens the ache, and you miss the laughter, the easy comfort of the group, the way Donghyuck’s smile made things feel okay, even if he didn’t feel the same, you convinced yourself you could be ok with just being his friend.

Still, the betrayal lingers, thick and heavy. You replay the night over and over, the way he left without a word, without anything. 

You bury yourself in your other friends’ company, their fierce loyalty a soothing bandage for the sting. But even they can’t fill the hollow spaces where your old friendships used to live.

You glance at your phone again, thumb hovering over his name. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe soon. You want to believe he’s worth the risk,  worth breaking down your walls. But for now, the silence stays, like a fragile dam holding back the flood inside you.

── .✦

It’s been nearly two weeks of silence. Your phone remains stubbornly quiet except for the occasional unanswered texts from Donghyuck. But what you don’t know is that behind the scenes, he’s been trying everything to get to you.

He finally gets a lead, one of your classmates and mutual friends, Minji, slips him information about a possible library session. She knows how much this means to both of you, and though she’s wary, she agrees to give him a heads-up about where you might be.

You’re sitting in a quiet corner of the library later that week, lost in your thoughts, when suddenly you see someone approaching you in your peripheral vision. Your heart sinks as the chair next to you is pulled out, Donghyuck sitting down and facing you.

He waits for you to look at him before speaking, his voice low but firm as he meets your eyes. “We need to talk.”

You look around. People are starting to notice. You bite your lip and sigh, not wanting a scene. “Fine,” you say quietly, standing up. “But somewhere private.”

He nods, relief flashing across his face. “There’s a park nearby. Let’s go.”

You grab your things and head out, leaving the library behind, stepping into the cool evening air, anxious to finally confront everything between you.

── .✦

The park is quiet, the only sounds are the soft rustle of leaves and distant city hum. You both find a bench tucked away under a streetlamp’s warm glow. The space feels intimate, away from prying eyes, but the tension between you is thick enough to fill the air around you.

Donghyuck sits down first, running a hand through his hair, clearly trying to organize his thoughts. He looks over at you, eyes earnest and raw.

 “I’m sorry,” he begins, voice low, almost a whisper. “I never meant to hurt you. Leaving like that… it was selfish, stupid. I was scared, and I didn’t know how to handle what happened between us.”

You keep your gaze fixed ahead, refusing to meet him. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He swallows hard, stepping closer until you can feel the heat radiating from his body. “I was scared. Scared because everything was moving too fast, scared because I didn’t want to mess things up with you, but instead, I did the worst thing possible. I left you hanging. And I… god, I can’t believe I was that selfish.”

Your throat tightens. “You left me with nothing, Hyuck. No explanation. No ‘I’m sorry.’ Just silence.”

He winces like you’ve slapped him with your words. “I know. I was a coward. I wanted to tell you so many times, but every time I tried, the words just got caught in my throat. I thought ignoring it would make it easier, for both of us, but I was wrong. I was so wrong.”

Tears prick the corners of your eyes, anger and hurt bubbling to the surface. “You think you can just come back after ghosting me like that and say ‘sorry’ and that’s it?”

Donghyuck’s voice cracks, raw and desperate. “No, no, I don’t expect that. I’m not asking for forgiveness just because I want it. I want to earn it. I want to fix this, even if it takes everything I have. Because losing you… that’s the last thing I want.”

You finally meet his eyes, and you see the sincerity there, the regret, the fear of losing you. For a moment, the anger softens into something else, something tender.

“I don’t know if I can trust you again, Hyuck,” you admit, voice shaking. “You left me feeling like I wasn’t worth sticking around for. Like I was just a quick fuck.”

He kneels down in front of you, taking both your hands in his. “You are so much more than that. You’re everything to me. I’m begging you, please. Let me show you that I’m better than how I acted.”

The tears spill free now, your body trembling with the release of weeks of pain and confusion. Donghyuck pulls you gently into his arms, holding you as if you’re the most fragile thing in the world.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere this time.”

You bury your face in his chest, heart pounding, and whisper, “I want to believe you.”

He kisses the top of your head, voice soft but certain. “Then let’s start again. No games. No running.”

Slowly, hesitantly, you look up at him, and your lips meet in a kiss. It’s tentative at first, then deeper, full of all the apologies and promises words could never capture.

When you finally pull away, breathless and trembling, you rest your forehead against his. “Maybe… maybe we can try.”

Donghyuck smiles, eyes shining. “Maybe we can.”

── .✦

softlysoul perm taglist - @markkiatocafe @theozia @hyeinsveil

[fic-girlie]

All that I see

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x f!reader Summary: Insecure about your body, you pull away — but Pedro’s love helps you see yourself through his eyes. With his support, you learn to embrace who you are. Warnings: body image issues, insecurity, angst, soft Pedro, explicit smut (+18), unprotected sex, p in v sex, aftercare, supportive Pedro A/N: It was made by another request from @kellyxo1, so thank you!

The laughter in the next room makes you flinch.

It starts as a light trill—carefree and bright—and then it sharpens, cutting through the air like fine glass. Feminine voices layer over each other, weaving between flirtatious teasing and the gentle clinking of crystal glasses. The soft thud of a heel on hardwood. Another giggle.

Someone’s perfume trails into the hallway like smoke—musky jasmine with a vanilla finish—and even though you can’t see her, you know who it is. She had kissed Pedro on the cheek when she arrived, lingered a little too long near his side, and you’d watched from the corner of your eye while pretending to tidy the drinks tray.

You shift your weight against the kitchen counter, your arms crossed, hands tucked deep into the cuffs of Pedro’s oversized hoodie. The fabric is worn and warm and still faintly smells like him—cedar and something leather-soft, familiar. You burrow into it, pulling it tighter around you like it could protect you from the way you feel.

You tell yourself not to look toward the doorway again. But you do.

From this sliver of an angle, you can see the edge of the living room. Just the corner of the couch, the pale spill of light from the chandelier, and one perfectly manicured hand resting casually on Pedro’s forearm. Her laugh cuts across the room again.

You stare down at the floor.

The insecurity doesn’t slam into you—it creeps. A slow, quiet thing, like water seeping under a closed door.

You know you’re beautiful. That should be enough. You're a working model, after all. Booked and praised. But it never feels like enough, not really—not when the lingerie jobs come in and you say no before you even read the offer. Not when you remember the fitting for that swimwear campaign and how you stared at your reflection too long, wondering if they’d notice your chest wasn’t quite full enough to hold the cut of the top.

They didn’t say anything. But you could see it. The slight shift in the stylist’s face, the way she made a note in her phone. It stuck with you.

You walk slowly to the sink, pick up a clean glass, and rinse it as if it needs something. Anything to do with your hands. Water rushes over your fingers, warm and steady, and you stare through it, your jaw tight. You think of their voices again—co-stars, stunning women who move like they don’t question the space they take up.

You remember what one of them whispered last week, when she thought you were out of earshot.

“She’s got a pretty face, but she’s more… artsy model than sexy. Kind of flat, don’t you think?”

The words had rolled over you like a soft wave with a hidden undertow.

