#or something i 'should be doing'. writing is the only thing that i do and i push myself in bc i love it

[tbaluver]

Hiii! If it's okay can I request reader pranking LADS men with 'lets breakup' just to see their reaction? ;D

Break Up Prank - The Love And DeepSpace Men

pairings in order: xavier x reader, zayne x reader, rafayel x reader, sylus x reader, caleb x reader genre/tags: angsty w/ comfort-ish at the end a/n: hihi anonnie ! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ i ened up writing this more angsty mainly bc i just think they would be devasted if you ever wanted to leave them .·°՞(¯□¯)՞°·. anyways i hope this was alright and that you enjoy reading ! (∩˃o˂∩)♡ any likes and reblogs are always appreciated! enjoy!

⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Xavier:

“This bread should go well with the chocolate milk. Would you like to try?” He asks, offering it to you with a soft smile.

You take a deep breath, keeping your voice as steady as possible. “I think we should break up.” The moment the words leave your mouth, you regret it instantly. You watched his eyes widen and his entire body freeze. His hands, still holding the bread midair, slowly lowers.

“what?” He says weakly, trying to process what’s happening. “I..I don't get it.” His smile slowly disappears, a frown replacing it instead. His eyes search yours desperately to find any clue, any hints to find an answer. “Did I do something wrong?” He stammered, his gaze shifting downward as his heart sank all the way down to his body.

You don’t think you can go further with this prank any longer, feeling immediately guilty. “I was just kidding! It’s a prank, Xavier,” You say, trying to lighten the mood but yet the tension in the air still remains.

He doesn’t move, his eyes are uncertain, flicking between you and his plate. “Are you sure?” His voice was quiet, trying to convince himself it was a joke but a part of him still thought otherwise. “If there is something wrong, if there’s anything I can do-” He trails off but before he can say anything more, you rush to his side, your arms wrapping around him tightly.

“I'm so sorry, Xavier. I shouldn't have done that. Tara and I saw it online, and I thought it would be funny. I promise I love you, and I would never want to leave you.” For a while, he doesn’t respond, but slowly, he pulls you closer, burying his face into your neck. His breath is a little shaky, but you feel his shoulders relax just a little.

“I didn't want to lose you,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against your skin. His hair tickles your neck and you can feel the soft sigh of relief as the tension leaves his body.

“Do you still want to eat your snacks?” you pull away slightly, cupping his face but he shakes his head. His arms tighten around you as he buries himself back into your neck.

“Let's just stay like this for a while,” He murmurs, his voice still slightly shaky. His appetite has vanished entirely, replaced by a need for comfort and that you’re both going to be okay. He should’ve never given bread another chance.

Zayne:

“You shouldn’t sit like that. It can lead to lower back discomfort." Zayne says softly, his hands carefully help you adjust your position as he places a pillow behind your head.

“I don't think this is working out. I think we should end this.” You kept your tone flat, not a hint of a smile or a crack of a laugh to give away the joke. The air around you both goes still, and Zayne stops mid-sentence on his lecture for your posture and health. His throat goes dry while his eyes narrow as if trying to process what you’ve said.

There was an awkward silence between you both until he cleared his throat, adjusting his tie as if it were the only thing he could focus on to keep himself together. “May I ask where this is coming from, my love?” His nickname for you came into a hushed whisper, unsure if he could even use that name at this moment.

“Can we please talk it out? If it’s my nagging that’s become too much, then I’ll stop..my only intention is to look after you.” He’s trying to keep his composure, but you can hear the hurt in his words. “If there's anything else I've done or said, anything I can fix together with you.. I promise-”

You can feel the guilt creeping in each time he speaks. You couldn’t ignore how it affected you and how he was so serious and vulnerable. This prank has gone a little too far, and the laughter you held back was now gone. ”Zayne, wait! I'm so sorry it was just a prank!” You rushed, “I thought it would be funny..I saw this video online..”

Zayne's eyes flutter close as he sighs heavily. “Forgive me..I forgot I'm dating a comedian,” He mutters under his breath, a half smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He shakes his head, a slow exhale escapes past his lips. “I'm glad everything’s alright. May I?” He steps closer to you, his arm outstretched into an embrace. But before you can say anything else, he playfully flicks your forehead.

“Hey!” You protest, but you can feel the soft chuckle rumble in his chest as you pull into his embrace. His breath tickles your skin, and you can’t help but smile, knowing how much loved you are.

“I only ask for you not to prank me like that again. I'm already growing enough white hairs because of you.”

Rafayel:

You instantly regretted ever finishing that sentence.

You watched the way the light in his eyes disappear. His heart seemed to crack, threatening to shatter into a million pieces as the pain washed over his face.

His nebula eyes looked at you in disbelief, unable to comprehend the words that just left your lips were true. The brush in his hand slipped from his fingers as his whole body went limp. His lips trembled, fighting back the flood of emotions threatening to break through.

“I-was it....do you really want that?” His voice shook, the words barely escaping past his lips. His chest tightened, hoping he didn’t hear the answer he dreads. “Was there something I’ve done, cutie?” His gaze drops, his lips pursing as he tries to recall something, anything, that would explain what he did wrong. “I can do better..we can work it out together, yeah? Tell me what’s wrong..” His eyes were pleading, desperate.

You could see the depth of his pain and the way he blamed himself, even though you knew that this was just a prank. It broke your heart, and you couldn’t keep going, the guilt was suffocating enough. “Raf, no! You did nothing wrong. It was just a prank!”

His mouth fell open in shock. “...what?” His voice was weak, a soft gasp escaping him as he dramatically collapsed back onto the couch. “Pranks are supposed to be funny! That wasn’t funny!” He groaned, relief flooding through him. “Dun ever do that to me again, hmph..” He mumbles, his hand still over his face as he tries to collect himself. “Hold me..”

He lets you pull him into your arms, his cheek pressing into your shoulder, the weight of his body finally relaxing as he feels you close. He let out a deep breath as if he were holding it in for too long. “I thought my heart stopped for a moment, cutie..” He murmurs, “Promise me we’ll work through everything?”

Sylus:

“Sweetie-” Sylus’s voice echoes at the front door. You were already in the living room, arms crossed, while you tried to keep your face unreadable.

“We should break up.” You say flatly.

He flinched at the sudden words. The small box he had wanted to surprise you with was clutched tightly as he tried to process your words. His face was in disbelief. His eyes searched for yours, trying to find some sign of a joke. But your expression was cold and unreadable. He set the box down on the table, his movements felt too slow.

“Is there a particular reason you feel this way?” His voice was barely a whisper. You didn’t answer right, the silence in the air was heavy, suffocating even. He took a step forward towards you, hesitant. “Is there any way I can fix this?” The hurt in his eyes was palpable as he slowly reached for you, cupping your face gently. His thumb brushed over your cheek, searching for any sign that could give him an answer.

But you couldn’t hold it in anymore. You felt the weight of his touch, the weight of his words, and the devastation in his eyes. “Sylus..I’m sorry, it was just a prank..”

His breath hitched, his thumb stopping as he froze. His eyes closed as he inhaled sharply as he’d been hit by a wave of relief. “What will I do with you..” He muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose before his eyes fluttered open slowly, amusement flicking across his face. “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” He asked, raising a brow.

You shook your head quickly, guilt flooding you. “No Sylus. You’re perfect. I’m sorry.. It was funnier in my head. I shouldn’t have done that.”

He sighs, shaking his head. “You had me worried there for a second, sweetie,” Sylus speaks quietly. His fingers graze your hair as he pulls you into an embrace. His lips press softly to the top of your head, and the fear of losing you again still lingers in him.

Caleb:

“Hey pipsqueak, what’re you in the mood for? I’m thinking maybee something savory, or how about something spicy?” He glanced over at you. His warm smile was infectious, as always, but you tried to stay strong. His expression faltered when he saw the look on your face.

“I don’t think this is working out anymore. Let's break up.”

Each word stung, his smile immediately disappearing. He blinked, his mind racing to process what you had just said, the grip on the wooden spoon tightened without him realizing it. Maybe he didn’t hear you right, yeah definitely.

“Sorry..maybe you want something sweet? Or if you’re tired of my cooking, how about takeout?” He tilts his head, refusing to believe it.

“No, Caleb. Let's break up.” The words felt sharper this time, slicing his heart into a million little pieces that no one could ever pick up. You could see it in his eyes, his entire world was crumbling. Every muscle in his body tensed as his breath caught in his throat. His face faltered for a second, his brow furrowing deeply as he set the spoon down with trembling hands.

“Pip-Y/n..where is this coming from?” His voice is quiet now as he takes a step closer. His purple eyes were a mix of confusion and hurt, his hands remained stiff by his sides, almost as if they didn’t know what to do. “Hey..what’s going on? Talk to me, please..” His voice cracked at the end, desperate.

Even though there was only a few inches of distance between you, it felt like the distance was growing further and further. “I can fix it..please..just tell me what to do..anything..” His chest tightened as his mind spun in a thousand different directions. What did he do? What went wrong?

You could see the pain written across his face, a mixture of panic, disbelief, and heartache that made yours ache. Without thinking, you reached out to him, wrapping your arms around him tightly. Caleb’s body was stiff at first as if he didn’t know how to respond, but once he felt your arms tighten, he exhaled slowly.

“I’m sorry, Caleb..I shouldn’t have said that. It was just a stupid prank,” you whispered. However, the words didn’t sink in right away. His body remained frozen, still processing everything.

He pulled back slightly, his hands shaking as he cupped your face gently, his thumb brushing over your cheek like he was trying to make sure you were real. “Really? You’re not leaving?”

You nodded, “I’m not. I love you, and I won’t ever leave you.”

He exhaled sharply, his body finally relaxing against you as the tension in his body began to unwind. “You almost got me there, pipsqueak...” He let out a weak laugh, his voice still shaky as he pressed a soft kiss to your head. “Maybe you should stick to cilantro-flavored toothpaste pranks next time..”

ʚɞ cr. for the divider @/ cafekitsune

ʚɞ thank you to my beta readers for helping me with this ! @ilovemitsuya and @pomegranatepip MWAH ₊˚⊹ᰔ

ʚɞ my other works if you want to check it out! Love And DeepSpace Masterlist , Pg.2

[tsunodaradio]

cold coffee ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

“best thing about your hometown?” “apparently it’s the coffee. i don’t drink coffee so i don’t know. for me, it’s just that it’s home.”

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x café owner!reader. ꔮ word count: 4.8k. ꔮ includes: romance, friendship, fluff. mentions of food. set in melbourne, spans a couple of years (alleged slowburn), oscar pines!!! so much!!!, cameos from oscar's sisters. ꔮ commentary box: lots of love all around i.e. contract renewal + home race. had to do it to 'em. inspired by this video, where two of my friends immediately demanded to see a barista!reader. did a bit of a spin on it, but the concept is intact! ☕ 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ cold coffee, ed sheeran. something, somehow, someday, role model. i'd have to think about it, leith ross. time, angelo de augustine. keep the rain, searows. the view between villages, noah kahan.

It starts with Hattie.

Oscar’s younger sister had spent the morning badgering him, pleading in the way only a sibling with endless energy and zero regard for his sanity could. She’d tugged on his sleeve, whining about the new café down the street, her eyes wide with manufactured innocence.

“We’ve been home for two weeks, and you haven’t done anything fun,” she’d accused, arms crossed as she blocked his way to the fridge. “Come with me. Pleeease?”

Which is why, against his better judgment, Oscar is now standing in line at a café that smells overwhelmingly like roasted coffee beans and vanilla. He eyes the display of pastries, hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie, and tries to ignore the way his hair sticks to his forehead from the walk over.

“You should get something,” Hattie says, nudging his side.

“I don’t drink coffee.”

She rolls her eyes, as if this is a personal insult. “They have other stuff. You could try tea. Or a hot chocolate. Or—”

“Next!”

Oscar looks up, and that’s when he sees you.

You’re behind the counter, all smiles and easy confidence, a pencil tucked behind your ear. The apron you wear is a little big on you, the straps tied in a messy bow at the back. There’s a small streak of flour on your cheek and you lean onto the counter like you’re genuinely excited to take their order.

“What can I get for you guys?”

Hattie launches into her order with the determination of a girl on a mission, listing out her exact specifications for an iced mocha with extra whipped cream. You write everything down with a nod, your fingers deftly clicking buttons on the register.

“And for you?” you ask, turning to Oscar with the kind of warmth that makes his skin prickle.

“I, uh—” he clears his throat, resisting the urge to look away. “I don’t drink coffee.”

“That’s okay,” you say, like it actually is. “We’ve got some pretty good non-coffee options. Do you like chocolate? Or maybe something fruity?”

Your kindness is standard Melbourne hospitality, he tells himself. It’s not personal. 

But there’s a lightness to the way you speak to him, patient and unbothered, that makes something unfamiliar stir in his chest. “Fruit tea’s fine,” he says, trying not to sound as awkward as he feels.

You smile, really smile, like he’s made the best choice in the world. “One fruit tea, coming up.”

And just like that, it’s done.

Hattie drags him to a table by the window, her enthusiasm buzzing loud enough to fill the entire space. Oscar watches as you move behind the counter, steaming milk and melting chocolate, and thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’ll let Hattie convince him to come back tomorrow.

You carry their drinks to the table with practiced ease, setting them down carefully to avoid any spills. Hattie beams as you place her elaborate drink in front of her. Oscar watches quietly as you slide his drink toward him— a peach iced tea, condensation already gathering on the glass.

“Enjoy,” you say with that same warm smile.

Oscar mutters a thanks, wrapping his hands around the cold glass. He takes a sip, the sweetness clinging to his tongue, and casts a glance at the door. 

He could leave. They’ve got their drinks, Hattie’s satisfied, and his obligation is technically fulfilled.

But he doesn’t move.

Instead, he sits back in his chair, sipping at his tea like he’s got all the time in the world. Hattie chatters about her netball games and how she’s trying to convince their parents to get a puppy, but Oscar only half-listens, eyes flicking up every now and then to watch you.

Maybe he should buy something else. 

A snack, maybe. 

For Hattie, obviously.

Or he could offer to take Hattie’s cup back to the counter when she’s done. (Except the café has self-service return trays, and he’d already clocked that the second they sat down.) 

He hates how obvious he’s being. And he hates even more how he doesn’t seem to care.

Eventually, you circle back to their table, wiping your hands on a dish towel.

“Hey,” you say, leaning slightly against the chair next to Hattie’s. “Everything alright? Drinks okay?”

Oscar nods wordlessly, swallowing his drink. It tastes a bit too sugary now.

“It’s so good,” Hattie gushes, kicking her legs under the table. “I’m gonna make mum bring me back next weekend!”

Your eyes brighten. “That’s great. We’ve only been open a few weeks, so we’re still figuring stuff out. The owner’s a nice guy, but he’s old school. Doesn’t know how to use the cash register half the time.”

Oscar finally speaks, his voice scratchy as if he’s forgotten how to use it. “You work here by yourself?”

“Most days,” you admit, shrugging. “He’s got grandkids, so sometimes he dips out early to see them. But I don’t mind. It’s just part-time, and I live nearby.”

Oscar processes this slowly, like if he takes long enough, the conversation won’t end.

“How old are you?” Hattie asks, her bluntness making Oscar cringe.

You don’t seem to mind, though. You laugh, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Fifteen. I’m starting Year 10 next term.”

Oscar blinks. The fact that you’re the same age as him shouldn’t feel as significant as it does, but it lands like a surprise punch to the gut.

“I’m fourteen,” Hattie announces proudly.

"That’s a fun age," you tell her kindly; she looks at you like you’re the coolest person in the world, and Oscar is half-inclined to agree. 

Then you glance at Oscar, head tilting. “What about you? You go to school around here?”

He shifts in his seat, rubbing at the condensation ring his glass left on the table. “Boarding school,” he says curtly. “Just home for the summer.”

“Ah,” you say, like that explains something.

Hattie pipes up again, because of course she does. “He races cars,” she declares. “He’s, like, really good.”

Oscar feels his face heat. He glares at Hattie, who just grins, already licking melted whipped cream off her finger.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously? That’s awesome,” you say, and you don’t sound condescending or anything. You sound genuinely awed, and Oscar fears he’s going to replay it in his head the entire night. 

“We should go,” he says abruptly, pushing back from the table.

“What?” Hattie pouts. “But I want a pastry!”

“We can get one,” Oscar promises through gritted teeth, standing and grabbing her empty cup so fast the ceramic clinks loudly against the saucer. He forces himself to slow down, his fingers a little shaky. “Next time.”

Hattie hops out of her seat, already skipping toward the door. Oscar follows, grateful for the escape, but you call out before he makes it too far.

“I hope you do come back,” you say, smiling again. This time, it feels like it’s just for him. The words, the smile, the look. 

Oscar nods stiffly, tugging at the sleeves of his hoodie.

He doesn’t know if he will. But, as he lingers on the way out, he wonders how many summers he has left— and how many excuses he can make before you start to notice.

Inevitably, his appearances at the café become almost routine.

