#no plot none not even an ounce

[foreveia]

fourteen ⤨ oikawa tooru

⨭ genre; fluff

⨭ pairing; oikawa tooru x fem!reader

⨭ word count; 6.5k

⨭ descriptions; as much as you love romcoms, you're a realist and recognise just how illogical true love is—unfortunately for you, fate has other plans.

⨭ warnings; profanity

⨭ a/n; my 2025 motto has been to just write and not worry too much about perfectionism, so here's my mess of an oikawa fic. it's acc unreal i have finished three fics in a week's time lol who knows how long this creative streak will last but wtv. in the meantime, enjoy :)

song i listened to writing this: 'plot twist' by niki

one.

During your four-hour layover in SFO, you decide that 4AM flights are only slightly less inconvenient than paying full price for a flight at noon. Because right now, it’s honestly just eerie: San Francisco International Airport (full-government name because you fear this might actually be where you die) is completely empty, largely dark, and very, very desolate.

You sigh and glance around the lounge, which is dimly lit and suspiciously quiet except for the distant hum of a floor polisher somewhere beyond the gates. Every shop is shuttered, every PA announcement echoes into nothing, and the only signs of life are a few overworked employees slumped behind their counters; you’re the only one at your gate, your phone charging via one of the blue-light towers, headphones blasting at maximum volume. You’re trying to drown out the unnerving feeling in your chest with Gracie Abrams and SZA—it’s not working in the slightest, actually making you increasingly wary of your vulnerability.

But whatever. You’re a #brokecollegestudent, so obviously you’re willing to risk your life for a good deal.

Honestly, you should really be asleep. That was the plan, after all: you had it all mapped out—get here, find a quiet corner, conk out, wake up only when it’s absolutely necessary. Instead, your brain is running on fumes and bad decisions, vibrating horribly in your skull because you’re an idiot and didn’t realize how paranoid you get when you’re sleep deprived.

You groan, stretching your legs out in front of you. “Kill me,” you mutter under your breath.

“First time traveling?” a voice pipes up, obnoxiously chipper for the time of night.

You freeze mid-stretch. You are not alone.

Slowly, you turn toward the source of the voice.

Sprawled across the lounge chair opposite you, looking for all the world like he belongs here, is a guy—tall, lean but broad-shouldered, stupidly good-looking even under the sickly fluorescent lights. Tousled brown hair, sweatpants and a zip-up hoodie that are clearly designer but worn like he doesn’t give a damn. His legs are stretched out like he owns the entire damn lounge, and he’s got this lazy, almost smug smirk on his face, like he’s enjoying whatever show you’re unknowingly putting on.

You narrow your eyes. “Excuse me?”

He gestures vaguely at you, at your very obvious state of suffering. “You look like you’re miserable right now.”

“I am,” you say. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs, then tilts his head. “Just figured misery loves company.”

Your brain is still catching up to the fact that this man—a stranger, an audacious one at that—has just decided to start a conversation with you, unprompted, in the middle of an empty airport. You eye him cautiously. “You do realize there are approximately four million other places to sit, right?”

He grins. “Yeah, but none of them have you.”

You blink. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Depends.” His smirk widens. “Is it working?”

“No.”

“Damn,” he says, without an ounce of actual disappointment. “Guess I’ll have to try harder.”

You scoff, shaking your head as you glance away. God. Of all the people to be stuck in airport limbo with, you had to get the charming, insufferable kind. The kind that probably coasts through life on natural athletic ability and the kind of face that gets him out of parking tickets. The kind that’s entirely too comfortable stretching out in a public lounge like it’s his personal living room.

He’s watching you, you realise. Like he’s waiting for something.

“What?” you sigh.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says.

“I don’t remember you asking one.”

The corner of his mouth twitches like you’ve just mildly amused him. “First time traveling?” he repeats.

You roll your eyes. “No. Just first time being stuck in an airport at an hour when no one should be conscious.”

“Ah,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “A rookie mistake. 4AM flights are a scam.”

You snort. “And yet, here you are.”

“Touché.”

You take another glance at him, this time really looking. Something about him tugs at your memory, like a song you’ve heard before but can’t place. The messy hair, the easy confidence, the way he’s practically radiating I’m used to being the center of attention energy.

Then, in a flash, it hits you.

“Oh,” you say, recognition clicking into place. “Wait—you’re Oikawa.”

His eyebrows lift slightly, a flicker of interest crossing his face. “You know me?”

“You’re that volleyball guy,” you say, pointing vaguely at him. “The one who’s, like… unnecessarily famous.”

Oikawa grins. “Unnecessarily?”

“I mean, it’s volleyball,” you deadpan. “I didn’t even know people could be famous for that.”

His expression morphs into something between offense and wounded pride. “Ouch. I think I might actually cry.”

“Please do,” you say. “It’ll entertain me.”

He clutches his chest theatrically. “You’re ruthless.”

“I’m tired,” you promptly correct. “And delirious. And currently stuck in an airport with a man who’s trying to convince me he’s a big deal.”

Oikawa scoffs, but there’s something amused in his gaze, like he’s enjoying this. “You’re not a fan of sports?”

“Not really,” you shrug half-heartedly, looking back down at your beat-up Filas. You’re not lying; even so, you’ve seen his games on TV before (you watch the Olympics after all—you’re not a total basket case). He’s a flirt, a player with double meaning, and you would really rather avoid getting involved with anything complicated. “I’ve never been into jocks.”

“Never been into jocks,” he echoes, shaking his head. “And here I thought I could be your Peter Kavinsky.”

“No, thank you. I would never write you a love letter.”

Oikawa laughs at that—an actual laugh, not just the smug little chuckle you’ve gotten so far. It’s rich and warm, and you hate the way it makes your stomach flip just slightly. Who even are you right now? This whole situation is so unbelievable that it makes you more confident.

You cross your arms, looking him up and down. “So what’s your excuse?”

“For what?”

“For subjecting yourself to this hellscape of a layover,” you say, gesturing at the ghost town of a terminal around you.

He sighs, dragging a hand through his already messy hair. “Came back to visit some old teammates in California. Now I’m heading home.”

“Japan?”

“Bingo.”

Your brain is slow, groggy, and running on fumes, but something about that answer sticks. “Wait,” you say, frowning. “What flight are you on?”

Oikawa glances at you, like he knows exactly what you’re about to realize. “4:00AM to Haneda.”

You stare at him. “No.”

His grin is almost devious. “Yes.”

Your stomach drops.

Fourteen hours. Fourteen whole hours, stuck on a flight. With him.

Oikawa watches the realization dawn on your face, and for the first time since he sat down, he looks genuinely entertained.

“Well,” he says, stretching his arms over his head. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

You are going to lose your goddamn mind.

two.

For all your romcom consumption, you never stopped to consider what you would do if coincidence and chance conspired against you in that manner. You figured if fate was ever going to meddle in your love life, it would be in an incessantly normal way—maybe a slow-burn situation with a coworker, or a friend-of-a-friend you never noticed until one fateful night.

Not… this.

Not staring at seat 14A like it’s a death sentence, because your boarding pass is crumpled in your fist, because of course when you finally find your row, Oikawa Tooru is already lounging in 14B, looking far too pleased with himself.

He glances up as you approach, then breaks into the most shit-eating grin you’ve ever fucking seen.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, leaning back like he just won the lottery. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You stop dead in the aisle, refusing to believe what your own two eyes are telling you.

“Are you following me?” you blurt, because there is absolutely no way the universe would do this to you.

Oikawa, ever the dramatist, clutches his chest. “Sweetheart, if I wanted to follow you, I’d at least be more subtle.”

“Show me your ticket.”

He raises an eyebrow but pulls out his boarding pass with a flourish anyway. You squint to read the text, half-hoping that you would find some spelling error that could place either of you somewhere else. But nope: his ticket reads 14B in big, bold letters, right next to Oikawa Tooru and Gate 11.

You exhale slowly, pressing your fingers to your temple. Jesus fuck. He manifested this, with his snarky commentary and all about being stuck with him; you would say that you’re gonna kill him for this, but evidently, karma is real and terrifying.

Oikawa, meanwhile, is having the time of his life.

“What are the odds?” he muses, tucking the ticket back into his hoodie pocket. “Out of all the seats on this flight, I get to sit next to you.”

“This is a nightmare,” you mutter.

“Nightmares are scary,” he says. “I’m a delight.”

You glare at him and shove your bag into the overhead bin with slightly more force than necessary. He watches, thoroughly entertained, as you lower yourself into your seat like you’re walking into a trap.

The cabin fills with the usual pre-flight chaos—flight attendants directing traffic, the hum of passengers settling in, the occasional thud of an overhead bin slamming shut. You try to focus on that, on anything other than the man currently making himself comfortable in the seat beside you.

Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll get bored.

Oikawa leans an elbow on the armrest between you, tilting his head slightly. “So,” he says. “What’s your in-flight entertainment plan?”

“My what?”

“You know, what’s gonna keep you occupied for the next fourteen hours?” He gestures vaguely to your bag. “Movies? Reading? Soul-searching?”

“Sleeping,” you say immediately. “It’s four AM. Like a normal person.”

Oikawa tilts his head, considering. “See, I would believe you, but you already look wide awake.”

You scowl at him. Because unfortunately, he’s right—your body is so far past exhaustion that sleep is a distant, unattainable dream. You sigh and shift in your seat, pressing yourself closer to the window.

He grins, victorious. “You should talk to me instead.”

You let out an actual laugh—short, sharp, disbelieving. “Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because I’m fun.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Same thing.”

You shoot him a flat look. “I don’t like you.”

“And yet, you still haven’t put your headphones in,” he points out.

Damn it. You hate that he’s right. Again.

You huff, finally fishing your headphones from your bag and shoving them into your ears with exaggerated finality. Then, just for good measure, you turn to the window and squeeze your eyes shut.

Oikawa doesn’t say anything else. For about thirty seconds. Then, right as the plane begins to taxi down the runway, you hear him say, way too smugly for your liking, “you’re gonna talk to me eventually.”

You pretend to be asleep. You can feel him watching you, like he’s waiting for you to crack, like he knows something you don’t. 

Ugh. This is gonna be a long flight.

three.

By hour three of the flight, you’ve come to realise that Oikawa has a surprising love for the classics. 

Trust: you weren’t actively trying to notice his choice of in-air films, but your periphery and conscience betray you, and you become acutely aware as your seatmate cycles through The Proposal and Crazy Stupid Love (two objectively incredible films). He cues 10 Things I Hate About You next, which is probably your favorite movie of all time; you adore said movie so much that, despite all of your previous complaints and window-seat protests, you eventually lean into the seat rest separating you two and watch along.

Not openly, obviously. Not in any way that would give Oikawa the satisfaction of knowing he’s captured your attention. You angle your face toward the window, feign a vague disinterest, and sneak quick glances when you think he’s not looking.

Spoiler: he notices immediately.

“You know you could just watch with me,” Oikawa says, not even bothering to take his eyes off the screen. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say flatly, keeping your gaze stubbornly trained on the clouds outside.

“Uh-huh.” He shifts in his seat, casually turning the screen toward you. “C’mon, if you’re gonna steal glances, at least commit.”

“I wasn’t stealing anything,” you huff, but it’s weak, and you both know it.

Oikawa smirks, and—against your better judgment—you give in, finally glancing at his screen properly to watch Kat Stratford dancing drunkenly on a table. He offers you one of his earbuds, which you take very, very tentatively. You would be deeply unhappy about the proximity if your love of Hypnotize didn’t trump it. 

You sigh, leaning your cheek against your palm. “This movie is so good.”

“Right?” Oikawa grins, clearly pleased with himself. “Pretty bold of you to call me insufferable when you clearly have taste.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means you love this movie, I love this movie—therefore, you and I have more in common than you’d like to admit.”

You scoff, but there’s no real bite to it. “Liking 10 Things I Hate About You is just basic human decency.”

Oikawa presses a hand to his chest, mock-flattered. “Oh, so now you’re calling me decent?”

“No, I’m calling the movie decent. You’re a fluke.”

He gasps dramatically, then shakes his head, muttering something about how you wound him. But his smile lingers as the film plays on, and maybe—just a little bit—you don’t find his presence as unbearable anymore. He’s too distracted watching Joseph Gordon-Levitt pine to be truly annoying.

Somewhere between the next few scenes, you relax completely, not even pretending to look away anymore. You’re leaning in slightly now, watching the moment where Patrick buys Kat a guitar, and it takes an embarrassingly long time for you to realize that Oikawa’s staring at you instead of the screen.

You blink. “What?”

He tilts his head, amused. “You’re, like… really into this.”

You scoff, flicking your gaze back to the movie. “I just appreciate good cinema.”

“Oh, so you’re a romcom person.”

You hesitate—because there’s something about the way he says it, a sort of curiosity that feels deeper than just casual conversation. It could be interpreted as judgmental, but somehow, the way he says it doesn’t seem to be. Still, you brush it off, nodding begrudgingly. “Yeah. So?”

Oikawa hums, glancing back at the screen as if weighing his words. Then, without looking at you, he says, “Do you think this stuff actually happens?”

“What, grand romantic gestures?”

“Yeah. Stuff like this. The running through the airport thing. The whole public love confession in front of the entire school thing. Do you think it’s real?”

You consider it for a moment, shifting in your seat. “I think… I think people want it to be real,” you admit, watching as Patrick and Kat kiss in the movie’s final scene. “Like, deep down, even the most cynical people kind of want to believe that this kind of thing could happen to them.”

Oikawa doesn’t respond right away. He just watches you, his expression unreadable.

Then he asks, voice softer this time, “And do you?”

The question settles in your chest, heavier than it should be. Do you believe in grand gestures? In someone showing up unannounced at your door, confessing their feelings in the pouring rain? In someone looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth fighting for?

If you’re being honest, you’re a hopeless romantic at heart. It’s why you love the genre so much—because despite all your cynicism, despite every realist take you’ve ever had, a part of you still wants to believe in love that lasts. You just don’t think it’s likely. People fall out of love with each other. Feelings fade. Real life is rarely as cinematic as the movies make it seem.

You exhale, suddenly too aware of the way Oikawa’s watching you, like he sees right through you.

“I think it’s… nice in movies,” you say carefully. “But in real life, people just disappoint you. It’s not worth taking the chance and getting hurt.”

Oikawa studies you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to your utter surprise, he smiles—small and knowing, the kind that makes your stomach do something weird.

“Well,” he murmurs, leaning back in his seat, “maybe you just haven’t met the right person yet.”

Your breath catches. You hate the way your heart stumbles over itself, just for a second.

You force yourself to roll your eyes, turning back toward the window. “Gross,” you mutter, hoping he doesn’t hear the slight waver in your voice.

Oikawa just chuckles, hitting play on When Harry Met Sally.

“Talk to me when we hit the part where Meg Ryan fakes an orgasm,” he says, stretching his arms behind his head. “Then we’ll really see where you stand on romance.”

You shake your head, biting back a reluctant smile.

And as the flight drags on, you realize—with a sinking feeling—that you don’t actually mind sitting next to Oikawa Tooru as much as you thought you did.

Oh God. That can’t be good.

four.

Halfway through the scene where Harry and Sally are in flight, you decide, after much internal conflict, that you’ll allow yourself to like Oikawa for this flight and this flight alone. It’s harmless. A temporary indulgence. You can enjoy the anonymity, let yourself sink into the moment, and then disappear once the plane lands. Maybe you’ll see his Olympic gameplay on TV one day, mention it offhandedly to whoever you’re with at the time, and then promptly forget about him.

Because here’s the thing: if you let yourself, you could probably fall for people pretty easily. You keep your guards up because it’s safer, but you imagine that love is like getting sucked into a black hole—you either fall forever, or you hit the ground so hard it shatters you. And if there’s one thing you know about yourself, it’s your tendency to self-sabotage: you don’t remember a single relationship you’ve had where you didn’t walk away first. You really would prefer to keep your romantic fantasies in fiction; it hurts less. 

You never realized that Oikawa could share this conviction. 

He doesn’t say anything when you shift slightly toward him, resting your arm on the seat rest between you. He doesn’t comment when you fully give in, watching When Harry Met Sally with him like it’s something you’ve been doing forever. He just lets it happen—like he expected it, like he knew you’d cave.

You don’t like that. But you do like the movie.

The scene in the airport plays, Sally meticulously laying out her travel quirks—I like the aisle seat, so I can stretch my legs. I don’t like to eat between meals, but I always want something sweet after dinner. You smile to yourself. You’ve always loved the specificity of it: how she knows exactly what she likes, how she doesn’t compromise on it.

“I feel like dating you would be exhausting,” Oikawa muses abruptly, arms crossed over his chest. 

You tear your gaze away from the screen just long enough to give him a withering look. “Excuse me?”

He gestures vaguely in your direction. “You’re too—” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Particular.”

You scoff. “And you’re not?”

“Not in the same way.” He shifts slightly, smirking. “You’d analyze me to death. Pick apart every little thing I do.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You say that like you wouldn’t be a terror to date.”

Oikawa grins, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Thinking about dating me, are we?”

“I’m thinking about how insufferable you’d be,” you correct, turning back toward the screen.

“Mm. You sure?”

You shoot him a look.

He sighs, dramatic as ever. “Shame. I’d be great at it.”

You snort. “Doubt that.”

His smirk widens. “That sounded a lot like a challenge.”

“It’s not.”

“I think it is.”

“Oikawa.”

He chuckles, finally turning back to the movie, and for some reason, you feel yourself relax again. The teasing is easier now, lighter. You don’t hate it.

And, despite yourself, you sneak another glance at him before looking back at the screen.

The movie plays on. Harry and Sally are walking through Central Park in the fall, debating the age-old question of whether men and women can be just friends. You know every word of this scene, could probably recite it in your sleep. 

“I love this part,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

Oikawa glances at you, intrigued. “Why?”

“It’s just—” You pause, searching for the right words. “It’s the conversation. The way they both believe so deeply in their own side of things. And they’re both right, in different ways.”

Oikawa hums, tilting his head. “So, which one are you?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“Do you think men and women can just be friends?”

You hesitate. You’ve thought about it before, obviously—you’ve had guy friends, you’ve had moments where those friendships blurred at the edges, where you wondered if they were really as platonic as you claimed. 

“I think it depends,” you decide finally. “Some people can. Some people can’t.”

Oikawa watches you for a beat, his expression unreadable. “And what about us?”

Your breath falters; the question feels heavier than it should. You force yourself to scoff. “We’re not even friends.”

He laughs, and you hate how warm the sound is. “Cold.”

You shift in your seat, trying to ignore the way your stomach flips. “I just mean we met, like, five hours ago.”

“Five very meaningful hours,” he says, nodding seriously.

You shake your head, turning back to the screen—just in time for the diner scene.

“Oh, here we go,” Oikawa murmurs.

You grin. “Cinematic excellence.”

Sally fakes an orgasm, loud and unashamed, right in the middle of Katz’s Deli. You try not to look at Oikawa as you laugh, but his presence is suddenly overwhelming, like you can feel him beside you even without looking.

“She’s got a point, you know,” he says.

“What?” You glance at him.

He gestures to the screen. “Half of dating is just making people think you’re having a good time.”

You scoff. “That’s your dating experience, maybe.”

Oikawa raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You’re a playboy.”

He groans. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“It’s outdated,” he argues. “Was I kind of a flirt in high school? Sure. But I grew out of that.”

You snort. “Did you?”

Oikawa turns to you, expression softer now. “I did,” he says, and you don’t know why, but the look in his eyes and the way his voice wavers make you believe him. 

There’s something almost sad about it, how under his layers of bravado and grandiosity, he seems just the slightest bit lonely. You don’t say anything. You just watch him, the way his jaw tenses slightly, the way his fingers drum absentmindedly against the armrest.

“I don’t know,” he continues, voice quieter. “Never really met someone who gets me like that.”

You hesitate. Then, before you can think better of it, you mumble, “I get that.”

Oikawa looks at you. Something shifts between you. Not huge, not dramatic—but something.

You clear your throat, turning back to the screen. “The best part of this movie is the ending, anyway.”

He watches you for a second longer, then smiles slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, watching as Harry races through the streets on New Year’s Eve, heart in his throat, words spilling out in a desperate confession. “Because he realizes it’s real.”

Oikawa hums. “And you don’t think real love is like that?”

You hesitate. You really don’t want to answer that question, not right now. So instead, you shrug. “Like I said, it’s nice in movies.”

Oikawa doesn’t push. But as the credits roll, he glances at you one last time, something unreadable in his gaze. He’s not entirely convinced by your answer, and you both know it, even if he isn’t saying it aloud.

five.

Oikawa’s phone password is his own name, which is a fun fact you discover as your flight nears hour ten.

You don’t even mean to find out—really, you don’t. He dozes off halfway through Crazy Rich Asians, phone balanced precariously on his knee, screen still lit up from whatever mindless scrolling he’d been doing before sleep claimed him. He’s slumped in his seat, arms crossed, mouth slightly open in a way that would be embarrassing if he were anyone else. But he’s Oikawa, and people like him have a way of looking effortless even in sleep.

The moment the phone slips, it’s like slow motion. It free-falls, landing with a soft thud on the armrest between you. Oikawa startles awake, lashes fluttering, hands fumbling to catch it a second too late. His fingers curl around the device, flipping it over with bleary concern, only for the screen to glare back at him—locked.

And that’s when you see it.

You don’t mean to. It’s just…right there. The exact moment his fingers trace out the unlock pattern, it clicks into place, predictable in a way that makes you snort.

“Oikawa.”

He turns toward you, still shaking off the drowsiness. “Huh?”

“Your password,” you say, fighting a smirk. “You really chose Oikawa?”

He yawns, unbothered. “And?”

“And that’s… so predictable.”

He stretches, spine arching lazily before he slouches back down, as if the conversation itself is something he can’t be bothered to put effort into. “Predictable or genius? You tell me.”

“Predictable,” you say immediately. “What if someone tries to hack you? Your name is the first thing people would guess.”

Oikawa grins. “Exactly. It’s so obvious that no one would actually think I’d use it.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “I bet all your passwords are just variations of your own name.”

He makes a noise of vague offense, rubbing a hand over his face. “That’s an outrageous accusation,” he says, clearly lying.

You narrow your eyes. “Your Netflix account—Oikawa123.”

He lets out a small, amused breath. “No comment.”

“Instagram? KingOikawa.”

“Hey, now—”

“Banking password?” You pause, then shake your head. “No, don’t answer that. I don’t even want to know.”

He chuckles, tipping his head back against the seat. “You’re awfully interested in my passwords, aren’t you?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m interested in the fact that you’re a narcissist.”

“And yet,” he muses, smirking at you, “you’re the one paying so much attention to me.”

Your lips part, an immediate retort on the tip of your tongue—but nothing comes out. Because damn it, he’s right.

Somewhere between hour one and hour ten, between watching him cycle through romcoms and pretending not to care, between brushing shoulders and arguing about the best scene in 10 Things I Hate About You, between the countless small moments where his presence started feeling less like an inconvenience and more like something else entirely—you started paying attention. And he knows it.

You let out a slow breath and turn toward the window. “I hate you.”

Oikawa laughs softly. “No, you don’t.”

You don’t respond. You’re too tired to lie.

 ***

At hour eleven, your seat neighbor learns something about you, too. It’s not even because you tell him, but because he notices.

The plane has dimmed its lights, casting everything in muted shades of blue and gray. The hum of the engine is steady, a low vibration beneath your feet. Most of the passengers have settled into varying stages of half-sleep—some curled against their window seats, others with neck pillows wedged awkwardly under their chins.

You, on the other hand, remain awake.

You lean against the window, knees drawn up slightly, arms folded. Your gaze is unfocused, staring out at the endless stretch of dark, empty sky. Exhaustion clings to you, but sleep never comes easy—not on planes, not in cars, not anywhere that isn’t familiar.

Oikawa shifts beside you, the rustle of fabric breaking the silence. Then, softly, he asks, “you don’t sleep well on planes, do you?”

You blink, a little surprised. “What?”

He nods at you. “You’ve been sitting like that for a while now. You look exhausted, but you’re still awake.”

You hesitate, because he’s right. You’ve never been good at this—at shutting your brain off, at forcing comfort where it doesn’t exist. Your body stays tense, your thoughts wired for worst-case scenarios, always preparing for turbulence that might never come.

“It’s fine,” you say, voice quieter than before. “I’ll sleep when I land.”

Oikawa watches you for a moment, then, without a word, grabs his hoodie from his lap and balls it up into something vaguely pillow-shaped.

“Here,” he says, placing it between you.

You frown at it. “What?”

“You’ll be more comfortable,” he says simply. “Try it.”

Your gaze flickers to his, searching for the inevitable teasing remark, the smugness, the gotcha. But for once, it’s not there. Just an easy, offhanded kindness.

You swallow. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he says, cutting you off before you can argue. “Just take it.”

After a moment of hesitation, you do.

And when you finally let yourself lean into it, letting the exhaustion settle into your bones, you hear him murmur—softer, barely audible— “See? Told you I’d be good at this.”

Because you’re actually significantly more comfortable and way too tired to argue, you just snuggle into the fabric and ignore your thumping heart.

 ***

At hour twelve, you wake up to warmth.

It’s subtle at first, just a gradual shift from the hazy quiet of sleep to the soft awareness of something unfamiliar. You’re warm, comfortable in a way you shouldn’t be, your head still heavy with lingering exhaustion.

Then, slowly, the details start to register.

The weight pressed lightly against your shoulder. The faint scent of something clean and familiar—fabric softener, maybe, or whatever detergent Oikawa uses. The steady rise and fall of breath, slow and even.

Your pulse stutters.

He’s leaned into you, his head resting lightly against your shoulder, body angled just slightly in your direction. His breathing is deep and even, completely at ease. At some point in the last hour, he must have drifted off.

And instead of moving away—you stayed. Your brain short-circuits. You should move. You should definitely move. But you don’t.

Instead, you sit there, utterly still, heart pounding with something you don’t want to name. Because this—this—is not how Oikawa looks on TV.

The Oikawa you’ve seen in interviews is all sharp angles and practiced charm, leaning into the cameras with a knowing smirk, effortlessly collecting attention like it’s his birthright. The Oikawa on the court is even sharper—brilliant and untouchable, playing with a confidence that borders on arrogance, eyes burning with something that makes it impossible to look away. Even after a game, drenched in sweat and exhaustion, he still performs—laughing, winking at the reporters, throwing casual remarks over his shoulder like he knows the whole world is watching.

But right now?

Right now, he’s none of those things.

His expression is unguarded, free of the practiced ease he wears like armor. His brow is smooth, his lips parted slightly, his breathing soft and steady. There’s no smirk, no carefully placed bravado—just quiet, unconscious stillness.