You never said anything. Not even to Pedro. Especially not to Pedro.

Because what if they were right? What if you were the exception in his world, the woman who was nice and kind and cool enough to be with—but not the kind who turned heads in the same way. Not the kind who made people say of course he’s with her.

You feel it every time someone looks at the two of you. A pause. A question. Her?

You set the glass down, a little too carefully.

And then you hear it—his voice. Pedro. Deeper, grounded, threaded through with something warm and soft that always seems to pull you out of yourself.

“Hermosa?” he calls out, just loud enough to reach the kitchen, but not loud enough to be heard over the music. “You okay?”

There’s a beat. You hesitate.

You want to say yes. You want to walk in there with your head high, to sit next to him and pretend none of this gets to you. But the words catch in your throat, like a pebble lodged there.

Instead, you dry your hands slowly and glance toward the mirror that hangs on the far wall. You study your reflection with a clinical eye—your lips, the outline of your chest under the hoodie.

You look like someone trying to disappear into fabric.

The hoodie makes your shoulders look small, your frame even narrower than it is. You used to like that. Now you’re not sure.

You walk into the living room anyway.

Your smile is practiced, soft at the corners, the kind you’ve worn to castings and red carpets. It never quite reaches your eyes.

Pedro’s standing near the fireplace, drink in hand. His sleeves are pushed up slightly, revealing the curve of his forearms, and his hair curls just a little at the nape—still slightly damp from his earlier shower. His laugh rumbles in his chest at something one of the women says, but his head turns the moment he sees you.

And he always sees you.

He hasn’t done anything wrong.

Pedro never makes you feel less. Not once. Not in private. Not in bed. Not when he cups your cheek like he’s memorizing every inch of you or runs his hands over your body like worship.

Not when he whispers hermosa into your skin like a prayer. Not when he looks at you like you’re the sun.

But the truth is, sometimes his light makes your shadows sharper.

It’s not him.

It’s everything around him.

The world that eyes you sideways, that asks, “What does she do?” even after knowing you’re a model. The world that puts you side-by-side with his co-stars and makes you feel like you have to justify why he chose you.

His gaze lands on you like an anchor. It softens instantly—eyes creasing, mouth tipping into the kind of smile that’s only ever meant for you.

But the woman next to him doesn’t miss it.

Neither do the others.

You see it in the way their gazes follow his and then flick to you. There’s a subtle shift in the air, like heat in a room you didn’t notice until someone closed the door. One of them raises a brow. Another glances at your hoodie, then at your legs, then smirks to herself before sipping her wine.

They say nothing. But it echoes louder than words.

Your stomach tightens.

Pedro lifts his arm as if to welcome you in—to touch you, hold you close, tuck you under his side like he always does. And God, you want that. But right now, every cell in your body is coiled tight with the fear of being seen, really seen.

“I just need to check something real quick,” you say quickly, voice light, feigned ease. “Left my phone charging.”

Pedro’s face flickers with something—confusion? Worry? But he doesn’t push. He just nods, slow, eyes following you as you back toward the hallway.

You slip into the bedroom and close the door behind you.

The sound is soft. Final.

You lean back against it, hoodie still tight around you, and let your head fall back with a quiet, shuddering breath.

You hate this. The way the noise from the party fades through the walls while the noise in your head gets louder. The way even Pedro’s kindness—his devotion—can’t always silence the doubt rooted deep inside you.

You tell yourself this is just a bad night.

But in your chest, it feels like the truth.

——

You were quiet again.

It had been a few weeks since the night you avoided Pedro’s touch. Since the moment his lips had hovered just beneath your ribs and you’d gently, insistently, tugged his curls and whispered, Not tonight. He hadn’t pushed. He never did. But something had changed.

Not in him. Not outwardly, at least. He was still his tender, attentive self—always checking in, brushing your hair from your eyes, calling you mi amor in that low, molten voice like it belonged only to you. Still warm in the kitchen over morning coffee, still eager to wrap you in an oversized hoodie when you’d come in from errands, still smiling at you with that softened, starstruck expression when he thought you weren’t looking. But it was there, in the way his eyes followed you longer, slower, searching. Watching you retreat inside yourself like you were folding, quietly, into a smaller shape.

And you had been. Retreating, bit by bit. Skimming past mirrors faster. Turning away when Pedro would come up behind you with his arms loose and affectionate around your middle, trying not to flinch when he pressed kisses into the curve of your neck. You still loved him—God, more than anything—but something deep inside you kept pulling taut like a wire drawn too tight. A coil of shame, anxiety, and self-doubt wound into your very core.

You weren’t sure when it started.

Maybe it was the comments under a photo—one of those soft candid shots he posted of you two in the kitchen, your head resting on his shoulder as he cooked. You in a t-shirt, his hand on your hip. You remembered it so clearly—how safe you’d felt in that moment, how natural.

But the comments were ruthless.

Doesn’t look like his type. She’s cute, but she looks like a teenager. No curves? Odd choice for Pedro. Flat as a board. Is she twelve?

That one gutted you.

It wasn’t the first time either. Whispers on set when you visited him. The glance a co-star had given you before turning to another with a smirk. They didn’t hide it, not really. She’s sweet, one had murmured too loudly, but she doesn’t have the kind of body I’d model with. Another, even more brazen, laughed and said, Pedro always did have a thing for the shy ones, huh?

You hated that it got to you. You hated how much it sunk in.

Because you were a model. Technically. You’d done editorial spreads, art-house fashion campaigns, brands that prized mood and face and presence—but never lingerie. Never anything that showed too much skin. Not because you were modest, not really. But because you were afraid. Afraid of being compared. Afraid of the world confirming what you already suspected.

That you weren’t enough.

So you pulled away. You turned down two new campaigns that featured sheer or open fabrics. You didn’t tell Pedro. You just said you were being picky. And you grew quieter. Shrinking from his praise. Laughing a little less. Avoiding his gaze when he told you you were beautiful.

You didn’t notice him watching you now, across the living room, until you heard his voice—low and careful.

"You gonna tell me what’s going on, sweetheart?"

You blinked, startled out of your thoughts. You were curled up on the far end of the couch, blanket over your knees, your phone in your hands though you weren’t looking at it. Pedro sat on the other side, body turned toward you, brows drawn tight with concern.

You swallowed. Forced a smile. "What do you mean?"

He let out a slow breath. Not irritated—never that—but aching, almost. His voice softened.

"I mean... you’ve barely said more than a sentence at a time the last few days. You won’t let me touch you like I used to. And I know something’s wrong—I just don’t know what."

You looked down at your lap. Your fingers twisted the blanket.

"I’m just tired," you mumbled.

Pedro shifted closer, his hand coming to rest on the couch between you, not quite touching you yet.

"You’re allowed to be tired. But this is different. This is... something else. You’ve been carrying it like a weight."

You blinked hard. Your throat burned.

He was so good. So patient. And you hated this. Hated feeling like some broken thing in the presence of someone so endlessly whole.

"I just—" Your voice cracked. You shook your head. "I don’t want to talk about it. It’s stupid."

His brow furrowed deeper, but he didn’t push. Instead, he spoke even quieter.