It starts small: once a week, maybe twice, a stop by for a drink he doesn’t actually want. But Hattie catches on fast, and soon she’s dragging Edie and Mae along too, the three of them whispering and snickering at a volume they absolutely think is subtle.

“I like the pastries,” he claims when Edie wiggles her eyebrows at him.

“Sure,” Mae chirps, swinging her feet as she dangles them off her chair. “Totally the pastries. Not the barista who always makes your drink herself even when there’s someone else on shift.”

Oscar gives her a withering look, but she remains undeterred, biting into her muffin with the smugness of someone who knows she’s right.

He denies it. Again and again. Because he doesn’t know what to do with the idea of having a crush, let alone on you. He’s already awkward enough on his own, and he refuses to fuel his sisters’ relentless teasing.

But then he comes in one day— alone, this time— and you’re not there.

Oscar knows he shouldn’t care. It’s not like you promised to be here. And yet, disappointment settles heavy in his chest.

The barista on shift is nice enough, but Oscar barely listens as he orders. He can’t even remember what he picked when he sits down, staring at the drink like it personally offended him.

The café feels quieter without you buzzing around, chatting with regulars and teasing old Mr. Callahan about his crossword puzzles. The emptiness gnaws at him, and he knows he looks so obvious, sulking into his untouched drink.

He tells himself he’ll leave after finishing it. He lingers for an hour.

Oscar doesn’t look back at the café as he leaves, but he feels its absence like a dull ache. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, chin tucked to his chest as he stalks down the street. 

He tells himself it’t stupid to feel this way. He doesn’t even know you. He definitely shouldn’t care if you’re there or not. 

And yet.

Fine. 

It’s over. He’ll get over it. 

He’ll spend the school term back at boarding school, surrounded by motorsport and homework and people who don’t know how to steam milk into a heart shape. 

It’ll be better this way.

At least that’s the plan.

He’s halfway home when he nearly collides with you on the footpath.

“Oh! Oscar, right?” you say, blinking up at him like he’s an unexpected surprise.

He freezes. “Um.”

“You left in a hurry. Not a fan of the other barista?” You tilt your head, a teasing smile tugging at your mouth.

Oscar feels like he might short-circuit. “I— I just noticed you weren’t there,” he blurts out, horrified as the words tumble out without permission.

Your smile grows. “Noticed, huh?”

“I mean—” He’s desperate to backtrack, but it’s useless. The damage is done. You’re grinning, and he can already imagine the relentless teasing he’d get if his sisters caught wind of this.

“You’re heading home?” you ask, mercifully letting him off the hook.

“Yeah,” he mutters, already planning to walk faster. Maybe he’ll get away with half-jogging the entire way. 

“Big plans for your last day of summer?”

He squints at you. “How’d you know it’s my last day?”

You tap your temple. “I’m observant.”

“Or you got it out of Hattie.”

“Maybe,” you say, shameless. Then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world: “Wanna grab a bite at Albert Park?”

Oscar blinks. “What?”

“There’s a food truck that sells the best fish and chips,” you explain. “It’s not too far. C’mon, it’s your last day home.”

“I—” He should say no. He was just lecturing himself on the walk back. 

But you’re looking at him like it’s not a big deal, like you’re not aware of the internal war waging in his head, and Oscar’s resolve crumples like paper.

“Okay,” he hears himself say, voice tight.

You beam. “Cool.”

Oscar follows you to Albert Park, his heart thudding with every step. He wonders if he’ll ever forgive himself for agreeing to this. Or if, maybe, it’ll turn out to be the best mistake he’s ever made.

The fish and chips are at least good. Better than good, actually, and Oscar begrudgingly tells you so between bites, like the admission costs him something. 

He tries to be subtle about how much he likes it, chewing carefully, but you notice anyway, your grin bright and uncontainable.

“Told you,” you say smugly, elbow propped on the table as you pick at your fries. “You doubted me, didn’t you?”

“I don’t usually trust people who enjoy serving coffee for a living,” he deadpans.

You laugh, and the sound rattles through him like a loose bolt. “Fair,” you concede. “But I’m right about most things, so you should get used to it.”

Oscar snorts but doesn’t argue. He’s happy enough to let you fill the gaps in conversation, listening as you ramble about everything from the café’s horrible playlist to how the Albert Park sunset is always a little better in the summer. 

He only nods and hums, content to let your words fill the space between bites.

But then you flip the script.

“So,” you start, resting your chin on your hand. “When do you start boarding school again?”

“Monday.”

You make a face. “Brutal.”

Oscar shrugs. “It’s not that bad.”

“Sure,” you say, dubious. “And racing? How’s that going?”

His fingers pause around a chip. “You remember I race?”

“I’m not some ditzy barista, you know.” You tilt your head, like you’re studying him. “I know you kart. Or, karted?”

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “I moved up to junior formulae this year.”

Your eyes widen. “That’s huge, right?”

“I guess.”

You nudge his foot under the table. “Don’t be modest. It’s cool.”

He looks away, that telltale heat prickling at his collar again. “It’s not, like, F1 or anything.”

“Yet,” you point out.

Oscar smiles, small and self-conscious. “That’s the goal, I guess.”

“You guess?” You feign offense, sitting up straighter. “You guess? Come on. Say it with your chest.”

He laughs, shaking his head. Then, a little louder, a little firmer, “I want to drive in F1.”

“See?” you say, satisfied. “Not so hard, was it?”

Oscar’s throat tightens around the next bite. It is hard— saying it out loud. It makes the dream sound ridiculous, even when he knows exactly how much he’s giving up to chase it.

It makes it sound real. 

But you don’t tease him. You only smile, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“That’s awesome,” you say. “Can I have your number?”

Oscar nearly chokes. “What?”

“Your number,” you repeat, leaning back with an easy grin. “Would be cool to have a future F1 driver on speed dial.”

He huffs out a laugh, assuming you’re joking. You must be joking. People don’t ask for his number.

Oscar doesn’t give it to you, brushing it off like it’s nothing, and you don’t press. The two of you linger at Albert Park until the sky blushes purple, talking until Oscar’s curfew has him bidding you goodbye. 

It’s only when he’s halfway home, kicking at loose gravel on the footpath, that it hits him like a freight train.

You might’ve actually been serious.

Oscar groans, dragging a hand down his face.

He never does figure out if you’d meant it. 

He reconciles with the fact that he’ll only see you in the summers and during off-seasons. It becomes a rhythm he slips into with practiced ease, like shifting gears without thinking.

His sisters’ teasing remains relentless, but he endures it because they’re right— he can’t seem to stay away from the café. 

It’s a quiet sort of comfort, walking in and hearing your voice floating through the space, catching snippets of your conversations with regulars before you inevitably drift his way.

He contemplates asking for your number or your socials more times than he can count, always catching himself at the last second. The thought lingers like an engine idling, never quite stalling out but never revving forward either. 

He tells himself it’s fine. The café is your domain, a fixed point in the chaos of his ever-moving life. 

It’s fine. It’s enough. It has to be. 

In the break before he transitions into Formula Two, you place his usual non-coffee drink on the counter with a different sort of grin.

“You’re looking at the new owner of this place,” you announce, voice light with amusement. “The old man decided to go on a lifelong cruise. Said he wants to see the world while he still can.”

Oscar blinks. “He gave you the café?”

“Left it in my name. He figured I’d been running it anyway, might as well make it official.” You tilt your head. “What about you? I saw the news — Formula Two, huh? That’s huge.”

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s... a step closer.”

You lean against the counter, eyes warm. “Congrats, Piastri. Guess we both got what we wanted.”

He smiles and mumbles a quiet “Congrats to you too,” but as he takes his drink and watches you serve other customers, he’s not sure how true that statement is. 

Because he thinks about how your name is tied to this café now, how you belong to this little pocket of Melbourne while he chases circuits around the world. 

And he wonders— for the first time, with startling clarity— if what he wants might not be as far from this place as he thought.

Oscar doesn’t have time to dwell on it. 

That’s what he tells himself, anyway. He’s too busy. Too preoccupied with the whirlwind of signing with McLaren, of finally reaching the dream he’s been chasing since he first wrapped his fingers around a steering wheel. 

He celebrates with his family, his sisters loudly teasing him, his parents beaming with pride. It should be enough.

But then he finds himself at the café, hovering by the entrance, fingers curled around the door handle.

The bell jingles when he steps inside, sharp against the hum of the espresso machine. You glance up from wiping down the counter, eyebrows raising in surprise.

“We’re closed in ten,” you call out, drying your hands on a dish towel.

Oscar nods, shutting the door behind him. The sleeves of his hoodie are shoved up to his elbows, hair mussed like he’s been running his fingers through it. His heart is pounding, and he tells himself it’s just leftover adrenaline from the day’s excitement.

“I know. I just—” He falters, mouth opening and closing before he finally blurts out, “I got signed. With McLaren.”

You blink, then toss the dish towel onto the counter.

“Wait, what?”

He barely gets a nod in before you’re circling out from behind the counter, barreling into him with enough force to make him stumble back a step. Oscar stiffens at first, arms hovering awkwardly around you— then he exhales, tension seeping from his shoulders as he wraps his arms around you in return.

“Holy crap,” you say, squeezing him tight. “You did it. Oscar Piastri, you’re a Formula One driver.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, like he’s still trying to believe it himself. His voice is quieter when he adds, “I wanted to tell you in person.”

You pull back, beaming up at him. “I’m so proud of you. Seriously. I can’t wait to see you race.”

His heart thuds against his ribs, too loud, too fast. He drops his arms when you do, shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie.

His face feels hot, but you don’t seem to notice, already launching into a ramble about how you’re going to make the café play the races on the TV in the corner.

Oscar watches you talk, nodding along, though he can’t really process your words. All he can think about is the way your smile had split your face, how easily you’d hugged him, how your arms had fit around him like you belonged there.

He leaves that night more certain than ever.

This crush isn’t going anywhere.

Oscar privately decides he’ll use the feelings to his advantage. A secret, unspoken fuel source. It becomes most obvious at his first-ever home race.

The roar of the crowd fades into static beneath the hum of his engine, but he knows they’re there. Knows the grandstands are packed with fans waving papaya flags, knows somewhere among them are his parents and sisters— and maybe you.

He pretends you are. Imagines you leaning forward in your seat, hands cupped around your mouth as you cheer. He thinks about how you’d probably tease him later if he botched his first home race, how you might promise him a pity pastry from the café if he placed last.

That thought alone keeps his foot steady on the throttle.

He crosses the finish line in eighth, his first points in Formula One. The team is ecstatic, patting his back and ruffling his hair until he can barely breathe through the congratulations. 

Later, at the house, the celebration is in full swing. His family is buzzing with excitement, and the living room is littered with leftover food and streamers. Still, Oscar keeps glancing at the door, brow furrowed. 

He tells himself the weight in his chest is only exhaustion, not the ridiculous, misplaced disappointment that you aren’t at the post-race party.

“What’s your problem?” Edie asks, plopping onto the couch next to him.

He shrugs, pretending to focus on the race replay flashing on the TV. “Nothing. Just tired.”

Edie snorts. “Yeah, sure. You’ve been looking at the door like a lost puppy. Thought you’d finally get your act together and invite your favorite barista?”

Oscar flushes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh.” Edie smirks, then gestures toward the kitchen. “They sent stuff, by the way. Practically wiped out their stock.”

He blinks, heart thudding as he follows hsi sister into the kitchen. The counter is packed with pastries and drinks, each one carefully labeled. A small, folded note sits on top of the pile, your handwriting unmistakable.

For future world champion OP81. I’ll save a spot on the TV for your podium finish.

Oscar stares at the note for a beat too long, then flips it shut, like that’ll stop the embarrassing warmth spreading through him.

He’s suddenly, overwhelmingly glad you’re not there, because he might’ve done something incredibly stupid. Like kissed you.

Or worse— asked you to keep a spot open forever.

Oscar’s schedule is relentless, though. An endless cycle of races, travel, media obligations. He still makes it back home when he can, even if it’s just for a few days. The café becomes a pit stop as routine as visiting his parents.

He never stays long, though. He catches glimpses of you between customers, exchanges pleasantries, hears about you secondhand through his sisters’ chatter.

Edie mentions you started taking a business course. Hattie swears you went on a date (Oscar pretends he doesn't care). Mae tells him you got a new coffee machine.

But it’s never from you.

Until one evening, when he swings by the café, and you ask him to stay until closing.

His heart lodges itself in his throat.

The café empties out, and Oscar helps you stack chairs and wipe tables. His fingers jitter against the rag, adrenaline buzzing under his skin like he’s on the starting grid. He wonders how he’ll respond when you confess, how to let you down gently when he inevitably leaves for another race weekend. 

(He also can’t stop imagining what it would be like to kiss you.)

When you finally sit him down, your words knock the air out of his lungs.

“The café might close,” you say, tone steadier than your hands wringing your apron in your lap. “Rent’s gone up, and I just... I don’t know if I can keep up."

Oscar stares, words dissolving before they can form. He thinks about the old man who first owned the place, about you proudly taking over. He thinks about all the hours he’s spent lingering here, all the drinks you’ve made him, all the moments he’s stolen just to see you.

The idea of it all disappearing feels like a punch to the chest.

“I just thought you should know,” you continue, voice quieter now. “You've been coming here for years, and— I don’t know, I guess I wanted to thank you for that. For being a loyal customer.” 

Oscar frowns. “I’m not just— I mean, yeah, I like the café, but…”

You smile, but it’s small, tired. “I know. But still. It means a lot. And hey, we had a good run, right?”

He hates the way you talk like it's already over.

Without thinking, he reaches across the table and covers your hand with his own. You flinch, just barely, before curling your fingers around his.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, like it’s something you should apologize for.

“Don’t be,” he says back. 

He doesn’t know what else to offer. And so he holds your hand, and the two of you sit in relative silence.

Oscar tries not to think of this being the last time he’ll get to do this. He resists the urge to study the weight of your hand, because then that would be admitting to a certain kind of preemptive loss. 

You close up shop, the two of you lingering outside the café under the glow of the streetlights, hands still linked. The night air is cool, the streets quiet, and it feels like you’re waiting for something.

Oscar doesn’t know what.

He racks his brain for words, for solutions, for something that might make you stay, but all he comes up with is static. The same helplessness he feels when a car failure knocks him out of a race.

You give his hand a gentle squeeze. “Good night, Oscar.”

“Good night,” he says, his fingers tightening around yours for a fraction of a second before he’s letting you go. 

He watches you walk away, the distance stretching between you like a rubber band about to snap. And— as usual— he doesn’t realize what to do or say until much, much later.

But he knows you’ll forgive him for this one.

It takes some convincing, some pulling of strings. In the end, he doesn’t know if he even manages it. Not until he’s back in Melbourne for the prix, and Lando is bringing him closer to the spot he’s tried to avoid all morning. 

“New caterer this year,” Lando says, peering at his phone. “Some local place. Looks sick.”

Oscar feigns interest, even as dread pools in his stomach.

He lasts all of twenty minutes before Lando physically drags him to the hospitality area. Oscar immediately clocks the familiar pastries, the neat line of carefully curated drinks— but it’s the sight of you, grinning behind the counter, that sends his pulse into overdrive.

“Oh, this is dangerous,” Lando jokes. “I might never leave.”

Oscar, meanwhile, contemplates leaving immediately.

You spot him mid-pour, your smile faltering. And Oscar knows he’s screwed.

The confrontation comes after Lando flits away, croissant in hand, leaving Oscar cornered by the espresso machine.

“You.” You jab a finger at his chest. “You did this.”

Oscar glances around him. The Netflix boom microphone is gracefully not around. No one from his team is, either.

He allows himself this small joy of bickering with you. “Technically, McLaren did this,” he says dryly. 

“Bullshit.” Your eyes narrow, but there’s no real venom. “You got me this gig so I could afford to keep the café, didn’t you?”

A corner of his lip twitches upward. “You’ve got no proof.”

You stare at him for a beat, then you let out an exasperated sigh. That smile of yours— the one that has ruined Oscar for everyone else— threatens to break on your face. “I could kiss you, you know,” you say, and he privately wishes you’d run him over with a car instead. 

You’re kidding. You sound like you’re kidding. But Oscar isn’t fifteen and stupid anymore. The only thing that hasn’t changed from back then is the way he feels for you, and it’s what has him finally giving in.

“How about I give you my number first?” he says. 

It takes you a moment. A full thirty seconds to realize what he’s getting at.

When it does hit you, though, you laugh. “A couple years late, Piastri,” you jab. 

Oscar dares to meet your eyes. He hopes it doesn’t show on his face— the way his heart is clenching in his chest. 

His voice is quieter when he says, “Please tell me you still want it.”

Your smile softens. 

He braces himself for a gentle denial, a spiel about friendship. Instead, he holds his breath as you fish for your phone. 

“Put it in before I change my mind,” you say, sliding it across the counter. Your coolness is betrayed by just the hint of giddiness in your tone, because you’ve wanted this for as long as he has, haven’t you? You hadn’t been kidding back then, and you still want this. 

Still want him. 

Oscar fumbles to type his number, adrenaline roaring louder than any engine. When he hands the phone back, your fingers brush his, lingering just a second too long.