And it unsettles you. Because this is real.

This is not Oikawa under stadium lights or Oikawa playing to the cameras. This is just him, asleep against your shoulder, completely unaware of the effect he’s having on you.

And maybe that’s what makes it worse.

You exhale slowly, careful not to move too much, not to wake him. Your gaze drifts downward before you can stop yourself, just enough to see the way his hand has fallen between you, palm up, fingers lightly curled. For a second, just a second, you have the insane urge to reach out.

You don’t. Of course, you don’t. But the thought lingers, settling somewhere deep in your chest, unwelcome and impossible to ignore.

You turn your head toward the window, watching the faint glow of city lights far below, hoping the view will quiet whatever this feeling is.

It doesn’t. And still—you don’t wake him.

For some reason, you let him stay.

six.

There’s approximately one hour left before your plane is due to land, and you’re beginning to realize that you don’t actually want it to end.

Maybe it’s the absurdity of the whole situation, or maybe it’s because of your sleep-deprived delusions, but you like Oikawa. You don’t want to—really, you don’t. It would be infinitely easier if he were just another stranger you made small talk with before forgetting the moment you stepped off the plane. But no. He had to be annoying and charming and stupidly perceptive. He had to watch romcoms like he actually gives a damn about them. He had to see through you, easily and effortlessly, as if he simply understood you.

And now, because the universe is cruel and loves to humiliate you personally, you’re sitting here in the final stretch of this flight, hyper-aware of every single second ticking down, not wanting it to be over.

Oikawa doesn’t seem to share your existential crisis. He’s been quiet for the last twenty minutes, scrolling lazily through his phone, one elbow propped against the armrest between you. Every so often, he glances up at the in-flight map, watching as the little airplane icon inches closer to Tokyo.

You hate that it makes your stomach sink.

You shift in your seat, pressing your temple against the cool window, staring out at the early morning sky. You wonder if this is how romcom characters feel in that inevitable third-act moment, when they realize they’ve accidentally gone and caught feelings. When they recognize, with dawning horror, that the person they were supposed to be indifferent to has somehow carved their way into their life.

The difference, of course, is that those characters always get a happy ending.

You don’t know what you get.

The PA system crackles overhead. A flight attendant reminds everyone to prepare for descent. Around you, there’s the familiar rustle of people adjusting in their seats, pulling out jackets, stretching the stiffness from their limbs.

Oikawa shifts beside you, adjusting his hoodie. “Almost there,” he murmurs.

You hum, noncommittal. You think he’s going to leave it at that, but then he glances at you, eyes sharp despite the sleep still clinging to his edges. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s studying you. “You okay?”

Your grip tightens on the armrest. He notices too much. You should’ve known that he would see it—the way you’re staring too long at the window, the way you haven’t snapped at him in a while.

You force yourself to scoff. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Oikawa smirks like he knows something you don’t. “No reason.”

You hate that. You hate how easy he makes it look, the whole watching-you-like-you’re-a-puzzle-he’s-figuring-out thing. You hate that part of you wants him to keep looking.

You exhale slowly, turning back toward the window. The seatbelt light dings on. The plane begins its slow descent, the city below coming into sharper focus.

It’s almost over.

 ***

Airports are supposed to be soulless places. That’s what you tell yourself, at least, as you walk through the terminal—bleary-eyed, exhausted, your carry-on digging into your shoulder. Your brain is already working on a plan: get your bag, get through customs, forget Oikawa Tooru exists.

That plan lasts approximately five seconds before you hear it.

A cheer. Loud, unmistakable, coming from somewhere near Arrivals. You glance over, along with half the airport, and that’s when you see them.

A couple, standing in the middle of the terminal like a goddamn movie scene. One of them—tall, dark-haired, a duffel slung over his shoulder—is staring at the other like he can’t quite believe she’s real. The girl—small, blonde, practically vibrating—throws her arms around his neck and kisses him so dramatically that the people around them actually applaud.

You blink. “What the fuck.”

Oikawa appears at your side, hands in his hoodie pockets, watching the scene unfold. You can feel him glance at you, the smirk already forming.

“Well,” he says, voice smug, “would you look at that.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“You know what.”

He hums, still watching the couple, who have now dissolved into an absolute mess of forehead kisses and whispered I missed yous. It’s excessive. It’s dramatic.

It’s also… kind of nice.

You hate that you think that.

Oikawa stretches, tilting his head toward you. “So?”

You frown. “So, what?”

His smirk widens. “Do you believe in it yet?”

Your heart does something stupid. Because the question—it’s not just a callback to your in-flight debate. It’s not just him poking fun at your skepticism. It’s softer than that. More curious. Hopeful, even.

Do you believe in grand gestures? Do you believe in love that doesn’t disappoint? Do you believe in something real?

The answer forms before you can stop it. 

“…I think I’m starting to.”

Oikawa stills. Just for a second. Then, slowly, his grin shifts into something real.

You exhale, turning back toward the baggage claim, but before you can walk away, something stops you. Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the high of stepping off a fourteen-hour flight and still feeling wired.

Or maybe it’s just him.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you reach for his hoodie pocket.

Oikawa blinks. “Uh—”

You pull out his phone, type in his password, and create a new contact in his list. You quickly type in your number, and pause for a second, considering, then—just to be an ass—save your name as oikawa hater. Then you hand it back to him.

Oikawa takes it, glancing between you and the screen, lips curling into something almost incredulous.

“Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m actually speechless.”

“A first for you, I’m sure.”

He huffs out a laugh, eyes flickering back to his phone. He stares at your contact name for a second too long, like he’s memorizing it. Like he wants to. And then he locks his screen, tucks it back into his hoodie, and glances at you—grinning, smug, a little bit victorious.

“So,” he muses, as the baggage carousel hums to life. “Do I get to keep my title as your Peter Kavinsky now?”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“You like me,” he says in a sing-song voice. “What happened to love only being good in movies?”

And maybe it’s just your imagination. Maybe it’s the jet lag, or the weird 6AM haze of existing between time zones. But as you step toward baggage claim, you swear—just for a second—Oikawa looks at you like the answer to that question might matter more than anything else.

Honestly, nothing is confirmed. He might never text you, or even if he does, who knows if you two would even make it past the first date. The world could end tomorrow, or he could completely forget about you, the way you thought he would. There’s always the chance that you’ll get hurt anyway. But he deserves to hear it. You, against all odds, want him to know.

So you turn, meet his eyes, and say, completely honestly, “Maybe you’re worth taking a chance on.”

⨭ closing; i wrote this instead of paying attention in my lecture lol i don't really know how i feel about this one yet but here's to hoping it'll grow on me when i'm not so tired from a long day of uni classes </3 let me know yalls thoughts but pls don't be mean :') thank u and love u all

[bread-crum206]

hi! this is my first ask, I hope you write it. I just had an idea going about. What if reader's a doctor, the same doctor who treated Hwang In-ho's wife? With the limited resources she was provided, she tried her best, but failed to save his wife. Reader's a nice, kind doctor, but after failing to save her, reader just slipped deeper and deeper into despair, and started to drink away all her fortune, and ended up in the Squid Games. Hwang In-ho immediately recognizes reader and vows to end her, but somehow feels himself drawn to her, wanting to destroy her, even more. But, as he joins the game as 001, Reader opens up to him and he sees true regret in reader's eyes. Things start to change, and In-ho feels a dark, deep attraction towards Reader. That's all! It's okay if you don't want to write about it. Thank you!<3

Forbidden Emotions

Hwang In-ho/Frontman x reader

Summary: Haunted by failure, a fallen doctor finds herself in the deadly arena of the Squid Games. Hwang In-ho, hidden behind the mask of the Front Man, recognizes her — the one who failed to save his wife. He should hate her, but a darker pull complicates his intentions.

The room feels suffocating as you sit in the dim light, holding the empty glass in your hand. The soft clink of the ice cubes against the glass echoes in the silence. You hadn’t meant for it to go this far, but the weight of your failure is a constant burden.

You tried everything to save Hwang In-ho’s wife. You poured every ounce of knowledge, every technique you knew into her care, but none of it was enough. The moment her pulse faded away, something inside you died too. You failed not only a patient, but a family, and a man who would never forgive you for it.

Days bled into weeks, weeks into months, as your life spiraled further. The hospital let you go, and with it, so did your self-worth. In the dim corners of your thoughts, you heard his voice again—Hwang In-ho’s voice, sharp with anger, accusing you, blaming you for the death of the woman he loved.

The alcohol came soon after. A glass here, another there. It soothed the sting, numbed the regret, and before you knew it, you were slowly drinking away every piece of yourself. Your wealth evaporated, your career crumbled, and the world you had known no longer existed.

One day, when the debts finally caught up with you, when the choices had been made and there was nowhere else to go, you found yourself in the same hell that had taken so many others—the Squid Games.

The first time you laid eyes on him again, it was like a punch to the gut. Hwang In-ho, number 001 plastered on his chest. He hadn’t changed, except for the coldness in his eyes that made your heart freeze. He was sitting among the other players, his cold, calculating demeanor standing in sharp contrast to your own fractured state. You barely recognized him at first, but when his eyes met yours, you knew.

He had been watching you from the moment you entered. His gaze pierced through you, and you could feel the heat of his anger. You had caused his wife’s death, and there was no way he would ever let you forget it.

“I remember you,” he says, his voice a low growl. “The doctor who killed my wife.”

The words cut deep, but the worst part isn’t the accusation—it’s the way his eyes burn with the desire for vengeance. Yet, there’s something else lurking there too, something you can’t quite place.

In-ho’s hatred festers, consuming him. He came to the Squid Games for a singular purpose: to make sure you paid. But even as he plots your downfall, there’s an undeniable pull toward you—a desire to see you suffer.

As the game begins and you are thrust into a deadly series of challenges, In-ho finds himself growing closer to you, observing your struggle with a twisted mixture of pity and contempt. He sees the shame in your eyes, the weight of the regret you carry like a shadow, and it gnaws at him.

One night, when the bloodshed subsides and the survivors take a brief reprieve, you finally let your guard down. You pour out your pain in front of him, something you never expected to do.

“I never wanted this,” you whisper, your voice raw, trembling with remorse. “I didn’t kill her. I just… I couldn’t save her. And it destroyed me.”

For the first time, In-ho sees you as more than the failure he accused you of being. You aren’t just the doctor who failed his wife—you’re a woman broken by your own guilt.

His own anger begins to unravel as he watches you fall apart. The very rage that once consumed him now seems misplaced, and something darker begins to grow in its place. An attraction—dangerous, twisted, and impossible to ignore.

The more he watches you, the more he can’t resist the pull. He joined the game for vengeance, yes—but now, he’s here for something else. Something he doesn’t fully understand. The twisted mix of hate, regret, and undeniable attraction to the woman who has destroyed his life.

It’s inevitable. The Squid Games are no longer about survival for him. It’s about you.

And as he finds himself standing at the edge of the game, his eyes never leaving you, In-ho realizes that whatever dark path lies ahead, it will be shaped by you. He has no choice but to follow it—to destroy you, and perhaps, to destroy himself in the process.

———————

Much like Oh Il-nam, In-ho ‘dies’ in one of the games. You hear the gunshot, hear the splatter of blood, but you can’t bring yourself to look, so you stay facing the wall.

You feel like you’ve killed him, first his wife, and now him. They’re both your fault. Even though you knew it wasn’t.

———————

The games drag on, each one more brutal and harrowing than the last. But amidst the bloodshed, there’s a peculiar twist in the unfolding chaos. In-ho, despite his initial resolve to end you, finds himself watching you more intently than ever. Every movement, every fragile moment of vulnerability only deepens his obsession.

He can’t understand it. Why is he drawn to you? Why does he feel this burning, unrelenting pull toward you, despite everything? The desire for vengeance had once been all-consuming, a fire that had driven him to join this deadly game. But now? Now, there’s something else—something darker, more complex.

As the final rounds of the game near, In-ho’s gaze never leaves you. The other players have been whittled down, but you remain—surviving by sheer grit and determination, the same qualities that once defined him. You’ve proven yourself worthy of a chance, despite the twisted circumstances.

In the final moments of the game, when the last of the players fall, In-ho makes a decision. He can’t let you die—not like this. Not after everything that has happened. So, when the game ends, he orders his guards to spare you, despite the bitter, gnawing hatred that still lives in his heart.

They escort you to his office, a stark, cold room that has seen too many dark moments. The door closes behind you with a heavy thud, and you stand there, disoriented, your face a mixture of confusion and exhaustion.

You look up at him, your eyes wary but relieved. “Why?” you ask, your voice hoarse from the strain of the games.

“I told you,” In-ho’s voice is cold, but there’s something beneath it. Something raw. “I haven’t forgotten what you did. But I can’t let you die here. Not after everything.”

You open your mouth to speak, but no words come out. Instead, your gaze flickers around the room, landing on the polished desk, the chair where he sits, the sharp, sterile environment that feels like a cage. You can feel the tension in the air, thick and suffocating.

In-ho’s eyes remain locked on you. He ordered you to be brought here, but now that you’re before him, he doesn’t know what to do. There’s an unspoken question in the silence between you: What now?

And then, as though the dam has finally broken, he speaks again, his voice lower, almost reluctant. “Do you even understand the pain you’ve caused me? My wife—she died under your care.”

You flinch, the guilt surging back with a force that almost takes your breath away. “I didn’t kill her,” you whisper, your voice shaking with the weight of the truth. “I tried. I tried everything to save her. But… but I couldn’t. And I’ve been living with that every single day since.”

His gaze softens, just slightly, but the anger still simmers beneath the surface. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” he mutters, his fists clenching. “She’s dead because of you.”

Your heart sinks, the words like a knife in your chest. You know he won’t understand. How could he? You’re just the doctor who couldn’t save his wife, a failure in his eyes. He’ll never see the truth—that it wasn’t your fault. Not unless he lets go of the anger, the bitterness that’s eaten him alive since that day.

You take a step closer, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry,” you say, your eyes brimming with unshed tears. “I couldn’t save her. But I didn’t kill her. I would’ve given anything to bring her back.”

In-ho stares at you, the anger still lingering in his chest, but now mixed with something else. Confusion. Desire. He doesn’t understand why, but there’s something in your words, something in your eyes that makes the ache in his chest twist. His wife is gone, yes, but here you are—broken, just like him—and he can’t ignore the pull. It’s as if your pain is a shared burden, and despite all the hatred, he finds himself unable to look away.

Before he can stop himself, he moves toward you, closing the space between you in an instant. His hand reaches up, brushing against your cheek, fingers trembling just slightly.

Your breath catches in your throat, your body instinctively leaning into the touch. You’ve been living in a haze of regret for so long, and in this moment, it feels like he understands. For a brief second, it isn’t about the game. It isn’t about the failure. It’s about something deeper. Something you both share.

In-ho’s lips are on yours before he can think, a rough, desperate kiss full of rage, longing, and the confusion that’s been building between you. His hands pull you closer, as though he could erase the distance that has always separated you, even before the games began.

You kiss him back, your mind spinning, but your heart starting to race. The kiss is desperate, almost reckless, but it’s also filled with something raw—something you both need, even if you don’t fully understand it.

When you finally break apart, breathless and tangled in each other’s gaze, In-ho looks at you with a mixture of shock and something darker. His expression is conflicted, torn between the anger that drove him here and the pull that now binds him to you.

“You’re still the doctor who couldn’t save her,” he says, his voice rough, his chest rising and falling as if he’s just run a marathon. “But there’s something about you… I can’t stop feeling it.”

You take a shaky breath, your body still thrumming with the intensity of the kiss. “I didn’t kill her,” you repeat, your voice firm now, despite the tumult inside you. “I couldn’t save her. But I didn’t kill her.”

In-ho’s eyes search yours, his mind a whirlwind of emotions he can’t control. He’s angry, yes. But there’s something else—something that makes him want to destroy you… and protect you at the same time.

“I don’t know what this is,” he says, his voice softer now, a mixture of uncertainty and fascination. “But I can’t walk away from you. Not now.”

And in that moment, you both realize something: despite the pain, despite the tragedy, you are drawn together by forces beyond your control. The game, the anger, the past—it doesn’t matter. What matters now is the undeniable connection between you, no matter how twisted or dark it might seem.

And as In-ho stands there, wrestling with the ghosts of his wife’s death and the overwhelming desire to possess the woman who had once been her savior, he knows one thing for certain: he isn’t finished with you yet.

———————

Hi!! Here it is! I hope you liked it! This was fun to write so let me know if you want more and even something a little spicy 🌶️

[bulgik]

KATSEYE. — how the first kiss went (⁠ ⁠˘⁠ ⁠³⁠˘⁠)...

pairing. fem!r x non idol au ──wc; 1.8k (This was supposed to be posted yesterday but as soon as I finished I fell asleep sorry 🙏🏻)

୨९. NOW PLAYING; sunny days - wave to earth

SOPHIA LAFORTEZA...

Somehow, Sophia always had a way of making you nervous with just a single glance. Even when she did, you’d act annoyed, though deep down, you loved it.

That day was no exception. She always looked at you with sweet, love-filled eyes, never bothering to hide it. As your hands swung gently together during a calm night walk near your apartment, you were passionately talking about your favorite movie and its plot twist. It wasn’t that she didn’t care—she really did—but deep down, all she could focus on was your full, captivating lips moving.

You didn’t notice her silence until it became impossible to ignore.

“And the end—” Your words faltered as soon as your gaze met hers, and your heart raced. Even after all the teasing looks she’d given you before, none felt like this one. It sent a shiver down your spine.

“W-what...?” was all you managed to stammer, and for you, that was totally embarrassing. You silently thanked the universe for the darkness of the night because if Sophia realized how hot your cheeks had turned, her teasing would have been endless.

Still, at your question, Sophia paused, debating whether to lie and say she was listening or admit what was really on her mind.

She stopped walking, standing directly in front of you, and with a soft sigh, she murmured, “I’m dying to kiss you, that’s all.”

In that moment, her eyes sparkled with affection, and a wave of excitement washed over you. Because even though you’d never said it aloud, you had been impatiently waiting for this moment too.

Summoning every ounce of courage you had, you swallowed your nerves and, to your own surprise, replied, “Why don’t you, then?”

That was all Sophia needed. She tugged on your sweater, stood on her tiptoes, and closed the distance between you.

The kiss was slow, tender, and overflowing with emotion. It left Sophia blushing, and for once, the tables turned—you spent the rest of the night teasing her in revenge for all the times she had flustered you so easily.

LARA RAJ...

Lara always saw herself as a confident person—she always was. But when it came to you, she became someone completely different.

Yeah of course she made the first move, walked up to you, asked for your number with that flirty smile of hers. And, let’s be honest, from the moment you saw her, you fell head over heels. But now that she’s your girlfriend, you’ve seen a side of her you never expected.

For your first month together, you decided to spend the day at the beach. You went early, played in the ocean, laughed and teased each other like two lovestruck teenagers. The day flew by—though Lara always felt time moved too fast when she was with you.

Sitting on a blanket, your arms propped against the sand and Lara resting against your chest, watching the beautiful sunset, you felt like the happiest person in the world. Nothing could top this moment.

But even then, when Lara lifted her head and looked at you, her eyes shining with pure adoration, you were mesmerized.

From an outsider’s perspective, it could’ve been a scene straight out of a romance movie.

Lara’s eyes locked with yours for a while. She felt her heart racing, and it only got worse when, without realizing it, her gaze drifted to your lips. Throughout that first month, she’d often glanced at them when you were distracted, wondering how they’d feel against hers.

And as they say, actions speak louder than words. Your eyes mirrored the same admiration for her lips, and that was all the confirmation she needed. Her hand gently moved to your neck, and she leaned in slowly. She brushed her nose against yours before closing the distance.

In that kiss, Lara knew she didn’t need anyone else—she didn’t want anyone else but you. And you felt the same. Even though it wasn’t the first relationship for either of you, this was something entirely different—feelings neither of you had experienced before.

Without thinking, you said the words that solidified your devotion to her. Words you meant with every fiber of your being.

“I love you, Lara…”

Her throat tightened instantly as emotions overwhelmed her. It felt so good to be loved, to feel so incredibly happy.

“I love you too, Yn.”

DANIELA AVANZINI...

Dani always let things flow, even in the relationship. That’s why she thought the first kiss would happen naturally, just lean whenever she feels like it.

But it didn’t go as she imagined. From the moment she saw you, hugged you, and sat on the grass with the basket full of food, she couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss. Unfortunately, she was far too shy to make the first move.

Still, she looked absolutely adorable, playing with her fingers, more restless than usual. With every passing second, she inched closer to you—whether it was a casual touch of hands or resting her head on your shoulder while leaning against the tree.

Luckily for her, you’ve always been the perfect example of her dream girl, and that girl knows how to read minds.

Even though you might have been enjoying the sight of your nervous, silly girlfriend figuring out how to give you the kiss she so desperately wanted, you were just as restless. You couldn’t stop thinking about kissing those lips that had captivated you from the very beginning.

As you sat in front of her, your hand resting on her cheek, your forehead gently touching hers, you quietly whispered,

“Dani, can I kiss you?”

You felt your heart pounding in your throat, while your girlfriend felt hers in the palm of her hand, ready to give it to you.

Without saying a word, she kissed you. At first, it was just a quick peck, which made you chuckle softly. But Dani swore to God that from that moment, she became addicted to your lips. That’s why she threw herself into your arms, this time giving you a long, love-filled kiss, making the rest of the world fade away.

MANON BANNERMAN...

With Manon, words were always unnecessary. She knew you as well as you knew her, and anyone could have sworn you spent most of your lives together.

That’s why the first kiss was as perfect as everything you shared.

While cooking dinner, with you doing most of the work, you just had to set the plates on the table while the oven did its job. You turned around and hugged Manon. Even though cooking was fun, especially with your girlfriend, it always left you exhausted in the end.

After a long embrace, you pulled your head from her neck and looked at her—her eyes, her cheeks, her nose, and finally, her lips. You stared at them for a few seconds before looking into her eyes. She smiled and leaned toward, kissing you.

It felt like time stood still, both of you lost in the kiss until the sound of the oven timer broke the moment, signaling that the food was ready. You pulled away with a laugh, looking at Manon, who was pouting slightly for being interrupted. You gave her a small peck on the lips, making a shy smile appear on her face as she set the plates on the table.

MEGAN SKIENDIEL...

Megan always felt shy around you. She had never felt the way you made her feel, and even the slightest touch between your hand and hers turned Megan into a mess—blushing, nervous, and even more shy than usual.

Megan is crazy about you, that much was certain. But what she was also sure of was that she had no idea how to kiss you.

The poor girl spent every day imagining different scenarios of how it might happen, but every time she saw you, she couldn’t help but turn into a bundle of nerves.

That’s why, when she sat on the couch, staring at your lips with her cheeks flushed a deep red, she knew it was the moment.

Slowly, she leaned in, searching your eyes for any sign of disapproval. All she found were eyes filled with love, sparkling and excited.

The kiss felt endless, and when she pulled away, she couldn’t help but feel embarrassed, wrapping her arms around you and hiding her face in your neck.

JEONG YOONCHAE...

Yoonchae and you were two completely lovestruck teenagers. From the very beginning, things were calm and peaceful, each step taken slowly, savoring every moment.

For both of you, this relationship thing was new, especially the kisses.

Now, Yoonchae can admit that during those moments, she overthought everything. Because as much as it was her first kiss, it was perfect, and with the person she loved.

Both of you lying in Yoonchae’s bed, cuddling and watching a romantic movie.

Neither of you needed to say anything when the main characters shared a sweet kiss under the stars. As the scene played out, you both locked eyes and shared your own soft kiss.

And when you looked at her, you felt even more in love with her (if that was even possible). Her eyes sparkling like never before and a smile stretching from ear to ear. You smiled back and kissed her cheek, while Yoonchae held you tighter. That night, you slept hugging each other, you resting on her chest, listening to her heartbeat.

we melt this love and recreate it

as we imagine it

that's how we make sunny days.

[08melancholie]

Lessen your Stress. — Dutch Van der Linde/Micah Bell/Reader

tags: Post-Chapter 6: Beaver Hollow (Red Dead Redemption 2), Smut, Shameless Smut, Porn, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Sex, Spoilers, dont read if you havent finished chapter 6, theres spoilers to it that youll regret, Rough Sex, Vaginal Sex, Oral Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Anal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Orgasm, Multiple Orgasms, Mildly Dubious Consent, Abuse of Authority, Authority Figures, Double Penetration, Double Penetration in Two Holes, Hand Jobs, Blow Jobs, Spit as Lube, Lube, Come as Lube, precum still counts i hope, Not Beta Read, no beta we die like micah bell

summary: What's one way to relieve the stress of losing your family, friends and entire gang you spent decades building? Dutch assumes it's getting his best friend to fuck his other still-devoted follower with him. It's another power trip of his you will never refuse.

a/n: initially the idea was reader and micah both trying to fight over dutch but then i was like why do we have to fightttt just let them both ruin users guts..... so here we are now. disclaimer: ive literally never written a threesome, i dont know what im doing honestly.... thank you to that one user on here who inspired this.

this is my longest fic up to date... yeah okay lets go touch grass.

words: 5,043 | AO3 LINK

A heap of shouting, spilling of secrets and killing later, the three of you regroup, all alone. Death is haunting you; you almost feel their blood on your hands, for some reason. You can't pinpoint why, but you feel guilty. Might be the fact you're still following Dutch, after he got them all killed.

Dutch might have officially lost his mind, right? You sometimes really wonder how he's made it this far, with such a good gang. Well, until now anyways. It's not until now that you notice a small flip in his head; a switch turning on for the first time. He's sat across from you, only a small fire between yourselves that lights up a small fraction of the area around you; up on a mountain, a small indent into the rocks it's built of serving as a cave of sorts. You're on the other side of the fire, laying down and watching Dutch really think for the first time, in a while. Your head is supported with the satchel you carry around your torso, visibly more uncomfortable than the plush pillows inside your old tent, now left behind. Sat behind you both is none other than Micah; staying forever loyal to the black-haired man lost in his own thoughts, his own pondering whilst his eyes illuminate the fire between your bodies. Micah is quiet; in fact, everyone is. Nobody dares say a word—not you, not Micah, especially not Dutch. Dutch doesn't feel grief, oh no; that isn't what this can be. You'd think that leaving two of your sons to die even after having the choice to save them both would make a man go crazy, but Dutch is clearly too far gone for that.

The fire crackles again, and you can't stand the silence any longer, opening your mouth to speak up. "We'll be fine, Dutch. Don't stress so much."

His head perks up from the fire, the flame-ridden irises of his catch your own. "Fine?" He repeats after your reassurance—not sounding all that reassured. You swallow and nod, always feeling so small under that dark gaze of his. "I would love to have even an ounce of your optimism." He barks, and you sink even lower. Well, it was a good try, if nothing.