"It’s not stupid if it’s hurting you."

You bit the inside of your cheek until you tasted copper. Your hands were trembling now beneath the blanket.

He saw it. And that was what finally made you speak.

"It’s about my body," you whispered. "About me."

Pedro was still. Listening.

You inhaled sharply, voice falling out in pieces. "People say things. About me. About how I look. How I’m not... enough. Not the kind of woman they expect you to be with."

You couldn’t look at him.

"They say I’m flat. That I look like a girl, not a woman. That I don’t deserve someone like you. And I know I shouldn’t care, but it’s everywhere. And your co-stars—they look at me like they agree. Some even say it out loud. And I—"

Your voice cracked. You laughed bitterly. "I didn’t even want to model anymore. I turned down jobs because I didn’t want to see myself in something that would prove them right."

You paused. The silence between you was full.

Then, barely above a breath: "I didn’t want you to see me, either. Not like that.”

A quiet exhale from him. Something deep and shaking.

Then he moved.

Not to touch you. Not yet. First, he knelt in front of you on the floor, his hands resting on the edge of the couch, eyes level with yours. Dark and warm and glassy.

"Look at me, cariño."

You didn’t want to. But you did.

His voice was low. Steady. Like a lifeline.

"You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. And not just in some abstract, I-love-you-so-I-say-it way. I mean it. Every single part of you—your eyes, your mouth, the curve of your waist, the line of your collarbone, your chest. All of you. I’ve memorized you. And I never once looked at you and thought you weren’t enough."

You opened your mouth to protest, but he kept going.

"The people saying that shit? They don’t know you. They don’t get to have opinions about what makes you desirable, what makes you a woman. You’re not just enough, you’re everything I want. Everything I crave. And it kills me to know that you’ve been hurting like this and felt like you had to hide it from me."

He reached for your hand now, slow and gentle.

"You never have to hide from me, baby. Not ever."

You broke. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way—but soft and quiet and real. Your eyes welled, breath hitched, and you leaned forward like your bones couldn’t hold you anymore. Pedro caught you. Pulled you into his arms with so much care it nearly shattered you. One hand cradling the back of your head, the other circling your waist, fingers splaying across your back like he could shield you from every word, every gaze, every inch of self-doubt you’d ever held inside.

You buried your face in his neck. Let the tears come.

And he held you.

He held you until you calmed, until your breathing slowed, until your hands gripped the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline. He pressed kiss after kiss to your temple, your cheek, your hairline.

"I’ve got you. I’ve always got you."

And when you finally pulled back to look at him, there was something in your eyes that hadn’t been there for weeks—trust, clarity, a kind of hesitant hope.

You didn’t say anything.

But you kissed him.

Softly at first, like you needed to remember how. Then again, slower, deeper, your hands cupping his jaw as his breath caught against your mouth.

And you knew, just from the way he kissed you back—steady, reverent, aching with love—that he meant every word.

And maybe, just maybe, you could start to believe it too.

——

The soft glow from the bedside lamp bathes the room in a warm, golden light, the shadows dancing gently on the walls as Pedro’s hands never cease their worshipful exploration of your skin. Every inch of you, from your collarbone to the curve of your waist, he treats like sacred ground, as if your body is the most precious thing he’s ever touched. The slow, rhythmic motion of his thumbs on your breasts sends tiny electric jolts of heat through your core, and you find yourself melting into him, the earlier insecurities dissolving like mist.

Your breath hitches when his mouth trails down from your jawline to your neck, his teeth nibbling just enough to make you shiver without pain. He pauses, lips brushing a tender kiss along the hollow of your throat before his hands travel lower.

You let your eyes flutter closed, your body arching instinctively toward his touch as Pedro’s fingertips brush along the lace of your underwear. Slowly, deliberately, he slips his fingers beneath the fabric, the contrast between the cool lace and his warm skin sending a shiver through you.

Pedro’s voice is a low murmur against your skin, “You don’t have to be afraid here. I want to know every part of you.” The tenderness in his tone wraps around you like a soft blanket, soothing the last flickers of doubt.

When he finally slides your panties down, it feels like an act of trust—sacred, slow, and full of reverence. His eyes never leave yours, searching for any sign that you want to stop, that you want more, or that you simply want to be held. Instead, you reach up to cradle his face, your fingers threading through his hair as you pull him close for a deep, soul-stirring kiss that speaks of promises and belonging.

Pedro’s body aligns with yours as he slides between your thighs, his warmth pressing against your bare skin, filling you completely. You gasp softly at the sensation, a delicious mixture of fullness and closeness. His hands cradle your hips, holding you steady as he begins to move—slow, deep, and measured.

Each thrust is a whisper, a conversation between your bodies, a dance choreographed by trust and desire. You feel the heat of him with every movement, the pulse of his heartbeat syncing with yours beneath the soft sheets. His lips trail back to yours, the kiss deepening as your hands explore the strength in his shoulders, the muscles taut beneath his skin.

Pedro’s breath fans warm against your cheek as he murmurs, “You’re mine. So beautiful, so perfect. I love every part of you.”

Your fingers clutch at his back, your body trembling with waves of pleasure that build gradually, each crest higher than the last. His hands slide up your sides, fingers pressing into the softness of your skin as he holds you close, grounding you in the moment.

When he shifts, adjusting his angle to hit you deeper, your breath catches in your throat, and a soft moan escapes your lips. Pedro responds with a growl of pleasure, his hips moving with steady, patient rhythm—never rushed, never rough—always tender and deliberate.

You feel utterly seen, utterly loved, every fear and insecurity melting away beneath the heat of his gaze and the softness of his touch. Your body moves with his, slow and fluid, an intimate melody of skin on skin, heartbeats echoing in the quiet room.

Pedro’s hands find your breasts, his thumbs brushing your nipples gently, coaxing them to harden beneath his touch. The sensation sends sparks of heat trailing down your spine, your body arching toward him as he leans down to kiss along your collarbone, your shoulder, your neck.

Your lips part, breath hitching as he deepens the connection between you, his mouth worshipping your skin with an almost sacred devotion.

When the waves of pleasure finally crest, it’s like the world falls away—just you and Pedro, bodies entwined, hearts pounding, the soft glow of the lamp witnessing your love in its purest, most vulnerable form.

He stays with you, arms wrapped tightly around your trembling body, his breath slow and steady against your ear as you both come down from the intensity of the moment. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, grounding you, holding you safe.

“I love you,” he whispers again, voice thick with emotion. “All of you.”

And this time, you believe it—not just the words, but every touch, every look, every breath you share.

——

The weeks after that night on the couch and in the bedroom unfold gently, like a quiet dawn breaking after a long, restless night. Pedro’s words echo in your heart every day — I love every part of you. It’s a promise, a truth, and slowly, it begins to dissolve the walls you’ve built around your insecurities.

You find yourself noticing the small changes first. How you catch your reflection in the mirror and don’t immediately flinch. How you stand a little taller when you enter a room, your shoulders easing away from the weight of self-doubt. The old fears that clung to you — about your chest, your body, the whispers from others — they don’t disappear overnight, but they lose their sharp edges.