“Good luck out there,” you tell him.

Oscar doesn’t feel like he needs any luck. 

Not when he finally, finally got the win that mattered most. ⛐

[marvelstoriesepic]

Change your mind

Pairing: College!Athlete!Bucky x College!Reader

Summary: Natasha drags you to an NYU baseball game. And despite yourself, one player catches your attention.

Word Count: 6.5k

Warnings: Bucky’s charm; Bucky being flirty; Bucky showing off; Reader checking out baseball players lol; Reader not being interested in baseball (at first)

Author’s Note: I've been craving some flirty college Bucky after all the angst I've been writing. So that’s what I came up with. It is also meant as a little celebration fic because I've got over 1500 followers and that’s so amazing! Thank you so much!! Hope you enjoy! ♡

Divider by @thecutestgrotto ♡

Masterlist

You haven’t been to a single game since the semester started - since any semester started, to be real. And honestly, you have been content with that. Satisfyingly so.

Your time is better spent attending to assignments, slogging through your part-time job at the library, or doing literally anything else besides sitting in the stands and watching a bunch of guys chase a ball around a field, or whatever the hell this sport even is about.

Baseball isn’t your thing, it never has been and it never will be.

You’ve been complaining about it the whole way here. Dramatically so, but you didn’t care. Your best friend can handle you and your antics.

“You know, I can think of at least a dozen things I should be doing right now instead of this,” you grumble, trailing behind her as she weaves through the crowd in search of seats.

Natasha sighs sharply and throws you a glare over her shoulder. “God, would you quit whining? This is good for you.”

“I fail to see how,” you shoot back, adjusting the strap of your bag as you begrudgingly follow her.

But Natasha just smirks. That dangerous little smirk that means she’s about to say something you won’t have a comeback for. “You know,” she muses, eyes darting playfully in your direction. “I didn’t think I’d have to twist your arm to come watch a bunch of hot guys running around out there.”

A brow of yours lifts. “Alright, hold on-” you jab a finger in her direction “-I never said I was against that part.”

She scoffs, clearly pleased with herself, and you grin, nudging her with your elbow as the two of you settle into your seats.

“Besides,” you continue, voice dripping with amusement. “I don’t think you should be making comments like that when we both know you’re here for one guy in particular.”

Natasha only shrugs, all nonchalant, but the corner of her mouth tugs lightly upward. “So what if I am?”

You snicker. “I mean, nothing. I just think it’s cute how whipped you are.”

She rolls her eyes, but her lip is still twitching. Natasha and Steve have only been dating for a few weeks, but you see the way she looks at him. And as much as you complain about being dragged here, you suppose watching your best friend fall stupidly in love is kind of entertaining.

Even if you have to suffer through a baseball game to witness it.

You lean back against the hard metal bleachers, arms crossed as your gaze falls across the field.

It’s a decent night, warm with just enough of a breeze to keep the air from feeling stifling. And even though you’d rather be anywhere else right now, you can’t deny that seeing Natasha like this - light in her eyes, a weird softness in her expression - makes the whole ordeal slightly less painful.

Steve is out on the field, stretching with his team, and Natasha is watching him with this reserved kind of smile. The kind that sneaks up on a person when they don’t realize they’re doing it. You smirk to yourself. Yeah, she’s got it bad. But honestly, you are happy for her. They look good together, and she certainly deserves someone who looks at her the way Steve does.

Natasha must catch you watching her because she suddenly turns, an all-too-knowing glint in her eye. You don’t like that look.

“And who knows,” she says, spreading her legs out in front of her, voice hinting at humor, “maybe your future husband’s down there right now.”

You snort, rolling your eyes so hard they might get stuck. “Oh, yeah, sure. He’s just waiting for me to sweep him off his feet in the middle of a stretch.”

She smirks. “Could happen.”

You shake your head. “Yeah, no thanks. I'm all for watching a bunch of hot guys get all sweaty and run around in tight pants, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” You gesture vaguely toward the field. “That’s just spectating. Everything else is a hard pass.”

Natasha quirks a brow, tilting her head at you. “Oh, come on, Y/n. It’s not that bad.”

You shoot her a look. “Nat, the last guy I went out with, Peter Quill, you remember?-” You don’t wait for her nod “-he told me, verbatim, that he doesn’t believe in seasoning his food. And the guy before that showed up to our date in cargo shorts and a fedora and spent two hours explaining why The Wolf of Wall Street is the peak of cinema.”

She winces. “Oof.”

“Yeah. So forgive me if I’m not that eager to throw myself back into the trenches.” You pause. “Also, I’m super busy.”

Natasha laughs, shaking her head as she turns back toward the field. “Well, if you ever change your mind, I’ll be sure to put in a good word with one of Steve’s teammates.”

You scoff. “Wow, generous and delusional. I’m so lucky to have you as a friend.”

She nudges you with her shoulder, smirking. “The luckiest.”

Huffing, you sink deeper into your seat. Well, at least there is one upside to all of this. If nothing else, you can at least appreciate the view.

Your eyes wander over the team as they move across the field, warming up, adjusting their gloves, casually tossing a ball back and forth.

And yeah, you can admit it - objectively speaking, they look good. Athletic builds, toned arms, legs that fill out those pants just right. It’s a nice view, even if you’re not about to go throwing yourself into the dating pool again, so soon.

Your gaze drifts back to Steve, mostly because he’s the only one you actually know - if only a little. But before you can really focus on him, someone steps into your line of sight, half-blocking the blonde from view.

The number 17 fills out your vision.

Your head tilts instinctively, curiosity sparking before you know it. The guy in front of Steve is tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy stance that suggests he’s completely at home out there on the field.

His uniform fits him in a way that makes you annoyingly aware of just how well built he is - jersey stretched firm across his upper back, the sleeves tight around his biceps, pants snug in all the right places. His chestnut hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck underneath the baseball cap he is wearing, and he stands so casually confident that it makes it impossible to not look at him.

Have you maybe seen him around campus before? You should have, right? Someone like him doesn’t just blend into the background. Maybe in the halls, in one of those massive lecture rooms, passing by in the library, maybe when you're on shift. But you are sure, that if you saw that guy, you would have remembered him.

“See something you like?”

Natasha’s smug voice snaps you out of your thoughts and you catch the smirk she is throwing your way.

Scoffing, you tighten your arms around yourself and glance back at the field. Number 17 is still standing there, talking with Steve, completely unaware of the fact that you’ve just spent the past minute analyzing every inch of his backside.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” you deny, keeping your tone even.

Natasha snorts, bumping her knee against yours. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“For what?”

She nods her head to the field. “For dragging you here. For the eye candy. For giving you the opportunity to meet your future ex-husband.”

You huff out a laugh. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll see.”

Inevitably, your eyes move back to number 17, and you can’t help but think that if you haven’t seen him before, why it feels like you should have.

He’s turning.

Wait, he’s turning.

Your breath hitches and stays stuck in your throat uncomfortably, and suddenly he’s looking at you. Did he feel your eyes on him? Does he somehow know that you eyed him up like a complete creep? But just as the heat of panic can spark in your chest, you realize he’s not even looking at you.

He’s looking at Natasha.

Your shoulders loosen slightly. Steve also has turned his gaze toward the stands, his affective smile directed at your friend as well. He probably told the brunette that she’s here.

Number 17 lifts a hand in a casual wave, movement smooth, and even that simple gesture kind of looks way hotter than you want to feel right now.

Natasha only gives a small, lazy nod in return.

You expect the brunette to turn back around after that, to go back to whatever pre-game thing they were doing. But he doesn’t.

His attention shifts. To you.

Your stomach makes a flip before your brain can decide how to handle it.

His eyes are sharp, the exact color lost to the distance, but it seems to be something blueish. His expression is unreadable, his head tilting slightly as if assessing you. The stadium lights cast a glow over his features, highlighting the sharpness of his jaw, and the way his mouth seems to settle into something just shy of a smirk.

Immediately, you whip your head around to Natasha, eyes wide.

“Do you know that guy?” you ask, trying to sound more casual than you feel.

Natasha doesn’t even bother looking at you. She’s still watching Steve, her lips curving higher as if knowing what she’s doing.

“He’s Steve’s best friend.”

You blink. “Steve’s best friend?”

Your gaze falls back to the field against your better judgment but Number 17 has already turned back to Steve, talking to the blonde who now is sporting a smirk just like Natasha’s.

“You never mentioned him before,” you comment, though it comes out a little too measured.

Natasha of course picks up on it immediately.

“Should I have?” she counters, dragging the words out just a little.

You narrow your eyes at her but she only continues smirking.

And again, your gaze falls back to Number 17. God, why can’t you stop checking him out. The white baseball pants of his do absolutely nothing to hide the strength in his legs. His hair at his nape is slightly messy from running around and you wonder if it would feel soft if you put your hands on it.

You shake that thought right off again.

It’s not like it matters.

Still, you shift in your seat, arms tightening. “I just think it’s interesting that you never brought him up before when he’s his best friend.”

Natasha exhales a laugh through her nose, finally glancing over at you, her eyes glinting with something mischievous. “I mean, I could have.”

“And you didn’t because…?”

“Because,” she says sultry, shrugging one shoulder. “I figured you’d meet him eventually.”

There is something pointed in the way she says it, something deliberate, and you don’t like that it sends a small tingle of anticipation through you.

“So, what’s his deal, then?” you keep going, not even knowing why.

Natasha hums, stretching her limbs languidly. Her voice is sly. “His deal?”

“You know,” you press, trying not to sound too interested, although, fucking hell, you are. “Like, what’s his major? Have you seen him around before?”

She turns to you again, and oh, that look on her face is entirely too smug. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You huff. “Nat.”

Her smirk only deepens. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

Before you can answer, she looks past you, over your shoulder, down the steps.

Her expression doesn’t change but her smirk gets a little too satisfied, a little too wicked.

You quickly follow her gaze and, oh shit.

A heavy beat thuds against your ribs before your heart remembers how to move properly as your eyes follow the unmistakable figure making his way up the stairs.

Number 17.

And he is coming right toward you.

You inhale sharply, sitting up a little straighter, trying to act like this isn’t throwing you off balance. His steps are easy and unhurried as if giving you the time to check him out some more. And even though you should know better, you do.

His uniform is wrinkled from warm-ups, the fabric clinging in ways that are frankly unfair, and his dark hair curls enough to look annoyingly good.

He reaches your row. And despite the fact that Natasha should logically be the person he came up for, he isn’t looking at her when he speaks.

His eyes land directly on you.

“Steve sent me up,” he says, voice low and smooth, a pleased drawl rolling through his words. “Said he forgot his water bottle or somethin’.”

You blink and try to shake off what his voice does to your body. Crossing one leg over the other, you feign indifference.

“Yeah,” Natasha says, sounding way too delighted. “She’s got it.” She slaps your arm lightly with her hand.

You turn to her confused. “Huh?”

“I asked you to put it in your bag since mine’s smaller.” She raises an eyebrow.

“Didn’t know it’s Steve’s,” you mutter, then glare at her for a second before reaching down to retrieve the damn thing.

Natasha looks triumphant.

When you pull the bottle free and hold it out to the guy standing in front of you, he takes it with his fingers brushing against yours in a way that feels very intentional.

“Thanks, doll.”

His tone is silk spun into sound and hell, it glides over your skin, making it prickle underneath your sweater.

He has the bottle now but doesn’t step away yet. His eyes linger on you.

“Never seen you ‘round here before,” he remarks, studying you with open interest. His lips tug a little as if he is holding back a full grin. As if he is pleased.

You meet his gaze and swallow, keeping your expression open but neutral even as something sparks under your skin. “Yeah, it’s my first game.”

His lips press together like he’s trying not to fully smirk. “No kiddin’.” There is something about the way he says it that you can’t place.

You lift a brow and tilt your head slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “Just figured I woulda noticed you before, is all.”

Oh.

Oh, damn.

You know flirting when you hear it. And that was flirting.

You clear your throat, but a smile is trying to makes its way over your mouth. “Do you say that to all the girls in the stands?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Nah. Just you.”

Heat winds through your stomach. Because there is an easy, matter-of-fact kind of confidence in his voice.

Biting his lip, he studies you some more. Eyes intensely on you. “So you ain’t much of a baseball fan, then,” he hums. His voice is a low timbre.

You scoff, but can’t help the amused smile lifting your lips. “Not quite my thing.”

“Maybe I can change that.”

You almost choke on your next breath, because oh. He’s good. And hell, that came fast.

Natasha cackles. You ignore her.

Your fingers play with the fabric of your jeans. “Smooth,” you assess, unable to help the wry lilt in your voice.

He grins. Lopsided. Charming. Devastatingly handsome, oh god so help me. “Yeah? That workin’ for me?”

You roll your eyes, but it’s all for show. “Debatable.”

Natasha snorts.

His smirk is deep. There is a twinkle in his blue eyes. He stares at you like that for a second.

“I’m Bucky.” His voice is softened a fraction. His tone is genuine.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

His head moves to the side a little, the corner of his mouth twitching. “And you are?”

You tell him your name and his gaze lingers, his smirk edging into something thoughtful.

“Huh,” he muses.

You frown slightly. “What?”

He shrugs, still watching you, maybe even looking a little bashful. “Dunno. Just- I like it. Suits you.”

That somehow feels worse than the flirting.

You feel your face heat and you hate that Natasha can probably see it.

There is a shout coming from the dugout. “Barnes, get your ass down here, now!”

That must be their trainer Fury.

But Bucky stays standing there, looking at you for a beat longer, biting his lip and scratching the back of his neck. Then he takes a step back, spinning the water bottle once in his hand. “Guess I’ll see ya next game, doll,” he charms.

You blink, eyebrows up. “That’s a bold assumption.”

He just grins, throwing you a wink. “Nah. I got a feelin’.”

And just like that, he turns, heading back down toward the field, leaving you sitting there slightly dazed.

It takes a moment for your brain to start working again.

You feel Natasha leaning in but are not ready to meet that sly expression.

“We both know you’ll be here next time.”

Infuriatingly, you know she is right.

“I hate you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The game kicks off, but you are not watching it the way you thought you would.

Because he’s on the field.

And, well damn.

You tell yourself you’re just curious. That’s all it is. You’re not actually watching him. You’re just keeping an eye on him. Casual observation. A purely academic interest in how the game works.

Except, the longer you watch, the more you have to admit that he is good.

Really good.

His movements are seamless. It’s like an unbroken flow of precision and control as if the game is merely responding to him, not the other way around. He’s so natural, seems so at ease, and yet he moves so fast and sharp.

You can see the innate understanding he has, of how the game breathes. It’s impressive.

When he’s at bat, his stance is balanced to perfection, knees bent just enough, shoulders loose but poised. The pitcher winds up, releases, and before you can even register it fully, Bucky crushes that ball.

The sound of it is sharp, a crack that echoes through the field.

You track the ball as it soars high, way over the outfield. And then he’s running. He’s a cloud of white and navy as he rounds first base, feet hitting the dirt hard.

Natasha whistles low beside you. “Not bad, huh?” She doesn’t hide her smirk.

You press your lips together, determined to be neutral. “Yeah, well. Maybe I was just expecting less.”

Your best friend lets out a half-amused, half-exaggerated breath through her nose. “You weren’t.”

You want to throw her a glare but that would mean you’d have to take your eyes off Bucky and somehow you can’t manage that.

So you only huff and lean further into your seat.

But even as he plays, you can’t shake the feeling that perhaps he somehow tries a little more than necessary.

There are subtle indications. The way he lingers just a bit longer when he looks up toward the stands, the slight, extra flourish in the way he moves. The exaggerated ease of it all.

Oh, hell.

As he rounds third base, his gaze snaps up.

Right at you.

And he winks.

Your stomach plummets. Heat boils along your spine, and you freeze for half a second, caught completely fucking off guard.

The grin he shoots you is smug and holds a knowing edge, seeing the way your eyes are already on him, seeing your reaction, and thriving on it.

Natasha grasps your arm, gasping. “Oh my God.”

She is overly dramatic on purpose and you hate it.

You tear your gaze away from him and glare at her. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I'm starting,” she laughs, delighted. “That guy’s showing off for you.”

“He is not,” you hiss, trying and failing to ignore the warmth along your neck. Spreading and spreading up to your cheeks.

“That was textbook showing off, babe.”

You bite your lip, refusing to give her the satisfaction of the reaction she wants to see.

But maybe she’s not wrong.

The game continues, and despite your best efforts, your eyes keep finding him.

The more you watch, the more obvious it becomes.

The smooth way he catches the ball in the outfield, hardly needing to look before launching it straight to second base. The way he moves just a little bit slower after a play like he knows there are eyes on him. The way his grin sharpens when he hears the cheers, the teasing comments from his teammates.

And apparently, Steve notices, too.

Because after a particularly showy throw - one that was definitely more dramatic than necessary - Steve jogs past him and smacks him on the back of the head.

You faintly hear Bucky’s startled grunt from the bleachers.

Natasha snickers beside you.