He and Micah share a look, and it all goes quiet again. Fire crackles; animals howl in the distance; shrubbery whistles under the small wind blowing through the area. And all is quiet.

It seems as you'll be spending the rest of the night in here, so you decide to rest your exhausted body for today. You toss over and get as comfortably as one can, making an attempt at sleeping off the sour mood and thick tension in the air.

Your slumber only lasts you a few mere hours, both the very early morning sun picking at your eyes and gloved hands on your bare skin breaking you away from the little sleep you managed yourself. You grumble, turning to lay on your back. "Get'cho ass up," Micah, standing over you, takes a step back and moves his hands off you, the leather material slipping away from your waist. You sit up and rub your knuckles into your eyes, taking your satchel from underneath where your head was and standing up. "hoping you enjoyed Colter, darlin'." Oh, Colter; if hell was an icy, snowy blizzard, you'd assume they were talking about that part of West Grizzlies.

"Don't tell me we're going back." You hold off on groaning—only briefly as Micah nods and you can't help yourself, not at all fond of going back there again. "Why West Grizzlies, anyways?" You ask, watching him kick at the burnt-out campfire from last night.

Micah stomps out the ashy, black logs, turning back over to you with a shrug. "Dutch says so." Of course he does.

You hold back on rolling your eyes. "He at least in a better mood than yesterday?" You ask, very much still remembering his bite back to your simple attempt at making the situation you three were currently in a little more bearable. Micah starts walking off while talking to you, and you follow close behind, leaving the makeshift cave.

"Wouldn't put ma' money on it," He responds, voice getting quieter the closer he leads you towards Dutch—smoking a cigar, per the usual—and your three horses. "don't test yer luck, hm?" He gives a low chuckle, and you just sigh. Snow; low temperatures; blizzards; all things you wanted to leave and forget in Colter. But, here you were.

Dutch gives an acknowledging nod to both of you, which you swiftly return. "We ready to go, then?" Micah gives him another nod, and walks up to Baylock. You follow to your own horse, petting it briefly before getting up onto the saddle, mounting up as the two of them soon do the same.

The three of you start the long journey back up towards the mountains; almost feeling that familiar deja-vu-feeling kicking in.

The ride is long and definitely not friendly; the moment your horses get you to the snow, the wind picks up and so does the snow, plowing down on all six of you. It's almost unbearably annoying, having to ride with one hand on your reins and one covering the top of your eyebrows to block out the snow from your vision. It's only a long while later that the three of you get up on the snow-covered mountain of your liking, finding an abandoned area with a cabin, definitely big enough for the three of you, for now.

The three of you hitch your horses safely into a small stable-like area, making sure they wouldn't be cold in their spots. Afterwards, one after another, you enter the cabin and inspect it; it's a medium-sized hut-type room, a few cots still stable enough to sleep in and a kitchen on the other side, most cabinets left open and empty. Mere minutes of searching left you with a few cans of fruit and vegetables, but between you three, hunting will definitely be a must for nourishment. At least theres a run-down fireplace you can use to warm up your shivering bodies. Dutch sends Micah to get firewood, instructing you to work with him and make the place look a bit less messy. And, three of you get to work.

It isn't exactly homey, but it'll do. Can't be picky now, can you? You had a home, and it was Dutch's own fault everything at 'home' went to shit.

It's been about a week since, and you've gotten used to the spot you three settled into, you could even start calling it home. Well, no—nothing will ever replace the home that the gang provided, but that's something you'll have to simply cope with. You're still following Dutch, so really, do you miss them that much? Your trail of thought is broken up by the sound of the creaky cabin door opening, raising the volume of the small blizzard going on outside briefly.

Dutch and Micah enter after another, closing the door of the small cabin and blocking out the sound of wind outside. Your head perks up from the small book you were examining at the sound, and you nod in greeting. "Hey," Your gaze goes back to the book until Dutch clicks his tongue at you.

"Eyes up here."

You don't take even a second to comply, meeting his eyes but occasionally drifting them to Micah. You're slightly confused, they're acting odd. "You need something, Dutch?"

"Stand up."

Every command sends a small shiver to your spine, that much is sure. You place the book down and rise from your seat on the creaky cot, taking a step towards them to stand before the two men. Your compliance and submissiveness always sends one side of Dutch's mouth up slightly. "Got a.. proposition for you. Well... Not exactly, anyways." Micah matches Dutch's dark chuckle after the leader speaks up again, both looking down at you. "Listen now, it's been pretty cold, hasn't it, my dear?" As Dutch speaks to you, your eyes stay glued on him; but you can see Micah taking slow steps away from the leader, and around you. You focus on Dutch again, nodding. "That's what we thought. You see," He then takes a step closer to you, gloved hands clasping together in front of you. "we can keep ourselves warm without wasting so much firewood." At Dutch's words, you can definitely feel Micah so much closer to you, from behind your back. You're starting to feel something bubble in your abdomen; was it nervousness, anxiety? Lust, arousal? You couldn't exactly tell.

"Tell me, my dear," Another two steps; one in front of you, one behind you. You feel like you're being circled by sharks in an ocean, hunters on prey, making you feel small again. "you're a smart girl; you do know what I mean, don't you?" Oh, you do. You know it all too well as you've imagined it one too many times—late at night in your tent, your hands on yourself underneath the blanket, muffling the moans of their names into your palm—so it's not an unfamiliar feeling. Your words seem to only fail you further the more he speaks, so you just nod again. His moustache follows the curve of his lips when that devilish smirk arises again. "Thought so. Now..."

His gloves glide over your shoulders, leather on leather as he stands right in front of you now. "And surely, you wouldn't mind trying this new warm-up with us, would you?"

Like a cat playing with a mouse it's caught, toying with it until it breaks. Except, it's two big cats and one meek little mouse. A hot breath glides down to you, right over your shoulder when Micah draws himself closer, and you feel stuck in your spot between them—even more so when Micah places his gloved hands down to your sides, almost kneading at your waist. Now, how could you ever say no? It's Dutch Van der Linde and Micah Bell. For one, you've been imagining this scenario in the comfort of your tent, late into the many nights that turned very hot, very quickly. But also, do you really have a choice? Your boss; your leader, asking such a vulgar and intimate thing of you? What would he say if you refused? Would he let you refuse? Is this all another power-trip he'll hold over your head?

No time for questions when Micah squeezes your waist to bring you back to reality. "He asked 'ya a question, doll." He purrs—its low and sultry, right next to your ear, accompanied by another knead to your body. You feel almost lightheaded by your current situation. Your hands have been unconsciously balled-up, digging into your trousers in an attempt to ground yourself. "C'mon, answer the man." And all you can manage is a nod, again. A moan would probably leave your mouth if you opened it, which.. would also be an answer. Your nod was really all it took, a silent consent more than enough for Micah's hands to travel to your hips and for Dutch's to find the sides of your neck.

"Good girl, always listening to me like this. I know you wouldn't disobey."

The feeling is indescribable, really—Micah touches you with urgency and carelessness, almost selfishly and greedily; his hands map out the contour of your body, almost as if trying to mould your curves to his liking. Dutch, however, takes it hellishly slow; thumbs brush over the front of your neck while the tips of his other fingers dig into the sides, almost as if trying to coax you to relax into whatever they have planned for you. "Oh, she's good, boss." Whenever Micah speaks, it ends up right next to your ear, and you feel that familiar shiver down your spine. An agreeing chuckle leaves Dutch's mouth, which is very close to your face; your own lips. You're clueless as to what you have to do—should you stay stiff? Touch one of them? Say anything at all to their comments and wandering touches?

Dutch's slow pace slips up when he can't hold himself back from giving himself a taste of yourself, dipping his head down to latch onto your lips. It's nice and quick, and your hands find themselves creeping up his coat and resting on his shoulders, whereas his move under your jacket and place themselves on your ribs and under your chest. Micah is pressed right up to your back now, one hand leaves your hip to move your hair away from your neck, sliding your jacket collar down as he starts to pepper the side of your neck in kisses, occasionally sucking on the skin while pressing his hips to your backside—you can already feel him through both of your clothes. Dutch takes a moment to lick your lip, coaxing you to open your mouth up for him. You comply and your lips part an opening for Dutch's tongue, hands squeezing at his shoulders.

His tongue explores around your mouth with profound efficiency; with experience. It makes the feeling in your abdomen all the more prominent, and you slowly feel a heat rushing to it. Micah isn't any worse either, the mixture of his gentle kisses, rough sucks and sometimes licks up your neck all make you more worked up than you'd ever want to imagine. He's still pressed up to your rear, hands at the very top of your outer thighs, roughly handling you like previously. Then, Dutch starts unbuttoning your jacket. Slowly, each one gets undone, and your jackets pools between yours and Micah's boots, who carefully kicks it aside, just to continue marking up your neck. His stubble and beard occasionally brushes against your sensitive neck, making you let out little sounds into Dutch's mouth. Oh, how they're enjoying this.

Dutch momentarily breaks away from you, leaving you to finally breathe in. "You know, I always liked how you followed me so blindly," Dutch's hands move up and brush over your chest, then cup both of the muscles. "it was so damn hard to not take you right then and there, in camp." You gasp and sigh when his hands start massaging and fondling you. This much foreplay has never gotten you so worked up in your life, and you can definitely feel the dampness between your legs growing with each moment. Then, Micah's hands move. They're getting impatient, seen so by the man behind you who starts groping your rear, breathing oh-so-sweetly down your neck. "I'mma have my fun with'chu, sweet thin'." His hums have goosebumps running up your body. His hands squeeze your ass a final time before moving, sliding down onto your inner thighs. You almost think that he can tell how wet you are, from the low laugh he lets out into your neck.

Impatience really overtakes both of them when they break away and start stripping. Coats, vests, undershirts, trousers; all the many layers you need to survive the coldness of West Grizzlies. Once they're almost bare, left in their underpants, they walk to one of the cots and coax you to follow, taking a seat next to each other and gesturing for you to stand in front of them. "Your turn, my dear." Dutch commands, leaning back slightly.

"Make sure to give us a good show, darlin'." Micah adds, following Dutch and also leaning back. And a good show, they shall receive. You start with your undershirt, slowly and almost teasingly unbuttoning it, exposing yourself inch by inch, moment by moment. "Oh, she's good." Micah purrs to Dutch, looking at you intently and never breaking his eyes away from your body. Dutch gives an agreeing hum, nodding to the other mans' words as you move to your jeans, shrugging your undershirt off while undoing the restraints of your jeans. You slip them off and toss both clothing articles to your jacket, standing in only your garments, now only covering your chest and mound. Their eyes are still so predatory, it's almost killing you. Then, finally, Dutch gestures with his hand for you to move closer, and you step up right in front of them. They part slightly to the side, and Micah pats the space between them on the bed. You understand instantly and comply just as quickly, sitting between them now. "Attagirl... how'd 'ya train 'er to listen so well, boss?"

Neither of them say more, as Micah leans in to get his lips onto yours himself now, kissing you with speed and want; need. Dutch's hands go to your back, fiddling with your bra to get it off of you. Oh, but the best part is Micah's hands; one reaches down between your legs instantly, swiping across your slit over your undergarments. "Oh shit, 'yer this damn wet already?" Both men laugh in sync, dark and low chuckles filling the cabin. His fingers find your clit under the fabric and start rubbing, coaxing you to moan into his mouth which you do. He loves how your meek little gasps and whimpers echo down his throat, and he rubs faster. The other hand of his tangles itself in your hair, pulling you closer to deepen the kiss. Dutch finally undoes your bra clasps, working it off of you without disturbing Micah and his workings on you. Your bra is tossed elsewhere, and one of Dutch's hands instantly finds your chest, fondling one while latching his mouth onto the other. Your hands grip one shoulder of theirs each, nails digging into the skin as your moans vibrate into Micahs mouth, hips already twitching into his two fingers working your bundle of nerves perfectly. Micah only breaks himself off your lips for a brief moment, "Can't wait to see this pretty cunt stretch around me." his mouth is back on yours, and the sentence alone has you grinding into his two fingers. Where's your dignity now?

Dutch's lips kiss around your nipple, teeth graze and pull oh-so-perfectly, and you already feel like you're close. They handle you with very different paces and things in mind; Micah is clearly trying to humiliate, get you to cum for him as quick as he can to give his ego a boost. Dutch however, he's now teasing; torturously slow pace on both of your tits, yet it works you up just as well as Micah's finger and mouth. And both are equally as blissful.

"Think she's ready for us?" Micah slows his fingers down and moves away from your lips to Dutch's question.

"Oh, surely, see how she's try'na fuck herself on my fingers? Poor, little thing. Bet she wants more."

"Well," Dutch leans away from your chest, standing to get his undergarments off. It's not long before Micah follows, and you can barely look at them; nude as the days they were born, with two almost equally as big cocks twitching for you, some precum at both their tips. It's a sight. "reckon she knows what she has to do—" He turns from Micah to yourself. "—doesn't she?" You swallow. Call it practice for what's to come, literally.

You shuffle off of the bed, and your knees meet the wood floors. Their grins down at you leave your panties practically leaking your own arousal. Looking between them, unsure where to start, you choose the leader—obviously. You get on-level with his hips, placing your hands on his thighs. "Oh, now don't leave my partner out, my dear." Dutch takes one of your hands by the wrist, guiding it to Micah's lower abdomen. "Show us both some love, baby." You can barely breathe at this point, and your hands might even be trembling slightly. Now, you've given maybe one blowjob/handjob in your life; but both, at the same time? This is overwhelming. Nonetheless, can't disappoint your boss, now can you? You push your thoughts down and slide your hand around Micah's shaft, running your thumb over his precum-covered tip to slicken it slightly, while simultaneously licking a stripe up the underside of Dutch's cock, collecting the leaky substance for a taste. Their faces are full of arousal and pure bliss, they almost make you feel proud. Dutch raises a hand to run through your hair, tugging on it. "We're old, impatient men, my darlin'. Get to it."

You take half of Dutch in your mouth, and start pumping your hand up and down Micah, earning a few praising groans and another tug to your hair, trying to draw you closer. You take Dutch until he hits the back of your mouth, and you barely suppress gagging on him. Don't need to inflate his ego that much. You move and bob your head, saliva slickening Dutch's dick up and painting your lips, some gathering at the corners of your mouth. Your hand works Micah in a slightly faster pace, seeing as it's easier to pump your hand over his shaft than take one in your mouth—especially one Dutch's size. You're used to average men, so this might as well even be nice. Not so much when he'll be stretching you open, but we'll get to that problem later. You continue your demonstrations, getting both of them to groan and even chuckle sometimes, looking down at you. They always looked down at you, you knew so much—but only ever figuratively. Never literally.

It's not long before Dutch grabs your head and just fucks himself into your mouth at his pace, which makes it easier to focus on your hand that's working Micah. You increase the pace of your hand, occasionally teasing the tip to see it twitch before continuing. "Wouldn't be surprised if you was a whore before 'ya joined us, so good at this." Micah's comment should make you mad, but you're definitely more turned on than anything. "Keep working dem pretty fingers around me, 'm close." And you absolutely will.

Dutch, however, doesn't give you a warning like Micah; he suddenly cums down your throat with a groan, and you have to focus on not gagging all over his dick as it empties itself out into your mouth, and you swallow every drop like if it were holy water. Unfortunately, you're not given a breather when he withdraws his hips from your mouth, as Micah pulls your hand away from his cock and brings your closer to it, grasping your jaw and squeezing so that your lips part. "Open." You don't feel like being painted all over with his cum, so you comply instantly, and he jerks himself a few times before spilling into your mouth like Dutch, your hands finding his thighs to brace yourself.

"Damn, she's good." Dutch seats himself back on the cot with a small creak, palming himself—somehow still semi-hard. Micah lets go of your jaw after he's spent, and you can't stop yourself from coughing as you swallow practically every drop, only a few around your mouth still. Micah chuckles down at you before grabbing you by the sides, his hands grasping your waist as he brings you back to your feet. "Come on then, you ain't done yet, or are 'ya, babydoll?" You're guided over to Dutch, turned to face him as both men help position you over him to straddle the leader. Micah's hands are replaced by Dutch's ones, who immediately moves your panties off and guides your folds around his shaft to slicken himself up again. "Still practically dripping. Oh, you poor thing. We won't be selfish no longer, my dear, you shall get your own, too." His tip slides to your entrance, and you have to grasp his shoulders to keep yourself steady, your lips slightly parted in pleasure. Slowly, Dutch's tip presses into you, and you squeak out a moan as you feel that small stretch you were dreading. "I'll go slow, don't wanna split our new toy in half, do we darling?" Well, that's exactly how you're feeling, oddly enough.

You're gasping and moaning as every inch of his disappears into your slick walls, the lewd noises mixing with Dutch's small praise and breathy exhales as you sink down on his cock, feeling it twitch inside you a few times. "Good girl, taking all of me like that." He gives you a moment to adjust before lifting your hips up and slamming right back down, earning a strained moan out of you, nail indents marking his shoulders up as they dig into the flesh, which just makes him laugh. "Love how tight you are, like it's sucking me right in. Your cunt loves me stretching you out, huh." His hips slowly begin to slap against you, filling the cabin with the suggestive noises of skin-on-skin and moans.

As you finally get used to his size, you feel hands on your waist from behind. You almost forgot Micah was there, seeing how quiet he was being. Then, one hand trails down to your rear, and a thumb circles your anus. "Can't leave me out again, can 'ya?" His thumb slowly draws itself into you, and you have to bite down on Dutch's shoulder. Jesus, you did not expect them to try and fuck you at the exact same time, even less from behind. He briefly extracts his thumb to spit at your entrance, circle it and then stick it right back in, trying to loosen your muscles up for his—much fucking bigger, may you add—member. They find a similar pace, Dutch is rutting you down onto his dick while Micah's thumb stretches your other hole out, readying it for his cock which is already leaking in anticipation. You brace yourself when he moves his thumb out and spits again, this time on his own cock to moisten it up again, mixing the saliva with his precum. Then, his tip slaps against your ass a few times, before it slides to your opening. Dutch has slowed his thrusts down to let Micah get in as well, and you haven't stopped biting at his shoulder since you started, almost drooling around it. Even if it's only the tip, as soon as Micah eases it in, you shudder and gasp into Dutch's flesh, biting down harder as your asshole feels every little stretch it's getting from Micah's thick cock. Thankfully, it's sliding in somewhat-easily after a few moments, Dutch's hands squeezing your hips as he shushes you to relax you, and Micah's caressing your backside as he slowly sinks into you.

The first thrust is the worst, obviously. You almost immediately shiver when Micah slowly slips out of you, to the tip, before drawing his hips right against your ass again. Dutch coos into your ear to keep you collected as Micah gets you used to his size, kissing your slightly sweaty spine briefly. "Come on, 'ya can take me, girlie." He sinks his whole length into you, almost as breathless as you. Then, they slowly find a synced pace and fuck into you from both holes as you gasp against Dutch's shoulder and shudder into him. "We'll let'cha cum too, don't worry doll." Micah slides a hand over to your abdomen, and his thumb circles your clit once more. You're on cloud nine—hell, you've never been high, but it's probably similar to this feeling. Your holes are tight around their cocks, all three now audibly gasping and moaning in sync. It's possibly the lewdest trio you've ever heard. With how they're thrusting into you, you're reduced to a goddamn mess; gasping, moaning their names, your cunt and anus tightening and squeezing, your mouth open and tongue slightly sticking out—you look like a dog, almost. Their bitch, that's for sure. From now on, anyways. You don't see how this could ever be a one-time-thing.

You can feel your orgasm building again, and you've honestly been doing pretty well, all things considered. "Can't cum in that pretty cunt, but I can back here." Micah's comment runs goosebumps over your body, and you already dread the feeling of that. His breath brushes over your skin as he kisses up your back again, reaching the nape of your neck and grazing his teeth over it, all while his hips slam into your ass. Dutch is stroking your sides, his cock twitching even more inside you. He's close—Micah's close—you're close—you might all just come at the same time.

That's exactly how it goes down. You're first to hit your orgasm, one that causes you to squeeze around their cocks once more, which is enough for both of them to hit their peaks with you, Micah staying buried deep in your guts while Dutch pulls out and jerks himself dry over your mound and his stomach, gasping for air in sync with you. Micah draws his spent member out of your asshole slowly, some of his cum leaking out and down your thigh. He takes a breather on your back and hugs around your waist, heaving into your spine. Your body relaxes over Dutch's, who can barely hold all three of you up. It takes all three of you a moment of no movement to calm down from your highs, before Micah is first to move off your back and help you off Dutch, slowly seating you next to him. "Well, goddamn, princess. Dutch was right; 'ya didn't disappoint for even a moment." He hums, getting to the nightstand and tossing a rag over your stomach. He shuts the drawer and sits down next to you, cleaning Dutch's spent off of your stomach while you gather your thoughts, before wiping his shaft and tossing it over to Dutch.

"I'm sure you know we aren't leaving you be after that performance, my dear." Dutch adds as he wipes him self clean, and you just wordlessly nod, laying back slightly. "I guessed so." He chuckles, and Micah chimes in with his own breathy laugh, standing to walk over and grab everyone's clothes, giving them out to you and Dutch before starting to get dressed himself.

And you're damn sure you won't want to stop anytime soon either.

Kudos on AO3 appreciated, as always! This fic killed me omg its my longest one up to date and its got me in a chokehold. fuck i wanna be between them so bad.

[alwayslurkinginthebackground]

Someone Like You - A Raindro Drabble

Pairing: Harry Castillo x f!reader Rating: I'm gonna say mature. There's a hell of a lot of swearing in here, as well as some more mature themes including violence against Lucy, but nothing explicit. Word Count: 2138 a/n: Raindro concludes with RED and we're just pretending that everything is fine today and nothing bad happened ever hahahahahahaha. Anyway, this was actually a request that came to me from a dear friend, and the moment we began discussing the plot it occurred to me that it might work incredibly well for this final day! I'll admit that this challenge has been a difficult one, but it's also been so fulfilling to try and make each piece feel like the color. I hope, in some way, I've been able to do that. Anyway, without further ado, here's a bit of Harry Castillo to round things out!

You're not exactly sure what color it is that you're seeing, but then again, you're not sure you're really seeing anything at all.

The fucking audacity of this woman. How could anyone be so fucking self-centered, especially someone who claims to be helping people? Honestly, how anyone managed to find a soul mate with her assistance was beyond you, but this? This was a step too far.

"You left him," you shout, far beyond any level of anger you've felt in recent years. "You stood him up at the alter after cheating on him with your fucking bartender boyfriend and now you think you can just waltz back in here and claim him for yourself?" Fierce loyalty is basically written into your DNA, and you'd had enough of her shit even before she'd dumped your best friend, but usually you were able to remain calm and collected, even in the heat of the moment.

Right now, though, you're livid.

Lucy looks shocked, not just by your outburst but by the fact that for the first time she's not in control. "I made a mistake," she emphasizes as though it will do anything to change your mind, her voice lowering as a few people around you at the party begin to stare. She obviously doesn't want to make a scene, but you couldn't care less, especially if it proves to every single person at this wedding that she's shit at her so-called job.

"So what?" you return, teeth grinding and fists already clenched as you try your best to hang onto the single ounce of control you have left, "you think he's just gonna come running back to you?"

"Well," she pauses, drawing out her next words as though she's enjoying this far more than she should, "it just makes sense. We're a perfect match and..."

You don't let her finish, and you're no longer sure if it's adrenaline or loyalty or jealousy that's powering the crunch of your fist against her jaw. There's no pain, none that you can feel in the moment at least, your opposite hand returning with another crushing blow that has an old woman nearby screaming for help.

"What the fuck?" Lucy shouts, stepping back as quickly as she can in a feeble attempt to get away from you. She's clutching at her face, a red mark already forming on her otherwise perfect skin, and it only fuels you further.

"You don't deserve him," you argue as you take another step toward her, landing a strike against her ribs before you even realize what you're doing. She fumbles, just for a second, and then she's fighting back, a scream erupting from her lungs as she lunges at you.

Predictably, she goes for your hair, tugging at the loose strands of your updo until the bobby pins are pulling tightly against your scalp. It causes you to cry out, head thrown back as you try to free yourself, a punch to her stomach doing the trick a moment later. She's yelling, and so are you, as the circle around you both grows, drunken spectators tuning in for the evening's entertainment.

"He's meant to be with me," Lucy shouts, one of her heels flying off as she attempts to knee you. It doesn't work, your body just far enough out of reach that it allows you to land a hit to her shoulder instead. "I know he is."

"Is that why you left him, then?"

Someone in the crowd makes a sound, their surprise evident as you reveal a plot point of the story unfolding in front of them.

"Is that why you led him on for months only to fuck him over in the end and leave him heartbroken?"

Lucy stares at you, breathing heavily. "I didn't mean to..."

"The fuck you didn't," you cut her off again, kicking off your own heels before beginning to circle her. No one in the crowd makes any effort to stop you since the old woman from earlier has presumably gone to find help, so you keep going. "You knew exactly what you were doing when you landed in someone else's bed, only to leave me to pick up the pieces for Harry."

"Oh I'm sure you loved that," Lucy scoffs. "You think I didn't see the way you look at him? Like you couldn't wait for me to leave just so you could sneak in? Like you didn't want to fuck him the entire time?"

There's a whisper of damn from somewhere around you, but you pay it no mind. She's right, of course. You've been in love with Harry for longer than you can remember, emotions disguised as friendship, but that's beside the point. You didn't sleep with him when he was still in a relationship with someone else.

Hell, you haven't slept with him period.

The blasting beat of the DJ surrounds you, your eyes locked on hers, and you know what's coming next before she even says it. In fact, you will her to say it, to give you an excuse.

"Too bad he'd never actually want someone like you."

The crowd roars when you're on top of her again, fully blinded by the pure rage in your veins when you tug at her hair. Lucy scratches along your face, managing to land a decently sized cut on your lip, and you fall back when her elbow makes contact with your side. She doesn't fare any better, your fists pounding against any part of her you can reach, wedding guests chanting around you as the fight continues.

It's only when strong hands tug you backward that you start to break from the haze, even if your arms still flail wildly. You're barely conscious of the fact that someone is pulling Lucy away too, removing her from the conflict as the circle quickly begins to dissipate, and soon you find yourself ushered to a stairwell, the concrete walls immediately dulling your senses.

"What the hell just happened in there?"

You turn, for some reason surprised to see Harry staring down at you even though you came to this wedding together and you just spent the better part of ten minutes fighting with his shitty ex-fiancé. "She had it coming," you spit out before running your tongue over your lip, the metallic taste of blood lingering.