One afternoon, you’re back at the studio for a new photoshoot. The folder with the campaign’s styling details sits on the table before you. It’s a lingerie campaign — something you would have turned down without a second thought a month ago. But now, looking at the delicate lace and satin pieces, the bold yet elegant designs, you feel a strange flutter of excitement instead of dread.

Your fingers trace the images in the folder, and you take a deep breath. The thought of stepping in front of the camera wearing these pieces no longer feels like exposing your flaws. It feels like reclaiming your power.

That evening, Pedro’s waiting for you when you get home, his eyes lighting up the moment you walk through the door. He pulls you into a warm hug, his hands steady and sure on your back.

“How was the shoot?” he asks softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

You smile, your heart swelling with a new confidence. “It felt… good. Different. I’m thinking about saying yes to the campaign.”

Pedro’s grin is slow and proud. “That’s amazing. You should always say yes to what feels right for you.”

You settle beside him on the couch later, your fingers intertwining. “You know, I was scared. Scared of what people would say or think. But after everything — what you said, what we shared — I don’t want to hide anymore.”

He cups your face gently, thumb tracing your cheek. “You don’t have to hide from me. Or anyone. You’re perfect as you are.”

The night stretches on with soft kisses and whispered promises, but this time, your body moves with ease, with joy, not with hesitation.

——

In the following weeks, the campaign begins. The fittings, the shoots — each moment feels like a small victory. You wear the lingerie not as armour but as celebration. The camera catches your natural curves, the confidence radiating from within. Your smile comes easily, no longer forced or shy.

When you scroll through social media, you see comments under the campaign’s posts — some kind, some less so. But they don’t reach you. You’ve learned to sift through the noise, to hold tight to the truth of who you are. Pedro’s presence is your anchor.

One evening, after a long day, you and Pedro lie together on the balcony, the city lights flickering below like stars brought down to earth. He pulls you close, his voice soft in the night air.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Stronger. Braver. More beautiful than ever.”

You rest your head on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. “Thank you,” you whisper. “For believing in me when I couldn’t.”

Pedro’s hand strokes your hair, warm and gentle. “I always will. No matter what.”

In that moment, you realize the journey wasn’t just about your body or the opinions of others. It was about learning to love yourself — fully, fiercely, and without apology.

And with Pedro by your side, you know you never have to doubt your worth again.

[lsunstreakerl]

Hey! So uh 💀 for the prompt I was wondering of we could get that o!fmf one shot you’ve mentioned if you’re down?

hi anon! you and another anon that asked for "o!ver2 first heat" are getting smushed together into a two-parter! (because "first heat" and "first real heat with each other" are two different things in this verse, and I wanted to showcase both.) part one, max POV, 3.3k. mature. (part two)

pairings: rico verhoeven/max verstappen

relevant heads up: omegaverse, dubious consent due to nature of heat/ruts, fucky politics and power imbalances, unreliable narrator, there's not technically any explicit content here but there will be in part two!

"...What?"

Max's voice is smaller than he means for it to be, scent spiking with fear despite his best efforts. He's done everything for their people, never once faltered, he doesn't understand—

Jos sighs, narrowing his eyes. His tone is deceptively gentle, closer to a croon than Max has heard in years.

"It's the only option, Max. The King is giving us resources we never could've gotten ourselves— it will save everyone. You have to understand that this is all I could offer in return."

He says it like he's discussing an item, not Max. Like this won't change his life in ways he'll never get back, like he isn't sending Max off to join whatever omega harem King Verhoeven has. Max won't be the only one, he can be sure of that— he'll just be the worst.

"I—"

Jos cuts him off again, leaving no room for argument.

"Will still have the opportunity to do a mating run, if you'd like. The King has promised to respect the terms of the agreement even if he can't catch you."

Max grabs onto the thought like a lifeline, desperately clawing at it, cradling it like it can protect him.

If he's good enough, it can.

Jos is frowning.

"It would be... a blight, on the names of all involved, if he wasn't able to succeed."

Max hears the hidden message clearly, baring his fangs and hissing loudly, louder than he's ever dared in his father's direction before.

"I am not throwing the results of my run."

Jos' lips press together into a thin line, but he nods, sighing heavily.

"I should've expected that. This would be much easier if you'd been an alpha, you know."

Everything would've been easier that way. Max is well aware. That doesn't mean he's going to roll belly up for King Verhoeven, just to end up some kind of concubine, only around to carry pups. He'd rather be dead.

------

Max twitches, curling his nails into his palms. His heart feels like a glimmerfly, rapid beats too fast to follow, buzzing in his ears. Mick is at the edge of the forest with him, scent rich with concern as he checks over Max's leathers one more time.

It's not technically cheating to wear them. The rules are to follow cultural standard for which region the participants are from, and as far as Max is concerned, the leathers are so ingrained into northern life that it would be weirder not to wear them.

Max doesn't say anything, but his scent is giving him away, thready with anxiety, and Mick can't even scent him about it— can't do anything that might throw the results of the run.

"It's just— it's like any other alpha, Max. You're stronger than everyone we have at home, so... This is no different."

Max can't even find it within him to purr reassuringly. His nerves are a tight knot in the back of his throat, preheat buzzing at the edge of his senses. He's participated in a few communal mating runs before, mostly for fun, but also because he'd been confident no one could catch him.

Now, it seems like everyone feels differently. They're not in Max's favor anymore, instead trying to reassure him that it won't be so bad, being up at the castle. He's never heard anything about King Verhoeven's omega harem, but it must be real— and he's not going to be a good fit. Mick is the only one acting like Max might still manage to pull this off.

He can smell his father's scent sharpen, biting back a whine as he realizes it must mean the royal delegate is here. He never wanted—

It doesn't matter what he wants.

Mick rumbles lowly at him, sympathetic, before leaning in, toeing the line of how close he can get to Max without being reprimanded.

"I'll visit, Max. We'll figure something out, whatever we have to do— fake your death or something. You just have to make it through this."

Max finally manages a thin purr, forcing a small smile on his face for Mick before turning to look at the delegate. His own group is small, only a few of them spared for ceremonial purposes, and it seems like King Verhoeven's delegate is thin as well.

He freezes when he spots the King. The alpha is huge, with a broad chest and powerful legs, and Max feels the first coil of fear that he's about to get caught, teeth ripping into his neck, taking away his freedom, forcing him to submit—

Mick rumbles again, and Max realizes his scent has gone off, thick with nerves and fear. It's not the impression he wants to give.

He forces the feelings down, lifting his chin as the delegate gets closer. He can smell a few alphas, the sweet scent of an omega or two, and they're all smoothed over in the way that implies a beta within the group, helping keep things easy. There's the spiced scent of the beginnings of a rut that can only be coming from the King.

As much as he doesn't want to be in this situation at all, Max can already feel himself responding to it, scent sweeting slightly in the presence of what should be, by all means, the ideal alpha.

But he's not, and Max needs his brain to work harder than the rest of him, because he can't get caught. He just has to make it until the sun sets, make a mad dash through the woods, and bolt back into the safety of his own group.