Steve is muttering something to him, but the brunette only grins, backing away with his arms outstretched and shoulders pulled up in an unbothered shrug. And his eyes immediately find you. You look away hastily.

Your best friend leans in, voice low and teasing. “Change your mind about dating yet?”

Sinking lower in your seat, you move your hand through your hair. “This is ridiculous.”

But even as you say it, you glance back at Bucky.

And he’s still looking at you.

This time, you don’t look away.

Another smack lands across the back of his head and he is forced to drag his eyes away from you to grumble at the guy who is grinning from ear to ear, enjoying whatever the hell this is between Bucky and you.

“You’re actin’ real thirsty right now, Barnes,” the voice of the other player sounds out, loud enough for you to make out some words. “Hey, I mean, I get it. She’s cute. But can you focus, man?”

Flustered, you shove your hands between your thighs and curl a little bit inward.

“Shut up, Sam,” Bucky warns, rolling his shoulders and throwing a hard look at his teammate before jogging back to his position.

You don’t miss the way he shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair after lifting the cap for a moment as if he is trying to gather himself.

Your heart is beating in a weird rhythm. Your hands are a little sweaty and you hate that Natasha notices.

“Well, well,” she teases, watching Bucky get into position. “Looks like you’re a motivator.”

“Do you ever stop?”

“Not when it’s this much fun,” she grins, eyes swimming in mischief. “And clearly not when my best friend’s about to have my boyfriend's buddy ask for her number.”

It’s your time to smirk. “Boyfriend?” you chirp. “I'm sure Steve would like to know you calling him that behind his ba-”

“There’s no turning this around, babe. I’m the one with the power here,” she chides, but she is suppressing a smile. “No go ahead and continue to watch your future boyfriend.” She turns your shoulder forward to the field.

“He’s not-”

“Watch.”

You do.

And the longer the game goes on, you try to keep telling yourself that you’re going to stop watching him. But no matter how much you try to focus on anything else - the scoreboard, the crowd, even the actual game - your eyes don’t listen.

They keep wandering back to him. To the way he moves, his effortless command of the field.

It’s the way he seems to own every second he’s out there like he is meant to be on the field. And he seems to love it. His body moves with an instinctive kind of grace, muscles shifting under the snug fit of his uniform, every motion thought through but natural.

When he takes his spot at shortstop, you admire the confidence of his stance. He’s completely at home. He stands relaxed but his eyes are sharp and focused, scanning the field.

And when the ball comes his way, his gloved hand snatches it mid-air before his arm whips it across the diamond in a clean throw.

It’s irritatingly impressive.

You try to convince yourself that he plays like this all the time - that this isn’t for you at all - but there is something nagging at the back of your mind. Something in the way he carries himself, the extra little flair in the way he moves.

He really seems to be putting on a small show and you can’t shake the feeling that you might be the only one in the audience that actually matters to him. You don’t know how to feel about that.

Natasha catches you watching again. “Mhm,” she hums, knowingly. Not at all subtle about it.

You throw her a burning look. “Shut up, Nat.”

She smirks and tilts her head. “You want to be the one he’s showing off for.”

You release a sharp breath, looking at the darkened sky faintly lit by the stadium lights. “If I did, I’d be enjoying it, wouldn’t I? I just think he’s- trying a little hard. Like he’s-”

You don’t get to finish that sentence because the crowd erupts again. The score is tied. This is the final inning.

Your throat constricts as Bucky walks up to plate, adjusting his cap like he’s been waiting for this moment. He taps the bat against the plate once, twice, and tilts his head at the pitcher. You watch the way Bucky’s muscles coil, the readiness, the concentration.

The pitcher winds up. The stadium is silent.

The ball is pitched.

Bucky swings.

Crack.

The sound echoes across the field as Bucky swings and connects perfectly, the entire stadium staring with bated breath. The ball rockets up into the night sky, impossibly high, soaring straight over the center field fence.

It’s gone. A home run.

The crowd erupts, students leaping to their feet, fists pumping, voices carrying through the air. Natasha is already up, grabbing your wrist and yanking you up beside her.

“That’s your man,” Natasha yells over the noise, pointing at the field. “That’s your home run, babe!”

“Oh my god, Nat, he’s not-” you start, but you are cut off by the thunder of feet around you, students leaping onto the bleachers, fists raised, chanting his name.

Just like the others, you are watching Bucky jog around the bases at a confident pace, brushing a hand through his sweaty hair again.

You’re honestly a little overwhelmed with this whole thing. Trying to catch up to the way Bucky moves as if it’s the easiest thing in the world for him, like sending a ball out of the park is just something he does on a casual Tuesday.

And then, just as he crosses home plate, the team swarming him, he turns his head up.

Right to you.

The whole world seems to slow for just a second. Your breath is lost in your throat when your eyes lock. There is a heat in his gaze, but it shifts from exhilaration to something softer. He beams up at you for that special moment, blue eyes shining under the stadium lights, his grin wide.

Your pulse hammers in a way you really don’t want to acknowledge.

You are clapping, like all the others.

And there is something changing in his expression. The corner of his mouth curls in a way as if he can’t believe what he is seeing. His confidence falters for a brief second, replaced by something almost sheepish. His hand scrubs over his face, attention caught by his teammates, but there definitely is a hint of pink dusting his cheeks at your small cheers.

The other players pull him into a rough embrace and for a moment you don’t see him at all, the rest jumps around him in celebration.

“Alright, come on, let’s get down there,” Natasha says, grabbing your wrist again.

“Wait, what?” you sputter as she pulls you toward the railing, making her way down the steps, dragging you with her.

“You are not going to be the only one still sitting while your boyfriend-”

“Stop that-”

“-just won the damn game,” she finishes, waving you off as you scowl at her.

Before you know it, you’re at the very front of the stands, your hands coming together as the roar of the crowd vibrates through your bones.

You see Bucky looking over the chaos, his arms slung around his teammates, his chest rising and falling from exertion, when suddenly, his gaze catches you again.

That bright, wide grin now definitely softens. In a shit, you really were watching kind of way. His blue eyes scan your face as though he is trying to read every single thought rushing through your head right now.

Natasha is practically jumping beside you, cheering happily, so you don’t want to be a bummer and start clapping again. Looking at him.

His smile tries to widen, but Bucky bites his lip. And then, he actually looks bashful.

He dips his head just slightly, running another hand down his face, and this time it’s him looking away first.

But not before you catch that tiny flicker of something almost shy. For all his confidence, for all the easy charm he’s been throwing at you, all the flirtatious lines, something about your reaction to him is what makes him falter that little bit.

And oh how it does something to you. You don’t even fight the little smile on your lips as Natasha bumps her shoulder into yours.

“Shut up,” you murmur, but it sounds too light.

Natasha smirks. “I didn’t say anything.”

You roll your eyes and fold your arms over your chest to hide the way your hands are still itching to continue clapping.

The roar of the crowd slowly begins to settle, the energy of the game remaining charged in the air. The bleachers empty languidly, students pouring onto the field or shuffling toward the exits, their excitement buzzing in hurried conversations and triumphant chants.

The players begin filtering off the field, disappearing into the tunnel leading to the locker rooms. Some of them are still exchanging shoves and laughs, adrenaline still pumping through their veins.

Bucky walks alongside Steve, his uniform tightly handing off his frame.

But before he disappears with the rest of them he glances behind one last time. And, of course, it’s at you again. You shiver.

His glance is just a flicker of blue under the harsh stadium lights but it’s just a beat longer than you would expect. As if he is making sure you’re still here. As if he is worried you won’t be when he comes back out.

Then he’s gone.

“You see that?” Natasha assesses, leaning her weight into one hip, arms crossed.

“See what?” you ask, obviously annoyed.

She’s unbothered. “That boy just looked at you like a man checking to see if his car’s still parked outside.”

You groan. “God, shut up.”

“That never worked on me. You should know better.”

With an impish grin, she tugs at your wrist and guides you away from the bleachers.

“Come on, we’re waiting for them,” she says, already pulling you toward the tunnel exit.

“What? Nat-”

“Well, I’m waiting for Steve,” she says, “and you, my dear, have been eyefucking his best friend all night, so don’t even try to act like you don’t want to see him again.”

“Okay, come on,” you defend. “I have not-”

“-been staring at him, sure,” she interrupts, her smirk widening. “But only every time he wasn’t looking. Which, by the way, wasn’t often.”

You groan again but follow her anyway, because, at this point, you’re not even sure if you’re protesting for show or out of actual resistance.

Minutes go by as more people slowly tickle away, leaving only a few clusters of them lingering around, chatting under the lights.

The air is still warm, but the breeze carries enough of a chill to make you shift on your feet, arms folding over your chest as you wait.

And then, Steve and Bucky emerge from the locker room, side by side.

Steve’s blond hair is still damp from the shower, his team jacket slung over one shoulder. The moment he spots Natasha, his whole face softens. His stride quickens as he reaches her and he pulls her in for a kiss that is far sweeter than you expected from someone fresh out of a game.

Your best friend, for all her teasing confidence tonight, melts against him, fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket.

You feel happiness for her but you look away, feeling like you’re intruding on something intimate.

And before you can prepare yourself, Bucky is standing right in front of you.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he says, voice lower, less playful than before.

His hair is damp too, looking darker like that. He doesn’t wear his cap anymore, short brown tendrils resting on his forehead. His uniform is gone, replaced by a dark hoodie and jeans. And yet, he still looks every bit like the man who just stole the game with a home run. He looks handsome. You can even admit that.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll leave with Nat,” you answer, voice a little quieter than you would have liked it to be.

Bucky smiles. He shifts his weight, hands slipping into his pockets.

“Well, had to make sure you actually enjoyed yourself,” he says, tipping his head to the side, smirk slowly appearing. “Didn’t want you to suffer through it since you’ve already been dragged out here.”

You huff out a small laugh, looking at the ground before up at him again. “It wasn’t terrible.”

“Not terrible?” he echoes, feigning offense. “Sweetheart, I won the damn game. You were cheerin’ for me.”

It’s as if he needed to say it out loud. As if he’s been telling that to himself the whole time.

You bite your lip. Those nicknames will send you tumbling to the floor if you’re not careful. “Yes, well. You put on a good show.”

He grins something slow and smug. “And here I was thinkin’ you weren’t much of a baseball fan.”

You shift, laughing softly. “Still not, really.”

He hums, studying you so deeply. In a gentle way. But he takes his sweet time and it’s making you nervous. “I’ll change your mind.”

Your stomach does something weird - something that has everything to do with the way his voice dips slightly, the way it rumbles out so smoothly.

You narrow your eyes, trying to keep your cool. “I’d like to see you try.”

Bucky chuckles softly, rocking on the balls of his feet. He can’t stop watching you, moving his eyes around your features, your whole frame, as if wondering where you have been the whole time. He looks like he is trying to read every little thing written across your face.

Your chest feels a little too tight, and your pulse picks up the longer you look at him, the longer he looks at you.

The air is cooler now that the game is over, the heat from the crowd dissipating into the open night, and although you feel plenty heated up by his gaze and presence, you instinctively rub your arms, shifting on your feet.

“You cold?” Bucky’s voice is lower, and there is a soft gentleness to his tone, that sounds so sincere, you feel your knees grow weak.

You shake your head. “I’m fine.”

“I’ve got an extra jersey in my bag,” he offers as if he didn’t even hear you, already moving. “Or you can take this one-” He seems about to shrug off his hoodie instead.

You quickly hold up a hand to stop him. “No, really. I’m okay.”

Bucky pauses, squinting at you, mouth quirking as he eyes you a second longer. Then, as if he’s figured something out, his lips form a real smirk again.

���Alright,” he concedes easily, his weight tipping slightly to one side, then back again. “Guess I’ll just give it to you next time, then.”

You freeze just slightly, blinking up at him.

Next time.

You don’t quite know what to do with that.

You clear your throat, forcing words out. “Yeah. Next time.”

Bucky beams.

It’s a full-on, dazzling grin, cheeks high and rosy, eyes bright in a way that makes something overturn in your stomach.

He looks way too pleased with himself now. And you are way too aware of how warm your face feels.

You try to push yourself past the sudden rush of flustered energy. “Well, I guess I will see you around campus, then.”

Bucky hums, considering, still not taking his eyes off you. “Maybe,” his head turns to the side, making a pause. “Or I could just make sure.”

“Make sure?”

He pulls his hands from his hoodie pocket, adjusting his footing and running a hand through his hair, messing with the damp strands a little. He might just seem the slightest bit nervous.

Flipping his palm up expectantly, he looks at you with a glint of hope in his eyes. “Your phone.”

Your stomach does that turning-over thing again as you realize what he’s going on about. “Oh.”

You are fumbling to grab your phone out of your bag, fingers perhaps wavering a little and you are glad that Natasha is preoccupied at the moment to see this. Unlocking it, you hand it over to him.

Bucky takes it gently, fingers brushing yours. Again, it feels intentional.

The glow of the screen illuminates his face as he punches in his number, and presses to call himself so he’ll have your number as well before handing your phone back to you.

You glance down.

A new contact. Bucky Barnes.

Bucky watches you with a soft smile.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve calls, still standing with Natasha. You don’t see the triumphant smile those lovebirds share, busy trying not to show your disappointment of the night coming to an end. “We heading out?”

Bucky sighs, but he doesn’t break eye contact with you just yet.

“Guess that’s my cue,” he murmurs.

“Guess so.”

His feet shuffle against the floor. He seems not quite ready to end this conversation, taking a slow step backward, not turning away from you.

“See you next game, doll,” he says, words landing softer, quieter in a way. He speaks as if it matters.

You fidget with the sleeve of your sweater and let out an almost shy laugh. “Sure.”

Bucky smirks, holding up his phone and waving with it when walking further backward to Steve. “I’ll remind you.”

You watch him walk off with his best friend, watch him throw another grin over his shoulder at you, still feeling the heat that won’t stop tingling along your skin.

Your own best friend throws her arm around your shoulders.

This time, she keeps her mouth shut. She knows she doesn’t have to say anything anymore. There is no denying it any longer and you are well aware.

Because yeah, you might not be into baseball.

But you might be into Number 17.

“Flirting is a promise of something more.”

- Milan Kundera

[screensavorstudios]

I felt inspired. The characters belong to Sakura-Rose12, but I wanted to have some fun doing a little writing warm up. :)

Maribelle wiped the sweat from her brow as she carried in the last box from the moving van and set it proudly in the living room. Her living room. She grinned. It was official. She was now an official land owner. No more renting, no more bullshit landlords. She owned the place, and she could do whatever the hell she wanted with it.

Well, on the inside at least. That homeowners association thing seemed to think they could tell her what to do with the outside, but the inside was all hers. She took a deep breath of her new home and felt the excitement building in her chest. What should she do first? Unpack the kitchen? No, you always ordered in on the first day. You had to sample the local cuisine! 

In that case, maybe get the bedroom ready so she had somewhere to crash when she finally caught up to her? No, her new mattress wouldn’t arrive for at least another couple of days, and she had a perfectly good couch in the living room. What about setting up the bathroom? She could finally unpack that bath bomb and scented candle set her mother had given her for her birthday last year and stretch out in that big luxurious bathtub upstairs. Maybe even play some music and bring one of her favorite books in to read.

The kind about women who met things that went bump in the night in more ways than one…

She shook her head, grinning to herself. No, it was still pretty early in the day and those kinds of thoughts were better left for the evening. If she wanted to make good use of her time she should do something she wouldn’t be able to do later, like meet the neighbors and have a look around her new town.

With a smile, she checked that her key was still in her pocket, and headed out to meet her people.

***

Note to self, she thought two hours later as she trudged back to her home. Always visit a town first, before taking out a mortgage. No matter how good the deal is…

It turned out that the homeowners association was the least of the town's problems. The entire place was so mind-numbingly religious and puritan that she’d almost been arrested for indecent exposure the second she stepped outside because her shirt showed too much skin. She’d been let off with a warning, but come on! God forbid a woman have a body. The scandal.

Things hadn’t gotten much better from there. Everything about the town screamed bible thumper HQ. From the ten commandments painted on the side of the town hall, to the single church at the center of town that towered over every building around it for miles. To the pizza place with “The Lord is our only answer” painted in large red letters in the window next to a poster that said “carry out special $7.77 every Friday.”

The whole place had felt so stiflingly oppressive that when one woman had walked up to her and told her that she needed to stop dying her hair red because it was too distracting to the men in town she had opened her shirt all the way, flashed the bitch and retied it so even more cleavage was showing before shouting “There! Now they won’t be looking at my head.”

The woman had just stared that with a look of frozen horror on her face as Maribelle turned marched home to rip up her lease.

That had been thirty minutes ago, and she was now thoroughly, hopelessly, lost. What she had thought was shortcut through a park, was looking more and more like the dark forest out of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. The path she was on kept winding and splitting off at odd angles, and she was beginning to suspect that she was walking in circles.

She was just about to give up and turn around for the third time when she spotted a light amidst the trees. Stepping off the path, she followed it until she came to a large, run down looking mansion. A single window in the upstairs attic glowed with yellow light under the massive trees that seemed to bend over the mansion and keep it concealed from view even from above, blocking out the light even more than they had on the path.