He sucks in a breath, some of your own anger reflected in his gaze, and for just a second you're almost frightened. It's never something you've felt from him before, but just as quickly as the emotion appeared on his face, it's gone, replaced once again by the soft understanding he so often wears.

"Come on," he whispers before grabbing your hand tightly, pulling you carefully down the stairs. They're easy to manage, your heels long forgotten back at the reception, and by the time he has you out in the chilly night air something that feels a little like guilt begins to settle in your stomach.

Harry says nothing as he calls his car, ushering you into the back seat in silence. The ride is quiet too, all the way back to the massive apartment he barely sees these days, more apt to arrive on your doorstep than to invite you past his own, but you suspect he has his reasons for bringing you here instead. You settle on a chair at the oversized dining table when he quickly disappears into his bathroom, returning a moment later with a damp washcloth and a first aid kit that was probably given to him as a shitty congratulations gift for purchasing his twelve million dollar apartment.

He removes his suit jacket and drapes it over a nearby chair before beginning his search through the array of bandages and gauze. You wait, watching as he finds what he needs, your eyes meeting his when he kneels in front of you.

Your breath catches, and so does his. Years of friendship and understanding and shared experiences and heartbreak leading you both to this moment.

"I'm sorry," you blurt out, even though you really aren't. But at the same time, you're well aware that he didn't deserve any of this. Not Lucy, not the breakup, and certainly not you fighting his battles for him with legitimate violence.

He remains quiet, carefully reaching out to dab at the cut on your lip with the washcloth. You can feel the pain now that you've finally calmed down, and it causes you to flinch, head shifting away from him for just a second before he tries again, gentle as always.

"You didn't have to do that," Harry whispers eventually, focus locked on his work. "She knows what she did, and she has to live with it and that has to be enough for me."

This causes you to pause, because he's right, and also because you're not really sure when he got so wise.

"She was going to come after you," you explain, as though that will make all the pieces fit together in his mind. Like it will offer some kind of reasonable excuse for your actions, even though he's not asking for you to give one. "I just wanted to..."

"She's not worth it," he cuts you off, grabbing your hand and guiding it to hold the already bloody cloth against your lip before he stands.

"No," you agree, mumbling a bit as you try your best to speak without further irritating your wound, "she's not." You watch as he finds another towel to fill with ice, slowly making his way back to your side as you contemplate your next words carefully, "but you are."

It's unclear if he's even heard you, although you don't see how he wouldn't have. Not when he's kneeling in front of you again, gently exchanging the cloth in your hand for the one filled with ice. But still, he remains quiet enough to unnerve you, and it's only when your eyes lock again that you finally understand.

He wasn't worried about himself. He wasn't worried about Lucy either, or the way your outburst would likely be the talk of New York for weeks to come. No, Harry was worried about you.

You set the ice down on the table before cautiously reaching out to curl your fingers in the hair just behind his ear. He's nearly eye-level like this, bent down on one knee, which makes it all too easy for you to pull him closer. You drop your forehead against his, eyes falling shut.

"I'm sorry," you say again, your voice just a whisper this time, but the intention behind the statement is far more true than when you uttered it earlier. "I really am."

Harry doesn't respond, not at first, your heart beating loudly in your ears as you wait, but you find some comfort in the fact that he's not pushing you away. He's here, his hand gently finding yours so he can run his thumb over your bruising knuckles.

"She's wrong, you know," he murmurs eventually, close enough that you can feel his words against your lips. Your mind races through the evening, trying to pinpoint exactly what he could be referring to, but he clarifies before you can ask.

"I would actually want someone like you."

The cut on your lip stings a bit as you break into a soft smile. "I didn't think you'd heard that part."

He hums, squeezing your hand, "I did. I heard most of it, actually." His nose nuzzles against your own, the tips brushing in a way that makes you feel giddy. You struggle to contemplate the reality of this moment, so incredibly close to him that you can smell his aftershave and the expensive cologne he only puts on for weddings. You've longed for this for what feels like forever, spent countless nights imagining what it might feel like, but nothing could have ever compared to this.

"She was right about one thing, though," you admit, leaning just a bit closer so your lips brush against his when you speak.

"What's that?" Harry asks, his hand weaving into the hair at the back of your head.

"I did want to fuck you the whole time."

You both laugh, smiles erupting on your faces even as he captures you in a kiss, holding you against him. It makes the cut sting, but you're too lost in the moment, in him, to really care.

"But for the record," you continue when you come up from air, "I want a lot more than that, too."

Harry stands quickly, a grin still on his lips as he maneuvers you into his arms, one tucked behind your back and the other under your knees. "I want that too, love," he confirms as he escorts you to his bed, "I want that, too."

[reztaezm]

ℭ𝔞𝔱𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔥𝔢, 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐲. 𝑨 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒅𝒚 𝒃𝒚 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑺𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒉𝒘𝒂.

・・・・・・・・・・

𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚂𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚑𝚠𝚊 𝚡 𝙾𝙲 (𝙵𝚎𝚖!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛)

𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜: smut; masturbation (m) + detailed fantasies, oral (f - receiving), impulsive initiation, unprotected sex (pls use protection), mutual loss of virginity, desire and obsession, internal conflicts, scholastic themes, pining, denial, character development (?)

𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: Park Seonghwa, as an academic freak, and Y/n as an anomaly.

𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍��: 5k+, plot bearing

۶ৎ

“Swallow your pride, or get swallowed by it.”

But such words are simply too lowly for him to acknowledge. He is grace, by definition. He dwells on the faint chatters —not even whispered— of his jealous peers. Only gold was allowed to touch his fair skin. The tokens which told everyone that surrounded him. He is an example of best.

Detached, he is indeed. But many believe that he is just way too caught up and stuck in that huge head of his. No one's ever taken a peek, but they all shared one opinion. It must be his ego driving his sanity.

Unfortunately for the tellers of the tattletales, Seonghwa lacks something everyone else has too much of.

“Do you not care?” It wasn't his fault.

It's not his fault that for some reason, some random girl still found him an ounce likable. Everybody despised him, and why shouldn't she. Why wouldn't she?

He stared at her meticulously crafted letter that he was subjected to holding approximately seven minutes. ‘Her handwriting is pretty, at least…’ — this was the only thought he had. He couldn't feel anything besides pity, especially for the thought, and the sickening shimmery designs on the letter — he thought it was unnecessary. He thought everything was unnecessary, even her feelings.

He didn't reply to her, and instead handed the letter back to her. There wasn't a single muscle on his face that moved despite the sight of the girl’s eyes watering.

People were watching, and that day, he was painted a monster. Not only cold, but unremorseful, without a doubt.

Still, he had no care to spare for their opinions. He does not attend university for such senseless things.

Amidst the rise of gossip, all he hears is rolling ball of his pen as it glides against the fine and pricey paper of his leather journal. His scrupulous writing only deserves quality materials after all.

He was hated by the population of the studious, but they do not reach his level anyways. But he was treasured by his professors, and the university itself. And why not? He is the standard for the image the institution wishes to uphold. And they believe he had it all in him to maintain this perfection — holding the highest GPA, no set-backs, no distractions, no immodest hobbies or sidelines.

It was, at that point, hard for him to mess things up. It would take a tragedy, a catastrophe to break down what has been built of him. Though, said catastrophes come in many forms he knew. And everyone has their own criteria of what falls under what’s considered a catastrophe.

He had noted this to be the greatest anomaly of his life. Never did he think it would be possible for a girl to check every box in that criteria.

Number one: sudden and unexpected.

No one was ever late to Mrs. Chang’s Epistemology. Students could barely stomach her glare whenever her lectures would be interrupted by the click of the door as it opened and closed.

A daring soul went thirty-five minutes into the lecture. But to everyone’s surprise, the late-comer was a sight for sore eyes.

Seonghwa's first instinct was to quietly scoff at such irresponsibility, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. For the first time in his life, he is amongst the crowd, and this girl — whoever she may be, is the show.

What was a stopper for many was Mrs. Chang’s reaction, which was none. She could care less about the beautiful late-comer, or the whispers that came after said late-comer had gone inside the lecture hall.

The nameless girl would find herself a seat, far into the back.

Smart. Seonghwa had thought it was a smart move. Because it would be such great disrespect to the professor if they all had their necks twisted looking back to see the late-comer. And so he thought she was smart, getting rid of such nosey eyes.

And he was no nosey-eyed dirtbag, and he had the right to look. He was distracted, and it was new to him.

He dreaded the fact that he wasn't able to be mentally present at the latter half of Mrs. Chang’s lecture. And distracted? He had never been in the proceedings of his studies. It's such a shame for him. But nobody knows yet. Nobody had noticed.

Nobody knows how he had stared at her side profile, and how his eyes traced the point from the top of her head, down to her lips. Her lips are where he found it hard to avert his gaze. As if every rule of ethics had exited his brain, he was looking as if they were in an art exhibition, she was an exclusive piece.

He thought it was such a cliché. This was just another girl. Yet, she remains as the only problem he couldn't solve as of late.

After Mrs. Chang’s lecture, he thought it would've ended there. This marks another first for him — he had thought wrong, for the first time.

Because number two, catastrophes are disastrous.

Seonghwa could convince himself that peace only comes in the library, in a space at a more hidden area which he marked as his sanctuary. It was a deserted corner. No chairs, no tables or whatnot, but it was peaceful. The carpeted floor was spacious enough for him, and any noise coming from the other students occupying the library were drowned out from where he sat.

Imagine his confusion when one particular noise seeped through. A soft humming of a girl. He thought she wouldn't see him, and so he didn't call her off for the noise alone. He brought his eyes back on the book he had been reading, but his focus was on the possibilities.

The humming minimized with every second he could count. But at the twentieth, he could hear it right next to his ear…

“Hell!”

The girl was taken aback by his reaction. She didn't know him yet, and she found his hostility unreasonable.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked him whilst looking into that indifferent gaze of his. “Are you mad?”

He scoffed at her, but fell to a pause once taking in her full image. Of course he would be mad… if it wasn't her. He knew it would be best to respond and not seem like an idiot that could only stare. After having cleared his throat, he manages to utter a reply to her. “No.”

“I’m Y/n.”

His brows furrowed at the suddenness of her introduction. He didn't ask for her name, neither did he look like he was curious. Or maybe he did.

“I’m Seongh-”

“Park Seonghwa.”

She was shaking his world, unknowingly, but he couldn't do a thing about it. He was curious as to how she knew of his name- “Your nameplate.”

He gulped and almost lost his breath when she knelt on the ground where he sat and leant forward. She was way too close for his comfort, but no matter how much he thought of stopping her and pushing her away, his hands remained locked to his sides.

She had only reached for his crooked nameplate, fixing how it was pinned on his blazer.

“There, that's better, huh?” as if he was paying attention to his nameplate at all.

When she had shifted her eyes from his blazer to his face, she what met with the unexpected. He’s staring at her, in a way that would be abnormal for those who knew him. But she didn't. It was her first time interacting with this man.

“Are you okay?”

And it was his first time as well. His first time not having any self-control.

He knew he could get things done timely, but he never knew he was capable of doing something within a second, like having his hand at the back of her head, and his lips pressed against hers. His other hand was right above her hip, and he was tempted to let it wander lower.

Until she pulled away.

In that situation, it was only human to be conflicted, perplexed, or terrified even.

As it turns out, she isn't any of those. To which Seonghwa ticks box number three: catastrophes cause great damage.

He was no longer in the right headspace. Never did he envision such a scene.

He was finally holding her by the hip, because she had leaned in to kiss him again, more intensely. Seonghwa had only read it in books, or seen it in movies, but his lips led their kiss as if he had done this a dozen times over. She could feel herself being pulled closer by his inexperienced hands, and so she moved closer.

How close she was would’ve drawn the line if not for how Seonghwa was devouring her mouth. She couldn't help the small whimper that escaped her as his tongue delved deeper. His hair became her handle, and her thighs clenched around his hips. He doesn't know why, but the way she tugged on the strands of his hair wrapped around her fingers shot blood straight into his cock. She felt it. She felt him hardening below her clothed core. The sensations were foreign for both parties, and it was their hormones that drove their next actions.

Seonghwa broke the kiss, wanting to catch his breath and check on his sanity for a moment. But his cock was aching, so much so that it throbbed when he saw the look on her face. She looked high, in the most beautiful way possible. Her eyelids lie low, lips parted slightly, and skin tinted with a hint of red and warmth.

He couldn't help his hands from sliding down her soft thighs, squeezing on it with a force that made her whimper again. Oh how he loved the sound. His fingers sneaked past the end of her skirt, and underneath, slowly trailing up till he felt the fabric of her panties. He let out a low hum deep in his chest at the feel of the fabric, it was ordinary, but knowing what was underneath made him want to forget who he was.

His hand shifted to her front, using the pads of two of his fingers to feel the wetness that had formed over the fabric. His other hand remained on her thigh as if to hold her in place as he conducted his experiment, rubbing a circle on her soaking clit. She could feel it all too well since her slick had thinned the fabric for how wet it had become, and it was nothing but overwhelming pleasure.

She had her head slumped over his shoulder, and he could hear her attempts of suppressing her soft whimpers. She sounded helpless, even though he knew she was liking it as much as he was, if not more. He wanted to hear more and every sound possible for him to draw from her prey-like mouth.

He had already felt it. The tips of his fingers caught a glimpse of her soft and sensitive flesh beneath her panties when they had slipped past it. But their moment was put to an abrupt stop.

He heard it first — the footsteps were soft against the carpeted floor, but he had been way too familiar with the sound, and weight of whoever’s presence that came with it.

He hadn't taken his hands off of her, but he told her to, “Stand up.”

Which she did. Because she felt it too. If she wasn't coming, someone else was.

Her legs were slightly wobbly as she stood, but she was able to find composure and hastily pulled down on her skirt that had ridden up, then reached up her head to pat down her hair, which was incomparable to the mess that was on top of Seonghwa's head. He ran his hand over his hair, brush through it with his fingers. He knew he couldn't bring it back to its old and uniform style, but he didn't sweat it.

The two froze when they saw the librarian pass by, seemingly busy with her work. And thank God she was, because if not, she would've seen the tall tent on Seonghwa's trousers.

He still hadn't calmed himself. Even now that he had his head shot down and stared on the floor, all he could think of was the supple skin of her legs, and her weight on top of him. And she was just so pliable with his touch that he wanted to see her turn into mush in his hands.

But reality echoed in his ears when he felt the vibration of his phone. She was still standing there, probably waiting for him to say something. Something soon turned into nothing, as for the next minute, he was already heading out of the library.

Because fourthly. She had caused him personal ruin.

He had missed a class, again, for the first time. This was a loss that caused him frustration, but only less than he’d hoped. It would take a tragedy before one declares themself ‘screwed’, however, this one bump in his strict and once rigid schedule was enough for him to conclude otherwise.

He sat on a bench of an open hall, open to the eyes of onlookers. He wasn't usually sitting on these dirty seats, looking flawed and out of his mind.

Such a rare sight it was — his eyes shut, head thrown back, brows drawn upward. He was quite visibly dealing with a dilemma, one that boggles his mind beyond his comprehension which was once impossible. He had no hypothesis as to what had gone wrong with him.

It's his first confrontation with fear. Is it solely her existence that had pushed him this far? And could it be any more specific… like the way she looked at him when he touched her? Or the sound of her voice when she spoke, or when she was being pleasured by his hands? Or was it… the figure he couldn't see beneath her sweater, but couldn't help but picture in his mind?

She was such an aberration, unwilling introducing him to his worst and best firsts. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to despise her. He has yet to figure it out, because he didn't believe that beauty was capable of such destruction.

But… maybe hers is the weakness he's been waiting to discover. Now he’s at number five in the checklist. The catastrophe that is she, is destructive.

He would go on a few days without any direct encounters with her, which was deep down disappointing, for him. He thought he'd eventually find a way to live with it, to see his days in campus without ever feeling her delicate skin, her fingers entangled and pulling on his well conditioned hair, or the viscous slick that he wished had coated his fingers so that he could give her a taste — such thoughts had become the inevitable for him and had led him to do things he used to never spare a thought on. An innocent mind, these days, could only be that of a child — which Seonghwa obviously wasn't. Though, he was never to be someone who's perverted, even when he's in the peace of his own room, all alone.

It was merely a whisper in his conscience but in the quiet of his alone time, it shifted into a loud ringing in his ear.

The dim and warm light of the lamp on his nightstand would only add to the height of the temperature — not of his room, but rather, his body. When left alone with his thoughts, without a book for his restless eyes, or his journal and pen for the downpour of his thoughts, all that’s left for him to shake off the feeling, was to close his eyes, and lean back against the headboard of his bed. His hand slips underneath his blanket, and down his crotch. With only a vision of her face, his cock was already straining his pajama pants. A hiss fell from his lips when he palmed himself. He only used to imagine being a rocket scientist, or the most influential politician, fantasies past current reality, but this new fantasy of his held the highest possibility and is the closest to his reality.

He has yet to feel everything, but he could imagine vividly. The heat of her cunt engulfing his hard length — he knew well that his hand wrapped firmly around his erection would never be enough to simulate the feeling, but he must bear with it. His hips rocked in an upward motion against his hand, going rather slow, but purposeful. His head was leant back over the wood of the headboard, and his eyes were shut tight as he continued to fuck into his hand, with the mental image of her figure above him, thighs trembling, nails digging deeper into his shoulders the more she took his cock as he held her in place by the handles of her hips.

He sped up the pace and intensity of his thrusts wanting to reach euphoria, with only a vision, and the reference of a memory. He wonders if with the tightness and warmth of her cunt, he’d finish quicker. He wondered how it felt for his cock to be strangled by her pretty little hole — he wanted to see the flesh, to feel it clenching and fluttering around his fingers, around his dick, and to taste every drop of her arousal he could draw out from her.

And there it was again, the ringing in his ear. He could feel his blanket sticking to his tip because of his cum. But imagination could only carry one’s desires to its limit, imagine his disappointment when his hand continued to stroke his softening cock and he’d open his eyes, only to be met with emptiness.

A muttered curse leaves his lips at the mess he has created beneath his blanket. It’s a filthy deed, and very unlikely of him. And now, the guilt of having masturbated with the thought of an unknowing girl — maybe he’d be more at ease if she had thought of him too, and suffered from her desires with the likes of him. But would he still be sane if he’d hope for such an instance? And what if she hated him now? What if her feelings in relation to him were a complete opposite of his? — every statement he had formulated in his mind had their possible positives and negatives. However, he only tends to be realistic. Based on what he could infer from the nature of humans, the answers to his questions would more likely lean towards the negative.

Who was he to her anyways? Besides that, everyone already sees him to be a quiet narcissist. For the most part, he was certain that the slander that surrounds his character floating around campus would be enough for her to deduce him into a perverted jerk. For the latter part, there’s a small spark of hope that she’d pose deaf against such assertions.

But everything is just his intelligent guess, his inferences. And in that one class he shared with you, he hoped you weren’t trying to avoid him, or implicitly push him away.

His conscience would eat him up everytime he caught a glimpse of her grace, one he once had and flaunted. Now he was unkempt. Stuck in a storm that chose to only burden him.

“Seonghwa,”

A short, yet evocative gasp escapes him. The voice that haunts his dreams, either asleep or awake, whether it be daylight or the dark of night, was now calling for him. And it’s no longer fantasy.

The halls have been emptied, seemingly for the reason that most have classes in that hour. Even him, yet, he wasn’t in a lecture. There he stood amidst the secluded hallway, and in front of him was the embodiment of his temptations.

“Are you avoiding me? After that?” He understood what ‘that’ was referring to too, but he couldn’t quite interpret how upset she seemed into any reasoning.

“No-” “I don’t understand you.”

No one does, not even himself. “Y/n… please listen.”

He had never said ‘please’, not for anyone. She doesn’t verbally reply, but the look in her eyes was enough to tell him to speak before she loses the point of waiting.

“I didn’t- I don’t want to force you into anything.” She found his explanation, and the slight hesitancy in his speech to be ridiculous to some degree, and he saw it from the wrinkles that appeared on her face in reaction to his statement.

“I was waiting for you, because I didn’t know what to do with myself either.”

Seonghwa doesn’t know what yearning was supposed to sound like, but it seems like this was another first for him. He’s been masking his own feelings to be violated by her influence, but after witnessing her disposition towards their situation, maybe they were one with what they felt.

“I missed you.” he finally admits, to her surprise.

Words were lost in the air, and she took one step forward, before he was driven to seize her with quick steps.

He held her as if she was his possession, wasting not a second to take claim of her lips afterwards. And it was at that moment that his hypotheses were proven wrong. She had, not even a thought, no signs of apathy or resistance. She clutched onto his neatly ironed shirt, pulling him closer, even if there was no longer room to be closer.

His hand on the back of her shoulder slowly slid down, tracing the curve of her back, down to her rear which he began to firmly knead with his hand. He caught the soft moan he had induced from her with his mouth, swallowing the sounds that were a product of his touch.

Everything seemed premeditated by fate. The door he had pushed against, was the door to an empty and a very much deserted room home to whatever insignificant articles the campus could no longer make use of. It wasn’t locked, much to their luck. The ease of twisting the knob bought him enough time to have the both of them inside, and the door closed not a second after.

He sits her down on a nearby desk, pushing off the papers and pins with his hands before spreading her thighs open, and taking the space in between for himself. His hands hold the underside of her thighs, bringing her closer against him, and hooking her legs over his hips. All the while his lips began to wander past hers. His tongue tastes her skin, drawing a streak over her jaw and down his neck. He didn’t know it yet at that moment, but he bites into a more receptive part of her skin that elicited a breathy whimper from her, a sweet sound that sent waves of arousal that made his cock stand.

He continued to nip and nibble on her sweet and supple skin as he pressed himself against her center, letting her feel his erection tenting his trousers. Her hands reached down, aiming to undo his pants, but he suddenly descended, impetuously unfastening the confinement that was her pants. He hooks his fingers on the hem of the fabric, slowly stripping it off of her. He couldn’t resist any longer. He had no care if he came off as too eager. He’s been waiting in silent torment to finally taste and feel her essence on his tongue.

His hands lifted her thighs and placed them on his shoulders, and as he leaned in, his hands found her hips like he’s always known them. His tongue that thirsted for her taste licks over her arousal, still with the barrier of her panties — though said barrier was almost senseless. She could feel the weight and the heat of his tongue to a blissful extent that her fingers were once again bound to his hair. Her arm supported her weight as she leaned back, body arched to a beautiful curve as Seonghwa continued to lap on her clit over her panties. He, at the next minute, was pulling down on her panties, leaving it to fall to her ankles as he sought for her pureness of her core.

He tightens his grip on her hips as he tastes her directly for the first time. His eyes closed as she filled his senses with her taste, her scent, the feeling of her delicate flesh against his tongue. He couldn't help the deep rumble in his chest as he ingested her slick, the sound sending subtle vibrations that heightened her pleasure, causing her to pull harder on his hair, and for him to groan softly against her clit which he began to encircle with his tongue. His grasp on her hips were firm as his lips latched onto her bud, shifting between licking and sucking on her flesh. He could hear her muffled moans — she had covered her mouth in an attempt to not make too much noise. But then his tongue sneaked lower, pressing against her dripping hole. He pushes in his tongue, hooking his arms around her thighs as he keeps her in place. His cock throbbed when he felt her gummy walls on his tongue. The continuous ministrations of his mouth had her gasping for hair.

His cock only aches more when he glances up, seeing her head tilted back, exposing the smooth skin of her neck, with some of the muscles now being defined by the stretch as his tongue continued to penetrate her. And he could’ve sworn he almost came when he felt her clenching around his tongue.

“Seong-S-Seonghwa…” her quiet whimpering and her hands continuous and light pats on top of his head was enough to tell him that she was cumming.

But not yet. Seonghwa rises from the ground, leaving her core empty and throbbing. But her longing was soon resolved when he began to unbuckle his belt. Unable to resist the temptation, she reaches for his fly, undoing his pants in a brisk motion then tugging it down.

There was a slight tremble in her legs once her cock sprung free, slightly curved upward, standing tall at a decent length that had evoked her impending anxiety, tip prominent and already leaking with precum. She wanted badly to taste him as well, but he was — quite literally — the bigger person between the two of them. He leans forward, holding up her thighs and opening her wider for him. He keeps her other thigh elevated while his free hand aligned his cock to her entrance. His hips pushed forward subtly, making his tip press against her clit. He buried his face in her neck when he began to let out sounds beyond his control when he began to rub his tip against her slit.

Y/n holds onto his flexed bicep, giving it a light squeeze as her dainty voice whispers his name. “Seonghwa…”

“Yes, baby?” the new name, the feeling of his tip rubbing against her, it made sense how she’d lose her words by then.

But just as she was about to tell him to take it further, to put it in even with the worry of it breaking her at the back of her mind, she finds herself gasping for air once hit with a sharp stinging as she began to get filled by his heavy cock.

He was right. This was incomparable to the work of his hand. She was ecstacy personified.

He felt her hand pulling harshly on her shirt, and he looked down, seeing the thin layer of water over her gentle eyes. A sight so fragile. His temptation holding its true form right before him.

He places a soft and tender kiss on her forehead as he begins to move. He was addicted in an instant. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before. Her tight cunt sheathing his hard length over and over again was now a drug to him. He’s in heaven, holding her tightly and closely against the slow rocking of his hips, slow enough for her to feel every inch of his cock as he fills her over, and over again. The soft mewls that sounded from her melodic voice only drove him to move faster, but it pushed him further to reaching the edge.

He was so close, and the sight of her taking his cock fully below him, and the feeling of her walls fluttering around his length had him completely dazed, and dangerously near.

But then she came before him, pulsating and hugging his cock tight at release. His hands held her thighs with a bruising grip, and he was sure that had been the loudest he’s ever been, and it was a moan of her name. His body convulsed like hers, and his cum shot into her cervix, causing their fluids to mix inside of her.

The room fell into quiet gasps as they caught them fighting to catch their breath. He also didn't pull away once he's found stability in his breathing, like what she’d expect him to do. But she never thought he'd act like this. The nature of it all is rather… domestic.

His arms wrapped around her, holding her closely against him. His lips brushed against her cheek, meeting her lips. But the kiss was gentle, and slow. Truly, he was savouring it. Was it just the feeling?... Or was it her? Whatever the means of his actions were, she indulged in it.

This time, he really just lost a care for the tattle-mouths, his image, the papers, the numbers — they were all lost and thrown down the drain.

At this moment, his hypothalamus acts dominantly. He doesn't know what he's feeling, because he lacks the experience to define it. But his heart was beating in a pattern he couldn't recognize. It was strong, and he could hear it in his ears. At the same time, it wasn't painful nor overwhelming. It was oddly comforting.