He can ride out his heat afterwards in peace, by himself.

Jos has stepped forward to greet the King, and Max is frozen in place as the massive alpha makes his way over. He knows how this part works— he'll be scent marked so that the chasing alpha knows his scent, and then he'll get one hour of a head start to run.

His blood is rushing in his ears as King Verhoeven steps closer to him, directly in his space, and then there's a nose in his neck, pressed against his scent gland—

Max wants to whine, wants to bite, wants to run away, wants to drop to his knees. There's too many conflicting emotions inside of him, and the King's rut scent is muddling his brain.

He's still frozen as the King steps back, pupils blown wide as he looks down at Max.

"It is my honor to chase you today, Maximilian."

Max swallows, salivia thick in his mouth. He doesn't believe him for a second— but he's not going to make it easy either. He doesn't trust his voice, choosing instead to nod slightly, hoping somehow that he isn't broadcasting his nerves.

The rut scent is heavy in his nose, fuzzing out the rest of his brain. Jos is speaking, saying something to rest of the delegate, and Max thinks that maybe Mick is moving next to him, but his rational thinking is falling away, faster then he wanted, faster then he can afford.

Both groups must be able to tell that he's dipping past preheat now, losing his senses one by one, because he hears Jos' voice piercing through the fuzz in his brain, heavy with alpha command.

"Max, go."

He's moving before the words really sink in, darting into the woods. He knows how to do this, even if he's not as aware as he'd like to be, even if he's never slipped this far this fast before.

There's branches whipping against his face as he pushes into a sprint, focusing on getting as much distance as possible. Traps can come after, if he's still coherent enough to make some, but right now he needs—

The river.

His leathers are mostly watertight, a fact he's deeply grateful for as he wades in, counting on the rushing water to help disguise his scent. There's river grass at the bottom, and he's tugging at it, fingers weaving with years of practice. He could make rope in his sleep.

He gets a few long lines finished, looping them around his shoulder for later. If he's able to stake out a good spot, he can set traps, something to make noise that will alert him to run.

He goes downstream with the river for a bit before deciding it's hopefully bought him some time, stepping out on the other side of the riverbank. There's not really any good spots immediately available, but he works in a zigzag pattern, occasionally doubling back over his own scent. It would confuse the average rut addled alpha, but Max isn't convinced King Verhoeven is the average alpha.

He can feel the beginnings of a cramp in his gut, and the river had thankfully cooled him down enough to clear his head some, but he's been out of it long enough that his heat is creeping back in, skin clammy with sweat under his leathers.

Part of him is relying on the hope that King Verhoeven's other omegas haven't been this difficult, and maybe he'll give up, content to let Max go now that he hasn't immediately rolled onto his back and spread his legs.

He's not counting on it entirely though.

Finally, he gets to a rockier area of the woods, carefully picking the most likely spots for a lumbering alpha to try and barge through before securing them with noise traps. He scales the small rock face ahead of him, plastering himself low to the ground at the top to try and look across the rest of the forest.

The sun has started to dip in the sky— he's well over his head start now, and King Verhoeven is in the woods. He can see faint curls of smoke in the distance from the campfires by the delegates, but it's hard to see anything within the woods past the dense foliage.

He scoots backwards, planning his potential escape routes on the other side of the cliff face, when a pang of heat slices through him.

He drops his forehead to the ground, whimpering softly. He's been steadily ignoring the feeling of slick against his thighs, but it's impossible now. He shifts, legs rubbing together as another cramp rolls through him.

There's no opportunity to really get off— not the kind he needs, fingers shoved inside of him— but he can dull the edge a bit, rocking his hips into the palm of his hand. It'll leave a scent mark, slick and arousal and heat soaked omega, but Max had spotted a startlingly close loop of the river nearby.

He feels heat fuzzy and frozen in time, just Max trying to satisfy an urge he knows he can't take care of— and it takes longer than he'd wanted. He whines as he crests gently, barely enough to feel satisfying at all, but enough that he can start his descent of the rock face.

The sun has dipped further than he thought, and he's annoyed at the time he's lost up on the rocks. He freezes when he hears a clatter from the other side of the rock face.

The noise trap.

There's no way Verhoeven has gotten here this quickly, no alpha has ever caught up to Max this fast before— but Max doesn't know how much time he'd lost on the rocks, and King Verhoeven is no ordinary alpha.

He slips quietly back into the underbrush, making his way to the river. It will take a moment to get to the top of the rocks, and if he's really lucky Verhoeven will get distracted at his scent spot.

Max almost cries with relief when he gets back into the water. It brings with it a semi-sharp clarity, tugging away the sticky threads of heat at his brain as he pushes downstream. He's made it a few hours already, he just needs to manage until the sun is setting, and then he can get back to safety— and their people will be safe as well.

The King had promised to honor the agreement even if he didn't catch Max, and Max refuses to end up a concubine in the palace, whelping pups for an alpha he rarely sees.

He's fairly confident that's how that works, anyways.

He makes good time in the river, weaving river grass together as he goes. He'd wasted his other ropes on the noise traps, and he's not entirely sure what he'll do with these ones, but it makes him feel better to have it.

He has to break back into the forest eventually. He's been tracking the sun, watching it dip lower, and he's been fighting through the steadily increasing waves of cramps. Once he leaves the river, he has no doubt that his heat will hit in full force.

Even now, in the water, he feels lightheaded, slightly disoriented. He knows he's started his journey to double back to the delegate camps, but he's not sure how far they are, and he's fairly confident he's at his best opportunity now.

If he wants the shortest, most coherent run back to the camps, he'll have to wait here until the sun dips further. The thought makes him nervous, and he's paranoid enough already, constantly twisting his head, trying to—

He can smell rut. It's faint, but it's on the wind, which means Verhoeven is getting closer. Max can't afford to wait any longer, and he can't go back to camp, and—

He makes a break for it, darting out of the river and into the trees. He follow the riverbank as closely as possible, branches and leaves cutting into his face as he runs. He's going to want to get back in the riverbank eventually, and he doesn't want to gain too much ground, but he needs distance.

His head is starting to fog, thighs uncomfortably wet inside his leathers, balance starting to fail him. He's deeper into his heat than he'd thought, pressing his palm over his stomach to try and soothe the deep ache. It hurts, and he's empty, and there's an alpha that wants him.

Max needs to get back to the river. He can feel the walls closing in on him, rational thoughts flying out the window, and he could swear he smells—

Dirt. Alpha. Hurtneedmoreneedmoreknot—

Max hits the ground hard, wincing preemptively before the knock to his head, but it never comes. A palm cradles the back of his skull, absorbing the impact as they roll, and he immediately starts to struggle, because King Verhoeven is here.

There's a low rumble in his ear, large legs straddling his own, and despite Max's best attempts to buck him off, the alpha is heavy. He settles his weight solidly on top of Max, nose tucking tight to Max's scent gland as he holds his wrists tightly in front of him with one hand, the other still holding his head.

The first brush of his nose against Max's scent gland makes him whine, fighting every instinct telling him to tip his head back and take it.