Though she couldn’t explain why, her heart began pounding in her chest.

Without any options, Maribelle walked toward the porch, intending to knock on on the door and ask whoever was inside if she get directions back to the town. However the moment she set foot on the old creaky stairs the front door sprung open and a tremendous gust of wind came from behind that lifted her up into the air carried her inside the mansion. She tried to scream, but the wind spun her around quickly she had no chance to catch her breath. A split second later she tumbled across a soft carpeted floor and came to a stop in the middle of a dark, painfully silent room.

It took her a few minutes for her head to stop spinning off her shoulder, but once the world settled down again Maribelle sat up and found herself in what appeared to be a dark, long abandoned, art gallery. Picture frames covered the walls when along with cobwebs and cracks that seemed to grow and shift in the gloom. Several twisted and abstract sculptures stood on pedestals around the room, which seemed to suggest something either painful, perverse, or both. A thick layer of dust covered every picture on the walls, save for the eyes in them, which all appeared to be watching her with malicious fascination.

As she stood up, she heard the sound of a creaking floorboard behind her, and felt her breath catch in her chest.

“Why?”

The voice made her blood freeze in her veins. It was harsh, angry, almost other worldly, but with a deep sadness to it that was so profoundly human that it made her heart cry out for whoever had said it. She turned around to see who it was, and felt her eyes nearly bug out of her head.

Standing in the only exit out of the gallery, was a massive, eight foot tall, shape. It was vaguely humanoid, but it was almost impossible to look at directly. Her eyes seemed to glaze over where it was, and she could only make out the general shape of it by the parts of the room that weren’t it.

“Trespassing like all the others,” the voice said, dripping with equal parts sadness and rage. “Are you here to kill the foul witch too?”

Maribelle tried to speak, but terror and… something else had taken over her brain, she was unable to form words.

“Pathetic” the voice spat moving closer. . “You couldn’t possibly believe you could kill me. You humans make me sick. Believing you’re better than everyone else.”

Maribelle’s back hit the wall before she even realized she had been backing up. The thing dominated her entire field of view now. Some part of it, maybe a hand, maybe something else, reached forward and snaked its way around her neck. It prickled her skin where it made contact, like little discharges of static electricity. It wasn’t painful, but it carried the threat that it could be at any second.

“Why can’t you leave me in peace?!” the voice demanded, and Maribelle realized that question was probably going to be the last one she ever heard if didn’t do something.

Her mind swirling with terror and the pleasant electrical touch of the thing, her brain frantically searched for any scenario she knew of for ideas. For some reason, the only monster encounters she could think of at that moment were the ones in her romance novels. The only other confrontation she could think was how pissed off everyone in town had been because she had the audacity to have breasts.

In her moment of desperation, The soul of a Monster Fucker and spirit of Punk Rock Rebellion shook hands in her brain and agreed if they were going out, they were going to like a legend.

“Y-you seem really upset!” she screamed. “If you let me live you can touch my boobs!”

The world held its breath for a fraction of a second and Maribelle’s ultimatum hung in the air between her, and the creature.

Then the world exploded in a bright pink cloud of pastel glitter. The gloomy gallery was suddenly replaced by a bright, cheery, and (in every sense of the word) gay art museum. The eight foot tall imperceptible thing became a small witch, wearing a pleasant brown outfit with minty green accents and the most intense blush Maribelle had ever seen.

The woman gawked at her, her face burning, and a single word squeaked out past her lips.

“What?”

So I had a funny dream the other night.

It involved a very gay witch.

[ducktracy]

it's seriously so.. Something that i've had multiple people tell me that my posts are the first they're hearing about The Day the Earth Blew Up.. WHICH IS WHY I'M BEING AN OBNOXIOUS SHILL!!! some theaters have early releases as soon as TODAY (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) so please please be sure to check your local theaters and listings!! take a friend! take your family! in doing so you not only spread the message that people want to see more traditionally animated films, you not only convince WB you don't want to see movies that are glorified shoe commercials, you not only convince WB that they are dead wrong for attempting to write this off for tax purposes, but you get a pretty dang good film out of it, too! let director Pete Browngardt and supervising producer Alex Kirwan tell you the same 👇

personally, as someone who works in animation, i'm very against the messaging of "IF YOU DON'T WATCH THIS YOU ARE SINGLEHANDEDLY RESPONSIBLE FOR ANY FAILURE THAT COMES. YOU ARE MURDERING THE ANIMATORS". i find it condescending and unprofessional, and it only alienates your audience further. nobody should be forced to watch something they dont want to. especially when most (if not all) of these problems come strictly from above.

HOWEVER: you have absolutely nothing to lose by watching this.

you can feel good about supporting a film that almost didn't make it and helping to contribute to spreading a message that we want more films like this. you get to bask in the satisfaction of proving the higher ups wrong, that we DO want movies like this, we DO want traditional animation, we DO want to support the artists. but the best thing of all is that you get to enjoy a traditionally animated film on the big screen again

knowledge or investment of the characters and series is genuinely, in my eyes, irrelevant. i sincerely think it has elements that can be appreciated by anyone--even if, again, it just comes down to the satisfaction of doing a good turn and showing your support for animation. there is absolutely nothing you can lose by supporting it, but so, so much you, these workers, and the medium of animation as a whole can gain. if you have a spare hour and a half within the next few weeks, get out of the house, grab a friend, grab your siblings, grab your significant other, or just grab your own company and chill out with a gorgeous and funny and heartwarming and history defying movie. it's no small miracle that something like this exists in the current climate of the animation industry. don't you want to say you could play a hand in experiencing that miracle?

[mageofmadness]

telling sylus, caleb, rafayel 'i don't want a kiss right now' ˘³˘

caleb immediately pouts like a child that's been scolded and it's infuriating because it works. it goes from the most lethal puppy dog eyes you've ever seen to stunned silence, as if he's never been turned down before, and let's be real, he hasn't really. then he's sputtering, looking at you with narrowed eyes like you've taken something from him. he still thinks it's a joke until you shake your head at him like he's the one being unreasonable here. caleb is outraged, really. absolutely appalled you would withhold such a thing from him. he hits you with the, "fine, i didn't want a kiss anyway," and you get to call him a liar for that. he pouts for hours even after he gets a kiss, probably maybe mortally wounded and traumatized from the worst few moments of his life (no really).

sylus 100% the type to look at you silently, for a long, long time, then just say okay. he shrugs like it's no big deal, continuing what he was doing. maybe cooking dinner, maybe reading, either way he's never been less bothered, it seems. but the next time you want a kiss, he gets to say, "oh, i don't feel like a kiss right now, sorry." he plays the long game and wins almost every time. his nonchalance is killer, and when the tables are turned, you forget your little trick from days ago and why he's saying that to you. it backfires, and now you're wondering why sylus won't give you a kiss, but eventually he caves, allowing you one and possibly another if you promise to never withhold a kiss from him again. he is a dangerous man after all (only kind of), it's best you give him what he wants.

rafayel also blinks at you silently but wields his intense eye contact better than sylus, where you're a bit fearful of the look in his eye. he lets the silence stretch on until you feel the need to say something, but you don't, because you said you didn't want a kiss, so what's there to say? he blinks at you. looks behind him, like maybe you were speaking to someone else, before eventually smiling in a weird strained way. a little wild looking like his brain should be smoking. shaking his head like he really must not have heard you right, which prompts you to repeat yourself. again. and again. he laughs, says you're funny, and no really, and when you're adamant you don't want a kiss, giving him the best poker face you can, he falls off the couch again.

*note, honestly zayne and xavier are a bit harder for me to write but if there's interest i'd love to try. lmk. sfw like this or not ᵕ̈

[dappled-sunlight-dap]

AO3 author here. I don't normally blog about fandom issues (or anything really) but it hit me close to home so I figured I'd share my two cents.

This actually happened to me! I put a work on hiatus for roughly nine months for multiple reasons, but a big part of choosing that one to shelve for a bit was because it got the least engagement.

I WRITE for myself, don't get me wrong. Everything I post is what I want to see. That's why I write fic! But I POST for community interaction. I wanna talk to folks about my fandom and get all excited and freak out with somebody. Otherwise, what's the point of making it public? Why not keep it to myself?

When you post and get no engagement, it can make you question why you're posting if you're getting the same result as you would from keeping it to yourself. It also makes one feel like slaving over it to make it as good as can be is too much effort for no return - why should I bother making it look nice when I can post a sloppy rush job and get the same result? It's also easy to lose confidence in yourself - do people like it? Hate it? Who knows? And it's just depressing and lonely. Fandom is a community!

I was a new author when I had this dilemma, and at the time I didn't realise that this was just a normal thing, so I took it personally and lost my confidence. That got combined with unrelated problems until I figured the fic was just too much trouble to deal with. I only posted for it again last month because a mutual told me they liked it and that made me happy.

Now that I'm more experienced, I know not to expect much engagement because that's simply how fandom is these days. I happily post my stuff knowing that probably nothing will happen, and I'm okay with that now. I'm just happy to post it! It's more peaceful, in a way - but that doesn't mean it shouldn't change. I can understand not leaving comments - maybe you're anxious/shy, or you're a guest on a fic where only registered users can comment. However, there is no excuse with kudos. Giving kudos is literally as easy as pressing a button. If you cannot be bothered to press a single button for a fic you love, why should an author bother to give you that fic in the first place? We will not know you are there otherwise.

Also, I've seen some folks say they don't leave comments because they're afraid the author will find it weird or get offended or that they feel like they have to post an essay. No! We LOVE comments! We love ALL comments! I have a reader who posts mostly heart emojis on every single chapter of another longfic of mine and I treasure every single one of those comments! This person takes the time to leave something that tells me they're having a good time, and it makes me happy to have somebody to engage with and freak out about a ship with! That is what fandom should be!

And every time they leave another string of heart emojis, a fire lights within me because somebody is enjoying it and telling me about it. I'm happy, they're happy, we're HAPPY!

What I'm trying to say is: fandom is about community. If there's no audience acknowledgement, there's no point in sharing in the first place. So tell your favourite authors how much you like their work! Press that kudos button! Leave that comment, even if it doesn't contain a single word! Hell, just leave a keyboard smash! They will love you for it, no matter how small the gesture is! And you'll love it even more when they make more of that work you cherish! Everybody wins!

"You have to become comfortable with the fact that most people who enjoy your fic will never bother to kudos or comment on it."

Shockingly, I am comfortable with this fact. Lack of kudos or comments doesn't bother me.

That doesn't mean it shouldn't change.

If you enjoy a fic, leave a kudos or a comment.

[yandere-sins]

The Orcas’ Tale - After End

[My Commission Info] | [My Ao3] | [Ko-Fi]

a/n: Another lovely commission for a sweet anon ♥ Thank you for commissioning me to write about my sweet fishy boy again!! :') It was a lot of fun!!! ♥

Characters: Nerrocan (OC) x AFAB!Reader Warnings: Yandere, Sexual Content (Non-Con, Rubbing, Penetration with too big penis, Reader's first time, Breeding Kink, Cuminflation, Creampie), Violence (Biting, Blood mention, Scratching, Mentioning of wounds), Mentioning of Testing on the Mermaids, Obsessiveness, Overpowering, Monster, Monster Features, Dual POV, Long Post Words: 8157

You should have been used to emerging from water by now, yet, you still gasped for air the moment you breached the surface. 

The pool water parted to reveal the indoor basin of the new cave constructed in Nerrocan's habitat. For a moment, you were almost taken aback by the deja vu as it reminded you of the original cave you had been relocated to by the three orcas way back at the beginning of your journey. But the longer you looked around, the more the illusion vanished. It was familiar, but not the same.

Strong arms wrapped around you from beneath the blue. Arms that should have induced a fight or flight instinct inside you, but the feeling had long turned into acceptance. After so many days spent together, there was almost nowhere Nerrocan hadn't touched you, and considering he swam across the ocean with you, there had been much more closeness between you two than just this simple touch. 

"How do you like it?" he whispered expectantly into your ear as he emerged after you. By now, he usually let you swim alone if you two had some time together aside from the experiments. Nerrocan found watching you use all your limbs to get through the water amusing, and you wanted to go easy on him, especially whenever he had gone through something painful or gotten wounded.

Somehow, this only made this situation more nerve-wracking for you. 

"It's familiar… and yet, not at all," you replied vaguely, assuming he knew what you meant. Nerrocan hummed softly in agreement, and you swam to the edge of the water, putting your hands on solid ground. By then, all the memories shattered as you felt the unnatural material beneath your fingertips, a stark contrast to the stone cave Nerrocan had lived in before with his cousins. The material this cave was made of was nothing like that. It was just an imitation—a fake. Because that's all it was.

"I wanted it to resemble your old home. I was hoping you'd feel more relaxed in a familiar environment."

Lifting yourself out of the water, you were given a small push as Nerrocan used his tail to help you up. It didn't make for the most graceful landing, but you were thankful regardless for the assist. Now standing in the cave, you inspected the dimensions, glad the facility hadn't saved on making it big enough for a species like Nerrocan. This way, he could move around comfortably, although you observed him pacing around the pool even after receiving a proper retreat. Staying indoors must have made him restless regardless of how much effort you put into making him comfortable. It still hurt in your heart that he let himself get captured just for the sake of bringing you back to your people. 

You heard Nerrocan come out of the water behind you as you checked out the cave, walking the perimeter around the exit. Very quickly, you found where he stored food and, strangely enough, stones. Even though you didn't question him why he'd pick out stones from the bottom of the pool, you made a mental note to ask other researchers if this was perhaps a sign of boredom and if you had to get him something to busy himself with. It wasn't always the best idea to ask Nerrocan directly, as he usually resorted to saying he was fine as long as you were around. No matter how close you two lived, you couldn't always be there. So, instead, you would have to ask around later what others thought. It was just how things were done here in the facility. 

Another thing you noticed was the lack of decorations. You remembered the cave of the orcas had trophies and skins hanging on the walls. Nerrocan wasn't allowed to make or wield weapons anymore, obviously. Still, since he couldn't hunt, there was no way for him to actually decorate. Maybe that's what the stones are for, you thought quietly, furrowing your brows. 

"Something displeases you?" he suddenly asked, and you had almost forgotten that he was still around, observing you like he did most days. 

"Oh! Oh, no! It's fine!" you replied quickly, moving on from the barren walls. Although, you wondered if Nerrocan would appreciate art. But how would you get a painting down here without the water ruining it?

Next up, you found an obviously assigned sleeping space, and you sighed a sigh of relief, seeing that, at least here, the makers of the caves had taken note of what you told them. It was a more private corner in the whole cave, even slightly covered by an extra wall so Nerrocan had at least a tiny bit of privacy from the cameras that you saw blinking around the wall encircling this space. It would probably be your job to analyze the materials and repair them if they broke, which would be a hassle. But not anyone could just jump into Nerrocan's pool and especially enter his cave. That privilege went to only one person: you. 

"Do you get some good sleep here? Looks comfy!" you asked, pointing at the fur-bedding. It wasn't as smooth as seal fur but thicker, slightly elevated from the ground, reminding you of a futon. Perhaps Nerrocan could like this new added comfort. You definitely were glad about lying down on a mattress again rather than fur on the ground. 

"It's fine," he answered, a familiar response. You almost jumped a bit hearing him right behind you, looking back to find him having closed the distance to you while you were thinking about his bed. His eyes dragged away from the fur, Nerrocan's expression unreadable. Still, somehow, it gave you the feeling he didn't like the bed as much, considering it was just "fine". He might not have been an orca of many words, but you did feel he'd expressed himself differently had he actually liked it. It was time to change tactics!

"Do you prefer seal fur for–"

"You can sit down if you–"

Both of you looked at each other, stopping halfway through your sentences. It was rare that you two spoke up at the same time, but even Nerrocan's lips curled into a smile as you chuckled about it. However, he had no idea what that invitation elicited inside you, a knot forming in your stomach as you stood there, nervously thinking about your options. 

You two were a team; it wasn't right to distrust him. He had done a lot for you, and you weren't ungrateful for all his efforts, but you've noticed Nerrocan pushing. Pushing for something that you simply couldn't wrap your head around doing. 

The staff and the professor had told you extensively about your role and how to conduct yourself. They weren't shy and didn't make any of it sound goofy or pitiful as they explained the terms and what to do. Somehow, you were able to avoid it all this time up until now. Yet, the thought came back to you with the same fear and reluctance as when you first listened to them explain what it meant to mate. 

Essential, they had called it. The most important factor to the whole facility. Mermaids that didn't bond and mate with their caretakers were usually dead within months as they slowly withered away without a reason to live. Nerrocan had to have a mate, or he would probably die too. Despite your best care, the stones possibly were the first indication of his mental health declining. It was for the best of the test subjects, but you… you couldn't do it. 

Taking a deep breath, you nodded, giving him a fake smile before replying, "S-Sure!" as confidently as you could. Carefully, you took a seat at the edge of his "bed", feeling the soft material below you give in beneath your body, yet cushioning you all the same. It didn't feel bad at all, but when you brushed your hand through the fur, you noticed how different it was from the softer seal Nerrocan was used to. 