He’s never thought of it, but it just felt right. He reached for her hand, and surely, it was a perfect fit in his grasp. As if they were molded for each other — which was too far of a stretch, but it's all just a theory.

・・・・・・・・・・

[animereaderinsertwriter]

part one - two - three - four -five

i saw you in a dream (bucky barnes x reader)

tags/warnings: plot with porn, fluff, a little angst, there is some mild amnesia, major plot twist, first person (bucky's) pov, inspired by this song

blurb: In this life and every life; waking and dreaming; this I swear.

These are the words inscribed on Bucky's wedding ring. A wedding ring that he doesn't remember ever having. It's not a vow he made-- not that he remembers, anyway-- but it might just be one that he decides to keep anyway.

ao3 here

After that night, our awkwardness thaws considerably. Day by day, the ice between us melts more and more, until it seems we’re skin to skin, live wire to live wire, and boy do sparks fly every time we touch. 

Much to my consternation, we haven’t managed to have sex yet— but I look forward to the day. It’s close. I can feel it. It’s in the way she looks at me over breakfast, sleepy, but intimate; it lingers achingly as our arms brush in the hallway and the backwards glance we throw each other as we walk on. The house we live in isn’t big enough to contain the tension between us. I doubt a continent would contain enough space to get away from it all.

Getting dressed to have dinner at Stark’s place is almost— almost— the thing that finally pushes us over the edge.

We’ve become comfortable enough now to get dressed in the same room, meaning that I see a great deal of her skin now on a regular basis in a non-sexual context— if there’s such a thing between two people as intimate as we are. Watching her slip on a little white sundress should be the opposite of a strip tease, but it makes me so hard that I excuse myself to rub one out in the bathroom. It’s not enough, though, not nearly enough— because when I reenter the room, the sundress is on, flowing delicately around her curves, and she’s putting on a necklace that sits just above the curve of her breasts, the white gem winking teasingly me as it nestles unfairly on that silk-soft skin.

“Ready?” she asks, looking up from the mirror and into my eyes. Her eyes are lined, her lashes are curled— her lips shimmer prettily, and I know if I kiss her, it will take her another five minutes to reapply the pretty gloss.

I kiss her anyway.

“Let’s stay home,” I say against her lips.

“And do what?” she laughs. “Lay around like we do every evening?”

“Sure.” I wipe the glitter from my mouth off with my thumb, then stick it in my mouth to savor the taste. “Or we could not do that.”

It’s the farthest I’ve dared to vocalize my want— but my wife is having none of it.

“Tony needs us,” she says simply, placing a warm hand on my arm. “He gets in these… moods. Just do this for me, dear, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

The look in her eyes doesn’t make the decision easier. If looks could fuck, I’d be on my back with her on my lap.

Goddamn, but I could eat her alive.

We somehow make it to the dinner without pulling over and having the nastiest, steamiest car sex known to man. I think about it the entire time, though. Just watching her drive— she’s DD-ing since Thor promised to bring Asgardian mead that would send me halfway to Jesus with a single ounce— has me hot under the collar, wanting to lick the place where her hand meets her wrist, that delicate, protruding bone, the one that breaks so easily but probably tastes so good—

Right. Focus. Dinner.

Once we make it inside the Stark domicile, my situation marginally improves. There are certainly enough people to distract us from each other; I’m immediately ushered over to break up a petty argument between Steve and Tony about something I’m not sure I really understand— a sciencey thing— while (Y/N) helps Pepper and Thor in the kitchen as they mix drinks for everyone. Rhodey, Sam, Nat, and Bruce are all in the corner playing cards, and Wanda, Vision, their twins, and Morgan are all playing with Lincoln logs on the floor. It’s loud, it’s chaotic, and a little overwhelming, but I can’t help but smile at all the happiness around me. If the sum of everything I have endured is what it took to feel this much joy… by my calculations, it’s more than worth it.

“You look glowy tonight, Barnes,” says Stark as I share a glance with my wife. “Any news you wanna tell us?”

“Huh?” I reply eloquently before I realize what he must mean. “Uh— no. I mean— I don’t think so.”

“Interesting.” Stark squints at me. “How’s your head? Still don’t remember me kicking giant purple ass in Wakanda?”

“Also no,” I shrug helplessly. “Scan’s still not due back for another few weeks anyway.”

Stark hums.

“That’s too bad— I was a real showstopper. Right Steve?” 

Steve sighs.

“Yes, Tony.”

“You could sound more thrilled that I saved the world. Twice.”

I raise my brows. Steve left this particular detail out when he told me about Thanos’ defeat.

“You specifically?”

Stark grins like a snot-nosed kid who’s been given unlimited access to a ball pit.

“Oh yeah, big time.”

Across the room, Rhodey’s eyes roll to the heavens and he sighs under his breath, 

“Here we go again…”

Stark regales me with the tale of how he alone wielded the infinity gauntlet to undo the damage that Thanos had done in his brief time with it. I suspect there is a bit of embellishment in the story, but apparently not so much that Steve feels the need to interject with a correction. 

“I took massive damage from it, though, hurt like hell,” he tells me, sipping his Diet Coke. “Your wife was there, though, and it was a damn lucky thing she was. She healed me before using it could kill me.”

“Wait— she what?”

Stark immediately looks at Steve, who looks right back.

“What, was I not supposed to say that?” Stark looks back to me, then back to Steve. “Does he not know?”

“I don’t know what he knows,” says Steve.

“Guys, what don’t I know?” I ask, trying to sound very Calm and Normal. “What do you mean, heal?”

“Your wife’s an angel,” says Stark before Steve can stop him.

“Yeah, she’s great— but what does that have to do with anything?”

“Tony,” Steve warns.

“What?” Stark’s face is all innocence. “He’s got a right to know.” 

“Yes— but that’s between him and (Y/N), not us.”

“What the hell are you guys talking about?” I demand, finally letting my temper get the best of me.

Steve and Stark look at each other, and Stark shrugs haplessly.

“When you get a chance, ask (Y/N) how you two met,” Steve says gently. “That should clear some things up.” 

I’m not having it.

“Stark— what does my wife do for you?”

“For me?”

“Yeah— she said she works for you, and that’s why it’s cool for her to take time off for… well, you know.” I make a vague gesture with my hands, indicating my memory loss.

Stark and Steve look at each other again.

“Look man— your wife doesn’t work for me, she works with me. She’s an Avenger. I don’t know what she told you, but that’s fact.”

Of course she is. Of fucking course she is. I can’t believe that I didn’t realize it sooner. It all seems so obvious now— her relationship with Steve, Stark, Nat, and Bruce, and the rest, none of that felt like a second-hand friendship passed to her through me. No, it was genuine camaraderie built through regular teamwork.

“But,” I protest, scrambling for any reason not to believe them, “she seems—”

Words fail me.

“Small?” Stark suggests. “Fleshy?”

“Something like that.” I shake my head, willing away my disbelief.

“Well— if it’s any comfort, she’s not as fleshy as she looks in this form.”

Now I really start to panic— because what the fuck does that mean?

“What?”

“Tony!” Steve warns again, and I press a hand against my oldest friend’s shoulder.

Stark looks from me to Steve then back to me. 

“Thor!” he calls out across the room. “Where’s that Asgardian mead? I think we need some over here.”

***

I’m drunk. 

Well, I was even more drunk than this earlier, but I’ve still got a pretty good buzz going. Despite myself, I’ve had a good time tonight; every second thought is of my wife and why she lied to me, but the other thoughts are usually something along the lines of wow I love my friends! and this chicken is fucking fantastic! On the whole, I think the good makes up for the bad. 

That is, until I gingerly make my way to the back porch to get some fresh air and find my wife already there, sitting in a rocking chair and looking out at the stars. Then the bad seems really bad— because instead of the light and warm feeling I usually get when I look at my wife, I feel an odd, pinching hurt.

“Hey,” she greets me with a soft, tired smile. “Still doing okay, darling?”

“Why did you lie to me?” 

The words are out before I can stop them— this Asgardian mead really does pack a punch— but my wife doesn’t blink. She takes a sip of her drink, looks down at it, then slams it back.

“Is this about my job?”

“Depends,” I say, “What else did you lie about?”

“That’s the only thing.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because,” she sighs, “I’m about to show you the truth.”

She stands. She’s so ethereal in the moonlight; it’s as if she’s glowing.

Wait. Wait, wait, wait.

I squint.

She is glowing.

Bright gold light is emitting from her skin. That same light shines in rays round about her head, growing in intensity until it becomes something like a crown. On her exposed collarbones, chest, neck, and cheeks, concentrated beams of light shine forth, then fade to reveal eyes— eyes identical to the ones on her face, just placed differently and in different sizes. Wings, too, appear— they gradually fade into existence from between her shoulder blades in a set of three white, fluffy-feathered appendages. Smaller wings appear on her hands at the wrist and her feet at the ankles, and when her transformation is complete, I stare at her in awe and wonder.

She is beautiful.

“You’re…”

An angel.

“A freak,” she finishes incorrectly, looking away from me with not only two, but dozens of eyes. “Yes, I’m aware. My mother, God rest her, was into that. My father is a power— an angel, of a sort. Which makes me a nephilim, which is really just a polite term for a half-breed.”

I can’t process all of that right now. There’s only room enough in my head for one thought, and out of the jumble of them that’s battling for control, I know which one I’m picking.

“Can I touch you?”

She nods. I reach forward and cup her cheek, gently closing the eye that rests below her cheekbone. I trace her skin from there, to her neck, down her arm to the pretty, fluttering wing at her wrist. I lift her hand and kiss it, and the wing flutters against my face. I brush a thumb over the wing, feeling the softness of it, and (Y/N) shivers.

“Those are sensitive,” she says, her voice weak. 

“In a good way?” I ask, testing my luck with another stroke of my thumb— and oh, how she trembles!

“Yes.”

I kiss her. She kisses me back. I let my hands wander from her face, to her neck, to her shoulders— and then I go for the big guns. My hands find the set of three wings sprouting from her back, and the pads of my fingers explore the place where human flesh meets angelic wings. It takes me by surprise when she moans openly into my mouth at the sensation, but now that I know that that’s a noise she can make, I want to hear it over and over and over again.

My hand almost makes it up the back side of her dress before I realize exactly what’s happening. It seems so obvious now that I’ve thought of it— all those years in the assassin business, and I still fall for the easiest trick in the book.

“(Y/N).”

Her hand tangles in my hair as she kisses me again, but I place both of my hands on her shoulders and keep her firmly away from me. It takes all my strength to manage it, but I say,

“Uh-uh. Are you trying to distract me from a conversation about this with sex?”

She looks up at me from beneath her lashes.

“No. I didn’t think you… were ready for that. I just wanted to show you why I lied to you, Bucky.”

I don’t know how I know that she’s lying again, but she is. I can feel it in my very bones. 

For a moment, I’m still tempted by her— the promise of fulfillment lingers on my lips, its aftertaste still on my tongue— but I just can’t forget why I was upset to start with. She was hiding this from me, deliberately keeping it from me like I was a child who wasn’t ready to learn that Santa Claus isn’t real. To think that I could have been able to see her like this the whole time I’ve lived with her… I feel robbed.

“Why?” I ask again. “Why did you keep this from me?”

When she doesn’t reply, I start to feel ill. Ill or not, though, if she won’t tell me, there’s nothing I can do to make her. 

… Nothing I would feel good about, anyway

“You know what, whatever.” My pride is wounded. I feel it in the tightening of my throat, the bile that rises there. “I’m ready to go home whenever you are.”

I turn my back on her and walk back towards the door. She reaches out her hand for a moment, as if she were going to ask me to stay, but then her hand lowers silently and she lets me walk away.

We stay for an hour more. I don’t enjoy myself at all, but I do indulge in more Asgardian mead. I figure that if I’m not going to be happy, I might as well be drunk. By the time my wife is ready to depart, I’m stumbling, angsty, and mildly dehydrated, and we don’t talk the whole ride home. When I finally manage to make it to the bathroom and then into my pajamas, my wife is nowhere to be found. I sleep alone in our shared bed, stomach aching, heart heavy.

***

There is someone— something— in the hallway. 

My subconscious senses it before I do. I’m already on my feet before I fully wake. My body lowers itself into a crouch next to the bed, and, animalesque, I make my way to the bedroom door. Moonlight beams in from the window, lighting the bedroom behind me, but the open maw of the hallway is pitch black. My hearing, though, is unimpaired, and I pick up on labored breathing and soft, slow footsteps moving down the hallway.

I move towards the darkness, as silent as a shadow. I slip into the dark, become it; my presence is hidden entirely.

At least, that’s what I think until chitinous claws grip me by the throat and throw me back into the bedroom. I land hard with my back against one of the nightstands. A lamp crashes to the floor, shatters; I stagger to my feet, ready, now, for my enemy to emerge.

The thing that threw me like a rag doll is six and a half feet of pure ugly. When it steps into the light of the bedroom, I can see its husky grey skin and all-black eyes; its mouth is shaped like an ant’s, and its hands are in fact crustacean-esque claws. And, I notice as it draws near, it stinks to high hell of sulfur and rotting meat. 

It looks at me, snorts through its hideous nostrils, and the fight resumes.

I charge at it, metal arm poised to strike. It dodges with an uncanny swiftness, but I manage to grab one of its arms and yank it off balance. Before I can land a decent hit, though, it swivels and slices my shoulder with its other claw. I howl, partially in pain from the cut and partially in frustration— there no way that won’t get infected from the nastiness of the vile creature— and then I remember that I’m not the only person who lives in this house. 

Oh, God, I think desperately, at once an inner exclamation and a silent prayer. Please let her be okay.

In my panic, I make the mistake of looking toward the hallway. The creature follows my gaze. 

I suspect that neither of us expected what we find.

My wife, in all her angelic glory, hovers a few feet above the ground at the threshold of the bedroom. All of her eyes no longer have pupils; instead, the eye sockets are filled with radiant light— no whites, no iris, just glorious beams of golden-white. The air tastes metallic, like ozone, and every hair on my body stands to attention. In her hands are circular weapons that she grips onto using a bar welded through the center. 

“Get out.”

She speaks with the voice of many. The frame of our house quivers with the power of it.

The creature before me, to its credit, does not run. I punish its strength of will by punching it in the abdomen so hard that its outer shell cracks. It doubles over, staggered, and my beautiful wife throws one of her weapons at its head.

The head ruptures, splits in half. 

Unfortunately, so does everything else that the creature was standing in front of, including the bed, headboard, and the drywall behind it. And, to top it all off, now it really stinks of rotting meat.

Even so, I can’t bring myself to care once I look back at my wrathful, terrifying wife. She occupies my every thought. 

She’s beautiful. She radiates danger head-to-toe. She’s death and sex wrapped up in an oversized t-shirt and polka-dot panties and all I can think about is taking those panties off with my teeth.

Inch by inch, she lowers herself to the ground. The burning-hot light that shines in her eyes fades. She walks over to me and inspects the wound on my chest.

“I had him on the ropes,” I tell her, thinking back to Steve all those years ago. 

She doesn’t get the joke.

“You’re hurt.” 

Her voice is her own once more. I almost miss the cacophony of the voice she used a moment ago, but at this juncture the only thing I can truly feel is relief that she’s okay.

“It’s a just a scratch,” I say, taking her hand in mine. “Looks worse than it is. I’ll be fine.”

Her eyes stay fixated on my bleeding flesh. 

I tilt her chin up with my metal hand.

“Hey. What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head in disbelief.

“All of it. That— that thing shouldn’t have been able to make it past the wards I have around this house. Steven Strange helped me carve them, and they’re imbued with divine will— my divine will— that no enemy may enter here.”

I shrug.

“Seems broken to me.”

“Yes,” she wonders aloud, “but how?”

I know she has a point. I know I should be concerned about it. But I can’t see anything past the glow of her aura and the beauty of her angelic visage. She thrums with terrible power, and like a moth to a flame, I am ineffably drawn to her.

I kiss her softly on the mouth. She’s slow to respond, but when I slip my hand around her waist and pull her close to me, she gasps heavily against my lips and brings her hands up to my hair.

“Yes,” I breathe against her, pressing another kiss to the soft skin of her lips. 

She kisses me back fiercely. My hands wander under the hem of her shirt; they roam the skin of her back, feeling the place where feathers meet flesh with soft fingertips. My scalp aches as her hands fist in the long, shaggy strands. We’re pressed so close now that I can feel her heartbeat playing baseball with her pulse, and when her knee slides cheekily up the inside of my thigh, I know it’s so, so over for me.

“Bucky,” she breathes as my hands find one of the ripped wing-holes in her t-shirt. I really, really want to rip it, tear the hole until the shirt drops from her shoulders, useless, destroyed. “Aren’t you supposed to be mad at me?”

I grin against her lips, then slide one hand down to squeeze her ass.

“Life’s too short to be mad at a beautiful dame.”

“Bucky, be serious.”

I pull away a short distance so that I can see her eyes. My other hand wanders to her shoulder, then upwards across her eye-spangled collarbone until the cold metal of my left hand touches her throat.

“What makes you think I’m not?”

I brush the sensitive skin there at the hollow of her throat with a metal thumb, and her eyes flutter closed.

“Don’t tease me,” she pleads, soft and breathless, “my heart can’t bear it.”

Who am I to deny her?

I pull her to me by the throat and kiss her hard. Her knees buckle ever-so-slightly, and I support her weight easily with an arm around her waist. Her tongue is warm and wicked as it presses tentatively against mine, and I feel myself throb as one of her hands slips under the waistband of my boxers.

“Get naked,” I tell her once I can’t take it anymore. “I want you, baby.”

Since our bed is ruined— sliced in half and sprayed with strange, stinking viscera— I decide to get creative for the next stage of our lovemaking. Thanking God for supersoldier strength, I hoist my wife up by the ass until her legs are around my waist. As our sexes align, we moan in unison, then laugh as we realize what we’ve just done. I lean my forehead against hers, and, with that mischievous smile, she shifts until her hand is on my cock. She lines up my tip with her warm, tight hole, and gravity does the rest.

“Oh fuck,” she breathes, chest heaving as I start to move. “Oh my God…”

Oh fuck, indeed. She feels so good around me— I beat myself up for not bending her over right there on Tony Stark’s porch and solving our problems right off the bat. I can’t help but think that everything up to this point has just been wasting time; my body remembers, even if my mind doesn’t, the contours of her body, the angles that make her gasp and cry out. My body remembers loving her.

“Bucky please,” she whimpers as my hand brushes one of her wings. “Please, please touch me, I—”

Her voice leaves as I comply with her request. As my fingers brush softly through the down of her feathers, her pussy clenches around me, and it’s all I can do not to pass out.

We so should have done this earlier.

***

“So,” I ask later as I hold her in my arms, sated and sweaty, “why did you lie to me? Surely it wasn’t just some whim.”

Her back is to my chest as we lay in our guest bed, spooning. When she turns to look at me, her eyes are sad. She turns away once more before speaking.

“I’m sorry, Bucky.” She sounds tired— no, exhausted. “I just wanted to pretend to be normal for just a little longer. I wanted you to think that I was beautiful— normal beautiful— even if it was only temporary.”

She thinks for a moment, then adds,

“Besides, I didn’t really know how you’d react. If you’d been repulsed… I don’t think my heart could bear it.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I move away from her, sitting up so that I can see her better. She rolls over, and her eyes— all of them—search mine.

“You really thought I would be repulsed by you?” I take in her gorgeous visage and shake my head in wonder. “Baby, you’re the most beautiful thing in the world. You’re radiant— literally.”

“Bucky, stop,” she sighs. “I don’t choose this form for a reason. This is the look that makes the whole be not afraid thing necessary— it’s the worst parts of both of my parents. I only look like this now because of what happened earlier… and also to humor you. We’ve had this argument before.

My brows knit. We’ll circle back to that later. There will be time to convince her that she’s beautiful once I really understand what’s going on here.

“Stark tells me you’re an Avenger,” I say. “I don’t think they let just anyone in, half-angel or not. Would you like to explain why you kept that from me?”

She shrugs.

“I made myself useful in Sokovia. It took Wanda a while to track me down, but she wanted to thank me for healing her brother. Once she found out what I was and what I could do, she sent word to Steve who then met with me and convinced me that my powers might not be the worst thing that has ever happened to me… and turns out, he was kind of right.”

“Powers?”

“In addition to just, y’know, smiting stuff, I also walk the sleep. That’s how I heal people— I manipulate the dream world. It’s complex to explain, but for me, it’s simple. I just sleep, then wake in a world that is like our own, but infinitely more malleable.”

All of her eyes look at me, and she taps my chest, just above my heart.

“Let's say you have a hole right here. In the dream world, you would have one as well. If I were standing next to you in reality, there wouldn’t be much that I could do. But in the dream world, I can press the edges of the hole together, mending them. That is how angels heal.”

This is a lot of information— but also not the answer to my question.

“That’s all well and good— but why lie?”

She looks away from me.

“That’s… well, there’s another argument we’ve had before, specifically about what I do for the Avengers. You think it leaves me too vulnerable, too exposed, because my body is open while in the dream world. It’s a little more nuanced than that because any effect on my external body is multiplied tenfold on my body in the dreamworld, but that’s the gist of it.”

I sit with that for a moment, allowing it to discomfit me before compartmentalizing it for later.

“I wish you hadn’t lied to me,” I tell her slowly, gently, “and we’ll need to talk more about this later. But for now…”

A brush a hand purposefully against a downy wing.

“I think we should go get cleaned up and have breakfast. It’s morning already and I’ve got a hangover to feed.”

I kiss her forehead, right next to a beautiful, tiny eye, and she giggles sweetly at me.

“Alright— but since I killed the chitauri-hybrid” —that’s the alien that attacked us, I’ve learned, a leftover from Thanos’ invasion that bred with earthly life— “you have to clean up its mess while I get my shower first.”

I sigh.

“Troublesome woman. Have it your way— but that means you’re cooking.”

“Gladly, darling.”

She rolls over to the other side of the bed, then stands to leave. To my disappointment, her wings and extra eyes dissolve into particles of light as she makes her way towards the door.

“Don’t give me that look,” she says over her shoulder at my frown. “The wings don’t fit in the shower.”

[queen-of-hawkins-why-ler]

Byler is endgame for so many reasons but mainly bc the show would've needed to head in a much different direction in s4 for anything other than Byler endgame to work or make sense. The finale of a penultimate season of a show is supposed to have the audience sitting at the edge of their seats and asking themselves lots of questions like, "What is the ultimate ending for these characters going to be?" and "What's going to happen when character A realizes ____ about character B?" other than having Vecna get away and having the Upside Down start bleeding into Hawkins, the only plot elements that have been left (other than Max's fate) for the audience to chew on and contemplate are relationship-based.

The Chekhov's Gun that has been set up is Will's painting and what will happen in the story when Mike finds out that Will lied about the painting. And the primary dangling plot thread that has been presented for the audience to consider is, "How will Mike react once he realizes that Will is in love with him?" which necessarily implies, "Is Mike going to reject El and stay with Will or break up with El and get together with Will?" Now why the fuck would you make Byler of all things your MAIN dangling plot thread if the answer to that question has always been, "Lol nvm you THOUGHT you were going to get a satisfying narrative payoff but akshually we never had any intention of following through, and the answer to your questions is that none of the dangling plot threads in s4 actually mattered at all bc everything is staying narratively the same as it was before." You know what we call that? A Game of Thrones ending. A legendarily bad ending that's a huge "Fuck you" to an intelligent audience who can follow basic storytelling conventions. It would be the ultimate bait-and-switch ending and a HUGE slap in the face, and the Duffers would deserve every ounce of criticism they would get until the end of time. It WILL have been queerbaiting, and there is absolutely no excuse for pairing Will Byers, the supposedly "only gay" MC up with some random ass side character introduced in the final season. Like who the fuck would actually care about or be invested in that plotline other than Milkvans and people who don't care enough about Will to want a decent payoff for his arc? Will stans and the gays are certainly gonna be having none of that last minute love interest shit lmao it would be totally unjustifiable. Indefensible even.

[mondaymelon]

choose . post options (and random ass q&a) utc !!

-> temporarily pinning this . old pinned !!

"ohhh melon why did you close asks ohhhh melon why arent u taking req" - you, maybe

i closed asks bc i got burnt out answering them !! sorry sorry i suck at interaction even online , they piled up so much i lost a lot of motivation in answering them but hopefully ill get through most of em .. at some point

if you really really need to talk to me like for some reason you genuinely will explode if u don't i do have a sideblog so. just scamper over to there idk

as for reqs... oh man they havent been open for a good half year.. the day will come if i either run out of ideas (which is. uhm probably not possible) , reach record heights of delusional , or simply feel like it . though keep in mind i do selective reqs!! ill only write the ones im interested in qq

"what about the events and series you never finished melon what of them are you abandoning your children" - you, perhaps

hahahahh uhm. im really bad w commitment. so yes, most likely. that one forgotten coffee shop au with kavetham that never even got its first chapter is never coming back.

names once whispered on the breeze (smau) hasn't been posted since like last year june .. i lost interest in the formatting since i gen like writing long posts more and also i did have a plan for the plot but it was shit and i lost interest. sorry for all the people who supported and loved the series but i couldn't reciprocate that same love. i am not paying child support either

500+ and halloween events... in the former didnt expect to get so many requests, and writing 3-ish took every ounce of soul in me. as for halloween, it was fun to write but since im a stupid little 瓜 i couldn't figure out how to end the series. 4 chpaters and a cliffhanger is all yall are getting :P

"melon how could you do this you big fat meanie i am going to boohoo and shit all over u" - you, to the slightest possibility

ok now why would you do that

thanks please vote mwah ilyall

[dropsofpluto-writes]

If Only In Dreams (Hotch x Reader oneshot)

Summary: You've been Jack Hotchner's babysitter for quite some time now, but his dad is what keeps you coming back, even if it's only in your dreams. Until now, that is. 18+, minors dni

Warnings: smut, piv sex, oral sex (f receiving), voice kink, plot if you squint

Grad school was kicking your ass. Fully and completely. Classes and coursework was stressing you to the max, but you remained strong. Still, money was important, so you found yourself in the kitchen of SSA Aaron Hotchner’s home, making a simple meal for Jack to eat before he went to bed. It didn’t hurt that you loved Jack, or that your boss was amazing.

You supposed that you were a woman of simple pleasures. Sure, Mr. Hotchner was generous and kind, always overpaying you for the services you provided. But, by God he was one hell of a man. 

Neat, black hair that you were begging to feel, rugged features that even Michaelangelo couldn’t carve, and his voice. Surely he could recite the first 100 digits of pi and you would go weak in the knees. To your credit, it had also been far too long since you had cum.