His heat is burning him up from the inside, hot and boiling as the alpha pins him with his weight. Max is waiting for the bite, for the immediate claim, but there's no scrape of teeth— just the press of his nose, and then a moment later—

Max moans when he licks across his neck, hips bucking up underneath him. The rut scent curling into his brain demands submission, and his own heat makes him desperate, but Max isn't finished yet.

The sky is getting dark above them. If he can make one last mad dash for the camps...

He can feel Verhoeven's heavy cock against his hip, and Max wonders briefly if he'll end up beheaded for this anyways, before he swings his knee up with a vicious snarl, darkly satisfied at the wounded noise the King makes. He puts all of his strength into shoving the alpha off of him, breaking into a panicked sprint.

There's no strategy, no traps, just Max and his desperate need to get out, to get to safety, to get—

The second tackle isn't any gentler than the first. Again, somehow Max doesn't hit his head, but Verhoeven isn't taking any chances, grappling him facedown into dirt. There's a tug at his arm, and Max doesn't realize for a moment what the alpha is doing, until he feels slick river grass wrapping firmly across his wrists, tugging them tight.

He snarls, deep in his chest as he tries to buck out of his grasp anyways. Using Max's own rope against him—

There's a heavy hand in his hair, shoving his head back down as he feels a knee pin him across his back.

The river grass gets looped around his ankles as well, tugged tight. An alpha in their rut shouldn't even remember how to tie rope, but Max finds his bonds have no give at all.

He tugs despite this until there's a low growl directly in his ear, dangerous.

It makes Max freeze. Verhoeven makes a pleased noise before burying his nose in his neck again, taking a deep inhale. Max flinches when he feels heavy hands at his waist, thick fingers locating the different buckles.

He whines, a desperate attempt to make the alpha take pity on him, but all it gets him is a low rumble next to his ear, and a tongue flicking across his scent gland, large hips pressed flush to his ass.

He yanks at the ropes again, dull panic clashing with the arousal of his heat. He's never taken a knot before, he doesn't want to get bit, he's scared—

Verhoeven gets most of his leather successfully unstrapped, pressing his chest along Max's back before crooning softly.

His chest is vibrating with a low rumble, nosing into Max's neck gently, and he only realizes a moment later that the alpha is trying to soothe him. He hates that it's working, muscles starting to relax under his weight, head tipping to the side to expose more of his neck.

There's a large hand stroking down his side, like Max is a spooked horse and not a panicking omega, but the pheromones are getting to him.

His hands and feet are bound, and the sky is dark. He's missed his chance to get back to the camps in time— he's lost. Even if the King doesn't knot him here on the forest floor, by all rules, he's won the chase. Max belongs to him now.

Tears burn hot at his eyes as he dips his head to the dirt, all the fight leaving his body at once.

It's over.

A cramp rolls through him and he whines, but even that sounds defeated, and he's limp underneath Verhoeven, who makes a concerned noise before carefully flipping Max onto his back.

Like this, he can see the chase has also taken its toll on the alpha, cuts across his face, clothing partially ripped and wet. Verhoeven leans in, pressing the side of their faces together as he rumbles.

His fingers are skating lower as he peels away the leathers, Max's slick heat scent filling the air around him. He whimpers, thighs falling open despite himself, because it hurts.

He's lost anyways— what does it matter if the King takes what he wants?

Verhoeven makes another low noise, teeth scraping across Max's scent gland. He thinks momentarily of how many other omegas the alpha must have back at the palace, how many other times he's tackled and knotted someone in the woods. For a brief moment, it fills him with rage. This is the rest of his life now, by no fault of his own, and if King Verhoeven thinks he can just get away with treating Max like any other omega—

He snarls, low in his throat, chest rattling with the force of it. The alpha rears back in surprise, and it's all the opening Max needs to lunge forward, to get his teeth wrapped around his scent gland.

He catches a flash of stunned hazel eyes.

Max bites.

[katnipp]

hello hello!! i have a request 🫩🫩 could u nake a fic about popularcheerleader yoonchae with lowkey nerd/geek reader, both of them get assigned on a oroject and yoonchae is very curious abour reader cause shed never really heard of her(theyve had many classes together) but readers disant and makes sure not to talk alot cause shes not trying to get bullied by yoonchaes friends, time goed by and they both notice that they arent as bad as they thought anf they both like eschother anf then boom they r together

according to the rubric, we’re in love— jeong yoonchae

genre: FLUFFFF

synopsis: she kept her head down. yoonchae never looked her way—until they were forced to work together. now she’s the only one yoonchae sees

—

yoonchae had never really noticed y/n before.

okay, that wasn’t entirely true. y/n sat three rows in front of her in chemistry, and two seats to the left in english. she was always there, quiet and scribbling notes with her head down, half-hidden behind oversized hoodies and thick-rimmed glasses. but she’d never heard her voice. not once. not until now.

“uh… we’re partners?” y/n asked, voice so quiet it almost got lost in the shuffle of students moving around them.

yoonchae blinked, caught off guard. “yeah. looks like it.”

y/n nodded, clutching a notebook to her chest like some kind of shield. “okay. um… cool.”

and just like that, she turned and walked back to her seat without another word.

yoonchae stared after her, a little confused, a little intrigued.

huh.

⸻

yoonchae wasn’t clueless. she knew how people saw her: cheer captain, effortlessly social, always surrounded by friends who talked more about lip gloss than books. she was used to being liked—or at least noticed—in every room she walked into.

but y/n didn’t look at her like that.

y/n barely looked at her at all.

and that? for some reason, yoonchae couldn’t stop thinking about it.

⸻

the next day, she slid into the chair beside y/n at the library and tapped her pen against the table.

“so,” she said casually, “you like star wars?”

y/n blinked up at her. “…what?”

yoonchae pointed at the small, worn patch on y/n’s backpack. “that’s the jedi symbol, right?”

y/n hesitated. “…you know what the jedi symbol looks like?”

yoonchae grinned. “my brother’s obsessed. i know more than i want to.”

y/n looked down at her notebook again. “oh. cool.”

silence settled over the table, a little awkward. but not uncomfortable. not completely.

⸻

yoonchae could tell y/n didn’t trust her. not really. she caught the way y/n’s eyes flicked toward her friends when they passed by. the way she tensed when loud laughter filled the halls. like she was waiting to be the punchline.

but she wasn’t going to be. not with yoonchae.

and besides—y/n was kind of… interesting. she was smart, for one thing. really smart. and even though she barely spoke during class, whenever she did say something, it was quick and sharp and kind of funny.

and she always smelled like spearmint gum and vanilla shampoo. which—yoonchae had no idea why she noticed that, but she did.

⸻

project meetings slowly turned into something else. first library sessions. then sitting together at lunch—far from yoonchae’s usual table, tucked into the back corner of the cafeteria like a secret. just the two of them.

they didn’t talk about the project much anymore.

instead, they talked about movies, space, comics, and why yoonchae’s favorite k-drama had a totally unrealistic ending. y/n would argue, soft but firm, and yoonchae would pretend to be offended just to get her to roll her eyes.

she liked that.

she liked her.