"You know, it's no trouble to change this if you'd prefer a softer material to sleep on. How about we add some pillows? Do you know what a pillow is? You place your head on it. It's pretty nice!"

Perhaps you were rambling a little as you drew in your knees, hugging them tight to your chest like a defense barrier. You had to accept his invitation if you wanted information that would ultimately help him. Knowing what he was sleeping on right now would later benefit your case if you needed to ask for other things for him. Even if you didn't like how exposed you felt like this, it was your job to take care of him and make sure he was doing fine, even if he wasn't the best to communicate his feelings and thoughts to you. He had no one besides you to rely on, so you couldn't let him down even if you were uncomfortable.

Nerrocan had crawled closer once you took your seat, waiting for something it felt like as his muscles kept tensing and relaxing visibly. But there was a small sparkle in his eyes that you couldn't quite pinpoint. Maybe excitement? He seemed happier when you two talked about whatever came to mind, so perhaps he enjoyed the conversation despite your rambling. If you could make him happy just a little bit, that would be good. It would keep him healthy in the long run despite the awful things he had to endure. Tightening your arms around your legs, you tried not to think about it and instead focus on him. 

"It's fine. Perfect, now, actually."

There it was. Nerrocan, sly as he was, knew how to intensify words if he wanted. He had no problems with telling you if he liked something, if he actually meant it. And he did, now, after you sat down… in his sleeping spot… oh no.

Nerrocan let out a soft chirp as he leaned down more, almost bending over you and trapping you in his resting area with his big body. You couldn't outswim him, but a moment of surprise could be the only reason you left his cave alive. No matter how well-disposed he was towards you, you could never let your guard down around a predator like him. 

"Well! Great! I see you've been settling in nicely!"

You laughed nervously as you jumped up with too much vigor, almost banging your head with his, but Nerrocan reared back just in time. He was just like an animal in such moments, immediately alert and reactive. And you were just a human, you… you couldn't be his mate. You couldn't stay here and pretend that wasn't what everyone—including Nerrocan—seemed to want from you. Hell, how would that even work?! He was so big and you were average at best! You two were so different, there was no way he would even fit—

"I-I should go!" you announced, suddenly overrun by your emotions. Somehow, you had managed to spiral yourself back into a state of panic, your heart racing while your head filled with unnecessary ideas. Imagining yourself with Nerrocan… that was simply too much for you. 

"Wait!" Nerrocan called out as you stormed to a smaller part of his body so you could step over him and get to the pool. You didn't need to look back to know he was following you, the cave slightly creaking as he turned over to go after you. You had freaked yourself out enough that you didn't stop. This wasn't the ocean, and you were good enough of a swimmer to get out of the pool on your own. However, your footsteps grew smaller as you got closer to the water. 

Your reaction wasn't fair. Nerrocan had done nothing to you, and yet, you treated him like a pervert just because some scientists wanted you to think about him that way. Mate this or that, but in the first place, he was your savior and fellow sufferer. If anything… he was your friend. He didn't deserve to be treated this way. It was only you who interpreted the things you were afraid of. Nerrocan wasn't at fault.

Taking a deep breath, you turned around, laying your head to the side questioningly, deciding to give it one more go before you chickened out for no apparent reason. "Are you okay?" he asked, shifting slightly from side to side to look you over. Worried, he stared at your body, goosebumps erupting on your skin as your stupid brain imagined him undressing you with his eyes. You told yourself he was just concerned about you, but the icky feeling remained. 

"Your heart was beating very fast. Do you need to rest?"

"Ah, you know…" you stumbled, avoiding eye contact with him. Of course, he heard that. Stupid orca senses! "I'll just get back and take a nap. I'm sure it's going to go away again soon!"

You gave him a curt smile, pointing at the water. But before you could turn even to look at the pool, his big hands reached out, faster than you could register, lifting you up from the ground.

"Woah!" you exclaimed as Nerrocan tugged you in against his chest, twisting his huge body over and facing his bed again before scooting closer. Even this touch wasn't unfamiliar, and neither was the feeling of his skin against your palms and face. But your body only decided to freak out more. What was he going to do? Would he demand his right to mate? Did you delude yourself into honestly thinking Nerrocan wanted you like this? Did you really think he'd be okay without a mate?

With your eyes closed tightly, you only felt yourself lifted off the orca and sat down on the soft bedding again. Once more, you had let the intrusive thoughts take over your critical thinking, and when you slowly blinked open your eyes, you looked straight into Nerrocan's, his gaze filled with concern. One hand supported you on your back as if he was afraid you were going to faint at any second now, while he used the other to cup your face, clearly still looking for wounds he had missed. He would have smelled the blood, of course, but it seemed even his rationality could be thrown out of the proverbial window when it came to you. 

"Do you need food? Water? Are you in pain?"

His questions were so innocent, his voice breaking with worry, making it hard for him to speak clearly. No matter how well he spoke the human language, his instincts were always at the forefront, and those allowed only the orca way of communication, the soothing rumble in his chest being evidence of this. When you didn't immediately answer him, his expression merely darkened as he chortled, trying to coax what you needed out of you. 

"I'm really fine, Nerrocan," you reassure him, much softer than you thought you were able to. Somehow, his concern and efforts to make you comfortable warmed your heart. You were unjust to assume the worst of him, and he had proven to you yet again that he was simply concerned about your well-being. Maybe he was right, and you needed some rest, this situation had already taken its toll on you. 

"Good, okay. Your heart is still beating very fast, what can I do?"

"Maybe… let's just talk?"

"Sure." Nerrocan nods thoughtfully, imitating your gesture while seemingly trying to fulfill your request. "What is that thing you talked about like? That… pillow?"

"Oh!" you exclaimed, delighted to hear him remember. It seemed like such a small matter to talk about, but you were happy that he listened and followed up on what you said. "It's soft and slightly elevated! You can tug it beneath your head so your spine rests evenly, although I know you can't lie on your back, but at least turned to your side?"

You took a moment to think about whether Nerrocan could sleep with a pillow in the first place, something you should have considered much earlier before suggesting it, but now, you just had to go with the flow. However, you didn't notice him shift, laying down flat on his stomach before asking, "Like this?" And suddenly, with no small strain on your thighs, his head fell into your lap, arms reaching up and around your body, keeping it in place.

"Y-Yeah," you mumbled, stunned. Sometimes, it was easy to forget that Nerrocan could really understand you and make logical connections. And in moments like this, it was even harder to make yourself believe he didn't do it with some ulterior motives. Not like this was the first time he ever laid his head in your lap, but still, under these circumstances, it made you nervous again. 

Inhaling deeply, you reminded yourself to trust and stay calm, slowly letting your hand fall on top of his head and brushing through his hair. Nerrocan's lips trembled before he gave up his composure and smiled, the rumbling in his chest almost like a purr while he made a few satisfied clicking sounds. 

"Don't get too comfortable, big guy. I'm just taking a quick rest before going back to work!" you joked with him, running both of your hands through his slick hair. As always, it was untangled despite the length, still as beautifully shimmering and glossy as you were used to it. A good sign, you figured, considering his hair had fallen out yet from the stress and procedures. 

Making a sound of disapproval, Nerrocan turned his head forward. His arms tightened around you, and you gave a small, nervous chuckle as you watched him nuzzle his face into and between your thighs. His hold on you got even stronger as you noticed his upper body lifting and staying like this for a moment before sinking, as if he just took a deep breath. Shame ran over you, the wetsuit you wore smelling like water and fish, but who knew what he could smell with his enhanced senses? You washed up this morning, but that was a few hours ago… 

While fearing about your body hygiene, you didn't notice the mischievous glint in Nerrocan's eyes as he watched your expression, his body weight shifting more and more on top of you. It wasn't until you felt yourself losing balance, toppling backward, that you started to struggle against the inevitable, big hands catching you before you could hurt yourself. At the same time, Nerrocan took the chance to scoot up higher, hovering above you when your head fell into the cushioned bed. 

"I've waited a long time for this," Nerrocan mumbled, a guttural sound as his head dipped into the space between your head and shoulder, slick skin against your wetsuit, the tip of his nose dragging down the side of your throat, smelling you again. "For this place to be set up and for you to visit here. It being just us."

"Ne- Nerrocan!" you protested, bracing your hands against his shoulders. It was foolish to think you could lift him off you. Nerrocan's head dipped lower and lower, driving between your collarbones and your breasts, the feeling of his breath pervading even your clothes and tingling over your skin. His hand slid out from beneath you, and you saw your chance of slipping upwards and away. But the second you moved, his palms closed around your sides, holding them firmly in place and tugging you back down again beneath him. 

"Nerrocan, stop!" you said more firmly this time, and he stilled as if snapping out of a trance. 

"Why?" he asked, looking up again. This time, his expression seemed hurt, as if you denying him this was causing him physical pain. 

"We aren't the same species! We can't do this!"

"We can," he replied without hesitation.

"They told me it was possible. That if I prepared you well, you'd be able to take me. It's okay to mate with a human, they said."

"They? Who told you these things?! How would that even work?! Do you even know what that means?!"

Panic raised your voice, and you watched his expression change briefly. Perhaps the sound disturbed him, or he was questioning what either of you knew, but eventually, he simply replied, "The other humans. Those with the white clothes," and it dawned on you. While you thought you had things under control, the other researchers started feeding Nerrocan a very different narrative. One where all of this was normal. One where he could do as his nature demanded. 

And when you didn't react fast enough, nature won over him. 

One hand retracted from the side of your body, reaching down between your legs and settling right against your pussy. You squealed as a bolt of surprised arousal drove through your body, Nerrocan rubbing his dangerously clawed finger up and down your slit. Immediately, you shut your legs around his wrist, but it did nothing to stop him. Instead, it made your pussy grind upwards into the touch, and you bit your lip. 

"It's- It's not right!" you stammered, reaching for his hand. 

"But you smell so good. You came here to mate, claim my cave as yours. That's a sign, right?"

"N-No! I didn't! I never intended to claim this place or you! Stop smelling me!"

"It's tough," Nerrocan admitted, gulping while his finger worked a unique magic on your cunt. He could move his joints much like a wave, teasing your clit at one point and your entrance at the next. Together with the friction of the wetsuit it was a deadly combination. Yet, you didn't want to dwell on it, feeling the treacherous heat spreading through your body. "Every inch of you smells so good, mate."

His head reappeared in front of yours, his massive form crushing as if he was going to swallow whole. Nerrocan's eyes were lidded, dark dots one could get lost in, but as if sniffing wasn't enough, his tongue suddenly slipped out of his mouth, dragging from your jaw to your cheek bone. You'd never taken much note about how long it was until he was licking you, making you feel even more like a delicious snack rather than a respected friend. This was getting out of hand, and you had to do something fast!

"Nerrocan, we can't– Mmpf!"

Not giving you the chance to finish the sentence, Nerrocan slipped his tongue between your open lips, his mouth crashing down on yours while his fingers stopped for a brief moment. He dipped deeply into the kiss, filling you with his tongue and breath, both hot and relentless as they explored every inch of your mouth. Your head was spinning with how much Nerrocan there was and how little of you. But even when you tightened your grip on his shoulders, nails digging into them, he didn't let off, instead picking up the teasing with his finger again, although his movements were rougher now than before. It felt like he was desperate to make you agree with him, however he had to. Perhaps those were his instincts taking over again, forcing him to claim his mate however possible, but it didn't help you at all. 

Shrieking into his mouth was all you could do as his other hand furled inwards, claws snagging at your wetsuit and running over your back. The sting revealed the damage to your skin, yet the fabric ripping was what horrified you. Pulling your head back, you tried to escape, tried to appeal to his reason, but Nerrocan followed every one of your movements with the precision of an instinctual predator. 

All this time, you tried to assure yourself it wouldn't happen. That you two were better than the vulgar things the researchers had told you about. Just because some caretakers had intimate relationships with their protégés didn't mean it had to happen to you two! You thought you were better than this! That you could make it without crossing the line between two species…

You should have listened to your gut telling you to run a few minutes ago.

Because now you were stuck.

The sound of a big chunk of your wetsuit tearing, pulled you out of your spiral of misery. The hand that had fondled you through the fabric slipped into the tear, going straight back between your legs even though you shut them tight. However, your strength was nothing compared to Nerrocan's, and he easily reached his goal with the sheer mass of his palm. 

You wanted to yell at him, insult and tell him how dare he did this to you, but instead of your anger, an unwelcome moan slipped from your tongue over his. Immediately, it was answered by a rumble from his throat. Nerrocan's tongue kept assaulting your mouth, flopping out whenever it became too much to lodge it inside you, all while he was prying open your lower lips, coating his hand in unmistakable arousal. Even though your body's reaction wasn't your fault, you felt ashamed of the squelching and sloppy sounds coming from above as well as below. 

It also made you wonder if Nerrocan knew what he was doing. Because you did, but only to a certain extent, and if you both had no idea, that could be deadly. 

With all your strength left, you finally turned your head, signaling the kiss to stop. Nerrocan was like a truck, speeding through this process as if he had something important to deliver. But at the same time, he was crushing you with his instincts that were driving him wild. It almost seemed too late to stop, but you had to do all you could to tell him how you felt and how this wasn't right. 

"I can't!" you gasped, coughing really hard once his tongue had pulled out completely. "I can't take you! It won't fit! I never… I've never done this before!"

Nerrocan said nothing, the silence stifling. What was he thinking? Did he understand what you meant? Would he stop now? His finger ceased moving, although his palm kept cupping your pussy, completely covered in your slick by now. 

"I am… your first," he finally said, but it didn't sound like a question. "No one's ever touched you before."

Heat rose to your head as he spoke it out so clearly. Hiding your face with your hand, you whispered, "No," hoping this would finally deter him. But when you snuck a peek through the gaps between your fingers, all you saw was a mysterious glint in his eyes, and the next thing you heard was a deep rumble resonating through the whole cave. 

"I'll take such good care of you," Nerrocan said solemnly, his free hand falling to your head and brushing back some of your hair. He kissed the top of your head multiple times, muttering promises like, "You'll lack nothing, my mate," in between kisses. It didn't seem like he had any intentions to stop, you realized, if anything, this had turned him on even more.

"That's not what I meant!" you protested, but he wouldn't listen. His hand between your legs tensed, pressing outward, the fabric giving way quickly and exposing you completely. 

"I'll make you happy, I promise."

"What?! No!"

Panicked, you tried to sit up, only to brace your arm against Nerrocan as he began to move. His weight could crush you, so you had to relent when he rolled onto his chest, hovering above you. Your legs spread outwards to accommodate his tail between them, and Nerrocan crouched a bit higher to line up your hips with his. Still, he was arching his back, keeping his head close to yours. 

Even though you found hold on his body, no amount of strength could push him away. Horrified, you looked down between your legs, watching as the tip of his cock pressed out of the slit on his tail, and before you knew it, the massive shaft emerged completely, already twitching as beads of precum ejected from its tip. 

"That– That's not possible! We can't! I absolutely can't!" 

"You'll do well, mate. I believe in you. I know you can take me, relax."

Lining up his tip to your cunt, more precum bubbled from his cock, the fluids almost as heavy as the air suddenly felt. You'd be fucked to death if he managed to get this monster cock inside you. This was it. This would be the end. And all because you hadn't been more careful, didn't keep your distance like you should have. Trusted him. 

"No, no, no, no…" you mumbled, looking up and giving Nerrocan one last fearful look, which he reciprocated immediately. However, instead of understanding, all you saw was desire in his eyes. Lust, pleasure, want. Nerrocan couldn't be reasoned with, not when he wanted to spear you on his cock and use you as his toy to satisfy his needs. You didn't believe he truly thought of you as a mate. A mate would take care of the other, right? Help them get through these situations that made them anxious and afraid! But he was doing the complete opposite, not even giving you a chance to safe yourself. 

With a pained groan stuck in your throat, you felt his cock move slowly inside you, prying open your walls. The preparations had given him a small chance to penetrate, but your hymen was tearing just from inserting the tip. Nerrocan, too, took a sharp breath, feeling your tightness as he nudged his shaft inside with small pushes, and already, you could take no more. Nerrocan was going to ruin your poor pussy, and take your first time as if it belonged to him. 

"It hurts!" you whined, tears shooting into your eyes as the pain was threatening to overtake you. 

Immediately, the merman sprang into action, leaning down, kissing your forehead and face, chirping encouragingly between his sentences. Every time he pushed, a new praise fell as a reward. "You're doing so good," he muttered as you shrieked, his bulbous tip reaching its biggest point. Worse was yet to come, but it hurt like hell. You knew that in a matter of a few pushes, Nerrocan would take your virginity and your pussy for his own pleasure. There was absolutely nothing you could do, and it made you despair. 

You clung to him desperately, no deep breath helping you relax. "You can do it; look at you taking me," he tried to soothe you, but there was no chance you could do either. You didn't even want to see him getting inside you, much less experience it. But Nerrocan left you no choice as he advanced. With one rough push, he finally breached the abilities of your pussy, and it gave way to him much too easily.