But alas, you were just making boxed mac-n-cheese for his young son. Plus, there’s now way in hell he would ever hold you in the same light. You knew that he never spent his free time touching himself to the thought of your moans, your breath on his skin, the way you must taste, the way only your voice could scream his name. But, you imagined all that and more of him. Maybe that was okay. Maybe you shouldn’t violate the one good constant in your life.

“Jack, honey! Dinner will be ready in 5. Could you wash your hands and grab yourself a drink, please?” giggling to yourself, watching the young boy finally walk away from the biggest Lego tower that you’d ever seen him make.

“Yep!”

The two of you ate dinner at the kitchen table, mostly talking about Jack’s newest friend from school, but soon enough he was in bed, and you were cleaning up from the meal.

As you scrubbed the pot, silently cursing yourself for not putting it to soak before they sat down to eat, you found your thoughts were consumed by your employer. On more than one occasion, he had told you to call him Aaron, but you remained in your ways of calling him Mr. Hotchner. you had told him that you liked the formality of the moniker, but you were also terrified that if you were to call him Aaron, it would come out as a choked moan, as it had so many times in the confines of your own bedroom.

Your phone buzzed, pulling you from your reverie. The lock screen displayed a message from the man occupying your mind.

Is there any possible way you could stay a bit longer tonight? Got held up with paperwork at the office. I would ask Jessica, but she can’t tonight -H.

While you had never spent the night at the Hotchner residence before, you had nothing else of importance that evening, so you agreed without an ounce of hesitation.

Sure thing! Sorry you got held up, but I’m always happy to help. <3

Thanks a million, y/n. -H

You began to make yourself comfortable on the couch and continue with your homework, knowing you would likely fall asleep within the hour. Still, getting some of the work done was better than getting none of it done. 

“Goddamn it!” Halfway through the last assignment, your computer decided to die, and of course, you forgot that damn charger at home. After all, you hadn’t planned on staying the night. You instead occupied yourself with mindless scrolling on social media, eventually drifting to sleep. 

If your thoughts of Aaron during the day were criminal, your dreams at night would surely guarantee eternal damnation.

“Oh sweet Jesus, Aaron, just like that!” you dreamt of the man with his head buried in between your thighs, a rather common theme in your fantasies. The vision of the man you worked for was truly a sight to behold. Tendrils of his raven hair falling over his forehead, pupils blown in ecstasy as he devoured your pussy. He licked through your folds like a starved man. Your legs were thrown over his shoulders, allowing the man full access. His tongue gently circled your clit, engorged with pleasure. As he wrapped his lips around the bud, the all-too-familiar coil in your stomach began to make itself known, signaling your impending orgasm.

“Holy shit, p-please! You’re so fucking good, Aaron. M-make me feel so, so good.” Dream Aaron kept the pace, alternating between thrusting his tongue inside your and sucking your aching clit into his mouth, sending you rocketing toward the edge.

“Yeah, you like that baby? Want me to make you feel good?” you groaned at the loss of his mouth on your pussy, but as quickly as it left, he was back at it, devouring your aching cunt like a starved man.

Your orgasm began to build, feeling yourself reaching the peak, when the dam finally gave way, filling you with white-hot pleasure as you moaned his name.

“Y/n? Are you okay?”

Fuck. 

You slowly opened your eyes to the dimly lit living room, and was faced by the gracious image of your boss. There he stood, suit jacket in hand, tie loosened, the top buttons of his tailored shirt undone.

“Of course! Why wouldn’t I be?” you asked, hoping that the dull light of the lamp in the room wasn’t calling attention to the fiery blush creeping across your cheeks. Looking at the watch on your wrist, you noted the time. 2:45 AM.

“You were writhing around, and you called my name a few times.”

Were you imagining the knowing glint in his eye? His eyes had always been a point of interest for you, their inescapable depth equal parts comforting and chilling. No, surely he couldn’t know that you were dreaming of his face between your thighs just mere seconds ago.

“Huh. I’m not one to remember dreams too often.”

“Y/n, I am a profiler, and one of my duties is to know when a suspect is lying. Why don’t you tell me the truth?”. He walked toward the side of the couch where you were sitting, his presence both suffocating and bringing you to life.

There was a long pause before you replied, scrambling to think of anything that didn't make you look helpless and desperate.

“I think it was a -um- nightmare? Your tone was utterly unconvincing.

“It didn’t sound like a nightmare to me, Y/n,” the timbre of his voice sent waves of heat between your thighs. “It sounded like you were having a great time. Like we were having a great time.”

You had been caught. Like a deer in headlights, you froze entirely, not wanting to confirm or deny the truth laid before you. Somehow, a small part of your brain chose honesty.

“Yes. You’re right. I’m so sorry. If you need to find another babysitter for Jack I completely understand.” You sat up, hoping to look a little less helpless

“Now that would just make me a hypocrite, Y/n,” his voice was softer now, but just as lustful as you'd dreamt. “You were in my dreams, too. I dream about what lies beneath your clothes, what you’d look like in my bed.”

This couldn’t be real. Surely he was just embarrassing you to make a point. Still, you held out hope that he was being true to his word.

“Oh, God” was the only thing to escape your lips, just above a whisper.

“We can continue, or you can tell me to stop and we’ll never discuss it again. Either way, I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes, please. God, yes Mr. Hotchner.”

“How many times have I told you to call me Aaron?” he questioned you, a devilish grin across his lips.

“Please, Aaron”

He was on you in an instant, lips crashing to yours. This was not gentle, nor did you want it to be. This was long-awaited passion. Your arms circled his neck, and his found your waist, picking you up as if you were weightless. He moved his head away from you barely, trying to read your face. All he saw was a hunger for himself, deep in your eyes.

He began to carry you in the direction of his bedroom, the one place in his home you’d never been in. As you entered the hallway, you made sure to be as quiet as you could, not wanting to wake the sleeping boy just a few rooms away.

Aaron tossed you onto his bed, a place you never thought you would actually see. You took him in, his looks, his sound, his smell- clean but still uniquely Hotch. He toyed with the hem of your shirt and brought it up to your navel, gazing deep into your eyes again to gauge your response. You removed the thin garment, exposing your bare breasts, flinging it somewhere near his nightstand. The cool air of his bedroom quickly spread gooseflesh across your skin, nipples puckering in response. 

He removed his own shirt and you pulled him closer to you with a foot behind his knee. You sat up to get a better view of his rolling muscles, a bit padded by age, not that you minded. As you admired his body, you couldn’t help but skate your hands across his skin, up his arms, over his shoulders, down his pecs, toward his abdomen. He had quite a few scars here, and you decided not to ask about their origin.

He leaned in toward you, kissing you again fervently. You responded in kind, aching to be one with him. You sighed into his mouth as your hand found his length, shocked by the size.

“Not just yet, my love. Tell me more about your dreams of me”

You were near naked in front of the man, but you somehow felt a pang of shame again.

He hooked a hand under your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“You eat my pussy,” you said, craving the real thing over the imagined scenario.

A low groan erupted from his mouth as he knelt down at the edge of the bed, gently pushing you onto your back. He parted your knees, kissing gently up your thighs, teasing you.

His hands snaked into the waistband of your shorts, removing them and your underwear at once. You were completely bare to him, and you decided that this was easily the best moment of your college experience thus far. 

He looked up at you from between your legs, and asked you once more, “Is this really what you want?”

“Yes, please. I need your mouth on me”

That was all the affirmation he needed. Quickly, he dipped his tongue between your labia, relishing in your taste. He hummed in approval as you moaned softly.

“So wet just for me?” He chuckled gently.

“Just for you, only for you, Mr. Hotchner”

He landed a soft smack to the outside of your thigh, just enough to sting.

“Call. Me. Aaron.”, he said, punctuating each word with a strong lick across your clit.

“Only for you, Aaron”

He made quick work of you, eventually inserting one finger, then two, feeling your walls pulse as you were brought closer and closer to the edge. His free hand reached up to your breast, cupping and kneading the flesh, then pinching your nipple. Your hands flew into his hair, eliciting a deep moan from the man ravishing you. Gently pulling, you let out a breathy gasp. 

“Oh, Aaron, I think I’m g-gonna cum”

Aaron sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue swiping a circular motion on its surface. You felt yourself hurtling toward oblivion, mind encapsulated by your boss. His fingers curled within you, keeping pace as you rode out your orgasm. 

Once you came down, you stared into his eyes, marveling at the man who was now leaning over your body. His cock was visibly straining against the tight cotton of his slacks, and you gawked at his size. 

“Need you inside me, Aaron. Need all of you so so bad.”

That was all the confirmation that he needed to release his dick. He was quick, unbuckling his belt and pushing his pants down his strong muscular thighs. You made a mental note to tell him just how hot he was. 

You saw his enormous length, red and weeping at the tip. It must be painfully hard, but all you could think about was how to get him inside you. 

He quickly gathered the evidence of your release with a gentle swipe of his cock through your folds, then aligned himself with your aching cunt. With a gentle thrust and a gorgeous moan, he pushed himself inside you, taking his sweet time to bottom out. You were overcome by a sense of fullness. The small thatch of hair at the base of him rubbed softly at your clit, adding to your euphoria.

He started to fuck into you, ravenous look upon his face. God, this man knew some things. With every thrust into you, he hit the sweet spot inside you, brushing against it with a fervor. 

You wrapped your legs around his waist, willing him to destroy you. You would sell your soul to stay in this moment forever, but memories would suffice.

“G-gonna cum, sweetheart. Where do you want me?” 

“Oh fuck, Aaron! I’m on the pill, I don’t care, just please make me cum”

Instead of replying, he opted to press his thumb into your clit, making quick work of your orgasm.

You were surrounded by a white hot pleasure, the best you’d felt in eons. You look over to the man at your side, also coming down from his own orgasm. 

“Has anyone ever told you just how beautiful you are, Aaron?” you say, gazing at him with adoration.

“Only you.” His reply was brief, but he had a gorgeous grin spread on his face. You laughed softly, just happy to be where you were with the man you were sure you loved.

[sinsofsummers]

Hey Girl,

I was wondering Dark! Joel x female reader where he fucks you while he's wearing his gas mask 𓆩♡𓆪 love your fics btw 𓆩♡𓆪

hiiii i'm hoping this little thing was kind of what you were looking for! i found this post that also gives an actual visual of game!joel with the mask on. i'm not sure if i'm great at writing dark!joel yet, but this was definitely good practice :) maybe i'll call this more...depraved!joel than entirely dark!joel for now .. ty for the request! he can do whatever he wants with me

vicious

1.1k | depraved!joel x f!reader

summary: joel fucks you in his gas mask. warnings: literally all smut, 18+, mdni. depraved!joel, gas mask-wearing joel so like...mask kink, free-use vibes (ALL VERY CONSENSUAL), joel gets mean when he's annoyed, semi-public sex, rough p in v, orgasm denial for a moment, fingering, some degradation, hair-pulling, creampie, slight cumplay (i think that's all of them). note: okay this is so filthy. jesus. this is quite literally just porn. no plot. don't even look for one.

There's something so addicting about Joel when he's wearing his mask. Maybe you're sick and perverted for feeling your stomach flip and your thighs squeeze together at the sight of him like that, but you don't care. With his face hidden, you don't have to look at the haunted memories in his eyes when he fucks you. You can just enjoy the way his body fits over yours, taking everything from you and giving you everything he has in return.

You're not saying you have a mask kink or anything, but...Joel looks really good with that thing on.

Sometimes it's not even you that initiates things; on particularly long days, Joel will come back to you, too exhausted even to take the mask off and reveal his tired face to you. On those days, he'll come in with his fists clenched and his pants already tight against his growing bulge.

"Day can't get any fuckin' worse," he might say to no one in particular when he comes home, tossing his pack to the floor. You might be surprised to see him return, or you might have been expecting it, your gut clenching at the sound of his rough voice. "Get over here," he'll growl, and you'll know better than to disobey.

You'll get within a few feet of him and he'll grab your wrists, wrenching you close to him until you can feel your pelvis fit roughly against his hips, his hardening cock eliciting a moan from your lips. "Joel—"

His voice is muffled with the mask on, and you can hardly see the darkness in his eyes when he interrupts you. "No," he snaps, a hand snaking up your side to latch onto the spot between your neck and your shoulder. He squeezes, just hard enough for you to swallow the lump of desire that rises. "None of your dumb whinin'," he retorts. "Don't wanna hear your fuckin' cries. I know you're already desperate for this cock, babydoll."

The pet names he'll use give the impression that he'll be nice, that maybe he'll let you come over his fingers or while he's stuffing you to the brim, but you've known him long enough to know that this isn't the case. Joel gets annoyed on these long days, and when he's annoyed...he can get mean. So you'll let every ounce of resistance ooze from your bones and prepare for being everything he needs.

He'll lift your hands to his gas mask and make you cup it in your palms like you might cup his face, and—the first time he did this was when you realized that he likes this, too. He gets off on seeing you so wide-eyed and needy for him, even with his mask covering his familiar features. It's almost romantic when he makes you hold him like this, but then he'll move his hand to your neck properly and put enough pressure on the sides to pull a squeak from your lips.

He can be as mean as he wants, he can slip his cock into your entrance whether you're overwhelmed with need for him or just beginning to drip with want. Joel Miller's had plenty of bad days. It's about time he uses you to make it a good one.

With bruising hands and punishing thrusts, he'll fuck you against any surface he can find, but he loves taking you like this against the nearest wall, making you notch your ankles around his waist and lock the two of you together as he drags his cock torturously in and out of you.

You'll slip up sometimes, drop a few moments of, "Fuck—Joel, please," into his ear, and he'll stop moving, shove his fingers into your mouth until you shut up. Only when you're reduced to soft whimpering will he continue his movements. But he won't let you come, not until you've apologized—in the form of letting him spill inside you.

"Such a dumb little slut, huh?" he'll grunt as he pulls out of you, reaching down to catch his release as it leaks out of you. He'll roughly push it back inside you with two of his thick fingers and chuckle darkly as he watches your legs nearly give out with sensitivity. A harsh swipe across your puffy clit is the last thing he does before he's done with you.

And that's just on the days that he'll even speak to you.

Some days he'll come in, drop everything, forget his mask is still on, and find you wherever you might be, whether that's on your makeshift bed, or even in an alley where someone might see you. He'll walk up behind you, press his hips against your ass and grind into you before hooking his thumbs in your waistband and practically tearing your pants from your body.

You'll gasp and feel your core pulse with the way that he knows he can do this to you, he knows you'll always let him use you. You'll moan and reach behind you, pawing for his wrist, his thick forearm, something to hold onto when he takes his cock out and rubs it against your slick heat.

He'll swat your hand away and press his own against your spine, pushing you to bed at the waist and present your ass to him in all its glory. If he's feeling particularly gracious, he'll deliver a few smacks that can be mistaken as affectionate when he rubs the sting away.

If he's feeling vicious, he'll forego any type of warning before he's dragging his tip from clit to opening, groaning as he feels you pulse against him. And then he'll push inside you with a cruel thrust, burying himself to the hilt in one go. Broken moans will fall from your throat and he'll reach up with one of two things in mind:

To cover your mouth with his hand and silence your whimpers, or to trap a hand in your hair, wrapping it around his fist and tugging you back towards him, forcing your back to arch and causing his tip to hit that delicious sweet spot inside you.

With nothing but his sharp thrusts, growing harder and faster with every second, Joel makes you fall apart underneath him. Each stroke more punishing than the last, he'll remain silent but for the muffled grunts under the mask that alert you to his pleasure. He'll come inside you with no warning except for the way his hips stutter before he topples over the edge, swiftly reaching down to rub your clit and bring you to ecstasy with him.

"Good girl," he'll murmur quietly, and you'll shiver at the sound of his mask coming off, his chapped lips brushing your ear. "Always such a good girl."

tysm for reading, i love you all!! hope this surprise was fun tonight :)

[pirateprincessblog]

𝐋𝐈𝐁𝐈𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐄

( 𝟎.𝟏 ) 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲.

𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨:

normal is good. it's safe. it isn't risky. and yet, normal is boring. normal job, normal family, normal relationship. makes you yawn just while reading, doesn't it? escaping it can cost a fortune, even if it is for a short, fun amount of time. when it gets bad, you don't get to regret. you don't get to complain. you don't get to cry. you don't get to go back. you wanted it. now bear the losses of your own decisions. you'll wish for things to get boring again. you'll wish to never feel an ounce of excitement again. you'll wish to be wrapped in your safety bubble, with your safe little family, safe little job, and safe little partner. and it just won't come.

!𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬! 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞: 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: park seonghwa x oc (alice dawson) x jung wooyoung 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.4k 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: dilf!hwa, collegestudent!wooyoung, love triangle, dilf trope, eventual smut, angst, fluff 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: yet to come

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: mentions of illness, mentions of drug abuse, mentions of domestic violence, MINORS DNI (18+) 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: this series will be around 10-15 chapters :) please don't hesitate to leave feedback! thank you for reading <33 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫: 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐲.

were you ever afraid of thinking about something risky while surrounded by people?

if yes, alice knows exactly how you feel. behind the dusty wooden counter, she hides a book. her eyes abandon the words she has read a dozen times this year already, checking if anyone is giving her weird looks. her thoughts are a loud mess, and she fears that one of those hard-working students might secretly have super hearing powers and is judging her right now. but when she notices no side eyes, her gaze drops on the worn-off pages again. this book set cost her a fortune, and it already looks like it has been through at least two major historical events. heaven forbid that her mother knows how much money she spent on that.

her heart beats faster with each word she reads, fingers excitedly flipping the pages, even though she knows all the plot twists, all the foreshadowing, a few little plot holes that only a small number of people have noticed. she wishes she could read it all for the first time again. the storyline, the characters, the villains, the twists, the tension, the steam. alice's favourite part in all the books. the steamy pages, written by her favourite author, making her sigh and roll in bed late at night as she reread them. sleepless nights spent with her eyes unfocusing and blurring out the words, her thoughts drifting away from the storyline and creating one of her own, using the very same characters. she would sit like that, fantasising, until a sound from the street would bring her back to the original story.

last night was similar, which is why she is barely keeping her eyes open while skimming over the room, checking for odd glares one more time. when she finds none, she continues daydreaming. the villain of the book has captured her heart, no matter the bad things he has done throughout the journey. she might just have a thing for evil, sassy, good-looking men. or she might have a thing for imaginary men with tongue skills.

"ah, your daily dose of porn, i see."

alice looks up, startled. she closes the book, throwing it in the already opened drawer and shuts it with a loud thud, making a few heads turn. the face standing above the counter chuckles, eyes turning into crescent moons as he does so.

"hush!"

"oh, relax. you have like three couples doing no-nos back there in the criminal section. your little mediocre book is nothing compared to them."

the girl furrows her eyebrows. her book wasn't mediocre. it was a masterpiece.

"what did you want?" she asks, annoyed with his teasing this early in the morning.

"i can't come and greet my favourite redhead in town?" the young man asks, his lips still in a teasing smile.

"not if you're going to be loud and disrupt. this is a library, not a bar."

"ha-ha. i forget just how witty my girlfriend is." he rolls his eyes. "luckily, you're pretty to make up for your lack of sense of humour."

"and your humour makes up for your lack of pretty." she tries to poke back, but it just doesn't sound right.

the young man laughs, sincerely, and rests his elbows on the wooden surface.

"you're cute when you try. you'd be even cuter if you were to join me in one of those horror sections. you know, to read. i love me some stephen king. i also love me some puss-"

"shut up, oh my god." alice hushes him, feeling her cheeks starting to burn from embarrassment.

"oh, come on. you haven't been over to my place in days. weeks even, i think."

"wooyoung," she exhales.

"yeah, sorry." the young man suddenly remembers, then scratches his neck from the little uncomfortable situation he has created. "how is your mom?"

"she has lost a lot of hair." alice says, eyes drifting towards the big library windows. "she has also lost a lot of weight. she still refuses to eat. she has already given up on herself."

wooyoung sighs, seeing his girlfriend show different emotions than last week. she has become numb to the whole situation. her mother has been sick for a very long time, and no amount of doctors, medicine, and persuading could convince her mother to start taking care of herself when alice wasn't around. now, alice has given up. she is angry with her mother, and that doesn't allow her to feel sad or bad for her.

"want me to come with you next time you visit her?"

"that would be today."

"yes, sure. of course. just tell me when."

"i finish at two, when rae arrives. i'll wait for you by the car?"

"i'll be there as soon as my classes are over. promise." wooyoung smiles at her.

there's a brief moment of silence, giving space for both of them to think. alice's mind went from fantasising to worrying, and wooyoung hates that he reminded her of the situation and changed her mood.

"baby?" he calls.

she hums, still a little absent.

"you haven't kissed me today."

alice looks at her boyfriend, heart swelling with guilt. her face drops, and wooyoung's eyes widen seeing her saddened expression.

"i'm so sorry," she says, voice almost a whisper.

"oh, no, no! baby, i just- hey, it doesn't matter. i'm sorry, okay? you're going through something tough, and my behaviour isn't quite helping. i'm being a dick."

alice stands up, hands gently cupping her boyfriend's face. her eyes examine his face, taking in his pretty features. she didn't mean what she said earlier, and she knows that he knows too. she smiles softly at him, assuring him that everything is fine and there is no need to apologise.

"i love you." she whispers.

and just like that, wooyoung softens in her hands, lips melting into hers as he finally kisses her for the first time in three days. it has become hard to catch her since she started working, especially since she runs to the hospital whenever she gets a chance. other times, she prefers laying in bed with little to no lighting, doing nothing but laying down and thinking of a way out of what her life has become.

wooyoung wishes he could help her. but what can he do, when they both refuse his help? he now realises where alice's stubbornness comes from. he smiles into the kiss, thinking about her stubborn nature combined with her impatience. she is a little handful, but she is his handful. and he will hold her until his last breath.

༺═━─━────༺༻────━─━═༻

while people tend to hate hospitals, alice likes it. it brings her comfort, knowing that the people around her are in charge of saving lives. she often visited hospitals as a toddler, due to often sickness. she is very prone to colds, and wooyoung has found himself getting mad at her very often because she refuses to wear a jacket when needed.

"but my outfit won't be visible!" she'd complain.

"i don't care. your kidneys are more important than a crop top. and i can't have you with a runny nose again. you know you have a hard time breathing as it is, the cold only makes everything worse."

"you just know it all, don't you?" she'd say, annoyed, while her fingers work the zipper of wooyoung's jacket.

jung wooyoung doesn't have any plans for the future, other than hopefully marrying alice and creating a family with her. he is a college student, yes. but only because his parents forced him to. he doesn't know what he wants in his life. alice is smart. she also doesn't know, so she simply didn't go to college. smart decision. it is crazy expensive, and managing those costs and the costs of healing her mother would be a disaster.

"ms dawson?"

alice stands up, rubbing her eyes sleepily.

"dr clark, good day." she greets, smiling weakly.

"it certainly is a good one, ms dawson. your mother is finally showing improvement!"

alice stands still, not believing what she's hearing. wooyoung notices her lack of response, and gently takes her hand in his, hoping to shake her awake.

"what do you mean?" she asks.

"she ate everything she was offered today, and she took her medication. and yes, we checked under the bed and in the flower vase, there weren't any hidden pills."

"oh, well... that's great."

the sudden change in her mother's behaviour was suspicious to alice. still, she felt relieved. with a thankful smile and a nod towards the young dr clark, the girl took her usual path to room 257, her hand still held by wooyoung's bigger and warmer one. she pushes the door open, her eyes immediately falling on the bed in the corner of the room. out of four beds, only two were now occupied, meaning that the other two had gotten better and were probably at home with their families. it made alice's heart warm.

it made her heart even warmer when her gaze dropped on the woman in the last bed, her head hidden by what seemed like a beauty magazine. fresh flowers stood beside her bed, accompanied by a framed picture and what seemed like a jewellery box.

"mom?"

the woman drops her magazine in her lap, a smile so wide on her face that it made alice's cheeks hurt. god, she looks so different. it wasn't that long since alice's last visit, was it? the woman in the bed wore makeup, her grey hair braided, and a flower head band placed neatly on her head. her nails were painted a golden brown colour, resembling the autumn leaves that tapped on her window on windy days. she dared to say, her mother looked better than her.

"ally, my darling!" the woman calls, tucking the magazine under her pillow.

alice approaches the bed, sitting in the usual stool that was waiting for her under the elevated nightstand.

"eleanor," wooyoung greets, slightly bowing. "you look absolutely beautiful."

"oh, my, this boyfriend of yours. always a sweet-talker." the woman blushes, waving her hand at the young man. "you are so very lucky, baby, not a lot of boys your age are this sweet. let me tell you, just five minutes ago, amber's son came over, had a fight with her over their house and kicked her out! look, her suitcase is right there!"

"mom, please. can you be any more quiet?"

alice looks over at the other occupied bed, and truly, there stood a suitcase. luckily, the woman was sleeping, so she didn't hear her mother's little gossip party.

"oh, don't worry. the poor woman cried so much that she fell asleep from exhaustion."

silence swallowed the room for a while, eleanor fidgeting with the rings on her fingers. she knew alice had questions. and she dreaded that she had to answer them.

"these aren't the flowers i brought you last time."

"no... no they aren't." she trails, looking anywhere but at her daughter.

"so... whose are they?"

a mumble is heard, and alice raises an eyebrow at her. wooyoung catches a glimpse at the framed picture, but when he fails to recognize the people on it, he shifts his attention back to the woman. she looks at wooyoung, as if searching for a way out of the interrogation that is about to happen. but wooyoung sends her an apologetic smile, and rests his hands on alice's hair, moving it out of her face. he feels like she will need it. there is a reason why her mother is acting so nervous, and when alice is upset, she loves to have her hair played with.

"mom."

"hm? oh. right, the flowers. uh... they're from..."

"mom, cut the bullshit. i'm just curious. so what if a friend brought them over? you have a new crush in town? dr clark not cute anymore?"

"oh, no! dr clark is very cute. and very young. and he is married, sadly for me. no, these are from, uh..."

alice grows impatient, a frown already forming on her face. wooyoung senses her tense state, and gently drops his hand on her shoulder, massaging the knot below her neck. she sighs, and looks at him as a way of saying thank you. silent conversations were common between the two, and it just showed how well they read each other. how much they love each other.

wooyoung presses his lips to her temple, and gently caresses her back as her mother prepares to give an answer.

"so?"

"so what?" eleanor acts dumb, still hoping that alice will give up.

"mom. the flowers. the jewellery. the makeup. the nails. the picture."

the girl finally takes the framed picture. she recognizes her young mother, her bright ginger hair falling in waves on her shoulder, green irises almost invisible because of her big smile and closed eyes. the man, however, she does not recognize.

"from your father."

wooyoung halts his movements. alice sits still, her gaze not leaving the picture.

"what?"