⸻

“you’re not what i expected,” y/n said one afternoon, half-buried in her hoodie, eyes flicking to yoonchae’s and then back to her fries.

yoonchae tilted her head. “what’d you expect?”

“someone mean,” y/n said after a pause. “someone who’d call me weird behind my back.”

yoonchae’s smile faltered. “do you think i would?”

“not anymore.”

“i’m sorry,” yoonchae said gently. “if my friends ever said anything—”

“it’s okay,” y/n said quickly. “they don’t know me.”

yoonchae reached across the table and nudged her pinky against y/n’s. “well… i do.”

⸻

she brought y/n a slushie at the game that friday. didn’t even ask, just handed it over with a grin and plopped down beside her on the bleachers.

y/n was typing something on her laptop. she accepted the drink with a quiet “thanks” and a smile that made yoonchae’s chest feel weirdly warm.

they watched the game in silence, knees barely touching. yoonchae kept sneaking glances, trying not to grin every time y/n’s brows furrowed at her screen.

“hey,” she said finally, leaning in just a little. “you’re kinda cute when you smile.”

y/n almost dropped her slushie. “wh-what?”

“you heard me,” yoonchae said, biting her lip, clearly amused. “i am flirting.”

y/n’s face went red.

yoonchae thought it was the best thing she’d ever seen.

⸻

the project was finished a week early. but they kept meeting up anyway. library after school. quick chats between classes. texts that started as reminders and turned into late-night convos about favorite books, stupid hypotheticals, and why yoonchae’s cat definitely hated her.

one day, yoonchae caught y/n by her locker. her hair was a little messy. her hands fidgety. but her eyes were steady.

“so,” she said, “we’re not working together anymore. but maybe we still could? i mean… hang out. just us. not for school.”

y/n blinked. “like a date?”

“yeah,” yoonchae said, voice softer now. “like a date.”

y/n hesitated, then smiled. “okay.”

and just like that, the cheerleader and the nerd

—

the girl who had everything and the girl who hid in corners—

fell into something real.

and this time, yoonchae really noticed her.

because how could she not?

—

a/n: SORRY IF ITS SHORTER THAN USUAL☹️

[justmeexistinghere]

W H E R E S H A D O W S M E E T

pt.1 Trigger ˏ*⁀➷pt.2

Summary:

You planned to leave your past behind and focus on keeping a low profile at Eunjang High. But when a violent encounter after school forces you out of the shadows, old instincts flare up and new connections begin to form. Sometimes, the fight you try to avoid is the one that changes everything.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･*✧･ﾟ:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

-> Geum Seongje x fem!reader (about to be) -> Warnings: violence / physical fights, bullying, blood / injury, swearing / strong language, mentions of past trauma, smoking (hopefully I didn't forget anything) -> Wordcount: 2.503 -> 📝English isn’t my first language & this is my first story — thank you for your patience ♡

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧:*⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Just like the past few days, the usually blue sky is hidden behind a wall of grey clouds. Even the sun surrenders, casting a heavy, oppressive mood over the city. Summoning any motivation for the lessons ahead feels impossible – not that you ever had much to begin with. 

Listlessly, you stare out the window, your gaze empty and unfocused. Occasionally, your eyes flick over to the clock above the door, moving so slowly it feels personal. You rest your head on your arms, knowing the teacher wouldn't say a word, since all of them have learned to keep their heads down, just like most of the students. You close your eyes, letting the hum of the classroom fade into the background as your thoughts drift away.

The bell finally snaps you out of it. Time for a break. Not that it matters... 

You are still new here, still alone – and, honestly, you prefer it that way. Choosing between bullies and their victims isn’t a choice you are interested in. Sure, a few students don’t fit into either category, but why take the risk? You know how quickly the wrong decision can blow up in your face.  

You hate this place. But it was your own fault. The thought had settled in your mind a long time ago. No sense denying it.

This place, Eunjang High, is infamous for brutal fights, relentless bullying, and a toxic atmosphere. Sounds fun, right? If one enjoys survival games, it would definitely get a five-star rating. 

You feel like an intruder in a system you had no desire to belong to. And honestly? You certainly don’t want to change anything about it, even if you are sure that you could. Maybe once, the old you would’ve thought about changing things. But not now. You have bigger promises to keep. Promises that tasted bitter the second you made them. Graduation isn’t far off. And you're counting the days – not to celebrate, but to leave this hellhole behind without a second glance.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

After what felt like an eternity, school's over. Another level of this horror game is done.  You don’t know why, but instead of taking your usual route – the one where you're least likely to run into anyone – you take the shortcut through the notorious tunnel where fights happen almost every day. For a second, the familiar smell of blood and sweat, probably from the most recent fight, finds its way to your nose. You tense for a second, listening.   Nothing...   Just your echoing steps. “Lucky me,” you whisper to yourself after realizing that you could have walked straight into someone's fist or something. You start playing some of your favourite songs over your earphones, which give you a decent soundtrack to your after-school walk, offering a small escape from your sickening surroundings.

You are almost home until you remember that your dad asked you to get some groceries on your way back. You enter the 7-Eleven, which is nearby, and gather everything you need. While browsing through the shelves, you see someone slurping their ramen, and its smell makes your belly long for it with a quiet noise, you hope only you caught. You stop your music – shit, reality hits again – and wait quietly until the cashier breaks the silence with the annoyed-sounding words, “That's all?” You nod. “That's 13,000₩ please,” he says while you are already looking for your card. You feel how he eyes you impatiently as he cannot wait to return to the game he was playing on his phone right before you interrupted him. The people in this area really do not care about their jobs, but honestly, you kinda understand them.

A loud crash at the window facade makes your hand jolt, almost dropping your card. Fuck, what was that? Your heart skips. And you feel your muscles tensing up, ready to defend yourself, as if your body never forgot how it's done. You turn around with a swift move and quickly capture the ongoing situation.  

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Outside the store, a group of teenagers – looking like wannabe gangsters from the Unit – have ganged up on some other students, one of whom was slammed into the window and was the source of the crashing sound. His dark hair is still being gripped by a taller guy who laughs shamelessly, looking not only at his "friends" but also at a dark alley, where a lanky figure with a lit cigarette is barely noticeable.  

It is time to act fast – fuck – no trouble, you remind yourself over and over again, while leaving the store and trying to get past the troublemakers. “Hey, you!” shouts one of the guys, but you ignore it, trying to look unbothered by the scene. “Is this bitch really ignoring me?” he says while taking fast steps in your direction until he is close enough to grab your wrist. His grip is strong, and the sudden pain makes your eyes water. You try to shake him off, which only leads to him gripping even harder – you didn’t think that would be possible, but damn, it was. “Let go,” you say, trying to be as direct and emotionless as possible. “Why would you tell me what to do?” he responds, laughing, and turns to his gang, which still hasn't let the other guys they harassed before leave. Only then do you realize how bad the condition of the boy is that was hit against the window. He is bleeding from his head heavily, and you aren't sure if he is still conscious. You hear his heavy breathing, and it feels like déjà vu. Your heart starts to ache and a small shiny tear rolls down your cheek. The guy on your wrist notices that your eyes were glued on the badly injured and bursts out: “Feel pity for this motherfucker? Do you know this loser?” You look at the attacker with a disgusted face, not being able to hide your thoughts for a second. No trouble, you promised. But some promises are easier to break than others. Fuck it.