Your back arched, voice getting stuck in your throat, and you blacked out for a short moment as your hymen tore. The pain of his massive cock taking your first time was too much to handle, but after Nerrocan let out a guttural moan, more juices mingling inside you that were probably equal parts yours and his, he pulled his cock out again before jutting it back into the same place and shaking you awake. 

Even though it felt like a nightmare, it was very real and frightening, especially as Nerrocan advanced. 

"That's it," he praised, kissing the top of your head. "You're doing so good, my mate, just a little more."

There were more words, but you could barely register them as you felt your walls spread impossibly wide around his shaft, his cock pulsing and throbbing inside you as if to make more space for itself in a completely cramped place. It still felt impossible, but Nerrocan managed to keep digging inch by inch, spreading and claiming more of your pussy for himself. Nerrocan kept trilling next to you, working his shaft back and forth to ease it inside, and you were stuck between helplessness and feeling your body slowly adjust. The idiotic thought of "maybe I am made for this" came over you as you felt the tears spilling from your eyes, allowing you to realize it wasn't supposed to be like this at all. 

But here you were, betrayed by your only friend in this strange life you were thrown into, allowing him to call you his mate and fuck you with his big, monstrous cock. You had screwed up, that much was sure, and you didn't know if you'd ever recover from it. Especially not when instead of a scream, another moan escaped you, the moment Nerrocan finally had used up all the space inside of you to claim you. 

You sounded so heavenly. 

Not only that but your scent, body, everything about you was perfect. The researcher told me that the moment I got to claim you would be the most wonderful thing I ever experienced in my life. And for once, they weren't lying. You smelled heady, the air around us filling with the scent of your need. A need for me. Finally, you wanted me, too, taking me and uniting us as we should be. This was what mateship was all about, the feeling of belonging together, both body and mind.

It was exhilarating.

Your body wound itself beneath me, squeezing and moving around my cock that I finally filled you with. You said you couldn't take it, but you did. My mate. My perfect, beautiful mate, your eyes dazed and filled with tears as I bucked my hips forward gently. You made the most adorable gurgles, biting your lip, although I would have preferred to hear all of your voice, you really didn't have to hold back. Surely, you, too, must have felt the bliss of our union, the beautiful play of our bodies?

And even more exciting than that, you gave me your first time. Your insides were shaping themselves around my cock, learning to accommodate it despite the tightness. Yet, you did so well taking every inch of me, your beautiful thighs pressing against the sides of my tail, keeping me firmly situated inside you. Our mateship must have been meant to be if you waited for me to come into your life before giving me your new, beautiful pussy to mate. To fill, to breed.

Sinking my hands into your hair, I couldn't help myself from pulling your head back, exposing your throat, the most vulnerable part of your delicious body. The slight smell of blood coming from your cunt only made my cock twitch more, tingling all the senses of a hunter. I wanted to bite you so badly, taste your blood on my tongue, and coat my teeth with it that it hurt. There was way too much of your body still covered, even though we had no need for clothes any longer. I almost felt resentful towards the fabric covering you, denying me the view of the most beautiful treasure of this world—you. 

I had waited too long for this moment to not leave my mark on your body as I should. 

If you were to get lost, anyone should know who you belonged to. Whose fangs they'd have to go against to claim you in the same way I had. As if I'd ever lose a fight when the prize was my mate and the right to keep calling you that. I didn't fight, hunt, and train for so long that just anybody could waltz in and take you from me now. 

"I'll be gentle, I promise" I murmured, driving my lips over your shoulder. It was the perfect place, above your heart, next to your throat. My face fit nicely in the curve between your neck and arm, as if this spot was made for my mark. Perhaps, you were. Made for me, that is. I had never seen someone rouse as many emotions in me as you did or induce this constant, mind-numbing heat that I was acting on now. With your pussy around my cock and my teeth about to sink into your body, I was the closest to you that I ever had been, and there was no place I'd rather be. 

My throat rumbled in contentment, my whole being agreeing with the thought of marking you. Lips splitting, my teeth were ready to punctuate, to clamp down, to tear. But I wouldn't treat you like that. I'd only taste the sweetest prey I had ever encountered. I wouldn't linger, wouldn't hurt you more than necessary. Hurt, it would, so I fastened the pace of my hips, distracting you with the added friction until you were whining softly with every push. It was adorable when one of your hands clung to my arm, digging your puny little nails into it. But I hoped it would scar. That you'd mark me just like I would, you. 

Which gave me the idea to cup your face, prying your mouth open by pushing a finger between your blunt teeth. The damage would be small compared to mine, but it was only right you got the same chance as I did. With all the preparations done, it was time to claim you. I knew it was meant to be, and yet, I hesitated because of the thought of hurting you. But I had to believe in myself. I knew I'd never cause you great harm. I could control the urges and stop when it was necessary. You and I had been through worse together; we'd also get through the stages of mating. 

At least, mating was more pleasurable. 

"Shh, it's okay, I'll be gentle," I repeated softly, hearing how your breathing turned unnaturally fast after seeing my teeth. A shudder went through you, and I couldn't help groaning as I felt it around my cock, too. Your voice grew louder, vibrating against my finger, but I gave it no heed. Resting my lips on your body, I took one more deep breath, soaking in the scent of your body, your arousal, the tinge of blood I had smelled before. 

Delicious. 

And with that, my teeth opened, sinking deep into your flesh. The fabric covering you was no more a hindrance than uncovered skin, giving no resistance. But my tongue immediately went to lap up the droplets of blood that formed around my teeth, a strong, desirable taste filling my mouth. Together with the smell of your body they completely fogged my mind, my hips snapping forward harder as your cunt tightened around my cock, reluctant to let me go. 

Was this it? The sign that you were cumming? Would I be the first orca to take and claim his human mate in every aspect? A guttural groan resonated through my body, my pace growing harder. I knew it instinctively, it was a mating call. We were now bound to each other. There was no more space to stuff my cock into, but I still hadn't had enough. Gripping one of your beautiful thick thighs in my hand, the flesh so soft and pliable in my grasp, I adjusted our position and brought us even closer together. Our size difference was but a small obstacle when it came to mating, and I was determined to make up for it with my strength and skill. 

I had barely heard the first scream you let out when I bit you, much less the beautiful symphony of moans and cries that my finger muffled. Blood coating my tongue, my lips, my throat, I felt my cock swell inside you, the feeling eliciting another shriek against my finger. However, this time, I did notice it. You were biting down so hard as if your life depended on it. It was a cute effort, considering you barely broke through my skin, much less tore junks out of it like I wanted. I could feel your heartbeat in my mouth as it wouldn't stop hammering in your chest, and your pussy held on tight to my cock as I lodged it as deep as possible inside you.

I was going to fill you up to the brim. As much as your little human body could hold of my seed, I'd give to you and then some. Everything was perfect, the sound of your voice, the beating of your heart. The taste of your blood on my lips and the tightness of your cunt as I made the last few pushes towards my release. They promised everything would turn out well, but no one could have prepared me for how wonderful it was to finally be with you. 

Roaring wildly into your shoulder, my cock exploded. Little stars clouded my vision as I felt your body spasm beneath me, trying to adjust to the amounts of seed I was pumping in you. A small part hoped it would take root inside you. Would make you round and full with our calves, and I got to care for you throughout the whole pregnancy. Even if this was our first time, I couldn't help but want to breed you to the point you'd be unable to walk on your own anymore. I wanted you to depend on me, lean on me, letting me do everything for you while you created our beautiful little babies. The product of our love for each other. We'd be a perfect little family; nothing could take this from me. 

We'd have to wait and see, but I couldn't wait for the day to come. 

As fast as it had happened, it was over. My cock was still splurting more cum inside you, but you laid limply beneath me, your own orgasm having taken all your energy out of you. I unlocked my jaw as slowly as possible. However, it made a slight jerk despite my best efforts. But my teeth were finally pulling out of your flesh, leaving only the beautiful marks of our mateship behind, bleeding and sullying the bed, which I more than welcomed. 

You groaned, and I finally pried my finger out of your mouth so I could listen to the sound. Your eyes were unfocused and dull. The intensity must have taken a toll on your strength, but you were no less beautiful, your belly swollen with my seed, and your body marked and satisfied. 

"You did so well," I purred, giving you small chirps to ensure you'd understand my sincerity. Not everyone could have done so well, but my mate. My mate could. You were beautiful, perfect. Made for me, for our family. I had regretted it many times to have brought you to this place, but just as often did I think it had been the right choice. Now, we were inseparable, and I felt more validated in my choice. 

Slowly, I pulled back my cock, your pussy making it hard to exit with how much it clung to me. All while cooing and kissing your face and your body. Already, I felt myself grow hard again, my cock barely able to retract into its slit with how massive it still was. There were still so many things I wanted to do with you. The thoughts of marking other places like your breasts and those delicious thighs were driving me insane with their allure, but I stayed strong for you.

It's what we did for the people we loved, and right now, you just needed me to hold you as your body tried to come down from the height and adore you like I always did. The humans called it "aftercare," and I listened closely to their tips, although I couldn't bring myself to fetch some food and water for you yet. Not when you were curled so adorably in my arms, my hand on your swollen belly, making it easy to imagine what it would be like if you were carrying our little pup inside you. I did feel spent, ready to take a long nap by your side, but not before I made sure you were settled in comfortably, your eyes still wide open as you lay limply on my bed. 

Even if this was only the first time, it had made it all worth it. All the pain and suffering, all the fear and traumatic experiences. The fights, the humiliation. Now that I had you by my side, able to call you my mate completely without any doubts, it had been worth the troubles. It would be worth anything that may come in the future as long as I got to hold you again like this, fill you with my seed, and forget everything else that was happening around us. It had taken so long until we finally got this space we could call our own. Decorate, be together in, share love. This was where only we existed, and I couldn't wait to see what we'd do with it in the future, but I knew it would be great. 

And no one would get in the way of our happiness, even if you still had doubts.

You let out a quiet shudder, feeling Nerrocan's hand combing through your curls, ruined and messy from what had just happened. It still felt like you were waking up from a nightmare, but the pain had always been there. Both your shoulder and your pussy hurt. You felt the semen run down your lower lips and coat your thighs. Every time Nerrocan rubbed over your belly, another spurt of his jizz shot from your hole, and you felt degraded and disgusted with the feeling of semen sloshing in your womb. It wasn't possible to get pregnant, right? Was it? They were half human-like… that didn't mean you two were compatible, right? 

Tears filled your eyes as you couldn't help sobbing out loud. The bitten shoulder had no strength to pull up your arm so you could muffle yourself and the other was almost as dead still from the shock. Even though it hurt, even though you didn't want it, eventually, pleasure caught up to you, making you cum on his huge, massive cock as if you wanted it. It had felt good every time the pain vanished. And even now, Nerrocan was purring and chortling, soothing the pain in your soul even though he had torn it apart. 

You'd never be able to trust him again. To work with him even. You'd have to find a new purpose in this facility, but something inside you told you they wouldn't let you. This would be your new life, and you'd have to adjust to it to survive. It was unfair. Painful. You wanted to hate him, yet you still couldn't because of all you two had been through and all he continued to do for you. And although it wasn't right and should have never happened—not like this, at least—you could also understand him to a degree that it was the comfort Nerrocan needed, even if he made it seem like you did, too. 

"We're going to have such beautiful calves. You'll be such a good mommy," he praised you, and you sobbed out loud again, taking a deep, unbelieving breath. This couldn't be real, it was just too cruel. 

Nerrocan kissed your forehead, cradling your back further against his chest, his cock having slipped back into the slit, and you were thanking any god that was listening for that. You couldn't take any more fucking than that, and you'd never come down into his nest again and indulge him like you had that day. He had already ruined to much, destroyed your body and the relationship you two had. 

Moving you only made you feel more of the cum spurting from your pussy, coating you both as you whimpered, and Nerrocan trilled excitedly. "We're going to make so many babies!" he announced, and you wept, the image alone too hard to handle. 

"You did so well, today, my mate. I can't wait for the next time," he whispered into your ear, kissing your temple all the way down to your jaw. Every bit of adoration, praise, and intimacy appalled you, and you turned your face away, wanting to grieve your innocence and stupidity as you swore to never allow a repeat of what happened. 

"I'm not your mate," you slurred as the exhaustion hit you hard. Even in this situation, dangerous as it was, your body still felt safe enough around Nerrocan to sleep. Traitor, you thought as your eyes closed. 

"Yes, you are," he replied softly, noticing your drowsiness as he placed an arm beneath your head, cushioning it. Ironic, wasn't it? Luckily, you were already asleep when he spoke up again, able to preserve the last bits of your sanity from being lost forever.

"I'll do everything to change your mind."

[pinkmoontaco]

Hug in the Limelight || Xu Minghao

Pairing: Idol Minghao X Idol Y/n Genre: Romance, Fluff, Idol romance Summary: When Y/n’s group wins their first trophy, she breaks down in tears—only for Minghao to hug her on live TV, shocking everyone. Authors Note: Hey everyone, 😊!! I'm back with a short story that was requested by one of you! First off, I just want to say thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the love and support you’ve shown for Fated to Love You. The incredible response honestly feels like a dream, and I’m beyond grateful for each and every one of you💕 Your sweet comments, reblogs, and kind words truly inspire me to keep writing, so please keep them coming!! Love you guys ❤️ And also feel free to make any request for any other members or other group

M.list

The music was deafening, the lights blinding, and the cheers of the crowd an intoxicating high. But even in the midst of all that, her eyes always found his.

Y/N was used to the chaos of the industry. The long nights, the endless rehearsals, the weight of expectations pressing against her shoulders. She had debuted five years ago, climbing the ranks of the industry, her group steadily growing into one of the top names in K-pop. She had learned to balance fame with sanity, but nothing quite prepared her for meeting Xu Minghao.

They met during a special year-end collaboration stage. Her group and SEVENTEEN had been paired together for a mixed performance, a fusion of styles meant to showcase their versatility. Minghao, with his effortless grace and piercing gaze, had immediately caught her attention. But she wasn’t the type to easily show interest. She kept things professional, exchanging polite greetings and focusing on rehearsals.

Minghao, however, was different. He wasn’t loud or overbearing like some of the other idols she had worked with. He moved through the world with an air of calmness, always observing, always calculating. And yet, there was a warmth to him—something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

Their first real conversation happened backstage after a long rehearsal. Y/N had been stretching when he approached, a bottle of water in hand. “You should take a break,” he said, offering it to her.

She raised an eyebrow but accepted it. “You sound like my leader.”

He chuckled, settling down beside her. “I just know how exhausting this industry can be.”

For some reason, she found herself opening up. “Sometimes, I forget what it’s like to rest. It’s always go, go, go.”

Minghao hummed in understanding. “Then you should find small moments for yourself. Even in the chaos.”

She thought about that conversation for weeks after. It wasn’t just his words, but the way he said them—like he truly understood. From then on, stolen moments became their thing. Between rehearsals, at award shows, in the quiet hallways of music broadcasts. A glance, a fleeting smile, a whispered joke. They were never reckless, never obvious, but they found each other in the places where the cameras didn’t reach.

One night, after another successful performance, they found themselves alone on the rooftop of the venue. The city stretched out before them, lights flickering like stars. Y/N pulled her jacket tighter around herself as the cool air bit at her skin.

Minghao leaned against the railing beside her. “You were amazing tonight.”

She smiled. “So were you.”

They stood in silence for a moment before he turned to face her fully. “Y/N… do you ever wonder if there’s a version of us that doesn’t have to hide?”

Her heart clenched at the question. She had thought about it more times than she could count. “All the time,” she admitted. “But we both know the reality.”

He nodded, looking up at the sky. “Then we’ll just have to make the most of what we have.”

She reached for his hand, fingers lacing together. It was dangerous. Reckless, even. But in that moment, she didn’t care. Because despite everything—the cameras, the contracts, the expectations—they had this. Their stolen moments. And for now, that was enough.

But then, everything changed.

A week later, a blurry photo of them holding hands surfaced online. It spread like wildfire, speculations running rampant. Their agencies moved quickly, arranging emergency meetings and discussing possible responses. They had two choices—deny or come clean.

Minghao was the first to make a decision. “Let’s be honest,” he said, looking at Y/N with certainty in his eyes. “I don’t want to pretend anymore.”

Her heart pounded as she nodded. “Me neither.”

The next day, they posted matching statements on social media. “Yes, we are together. We’ve found comfort and happiness in each other, and we hope you can support us.”

The reactions were mixed—some fans cheered, others felt betrayed. But through it all, Minghao stayed by her side, holding her hand just as tightly as he had that night on the rooftop.

And this time, they weren’t just stolen moments. They were theirs to keep.

The stage of Music Bank was deafening. Cheers, screams, and a wave of emotions crashed through the air as Y/n’s group was announced as the winner.

For a moment, she just stood there. Did she hear that right?

Her leader’s hands flew to her mouth, another member collapsed to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Their dream—the thing they had fought for, cried for, bled for—was finally in their grasp.

Y/n tried to hold herself together, tried to keep her emotions at bay, but the moment she locked eyes with the fans in the audience, the ones who had waited years for this just as much as they had—the tears fell.