"your father. he came every day since your last visit, and brought me all these flowers, made me the crown, even painted my nails-"

"i didn't know they let drug addicts inside hospitals."

wooyoung gulps, watching eleanor's jaw drop at her daughter's numbness to the new situation they have found themselves in.

"isn't that, like, very unsafe? for both parties?"

"you shut your mouth, right now. your father is a good man."

"he is not my father, and he is certainly not a good man."

the woman's face twists into one of anger, hands turning white as she grips the sheets she's covered with. "he is your god damn father, whether you like it or not."

"he is a scumbag. that's all he is. and, he is the reason you're here. isn't it? have you forgotten?"

"alice..." wooyoung tries, but stops when alice raises her hand as a sign to stop talking.

"didn't he throw you down the fucking stairs and smash your head through the window?"

"that was years ago, alice. you were barely four."

"and yet i remember."

"you're acting as if he killed me."

"he drugged you all the time! and you became an addict, just like him!"

the dark past resurfaces so easily, pulling both women under it's veil and swallowing them with grief. so many tears spilled, so many bruises earned, and so many cuts treated. alice was only three when it all begun, and she still wonders how it all escalated so quickly in a span of just three months. from only name calling and occasional yelling, to full fist and kick fights and screaming for help. only for her mother to go back to him, too afraid and in love to let go. and each morning the same. three months of alice finding herself in crossfire, earning new bruises every other day, and crying all night long.

she loved her mother, and she loved her father a little less every day. strangely enough, there used to be days when the house was as peaceful as it used to be before her father became what he became. she didn't know why, or how. all she knew was that she was grateful. and that whatever pills dad was slipping mom in her drinks and food were, they worked, and alice guarded them in the cupboard with her life. years later, she realized what the pills were. pills, powder, injections, you name them. by the time the monster left the house, the woman was already hooked. she craved more, and more, and didn't have any. who was at fault for that? alice.

alice was the first thing eleanor saw in the morning, and the last thing she saw in the evening. she was there, consistently needing attention, food, love. and eleanor was exhausted. she just wanted her happy pills. and what other way to express your frustration, than to punish a child who just doesn't shut the fuck up?

wooyoung presses a kiss on her head, in hopes of pulling her out of her memories. he knew that she was thinking of old times, of the man from the picture. and he knew that won't do good to her.

"what did he want?" she calmly asks, fidgeting with the frame. she wished for nothing more than to burn the picture, and throw it at the old house, letting it burn the pain away. if only it worked that way.

"why do you think he would want something?"

"mom."

eleanor sighs, in disbelief. or defeat. wooyoung can't tell yet. she looks around the room, trying to find the right words so she wouldn't further hurt her daughter. though the damage was already done, and wooyoung couldn't see how she could further worsen it. until she opened her mouth again.

"he asked for money."

"what?!"

"but look, i-it's just for a new place, so we can all be together again!"

"what?!?!"

alice stands up, head in her hands and legs carrying her hurriedly around the room. wooyoung plops down on the nearby empty bed, feeling his heart swelling at the sight of his loving girlfriend lose control over her emotions. but he knows better than to interfere. he just needs to let her do what she needs to do.

"alice, please. i just want a family. a proper family."

"well you sure as fuck aren't getting that from him! how much?"

"what?"

"how fucking much?!"

"all of it! god, just stop screaming at me!"

now the other woman was the one holding her head, while the younger one shot her head up wide-eyed.

"all... of it?"

"yes, yes! all of it! he wants to create a better future for us and you're acting like a fucking lunatic for no re-"

"you- you bitch."

a gasp escapes the young man's mouth, and he looks over to the woman in bed for her reaction. she grits her teeth, trying to keep her composure. wooyoung notices how red her eyes have become, and how glossy they look. she is trying her best not to let her tears spill, but the more she looks at alice, the less control she has. she watches as her daughter grabs the picture and smashes it on the floor. when alice grabs her shoulders and starts shaking her, screaming in her face, she loses it. big drops roll down her cheeks and neck, ruining the makeup she had so carefully put on.

wooyoung hated that he couldn't help. the best way of helping was to stay back and do nothing. no matter what he said, it would only light up the fire in one of them, if not both. so wooyoung settled for glancing over at the stranger in the other bed, giving her a nod as a sign that everything is okay and that she doesn't need to worry. he doesn't know if it managed to calm the woman or not, because he gets pulled into the mess by eleanor. she grabs his wrist, pulling him closer as if asking for help.

"wooyoung can't help you right now! let go of him!"

"wooyoung, please- please! i only wanted to make it better for us-" she hiccups through sobs, desperately clawing at wooyoung's hand.

alice yanks his hand out of hers, and when a loud slap echoes through the room, wooyoung decides it is time to finally step in. alice might get mad, hell, she might even slap him too, but he doesn't care.

"alice." he sternly says, grabbing her shoulders.

"no, we're not doing this! wooyoung, i am breaking my back every day, i am working overtime, running here making sure she eats and stops acting like a child, only for her to give away all my hard work for empty promises?! to who?! a man who doesn't even recognize me anymore?!"

she is furious. she sees red. no amount of comforting from wooyoung's side will make her calm down.

"take me home."

"are you sure-"

before wooyoung can finish, he can only catch a glimpse of her dark red locks bouncing as she rushes out of the door, slamming it shut after.

"wooyoung, please talk to her."

the man sighs, torn between the two women. he hates this. letting people down. but more than that, he hates letting his girlfriend down.

"i'm sorry, eleanor. there's nothing i can do."

he gently picks up the picture from the floor, careful with the cracked glass, and places it on the nightstand. he glances at the older woman one last time, before sighing and following his girlfriend's path.

[zenfiii]

Where Shen Jiu is an entity that follows Shen Yuan around. He occasionally have his body back to advance the plot. (?????? i really don't know how to explain it)

[00:20]

The counter was almost at the end. He had to do it. He was forced to do it.

"What are you waiting for!? Throw that beast out now!"

[00:14]

He couldn't look at him in the eyes. This was much more difficult than he'd expected.

He didn't want to do it.

'It's not that easy! Will you shut up for once!?'

[00:07]

He had to do it, he had to do it. Shen Jiu kept shouting in his ear. He ignored his words, as always. Then a voice made him focus on what was really important.

"Shizun, do you really want to kill me?"

What a silly question. Of course not.

[00:03]

He couldn't.

[00:02]

But he had to.

[00:01]

But he really couldn't.

[00:00]

[Mission Uncompleted: Activating punishment..]

The counter reached zero. In the end, he didn't push him. But he still didn't budge an inch. Now he'd have to accept the consequences of that, wouldn't he? The system's punishment terrified him. But he felt he could handle it. Or so he thought. When he realized it, his body no longer felt like his own. Maybe because he no longer had a body. He knew what was happening.

He looked to the side and his nightmares came true; Shen Jiu had taken his body back and finished the job. Shen Yuan screamed from the bottom of his lungs, but in that state, he knew it was useless. But he still wanted to try. He ran towards the boy, and even if he reached him, in that state, he couldn't catch him.

It slipped through his fingers, and with it, a sense of agonizing terror enveloped him. And it wasn't even because he was thinking about the original novel. Here and now, Shen Yuan was experiencing the terror of having lost his disciple. His beloved disciple.

A laugh was heard behind him.

"It feels weird but it's good to have my body back."

"Why would you do that? Is this the system's punishment?"

Shen Jiu looked at him, not feeling an ounce of empathy.

"The system's punishment? Are you kidding me? I just came here to do what I had to do. But I hope you enjoy the real punishment."

The last thing Shen Yuan saw was that sinister smile on what had been his body for so many years. But for some reason, having the villain always at his side, he felt exposed. He always did. His thoughts weren't just his own, they were Shen Jiu's too. And it bothered him.

So being inside the punishment, just him, was truly a respite. Though it wouldn't last long. The punishment was horrific. He'd been taken to a dream realm, where the system made him experience everything that had just happened, as if it weren't enough.

He had to watch Binghe fall again and again, helpless to do anything. He had to see the moments where Shen Jiu mistreated the boy, firsthand. He never felt comfortable being there. His body wasn't hims, and he couldn't pretend it was with the other constantly in his ear, telling him what he should and shouldn't do.

The only thing that helped him stay there was watching his disciples grow thanks to him. Watching Binghe grow healthy and without too many worries. Being with the peak lords and talking peacefully. That filled his heart. But at this turning point, he knew none of that was coming back.

Now, he knew his nightmare wouldn't end just when the punishment ended. It would last much longer.

[shiorihyugawrites]

The Legendary Black Cat

Selena de la Rosa, known across Marley as the Legendary Black Cat, is the world's deadliest assassin—a master of agility, precision, and deception. When Marley turns against her, she is shipped to Paradis as a living weapon, chained and drugged, with her survival all but assured to be short-lived. But Selena is no ordinary prisoner.

Bound by no one, loyal to none, Selena plots her next move, determined to seize her freedom by any means necessary. Yet, her plans are complicated by the Scouts who captured her, particularly Captain Levi Ackerman—the so-called Humanity's Strongest Soldier. Selena is intrigued by his strength and reputation, but her pride refuses to acknowledge him as her equal.

Caught between Levi’s unrelenting gaze, Selena plays a dangerous game of manipulation. She’s biding her time, but when the moment comes, will her calculated escape bring her freedom—or will her path collide violently with Levi’s unwavering resolve?

The Black Cat has always landed on her feet, but for the first time, she might meet her match. (Levi x OC)

Chapter Four

The forest was silent except for the faint rustling of leaves and the heavy breathing of the scouts. Selena’s mocking laughter had faded into the night, leaving the group frozen in stunned disbelief. The scene before them was surreal—Captain Levi, Humanity’s Strongest Soldier, stood disheveled, his uniform in tatters, blood dripping from shallow cuts across his arms and chest. His gray eyes burned with a fury that seemed to darken the entire forest.

No one spoke at first. They couldn’t. It was as though the very laws of reality had been upended. Levi didn’t lose. Levi didn’t get caught off guard. And Levi definitely didn’t get kissed by the enemy.

Finally, Jean broke the silence, his voice cracking with incredulity. “She… she kissed him.”

“What the hell was that!?” Connie added, his jaw practically on the floor. “Did she actually kiss him?”

“She kissed Captain Levi,” Sasha whispered, her eyes wide. “And then kicked his ass!”

Armin blinked rapidly, his analytical mind struggling to process what he had just witnessed. “I… I don’t even know what to say. That was… she was toying with him.”

Eren clenched his fists, his face twisted in frustration. “That wasn’t just toying! She humiliated him! Captain Levi doesn’t lose—how could she do that?”

Mikasa’s expression was harder to read, but her dark eyes flicked to Levi’s face. He was standing perfectly still, his hands clenched tightly around his remaining blade. The way his shoulders rose and fell with each breath betrayed just how furious he was.

Levi’s gaze dropped to the ground for a moment as he slowly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His movements were deliberate, restrained, as though he was using every ounce of his self-control to keep from exploding. The spot where Selena’s lips had pressed against his burned in his mind—not because of the kiss itself, but because of what it represented. He had underestimated her, and she had caught him slipping. That was unforgivable.

“Tch,” Levi muttered under his breath, his voice low and sharp. “Damn stray cat.”

Hange, who had been silent until now, suddenly burst into uncontrollable laughter. “Oh my god, Levi! She kissed you! That’s a first. How does it feel to be the target of such… bold affection?”

Levi shot her a glare that could’ve killed on sight. “Shut up, Hange,” he snapped, his voice icy. “Now’s not the time.”

“Oh, come on,” Hange said, grinning from ear to ear. “She kissed you and kicked your ass. You’ve got to admit, she’s… impressive.”

Levi’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Say another word, and I’ll kick your ass.”

Hange raised her hands in mock surrender, though her grin didn’t falter. “Fine, fine. But admit it—you respect her now, don’t you?”

Levi didn’t answer immediately. He hated to admit it, but she was right. Selena de la Rosa wasn’t just another opponent. She was the real deal. Her speed, precision, and flexibility had pushed him in ways few others ever had. She had read his movements, countered his attacks, and exploited his momentary lapse in focus with surgical precision. And that damn kiss…

“She’s skilled,” Levi said finally, his tone begrudging. “More skilled than I expected.”

“More skilled than any of us expected,” Erwin added, stepping forward. His blue eyes were calm, but there was a hint of something deeper in his gaze—concern, perhaps, or curiosity. “This wasn’t just a display of skill. It was psychological warfare. She wanted us to see that even our best isn’t invincible.”

Mikasa’s jaw tightened at the implication. “She humiliated all of us. What does she gain from that?”

“Control,” Armin said softly, his sharp mind piecing it together. “She’s establishing dominance. She wants us to know that she’s not afraid of us, and that she’s not to be underestimated.”

“Well, it worked,” Jean muttered, crossing his arms. “Because now I’m scared as hell.”

Eren scowled, his fists shaking. “We can’t just let her get away with this. We have to find her!”

Levi’s sharp gaze snapped to Eren, silencing him instantly. “Think before you act, Jaeger. She’s in control right now, not us. If you rush in like an idiot, she’ll cut you down before you even know what hit you.”

Eren bit back his retort, though his frustration was palpable. “Then what do we do?”

“We regroup,” Erwin said firmly. “Selena has the upper hand, but we can’t afford to let her out of our sight. She’s still in this forest. We’ll track her, but we do it carefully.”

Hange’s eyes sparkled with excitement as she adjusted her glasses. “Oh, this is going to be fun. I can’t wait to see what she does next.”

“She’s not a game,” Levi snapped. “She’s a threat. Don’t forget that.”

Hange shrugged, though her grin remained. “A threat, sure. But you can’t deny she’s fascinating. You don’t run into people like her every day.”

“Good,” Levi muttered darkly. “Once is more than enough.”

As the group moved to reorganize themselves, the younger scouts couldn’t stop murmuring among themselves.

“She kissed him,” Connie repeated for what felt like the hundredth time, his tone both incredulous and amused. “I still can’t get over it. She actually kissed Captain Levi.”

“Why would she do that?” Sasha asked, her brow furrowed. “It’s so… random.”

“It wasn’t random,” Armin said, his voice thoughtful. “It was deliberate. She knew it would throw him off.”

“Throw him off?” Jean scoffed. “It nearly killed him! Did you see his face? He looked like his soul left his body.”

Mikasa’s eyes flicked toward Levi, who was walking ahead of them in silence. “It worked. She escaped.”

“Not for long,” Eren growled. “We’ll find her.”

“She’s not just going to wait around,” Armin warned. “She’s always thinking ahead. We need to be smart about this.”

As the group continued, the tension in the air grew thicker. None of them had ever seen Levi pushed like that before, and it left them all with a lingering unease. If Selena could challenge Humanity’s Strongest Soldier, what hope did the rest of them have?

Levi stayed at the front of the group, his expression unreadable but his mind racing. Selena’s words and actions replayed in his head, her mocking grin and poison-green eyes burned into his memory. He had made the mistake of underestimating her, and she had capitalized on it with ruthless efficiency. The kiss… that was just the cherry on top. It wasn’t about affection; it was about control. And Levi hated losing control.

But even as anger simmered beneath his calm exterior, there was a part of him—however grudgingly—that respected her. Selena de la Rosa wasn’t just a killer. She was a tactician, a manipulator, and a force to be reckoned with. She had proven herself worthy of her reputation as Marley’s deadliest assassin.

Still, Levi wasn’t about to let her win. She had played her hand, but he wasn’t out of the game yet. The Black Cat might have landed on her feet this time, but the hunt was far from over.

“Tch,” Levi muttered under his breath. “Your move, Black Cat.”

…

Later on the group gathered around a makeshift table in the forest clearing, the night’s chill settling over them as they attempted to regroup and analyze the enigma that was Selena de la Rosa. Despite their injuries, no one could ignore the pressing need to understand their opponent. Levi stood at the head of the group, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his expression as grim as ever.

The scouts looked worse for wear. Eren’s uniform was scuffed, Mikasa’s blades were chipped, and Jean had a darkening bruise on his jaw. But all of them were united in their shock and frustration.

“She’s fast,” Armin began, his voice cautious. “Faster than anyone we’ve ever faced. Even you, Captain.”

Levi didn’t deny it. His gray eyes narrowed as he replayed the battle in his head. “She’s more than just fast,” he said. “She’s precise. Every movement, every strike—it’s calculated. She doesn’t waste energy.”

“What about that technique she used?” Mikasa asked, her dark eyes glinting with a mixture of curiosity and frustration. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

The room fell silent as they recalled the moment Selena unleashed her barrage of cuts. Even now, the memory sent shivers down their spines.

“It was insane,” Jean muttered, shaking his head. “She cut you—what? Eighty times in ten seconds?”

“Close,” Levi said, his voice cold. “It was exactly a hundred.”

Connie let out a low whistle, leaning back in his seat. “How do you even do that? I mean, I’ve heard of speed, but that’s just—”

“Inhuman,” Sasha finished for him, her face pale.

Levi’s jaw tightened as he thought about the way Selena had moved during that attack. The fluidity, the accuracy—it was unlike anything he’d ever encountered. “It wasn’t random,” he said. “She wasn’t just swinging wildly. She zigzagged her blades while striking, alternating between her left and right in perfect rhythm. It’s why she was able to land five cuts per second, with each blade in such a short amount of time.”

Mikasa frowned. “That level of skill… it would take years to master something like that.”

“Or a lifetime,” Levi said quietly, his voice edged with a grudging respect. “She’s been trained for this since she was a child. That technique isn’t just something she learned—it’s something she perfected.”

Armin’s brow furrowed in thought. “But it requires extreme precision. If she were even a fraction of a second off, she’d lose the rhythm and leave herself open.”

“Exactly,” Levi said, his gray eyes glinting. “It’s not invincible. It’s fast and overwhelming, but it’s not flawless.”

“But it might as well be,” Eren grumbled, his fists clenching. “You barely deflected it, Captain. The rest of us wouldn’t have stood a chance.”

Jean nodded grimly. “Yeah, I hate to admit it, but if she’d used that on us, we’d all be dead.”

Connie rubbed the back of his neck, his face pale. “Okay, so she’s fast, flexible, has killer aim, and apparently has a technique that’s impossible to block. Great. What the hell are we supposed to do about that?”

Levi’s sharp gaze swept over the group, silencing their murmurs. “She’s fast, but she’s not strong,” he said. “That’s her weakness.”

Armin tilted his head. “You mean physical strength?”

Levi nodded. “Her strikes lack power. She relies on speed and agility to overwhelm her opponents. But if you can slow her down, force her into a situation where she can’t use her agility, she’s vulnerable.”

“Slow her down?” Jean scoffed. “How do you slow down someone who moves like that?”

“By outthinking her,” Levi said bluntly. “She’s clever, but she’s not invincible. Everything she does is calculated. If we force her into a position where her calculations don’t work, she’ll falter.”

Armin nodded slowly, his sharp mind already working through the possibilities. “That’s why she relies on high ground and mobility. If we can take those away from her, we might stand a chance.”

“But she’s so unpredictable,” Mikasa pointed out. “Her fighting style is unlike anything we’ve seen. She’s flexible, almost inhumanly so. How do we prepare for that?”

Levi’s gaze hardened. “By being better.”

The room fell silent again, the weight of his words sinking in. Despite his seething anger over Selena’s escape, Levi couldn’t deny the grudging respect he had for her skills. She was the real deal—Marley’s greatest assassin. And now, she was their problem.

“What about her motives?” Hange asked, breaking the silence. “She spared everyone. Even you, Captain. If she’s so dangerous, why hold back?”

Levi didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his mind wandered back to what the Marleyans had said about her refusal to titanize Eldian children. “She has a code,” he said finally. “She doesn’t kill children.”

“But we’re not children,” Eren said, his tone bitter. “We’re soldiers.”

“She sees you as children,” Levi said, his tone sharp. “Don’t let that fool you into thinking she’s soft. She spared you because she wanted to, not because she had to.”

Erwin, who had been silent until now, finally spoke, his tone measured and commanding. “Selena de la Rosa is unlike anyone we’ve faced before. Her skills, her tactics, her personality—they’re all designed to make her the perfect killer. But even she has weaknesses. Our job is to exploit them.”

“And what if she exploits ours first?” Sasha asked quietly.

Levi’s gaze flicked to her, his expression unyielding. “Then we don’t give her the chance.”

The group fell into silence again, the weight of their task pressing heavily on their shoulders. Selena was a force of nature, a predator unlike any they had encountered before. But Levi wasn’t about to let her win.

…

Perched high in the canopy of the forest, Selena sat on a sturdy branch, her body concealed by the shadows and foliage. The moonlight filtered through the leaves, casting a silvery glow on her caramel skin. She dabbed water onto a shallow cut on her arm with a strip of fabric she’d torn from her makeshift dress. Her movements were calm, methodical. Next to her, a cluster of crushed berries sat in a small leaf bowl she had fashioned. She dipped her fingers into the dark juice and smeared it over her wound, wincing slightly at the sting.

“Good as new,” she murmured under her breath, her lips curving into a faint smirk. “That Capitán… he really does live up to the stories.”

Selena’s thoughts lingered on Levi Ackerman. The way he moved, the precision of his strikes, the sheer intensity of his presence—it was intoxicating. She admired strength, skill, and control, and Levi had all of those in spades. But admiration didn’t mean submission. She wouldn’t let him, or any of these scouts, capture her. No one would control her again.

“They’re all the same,” she muttered, her green eyes glinting with anger. “Orders, agendas, betrayal. I’ve seen it before. Marley wanted a weapon, and when they couldn’t control me, they tried to discard me.” Her jaw tightened as a flicker of bitterness crossed her face. “Never again.”

Selena cast a glance down at the forest floor, her sharp eyes scanning for movement. She knew Levi and his squad were already searching for her. She could almost feel him out there, stalking her like a predator, just as she had done to countless others. But the difference was clear: she was the Black Cat. And tonight, this forest was her domain.

Selena had spent the better part of the last hour preparing for this hunt. Using nothing but her surroundings and her quick wits, she had crafted an array of simple but effective traps. Thin vines twisted into tripwires, heavy branches rigged to snap under pressure, and clusters of dried leaves strategically placed to crackle loudly when disturbed. Each trap was designed not to harm, but to disorient and reveal the scouts’ positions.

She crouched next to one of her tripwires, ensuring it was taut. The plan was simple: force them to reveal themselves and lead them on a wild chase. She didn’t need to fight all of them again—not yet. All she needed was to stay one step ahead.

As she tightened the final vine, she paused and tilted her head, listening. The faint sound of footsteps reached her ears—quiet but not quiet enough. A small, satisfied smile crept across her lips.

“Time to play,” she whispered, darting silently back into the trees.

Levi led the group through the dense forest, his expression as sharp as the blades in his hands. The others followed closely, their weapons drawn and their eyes scanning every shadow. The tension was palpable, and no one dared to speak too loudly.

“She’s somewhere in here,” Levi said quietly, his voice cold and focused. “Stay alert. She’s fast, but she’s not invisible.”

Mikasa moved alongside him, her dark eyes flicking to the treetops. “She’s so skilled, she won’t make this easy.”

“She’s not just skilled,” Levi replied, his tone edged with irritation. “She’s resourceful. If you underestimate her, you’ll regret it.”

Jean huffed under his breath, glancing around nervously. “I already regret it. This whole forest feels like a trap.”

“Because it is a trap,” Armin said, his voice tight with unease. “Think about it—if she’s as smart as we’ve seen, she knows we’re coming. She’s probably been preparing.”

“Great,” Connie muttered. “So we’re walking straight into her little death maze. Fantastic.”

Eren scowled, his fists clenched. “We can’t let her outsmart us again. We just have to—”

A sudden SNAP cut him off, the sound loud and jarring. The group froze as a heavy branch swung down from above, narrowly missing Eren and slamming into the ground with a thud. A flock of birds scattered into the sky, their startled cries echoing through the trees.

“What the hell was that?!” Sasha yelped, jumping back.

“A trap,” Levi said flatly, his eyes scanning the area. “She’s marking our position.”

Another SNAP echoed from a few yards away, followed by the loud rustling of leaves. Then another. Selena’s traps were activating in sequence, their loud noises reverberating through the forest.

“She’s leading us somewhere,” Erwin said, his tone grim. “Or away from her.”

“She’s watching us,” Hange added, adjusting her glasses with a glint of excitement in her eyes. “She probably knows exactly where we are right now.”

Levi’s jaw tightened as he turned his gaze upward, scanning the treetops. He could feel her presence, like a shadow just out of reach. “She’s close,” he muttered. “But not for long.”

From her perch high above, Selena watched the scene unfold with a sly grin. The Scouts moved cautiously through the forest, their formation tight, their weapons ready. She had to admit, they were more disciplined than she had expected—especially Levi. He moved like a panther, his sharp gaze cutting through the darkness, his movements deliberate and controlled.

But discipline wasn’t enough. Selena had the advantage here. She had survived in places worse than this forest, and she had been studying its layout and had used it to her advantage. As the scouts triggered another of her traps—a tripwire that sent a shower of twigs crashing to the ground—Selena quietly retreated in the opposite direction, her movements as silent as a whisper.

“They’re good,” she murmured to herself, her poison-green eyes glinting with amusement. “But not good enough.”

Still, her heart raced with exhilaration. The thrill of the hunt was intoxicating, and she couldn’t deny how much she enjoyed the challenge. Levi, in particular, was fascinating. His precision, his intensity, the way he never seemed to lose focus—it was almost enough to make her pause. Almost.

Selena smirked, her mind already forming her next move. The scouts thought they were hunting her, but she was the one in control. And as long as she stayed one step ahead, she intended to keep it that way.

“Catch me if you can, Capitán,” she whispered, disappearing deeper into the forest.

The stolen ODM blades gleamed faintly under the moonlight, their edges sharp but noticeably dulled from heavy use. Selena paused briefly to inspect them, running her fingers along their surfaces. They would suffice for now, but she knew they wouldn’t last long—especially if she faced Levi again.

“That Capitán doesn’t play fair,” she muttered to herself, her lips curling into a mischievous smile. “But then again, neither do I.”

Her mind raced with possibilities. She needed an edge. Fighting Levi with worn blades wouldn’t be enough, but Selena was nothing if not resourceful. She’d observed the peculiar technology the Scouts used—ODM gear. It fascinated her how they zipped through the trees with unnatural speed and grace. But like all tools, it had its weaknesses, and Selena intended to exploit them.

She crouched in the shadows of the canopy, her poison-green eyes flicking toward the distant rustling of the scouts. They were moving cautiously now, but she knew it wouldn’t last. Soon, they’d tire of tripping over her traps and switch tactics. And when they did, she would be waiting.

Levi’s sharp voice cut through the forest. “Switch to ODM gear. Now.”