You then look him right in the eyes, putting on a small grin, and let out a short snort of laughter, trying to irritate him. “Pity? Yeah, maybe. I mean, who wouldn't be pitiful looking, after having a fight with someone, one cannot stand a chance with, huh? But you are the one I pity even more, you know?” you answer him cockily. His eyes pop open, since he hadn’t expected that as your answer. "You pity me?" his eyes get darker, and his voice lower. The other gang members start laughing, but you know exactly how to shut them up. “You too!” You raise your voice, making sure they hear you clearly, which succeeds. All eyes are on you now. God, you have a love-hate relationship with this exact feeling. But you must end what you have started.

“The ones that pick weaker and defenseless victims to bully are the most pitiful,” you continue. You feel relief at your wrist, realizing the guy transfers his weight to his rear leg, along with the arm that was on you just now. You catch that familiar glint in his eyes, you had seen countless times in the midst of a brawl. With a swift motion you avoid the rising hand that was now aiming at your cheek. He stumbles to the front, not expecting to miss. "Shibal," he screams directly at you, feeling the anger he has more intensely. It isn’t the first time you have to dodge a slap, knowing there is no going back anymore. Like in old times, you study the situation – every movement, every little detail about your surroundings. You need to know what your opponent is about to do. How you can use the things around you to obtain an advantage. You feel your old self banging at the wall you set up inside yourself a while ago, and you cannot help but let it break through.   Even if you fought a lot in your past, you are a bit rusty due to your lack of exercise. But hey, no risk no fun, right?

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

It's six of them. Too many. But starting with the one that seems to be their leader might scare them a bit, since they clearly underestimate you. That will buy some time to leave with the boys on the floor. You look at their exhausted and scared, pale faces once again, catching their collective shivering, which is almost imperceptible and speaks volumes of their terror. Long story short... You seize the moment of surprise, your foot lashing out in a swift, precise kick aimed at the balls of the bully who held you seconds ago. A strangled gasp escapes him as he sinks to his knees, not expecting your next move, already approaching. Before he can react, your fist shoots out, connecting with a sickening thud against his left eye. The others, just as you'd anticipated, are frozen, their shock palpable as they witness their leader's swift defeat. "Run!" you bark at the boys, who are as surprised as the bullies, but listen to your sharp and commanding voice. Except for one... The badly injured boy, stubbornly unconscious, has a crimson stain blooming on the pavement beneath his head.

You find yourself between the decision of helping him and risking a bloody fight or leaving without him. "No trouble your ass," you mutter under your breath, your muscles coiling in preparation for the inevitable fight. In the meantime, the leader groans, pushing himself up with agonizing slowness, clutching his injured groin. "Take that bitch down!" he roars, his voice thick with pain and fury.

Round 1!

A thick-necked guy with closely cropped hair charges forward, swinging a clumsy punch that telegraphs his intentions a mile away. Instead of meeting his brute force, you sidestep, narrowly avoiding his fist, and your hand instinctively grabs the heavy terracotta flowerpot sitting precariously on the ledge of a house's window next to the 7-Eleven. As he stumbles past his missed strike, you swing the pot, not to smash it, but to fling a handful of loose soil and grit directly into his face. He roars in surprise and claps his hands to his eyes, momentarily blinded.

Another one of his cronies, leaner and faster, sees his chance and lunges. But your attention is already elsewhere. You quickly reach for the plastic name tag pinned to your school uniform. With a sharp tug, you rip it free. As he comes at you, you grip the rigid plastic tightly between your fingers, using the pointed corner – ironically bearing your own name – to deliver a quick, stinging jab to the side of his neck, targeting a pressure point, leaving a message. He gasps, momentarily stunned by the unexpected sharp pain and the sheer audacity of the attack, giving you the opening to maneuver.  

Shortly after, some passersby step in, saying the police is nearby, which leads to the attackers finally leaving.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The cloying scent of blood and sweat, the unwelcome aroma of the day, assaults your nostrils once again. You kneel beside the injured boy, the sticky warmth of his blood radiating faintly. His eyelids flutter open, revealing unfocused, pain-filled eyes. "Hey, you alright?" you ask gently, your voice shows a stark contrast to the earlier command, as you fumble for your phone to call an ambulance. The boy seems to have lost his voice due to the pain and shock he just experienced. You can feel the adrenaline slowly fading, and even if you are not as weak as you pretended for a long time, your knees are just like jelly in that moment.

What you just did surprises you. You just have to think about Him. He would be proud, but also disappointed. He, the one who taught you to fight. He, the reason you never wanted to fight again.

But if you were brutally honest, you liked it. You liked the feeling of being in a fight, blood boiling, and always thinking about a divine move that made them lose against you, even if no one would ever bet on you. You find yourself being proud of something you wanted to ban from your life and even promised it to your dad and Him.

"Not bad," you suddenly hear from the direction of the dark alley, where you noticed the smoking figure before. A tall, slim guy, wearing an orange windbreaker and glasses, comes in your direction. You have to admit he looks quite handsome, walking casually with one hand in his pocket while the other has a cigarette between two fingers. You look at him a bit confused, but curious about what exactly he wants. "What do you mean?" "Your fighting. Not bad for a girl." The way you hate these words – for a girl – why is it always this statement? Unfazed, you turn around to finally go home. Gladly, the groceries are still all in the bag and mostly fine, after you threw them away before the fight. While walking, you perceive another pair of footsteps right behind you, before you can hear the person that follows you saying: "No really, I didn’t expect someone like you to be that tough. You turned them into cowards, which gives me a reason to beat them even more later. Thanks, sweetheart." Now you are even more confused about this guy than before. "You saw all that?" You keep your cool until you realize what it means... "So you were there the whole time and just watched? You know them? Are you behind the attack against the other students?" You stop walking and look at him furiously. He just smiles with that damn smile and look in his eyes. A look without any regret, rather just amusement. "Maybe, but sweetheart, it seems like you can handle yourself. No need to step in," he says, super relaxed. "You fucking–" you start but stop in anger, just continuing walking towards home. The guy laughs and just looks at you from behind.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

In bed, you cannot stop thinking about what happened. The usual morning at school ended in a sidequest, which seems to be just the beginning of something that may change your life for the time being. In your head, you replay the whole fight you went through and study all the movements you remember. How could you improve your attacks for your next fight... A next fight... three words you never thought would be formed like that in your head again... but they did and you do not regret... not at all... just that you didn’t hit that damn gummy smile of the windbreaker guy...

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

to be continued...

ˏ*⁀➷pt.2

Thank you so much for reading so far! I wanted to create atmosphere and some depth, why its quite a long start without the pairing actually know each other 😅 It's my first work ever so i hope you like it (please leave some feeback hehe). Would you like part 2?

picture was generated with Ai