“But Captain—” Eren began, only to be silenced by Levi’s glare.

“We’re wasting time stumbling through her traps,” Levi said curtly. “She’s counting on us to stay grounded. If we stay low, we’ll never catch her.”

Erwin nodded in agreement. “She’s fast, but she can’t outmaneuver all of us in the air. Use the gear and stay sharp. She’ll be expecting this.”

The scouts exchanged uneasy glances before activating their ODM gear, the faint hiss of compressed gas breaking the quiet. With a series of clicks and whirs, they launched themselves into the air, the trees blurring around them as they began zipping in Selena’s direction.

“Finally,” Selena murmured from her hiding place. She watched their movements with predatory precision, her grin widening. “Just like I thought.”

As the scouts zipped through the trees, their confidence grew. The open air felt safer than the forest floor, where Selena’s traps had plagued them. Eren, fueled by frustration, moved ahead of the group, his blades drawn.

“She’s close,” he said, his eyes scanning the shadows. “I can feel it.”

“Stay in formation,” Mikasa warned, following closely behind him. “She could ambush us.”

Jean was close behind, muttering under his breath. “Yeah, and knowing her, she probably—”

SNAP!

Jean’s words were cut off as he slammed into a web of vines stretched between two trees. His body twisted awkwardly as the cords tangled around him, cutting off his momentum.

“What the hell?!” Jean shouted, struggling against the vines.

One by one, the scouts collided with the web. Connie and Sasha yelped as they became ensnared, their gear failing to slice through the vines quickly enough. Mikasa managed to halt herself just short of the trap, her sharp reflexes saving her from getting caught, but Armin wasn’t so lucky. He dangled helplessly, his blades slipping from his grasp in his panic.

“Cut yourselves free!” Erwin commanded from behind, his voice calm but firm.

Selena didn’t give them the chance.

As soon as the web ensnared the majority of the scouts, Selena struck. She crouched on a high branch, her chest rising and falling as she drew in a deep breath. Then she let it out—a piercing, ear-splitting scream that tore through the forest like a banshee’s wail.

The sound was so loud, so unnerving, that several of the scouts instinctively flinched. Connie yelped, Sasha dropped her blades in surprise, and even Mikasa’s grip faltered for a fraction of a second. The vines amplified the chaos, shaking violently as the ensnared scouts struggled to recover their bearings.

Selena wasted no time. She swooped down from her perch with the grace of her namesake, her stolen blades glinting in the moonlight. With a series of swift, precise strikes, she severed the cords connecting the scouts’ swords to their ODM gear. The weapons clattered uselessly to the ground, leaving the Scouts vulnerable and disarmed.

Her movements were so fast, so fluid, that the scouts didn’t fully register what had happened until she was already gone. By the time they looked up, Selena was standing a few yards away, two newly stolen blades in her hands and eight extras strapped across her back.

Levi had been the only one to react quickly enough. The moment he heard Selena’s scream, he had cut himself free from the vines and landed on the forest floor, his blades ready. He turned just in time to see her disarming the others with surgical precision, her movements a blur.

“Damn it,” Levi hissed under his breath, his gray eyes narrowing. He darted forward, his boots barely making a sound against the dirt. He reached Selena just as she turned to leave, his blade slashing toward her throat with lethal intent.

But Selena was ready. She twisted her body in a way that defied logic, narrowly dodging the blade as she pivoted to face him. Her poison-green eyes gleamed with excitement as she grinned.

“Capitán,” she purred, her voice dripping with mockery. “You’re faster than the rest, I’ll give you that.”

Levi didn’t respond. His expression was cold, his gaze unrelenting as he lunged at her again, his strikes fast and precise. Selena deflected each one with practiced ease, her grin never faltering.

“Round two,” she said softly, her voice almost playful. She adjusted her grip on her stolen blades, her stance fluid and confident. “Let’s see if you can keep up this time.”

The tension in the air was electric as Levi and Selena squared off, the forest around them silent save for the faint rustle of leaves. The other scouts, still tangled in the vines, could only watch in stunned silence as Levi and Selena prepared to clash once more.

The Black Cat was ready to fight, and this time, she had no intention of holding back.

They clashed again, their blades ringing out with deafening precision. The scouts, tangled in vines or watching from the sidelines, could only gape in stunned disbelief at the sheer speed and chaos of their battle. Selena’s movements were mesmerizing—each strike, twist, and pivot executed with an almost inhuman grace. And Levi, sharp and relentless, countered her attacks with a ferocity that left no room for error.

But even as the two fought, Selena’s voice rang out, teasing and flirtatious, slicing through the tension like one of her stolen blades. “Ah, Capitán,” she purred, deflecting one of Levi’s strikes with a deft twist of her wrist. “You’re even more handsome when you’re angry.”

Levi didn’t answer. His jaw tightened, his gray eyes burning with frustration. He lunged again, aiming for her midsection, but Selena dodged with a spin, her short coiled curls catching the moonlight as she laughed.

“Careful,” she said with a smirk. “You might actually hurt me.”

Watching from the sidelines, Eren clenched his fists. “She’s toying with him,” he growled, his frustration evident. “We have to help.”

Armin, still tangled in the remains of Selena’s vine trap, hesitated. “But how? She’s too fast. If we charge in recklessly, we’ll just get in Captain Levi’s way.”

Mikasa, her eyes locked on Selena’s every movement, gripped her remaining blade tightly. “We have to try.”

Commander Erwin, his leg still smarting from the traps, made the decision for them. “Help Levi. Now. We can’t let her get away again.”

The scouts exchanged uneasy glances. Selena had defeated all of them with ease before, leaving their pride and confidence in tatters. Jean muttered under his breath, “This is insane. She’s going to lay us all out again.”

“She might,” Hange said with a grim smile, adjusting her glasses as she freed herself from the last of the vines. “But we can’t let that stop us. If we don’t help Levi, she’ll outmaneuver all of us. Now get moving!”

Spurred into action, the scouts armed themselves with whatever blades they had left. Mikasa led the charge, her dark eyes blazing with determination. “We’ll go together,” she said, her voice steady. “She can’t block all of us at once.”

Selena caught the flicker of movement from the corner of her eye and turned slightly, her smirk widening as the scouts launched their attack. Levi lunged for her again, but she sidestepped him gracefully, her focus shifting to the approaching group.

Her stance shifted subtly, her feet repositioning on the forest floor with an elegance that didn’t escape Levi’s sharp gaze. His eyes narrowed as realization dawned. She’s going to use another one of those techniques.

The scouts charged in a coordinated assault, their blades flashing in the moonlight. Mikasa reached Selena first, her sword arcing toward Selena’s shoulder. But just as it was about to connect, Selena’s body twisted with a fluidity that defied reason. She pivoted sharply, avoiding the strike entirely, and began to move—the Waltz Of The Flowers.

It was unlike anything the scouts had ever seen. Selena spun, her blades flashing in perfect rhythm as she danced through their ranks. Each pivot brought another strike—clean, precise, and devastating. Within seconds, the forest became her stage, and the scouts were her unwilling partners.

Eren lunged at her from the left, but she ducked low, her blade grazing his side before she twisted and struck Jean’s sword from his hand. Mikasa swung again, but Selena danced away, pivoting into a spin that brought her blade across Connie’s chest, leaving a shallow but painful cut.

Sasha cried out as Selena’s blade grazed her shoulder, and Armin barely had time to raise his blade before it was knocked from his grasp. Each movement was calculated, each strike delivered with pinpoint accuracy.

Erwin and Hange attempted to flank her, but Selena’s focus shifted seamlessly. She struck Erwin first, her blade carving a deep gash in his shoulder that sent him staggering back. Hange’s attack was met with a graceful spin, and Selena’s blade left a sharp cut along her leg.

In less than thirty seconds, it was over.

The scouts lay scattered across the forest floor, groaning in pain and disbelief. None of them were dead—Selena had held back—but their pride and confidence were thoroughly shattered. Selena stood in the center of the chaos, her posture relaxed, her breathing steady. She had barely broken a sweat.

Levi, however, was far from finished.

He clenched his teeth in frustration as he charged at Selena again, his blade cutting through the air with deadly precision. He had sustained a cut to his arm during her technique, but he didn’t let it slow him down. His focus was razor-sharp, his movements unrelenting.

Selena’s grin widened as she parried his strikes, her green eyes gleaming with exhilaration. “You’re persistent,” she said, her voice almost playful. “But persistence isn’t enough.”

Levi didn’t answer. He pressed forward, his strikes coming faster and harder. Selena matched him step for step, her agility and flexibility allowing her to dodge and counter with unnerving ease. But Levi had learned from their first encounter. He could see the faint patterns in her movements, the way her body shifted before each strike.

When she adjusted her stance again, her feet pivoting sharply, Levi recognized the motion instantly. She’s setting up for that cutting technique again.

Selena’s movements became a blur as she prepared to unleash her devastating attack—the 100 Cuts of Pain. Levi braced himself, his gray eyes locked on hers. This time, he was ready.

The sound of blades slicing through the air filled the forest as Selena executed her technique, but Levi moved with precision and instinct. He dodged and deflected, managing to avoid most of the strikes. By the time Selena’s attack ended, he had only sustained about ten shallow cuts—but it was enough to anger him further.

Before Selena could recover, Levi surged forward. He grabbed her by the neck with one hand, his other gripping his blade as he forced her to the ground. Selena’s eyes widened slightly, but her smirk didn’t falter.

“Well,” she said softly, her voice tinged with amusement. “Looks like the Capitán finally got his hands on me.”

Levi’s grip tightened, his gray eyes burning with a mixture of frustration and determination. “You’re not getting away this time.”

Selena’s grin widened, her poison-green eyes gleaming with defiance even as she lay pinned beneath him. “We’ll see about that.”

Levi's knee pressed firmly into Selena’s stomach as his iron grip pinned her neck to the ground, while his other hand gripped her wrists together. His cold gray eyes burned with frustration and determination, while Selena’s poison-green ones sparkled with mischief and amusement. Despite being at a clear disadvantage, Selena still had the audacity to grin up at him, her lips curling into a sultry smirk.

“You know,” she purred, her voice low and teasing, “You’re turning me on, Capitán. Your hand around my neck, the way you’re manhandling me—it’s kind of hot.”

The silence in the forest was deafening. Every scout, from Erwin to Sasha, froze where they sat nursing their wounds. Sasha let out a small squeak of disbelief. Jean’s jaw dropped. Connie audibly muttered, “What the hell is wrong with her?” Eren stared, his fists trembling in frustration, while Mikasa’s expression darkened. Even Hange, usually unflappable, blinked in astonishment as she adjusted her glasses.

Levi, however, was seething. His lips curled into a snarl as he glared down at her. “Shut your shitty mouth,” he growled, his voice cold and venomous.

Selena only laughed, undeterred. “Why so serious, Capitán? You don’t like a little foreplay?”

Before Levi could respond, Selena suddenly arched her back and swung her right leg up with breathtaking flexibility, hooking it over his shoulder. With a sharp push from the back of her knee, she propelled herself upward, using the leverage to almost roll out from under him.

Levi reacted instantly, his hand snapping out to grab her leg and slam her back into the dirt. His grip tightened as he wrestled her into submission, holding both of her wrists in one hand. His other hand clamped down firmly on her thigh, immobilizing her right leg before she could try another stunt.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Levi hissed through gritted teeth.

Selena raised a single eyebrow, her smirk undeterred. 

She shifted again, this time using her free left leg to hook around the right side of Levi’s neck. With an impressive burst of strength, she tried to lift herself off the ground, twisting her body in an almost serpentine motion. The maneuver nearly worked—her flexibility and agility were unmatched—but Levi’s grip on her thigh tightened at the last second, slamming her back down.

“Enough,” Levi snapped, flipping her onto her stomach and pinning her wrists behind her back. He placed a knee on her lower back, his other hand pressing firmly on her thigh to keep her from wriggling free. For a moment, it seemed like she was finally subdued.

But Selena wasn’t done. She arched her back in a deliberate, calculated motion, pressing her hips upward and causing her butt to push against Levi’s crotch. The sudden, awkward contact made Levi falter for just a fraction of a second, his grip loosening ever so slightly.

“Damn it,” Levi hissed under his breath, his frustration mounting.

Selena seized the opportunity, twisting her body with remarkable speed and turning onto her back. Levi tried to regain control, pinning her arms above her head, but Selena wrapped her legs around his neck, squeezing tightly as she forced him back and tried to choke him. The two were locked in a tense hold, each struggling to overpower the other. Their movements were so intense, so precise, that the surrounding scouts could do nothing but watch in stunned silence.

The tension built as the stalemate dragged on. Both of them were breathing heavily, their eyes locked in a battle of wills. But Levi’s superior physical strength began to prevail, his grip tightening and his movements growing more deliberate as he pried Selena’s legs around his neck with his free hand. But Selena had one last trick up her sleeve.

Her sharp eyes observed Levi’s expression, noting every flicker of emotion that crossed his face. One thing she had learned about him in their short time together was that Levi Ackerman was meticulous, precise,—especially about cleanliness. And he also seemed to care very much for his comrades.

A wicked idea formed in her mind.

She hocked back her saliva loudly, making it clear what she was about to do. “You know, Capitán,” she said, her voice dripping with mockery, “you don’t want to keep me pinned like this. I might get… messy.”

Levi’s eyes widened slightly, a look of pure disgust flashing across his face. “You wouldn’t dare,” he snarled.

Selena smirked, repeating the motion dramatically as if preparing to spit right in his face. Levi instinctively pulled his head back, his grip on her wrists faltering for just a moment. It was all Selena needed.

With lightning speed, she twisted her arm free and reached for one of the spare blades strapped to her back and flung it into the dark forest. Levi’s grip returned immediately, slamming her back into the dirt, but Selena’s plan was already in motion.

“What the hell did you just—” Levi began, but his words were cut off by the sound of snapping branches above them.

Selena had thrown the blade with accuracy, striking a tree she had noticed earlier—a massive oak with an old, heavy branch that hung precariously over the scouts. The blade embedded itself in the branch’s weak point, sending it crashing downward with alarming speed.

Levi’s eyes widened as he heard the sharp crack of wood splitting, his head snapping toward the sound. The branch was tumbling straight toward the injured scouts below.

“Shit,” Levi hissed, releasing Selena without a second thought. His ODM gear activated with a hiss as he launched himself toward the falling branch.

Erwin and Mikasa shouted warnings, but it was too late for most of them to react. Sasha, Armin, and Hange were directly in the branch’s path, their faces pale as they struggled to move in time. Levi reached them just as the branch was about to hit, slicing it into pieces with two precise swings of his blade. The shattered wood thudded harmlessly to the ground, scattering debris but leaving everyone unharmed.

“Move faster next time,” Levi growled, his tone icy as he glared at the shaken group.

But Selena was gone.

The moment Levi let go of her, she had bolted into the shadows, darting through the trees with the grace and speed of her namesake. She reached the riverbank in seconds, her heart pounding with exhilaration. Without hesitation, she dove into the water, her body disappearing beneath the dark surface.

By the time the scouts regrouped and reached the river, there was no sign of her. The water was too dark, the current too swift, and their injuries too severe to pursue her further.

Eren slammed his fist into the ground, his face twisted with rage. “Damn it! She got away again!”

“Of course she did,” Jean muttered, his tone bitter. “She always does.”

Levi stood at the riverbank, his fists clenched tightly. His cuts stung, his pride burned, and his frustration was palpable. He couldn’t believe it. For the second time, Selena de la Rosa had slipped through his fingers.His gray eyes scanned the dark surface of the water as though willing her to reappear, but he knew she was gone. The Black Cat had slipped through his grasp once again, and the fury bubbling inside him was palpable.

Behind him, the scouts staggered into the clearing, their movements sluggish and pained. Mikasa’s uniform was torn, blood dripping from a shallow cut on her arm. Armin limped slightly, his face pale and his eyes wide with lingering fear. Sasha and Connie leaned on each other for support, both sporting fresh bruises and cuts. Even Erwin and Hange, usually composed, bore the marks of Selena’s devastating technique.

Levi turned slowly to face them, his expression thunderous. The scouts froze under his gaze, the sheer intensity of his anger hitting them like a physical force. No one dared to speak. The only sound was the faint rustling of leaves and the uneven breaths of the injured.

“That sneaky little bitch,” Levi growled, his voice low and dangerous. The words dripped with venom, each syllable a razor-sharp blade. “She got away again.”

Jean, standing slightly to the side, muttered under his breath, “Of course she did. She’s like a ghost.”

Levi’s glare snapped to Jean, silencing him instantly. “She’s not a ghost,” he said, his tone ice-cold. “She’s flesh and blood. And the next time I see her, I’ll skin her alive.”

Mikasa adjusted her grip on her remaining blade, her dark eyes flicking to Levi. “We can go after her,” she said, her voice steady despite her injuries. “We can still catch her if we—”

“No,” Levi cut her off sharply. His gaze swept over the group, taking in their battered forms. “Look at yourselves. You’re all injured, tired, and half-useless right now. She knows it. She’ll have more traps set, waiting for us to stumble into them.”

Eren’s fists clenched, his frustration boiling over. “So what are we supposed to do? Just let her go? After everything she’s done?”

Levi’s eyes narrowed, and Eren immediately regretted speaking. “She’s not getting away,” Levi said, his voice deceptively calm. “But if we rush in like idiots, we’ll all end up dead. She’s smart, faster than any of you, and probably has traps waiting for us all over this forest. Use your damn heads.”

Eren bit his lip, glancing at Armin for support. Armin, however, remained silent, his expression thoughtful but grim.

Erwin stepped forward, leaning slightly on his uninjured leg. His voice was calm, but the weight of their failure was evident in his tone. “Levi’s right. We’re in no condition to continue pursuing her tonight. Our priority is regrouping and tending to our injuries.”

“But Commander,” Hange protested, wincing as she adjusted the torn fabric over her wounded shoulder. “If we let her get too far, we might lose her completely.”

“We won’t lose her,” Levi interjected, his voice like steel. “She’s not running away. She’s playing a game, and she’ll keep playing until she thinks she’s won.”

Sasha, her voice shaky, piped up from where she sat nursing a bruised rib. “She’s not… normal. The way she fights, the way she moves… It’s like she’s not even human.”

“She’s human,” Levi snapped, his gray eyes flashing. “She bleeds, just like the rest of us. And I’ll make her bleed again.”

Jean glanced at Connie nervously before speaking. “Captain, she almost killed some of us tonight. I mean, if that branch had fallen a second earlier, Hange Armin and Sasha would’ve—”

“Don’t remind me,” Levi said curtly, his voice cold but simmering with anger. His gaze briefly flicked to Hange, Armin and Sasha, all of whom avoided his eyes. The realization that he had been forced to let Selena go to save his squad gnawed at him like a festering wound. She had played him, and he hated her for it.

Levi turned back toward the river, his jaw tightening. He could still see her in his mind’s eye—those poison-green eyes, that infuriating smirk, the way she moved like a shadow through the trees. She had embarrassed him, humiliated him in front of his squad, and nearly killed his comrades. But more than that, she had forced him to make a choice: his team or his pride.

Levi Ackerman didn’t lose. Not to Titans, not to enemies, and certainly not to some cocky assassin with a flair for theatrics. The next time he crossed paths with Selena de la Rosa, he wouldn’t make the same mistake. He would end her.

“She’s made her move,” Levi said quietly, his voice cold and resolute. “But this isn’t over. Not by a long shot.”

Erwin nodded, his expression grim. “We’ll regroup and strategize. This isn’t a defeat—it’s a delay.”

Hange adjusted her glasses, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite the tension. “She’s good. But Levi’s better. I’d bet my glasses on it.”

Levi said nothing, his gaze fixed on the dark forest beyond the river. The anger rolling off him was almost tangible, a quiet storm waiting to unleash its fury. His squad could feel it, the weight of his resolve bearing down on them like a physical force.

“Rest up,” Levi ordered, his tone sharp and unyielding. “We’ll find her. And when we do…” His voice trailed off, but the threat hung heavy in the air.

The younger Scouts exchanged uneasy glances. Eren looked ready to burst with frustration, while Mikasa’s eyes glinted with determination. Jean muttered something under his breath about “crazy assassins,” and Connie leaned against Sasha, his face pale but resolute.

“Do you think we’ll stand a chance next time?” Sasha asked quietly, her voice laced with doubt.

Mikasa’s grip on her blade tightened. “We’ll have to.”

Armin shook his head slowly, his voice soft but firm. “We’ll need to be smarter. She’s not just fast—she’s strategic. She reads us like a book.”

“And we’ll be ready,” Levi said flatly, his words cutting through the murmurs. “Because the next time I see that filthy stray cat, I’ll make sure she doesn’t escape. Not again.”

The night deepened, the forest shrouded in an oppressive silence. Somewhere beyond the river, Selena de la Rosa was out there, no doubt smirking to herself. But Levi didn’t care. His anger, his determination—it would fuel him for the battles ahead. The hunt wasn’t over.

It had only just begun.

~

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[beware-the-jabberwock-my-son]

"But Palestinians elected Hamas!"

False. Let's take an analytical look at the reality of the situation and the statistics behind the most recent Palestinian election.

First of all, the most recent parliamentary (and legislative) election in Palestine took place in January of 2006, just over 18 years ago.

At that time, the estimated population of Palestine was about 3,761,904 (reported as of July 2005). Interestingly enough, at this time, just over half of the population of Palestine (52.3%) was under the age of 18. Those numbers alone suggest that Palestinians as a whole could not have voted for Hamas, since the majority of the population was underage.

But of course, there's even more to this story. Of the population that was eligible to vote, only 1,341,671 were registered to vote and only 1,042,424 votes were cast. Of the cast votes, only 990,873 were labeled as "valid" votes. That comes out to approximately 26.3% of the population of Palestine in 2006 having cast valid votes.

However, the plot thickens even further. In 2006, Hamas was under a party called "Change and Reform", which won the election by a slim margin with a majority of 440,409 votes compared to the runner up with 410,554 votes. Doing the math, this means that in the most recent election in 2006, Hamas, under the Change and Reform party, won the election with a vote from approximately 11.7% of the total population of Palestine.

And if those numbers aren't already enough, let's compare that to the current population, seeing as the 2006 election was so long ago. Making the bold assumption that every single person who voted for Hamas in 2006 is still alive, and compared to the current Palestinian population of about 5.4 million people, that comes out to be approximately 8% of the current population having voted for Hamas.

Yes, you heard me right,

Only 8% of the current population of Palestine voted for Hamas

Now I know I hardly have any followers and the chances of this post getting any attention are slim to none, but these numbers are so important. When we talk about Hamas, October 7th, and the ongoing, centuries old Israeli-Palestinian conflict, we have to consider the analytical data behind all this. Those of us supporting Palestine have never said we're in support of Hamas, in fact many of us understand the detrimental impacts Hamas has had on the Palestinian political system.

All we're asking is for you to have even an ounce of compassion and understanding for the fact that tens of thousands of innocent civilians are being killed at the hands of the Israeli military. This is a genocide. Israel is an apartheid state. There's no debating that.

Sources:

https://theloop.ecpr.eu/palestinian-elections-hang-in-the-balance/

https://www.electionguide.org/elections/id/1433/

https://english.wafa.ps/Pages/Details/104279#:~:text=RAMALLAH%2C%20November%2019%2C%202006%2C,of%2018%20years%20in%202006.

https://www.worldometers.info/world-population/state-of-palestine-population/#google_vignette

(please lmk if I've made any errors with links or misinformed sources or if I've made a miscalculation or stated an untrue fact)

[jeffsfavoriteknife]

Jeff x Jealous! Male reader

Includes: Jealousy(obviously), gay shit, public sex, use of the word malewife

You glared at him from the corner of your eye as he sat with what he called his friend, jealousy eating you alive. Everytime you saw them together it ate at you, you knew he had told you that they were just good friends but you felt he was lying to you, Jeff was known for lying and it just seemed so cut and dry that he was into the guy. You stood up from the coffee table you sat at suddenly, slightly startling the guy next to Jeff as you walked off, not wanting to see him for a while, he was fucking with you, taunting you, and yet you did nothing except walk away.

You felt a hand on your shoulder tightly grip you and turn you around to none other than Jeff. “Mind tellin me what the fuck your problem is?” You glared at him before pulling away ‘you know what my fuckin problem is’ he angrily huffs, clearly fed up with your shit as he shoves you against the wall “i already told you im not fuckin with that guy, even if i was whats it any of your damn business?” This caused you to hesitate on answering, leading him to catch on “no fucking shit..” he griped your jaw and forced you to look up at him, his cold yet dangerous eyes staring back

“you could have just said somethin, i will admit your pretty fucking cute and look quite breedable” you clutched the bottom of your shirt tight ‘the fuck is that supposed to mean??? I cant be bred you fuckin idiot’ he gets closer to you, clearly towering over you as he smirks “nah i definitely could, youd make a cute malewife, i know damn well you got skirts and knee high socks in your place, ive seen you wear them once or twice” face bright red with embarrassment you rolled your eyes ‘of fucking course youd be the one to watch people through their houses’ he pulled you to him, letting out a dark chuckle “i can tell that your not pissed about it tho” he eyed your pants as you yanked your shirt down more to cover yourself “let me help” he didnt give you time to respond before yanking your pants down along with your boxers ‘JEFF! we are in public! Someone is gonna say something, are you insane???’ “Absolutely” he didnt hesitate to turn you around and position you so you were basically offering yourself to him ‘wait wait wait! I havent,,done this before’ his eyes glinted at this as he gripped onto your thighs, yanking his own pants down “you have no idea how fucking cute that is to me, ill be the first AND last one to ruin you” he pressed himself into you, your tightness causing him a bit of trouble but nothing a good old slam wont fix.

This made you cry out in both pain in pleasure, one one side the burn was excruciating, on the other hand he was rubbing right against your prostate causing your cock to throb. He picked you up by your thighs and pounded into you mercilessly, wanting to hear every ounce of noise your mouth could make for him, he wanted to RUIN you. You cried out, mumbling his name along with incoherent sentences but he loved every moment of it, you crying out his name making him go even harder. Your back rubbing against the wall was no doubt going to leave marks but you were hooked on his cock and couldnt bother to ask him to stop, you were basically drooling while the man you swooned over for so long wrecked you. You tightened your grip on him as you came, the entire time you did he was watching your cock twitch with every spurt, yeah, he wasnt gonna let you go. He dug his nails into your thighs, leaving marks in its wake as he bit into your shoulder, drawing blood and pumping you full of him, overfilling you to where some was spilling out, you rolled your eyes in the back of your head in pure bliss

(Yeah its short but its 3 am and since im a slut for jeff im allowed to write short lil stories that is just sex w hardly any plot teehee)

-🖤🔪