She covered her face with her hands, her body trembling as reality sank in. Her members wrapped around each other in a tight embrace, crying, shaking, overwhelmed.

And then, through her blurred vision, she saw him.

Xu Minghao.

Standing on the other side of the stage, his gaze locked onto hers. His lips were slightly parted, as if he was trying to find words, but the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides told her everything.

In that moment, he didn’t care about the cameras. He didn’t care about the industry’s rules.

He moved.

The entire stage seemed to freeze as Minghao crossed the boundary between them.

The MCs' voices stuttered. The other idols gasped. The audience erupted.

Before Y/n could even process it, she was in his arms.

A collective gasp filled the studio.

She didn’t hesitate—her arms wrapped around his torso as she buried her face into his shoulder, shaking from both the weight of the moment and the warmth he provided.

Minghao held her tightly, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other securing her against him as if shielding her from the entire world. He didn’t care about the rules. He didn’t care about the headlines.

She had won, and he needed her to know he was there.

The MCs didn’t know what to say. The idols behind them exchanged stunned glances, some covering their mouths, others clutching their chests in shock. The broadcast camera zoomed in, capturing every moment—a moment that would become legendary.

Y/n trembled in his arms, gripping his jacket so tightly that her knuckles turned white. “I—I can’t believe it…” she choked out between sobs.

Minghao exhaled shakily, his own eyes glassy. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his hands gently wiping the tears off her cheeks. “Believe it. You deserve this.”

Her lip quivered, fresh tears threatening to spill.

The murmurs of the other idols grew louder, whispers of “Oh my God,” “This is insane,” and “They really don’t care anymore” filling the air.

Finally, one of the MCs stammered into the mic, “W-Well… I think we just witnessed something… historic.”

The audience was already exploding, social media in flames with headlines flooding in real-time.

"SEVENTEEN'S MINGHAO DEFIES INDUSTRY RULES—PUBLICLY EMBRACES Y/N DURING FIRST WIN!"

"MINGHAO AND Y/N: LOVE IN THE SPOTLIGHT"

"IDOLS AREN'T SUPPOSED TO SHOW THIS MUCH EMOTION—BUT MINGHAO JUST DID."

But at that moment, neither of them cared.

Minghao cupped her cheeks, his thumbs tracing gentle circles as he whispered, "Let them say what they want. This moment is yours.”

Y/n sniffled, nodding, and for the first time that night, a smile broke through her tears.

With their hands still intertwined, standing under the brightest lights in the industry, they had never felt freer.

[hivemuthur]

Request: something with sex pollen or accidental aphrodisiacs (science experiments?). And not like dubcon. More like Viktor/Reader have unconfessed feelings and apparently one or both of them needs to be drugged and desperate for sex to get them out. Idk if it’s your thing but I’d be interested to see your take on it.

I remember the evening I got this ask. I was like yesss and my friends gave me the look, you know?

Unknown Variable

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! sex pollen, but I've managed to plot it up a bit. From warnings: unsafe sex, rough sex, lots of fluids, brief mentions of experimenting on animals. The substance here is based on how fentanyl works, sort of :') I had to make myself a loop hole for something I wanted to write for the longest time :v

word count: 4,5K

author’s note: Freaktor Nation, how we feeling? Thank you for granting me another porn-writing fiddler milestone Anon :') beautiful artist behind the cover is @petitesieste 🖤

—

Your idle hand plays with the pendant of your necklace while the other scribbles down notes from the last test. Another miss. And life goes on in pain.

Finding a medication that alleviates pain without an endless list of side effects has been Sisyphean work, to say the least. Every time you think you’re close, something immune to compromise pokes its insistent head through the crack you’ve made in the never-fully-open door to the human pain receptor map.

To be honest, your ambitions to cure pain have long been tempered. Now, it’s merely about making it less relentless—offering people who struggle with it a brief reprieve, something to make it manageable. Not that Viktor was your inspiration, but he is a constant reminder of why you should keep going when every trial eventually turns to dust.

"Why do you insist on keeping such thorough documentation of the rejected ones?" The said reminder peeks over your shoulder, his hair tickling your cheek.

You huff, masking how startled you are, and mutter, "Of all people, you shouldn’t be asking stupid questions."

"There is no such thing. Only stupid answers," he counters, eyes still glued to your notes. "It’s a very noble goal, you know, but you might have to come to terms with the fact that a complete erasure of pain may simply be impossible."

"Again. Of all people, you should not speak of the impossible, Viktor," you smile under your nose and turn your head just enough to see that he’s smiling, too. A jest.

"I'm only teasing you," he hums, reaching out to point at something on the page. "This… is not bad. Persevere, you will get there."

His fingertip lands right next to where your hand has frozen mid-writing, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his palm. For a brief moment, you allow yourself the illusion that Viktor is doing it intentionally. But the thought vanishes as soon as he straightens and clears his throat.

"I'm not sure I will continue with this one," you admit, tapping your pen against the page. "It gets rid of skeletal pain but gave my rats a headache to die for."

"Oh, no, no." Viktor shakes his head, eyes still scanning your notes. "This one, you shouldn’t abandon. Perhaps just tweak it."

"Tweak it?" You scoff, slumping back in your chair. "Do you have any idea how many times I’ve tweaked it?"

"I can only imagine," he replies with a wry smile. Then, after a beat, he leans in again, tapping a precise point on the intricate web of chemical formulas—lines and hexagons scrawled across the page. "I am no chemist, but this… just tickles the wrong part of the brain. Make it tickle the right one, and it might actually work."

It’s hard for him to mask the undertone of hope lingering in his voice. Hope that you will find the answer. Hope that your relentless pursuit of relief for those who suffer will finally bear fruit. And, if he allows himself a moment of selfishness, hope that his own pain, the dull ache that never leaves him, might one day be eased.

But there is something else, something unspoken and far less rational. Viktor has always found himself drawn to you, not just in admiration for your intellect, but in the way you work—how you lean too close to your notes, muttering under your breath, the way your fingers absently play with whatever they can find when you are deep in thought.

Since the early years at the academy, he has enjoyed working by your side more than he would ever admit. When your paths eventually diverged—yours to chemistry, his to engineering—he felt the loss more acutely than he had expected. There was pride, of course, in seeing you forge your own path, and such a noble one at that. But the empty spaces where you used to be, the missing sound of your voice arguing a point over some formula or blueprint, left a quiet ache that he did not know how to soothe.

Sometimes, when the solitude stretches long enough, he allows himself the indulgence of believing he was your inspiration. That some part of your devotion to this research, to this particular pursuit, was born from those long nights spent together over textbooks and dimly lit workbenches. But the thought is always fleeting, because minutes later, you will wave a dismissive hand at him, shooing him away to his own lab with a teasing remark, and he will remind himself that he is a fool for entertaining such notions.

It is not as though there have been no opportunities. There have been moments—unguarded, lingering occasions where it might have been easy to reach, to say something, to step beyond the line of friendship. But somehow, the time was never right. And so, this one thing, he never felt like he could touch.

You blink a few times, scrunch your eyebrows, and hum. The pen gets trapped between your teeth as you pick up the sheet and bring it close to your face, as if looking at it from a smaller distance would somehow make it clearer.

“You know, you might be right,” you finally say in a tone that suggests Viktor is never right.

A chuckle rumbles out of him. “Unthinkable,” he snorts, leaning on his cane and offering you a smug, satisfied grin.

You roll your eyes. “Don’t be so pleased with yourself,” you chide, but the corner of your mouth betrays a smirk. “Thank you. I must ask you to leave me to be a genius now.”

“Ah, there it is,” he sighs dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Served my purpose, and now I’m being unceremoniously chased away.”

“Don’t sulk,” you tease, waving him off as you set the paper back down. “I’ll even put your name in teeny-tiny little scribble on the leaflet.”

“You spoil me,” he deadpans, shaking his head as he turns to leave. He pauses by the door, glancing back at you with an affectionate smirk. “Fine. Let me know how it goes.”

Before you can say, “You’ll be the first one to know,” Viktor is already gone, the door swinging shut behind him. You give yourself a moment to rub the stupid feeling of light-headedness away from your temples before setting back to work.

What was meant to be a small tweak stretches into hours. Then days. Then, after two weeks, as you stand in front of the blackboard, the realisation you hadn't anticipated settles over you. Whatever you’ve created will inevitably end the already miserable lives of your test rats. Other than that, the medication looks as ready as it will ever be.

You could wait, of course—gather a group of willing human test subjects and conduct the trial properly. But let’s face it—you’ve waited long enough. And it’s right there.

Your jaw aches from hours of clenching, your sleep has been erratic at best, and now, to top it all off, a dull pain throbs in your tooth. You could just check. Worst case? You die. And if that happens—well, you won’t care anyway, will you?

As for the side effects? Manageable. Irrelevant in the grand scheme of the doctor-patient relationship. So yes—it seems you’ve very much done it.

The sun sets at some point while you debate with yourself—to drink or not to drink. When you finally do, all your hesitation, all your pain, the aches and nagging little pokes you hadn’t even realised were there—vanish. They melt into a feeling of softness and lightness, enveloping you in a warmth that feels almost like a gentle embrace.

Your fingers flex as if testing for any lingering pain, but there is none. Even the dull pressure behind your eyes from lack of sleep has dissolved. A laugh bubbles up, unbidden, and you press your palm over your mouth, giddy with disbelief. It worked. It actually worked.

Then, just as quickly, your thoughts snap to Viktor.

You scramble for your notes, knocking over an empty vial in your haste. Ink smears as you flip through your pages, but you hardly care. Grabbing one more vial—just in case—you cork it tight and shove it into your pocket. You need him to see this. Now.

Your heartbeat pounds as you rush out, barely remembering to lock the door behind you before taking off down the corridor. The lamps lining the halls have already been lit, casting flickering pools of gold onto the stone floor. You don’t stop to enjoy it.

Viktor’s dorm is far from your lab, but somehow the jog doesn’t get you tired. On the contrary, it feel great. You reach his door and rap your knuckles against the wood, shifting on the balls of your feet with barely contained excitement.

“Viktor! Open up—I’ve done it!”

The door swings open faster than you expect, and Viktor is already halfway through a hasty, "Shh!" before you shove the stack of notes into his chest. He stumbles back a step, catching them with one hand while bracing against the doorframe with the other. His hair is tousled, his vest unbuttoned—he must have been in the middle of something, though whatever it was is immediately forgotten as he frowns down at the crumpled pages.

"What—?" he starts, but you barely hear him.

With a triumphant little flourish, you hold up the test tube between you, the liquid inside gleaming under the candlelight. “I did it,” you whisper, grinning. “It works.”

Viktor’s gaze flickers from the vial to your face, eyes narrowing. "It? You mean—?"

“If this isn’t enough evidence—” you gesture to the notes he’s still sorting through, his confusion growing by the second—“I might have secretly tried it.”

His fingers still against the parchment. His head snaps up. “…You what?” Voice pitches embarrassingly, sharp with alarm. He glares at you as if he might physically shake the confession back into your mouth, but it’s too late.

You shift your weight between your feet, the initial rush of excitement dimming just a little under his scrutiny. “I tried it,” you admit again, slower this time, watching as his grip tightens around your notes. “And it works, Viktor. No pain, not even a little. I feel…” You hesitate, trying to find the right words, then settle on, “Light. Like I’m floating.”

“That is not reassuring,” he snaps, finally stepping back to let you inside. As soon as you cross the threshold, he shuts the door with a soft but urgent click and turns on you. “You—” He exhales, dragging a hand down his face, visibly forcing himself into something calmer. “You did not even hesitate?”

“I hesitated a lot,” you counter, but that does nothing to ease the storm in his eyes. He looks down at your notes again, scanning them, flipping through pages. His brow furrows deeper with every line.

The rustling of paper sounds unbearably loud in the silence, the only noise countering it the pounding of your own heart in your ears. He says nothing, eyes scanning the pages with intense focus. He’s not just skimming—he’s memorising, cataloguing every formula, every line of documentation. His lips part once, his expression shifting from concern to consideration.

Finally, he lifts his gaze, hopeful and searching. “And the side effects?”

“Very unlikely to make an appearance. Oh, hey!” Your sentence stutters to a halt as you catch Viktor tilting the vial at his lips—and swallowing. “Have you lost your mind?”

“You said it’s safe. I trust you.” He shrugs with a grin, then his eyes flutter shut. After a moment, a quiet, breathy laugh escapes him. “I’ll be damned,” he mutters. “It does work.” As if testing a theory, he exhales deeply, then sits on the sofa and stretches his legs out experimentally. “Please, continue.”

You blink, thrown off balance, but quickly shake it off. “Uh… very unlikely,” you repeat, resuming your pacing in front of him. “Whoever prescribes the medication would have to be attracted to their patient, and vice versa, for any additional effects to take place. And they would both have to ingest it. So, you see—”

Through your excited rambling, you don’t immediately notice Viktor clearing his throat uncomfortably. You frown briefly, a strange warmth blooming in your chest, but your mouth refuses to stop moving.

Viktor speaks your name softly, trying to halt your trot. Then, again. Then, once more—his voice lifting just a notch in urgency.

You finally pause, eyes locking onto his. “Chances are… very slim,” you finish the sentence, but your voice falters into something dangerously close to a whine.

Viktor stretches his legs out stiffly, his hips jerking once as his fingers clench into the fabric of his trousers. A flush creeps up his neck, blooming across the cheeks and he exhales sharply through his nose, shifting as if trying to find relief. His chest rises and falls fast, and when he swipes a hand over his face, his lips part, damp from where he must have licked them. Another small jolt runs through him, thighs pressing together, and his knuckles go white where they grip his knees.

But above all of this, he just looks… incredibly hot. And as if the sight alone isn’t enough to nearly undo you, he speaks.

“Aphrodisiac.” Comes a low mutter of disbelief. “Brilliant, really,” he chuckles weakly, though there’s little amusement in it—only breathlessness. Brilliant, how you connected the dots. So incredibly brilliant to tickle, as he advised you, the parts of the brain that entwine both—pain and pleasure.

“But, oh… f-fuck,” Viktor stutters, a sharp inhale cutting through his words as his body betrays him. His hand twitches towards his lap before he catches himself, fingers gripping his wrist in a desperate attempt to resist. A painful cramp of lust wrenches his stomach into a knot, his entire frame tensing. “You’ve missed a variable, I’m afraid—”

You stand frozen, staring at him, torn between bolting out the door and throwing yourself at his feet. But then the realisation crashes over you, scorching hot, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your pulse slams against your ribs, your skin suddenly feverish—damp forehead, shirt clinging to your back like a parasite.

“You…” your voice wavers as you step forward, heat curling low in your stomach. “It means—” Viktor swallows hard, his gaze flickering up to meet yours, pupils blown wide. “Oh, gods,” you whisper, barely able to get the words out. “You like me,” the truth spills from your lips, the weight of it sending another sharp pang of want through you.

“Immensely,” he admits, voice strained, thighs pressing together as another tremor runs through him. His face is painted in apology, but his hands reach out for you.

You take another step, closing the space between you, and his breath stutters. “Since when?”

“Always, ah—” he gasps, struggling to keep control. His fingers tighten into fists against his knees again. “You?”

Your throat is dry. “Oh… s-same,” you choke out deciding the time for embarrassment is long gone.  

His head tips back, jaw clenched, a strangled sound slipping out as he exhales. “Gods.”

And it just fucking hurts not to touch him. The pain you had so recklessly rid yourself of is back with unnatural force—aching, unrelenting—and gods help you, if you don’t rut into his lap any minute now, you’re going to die miserably.

When you get close enough, his fingers brush yours pleadingly, and the touch feels like a punch to the gut. The mere ghost of his skin against yours bends you in half, has you leaning over him, gripping the backrest of the sofa for support.

“Can I?” he asks, his hand hovering under your skirt. The sweetness of it—this man, asking permission to touch you when you’re so clearly drenched, when you’re convinced he can see the slick dripping down your thigh—makes you want to weep.

You nod desperately, breathing out a tearful, “Please.”

Viktor immediately comes to your aid, his palm swiping up the dampness on your leg before pressing flat against your cunt. The sound it makes—slick and obscene—has him gasping. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” he whispers, bewildered.

His neglected cock aches, trapped painfully in his trousers. With the hand not already between your thighs, he fumbles with his belt, freeing himself—but to no avail. His left palm is even clumsier than the right, which now falters, frozen between your legs, his drunk mind unable to do more than one thing at a time.

Desperate for friction, you grab his wrist and rut against his palm, spreading slick all over his fingers. Viktor whines, overwhelmed by both having you and not having you where he needs you most. Then, with a sudden motion that makes you gasp, he moves your knickers aside, hooks two fingers into your cunt, and pulls you down onto his lap.

The moment you're there, you begin to slide your pussy up and down his cock, and Viktor moans—a filthy, slutty sound that has you threading your fingers through his hair, tugging his head to face you.

He looks so gorgeous you could eat him and clean your teeth with his bones. Possessed by greed, you sink your tongue into his mouth and nearly stop grinding from the sheer feeling of it. His hands—gentle, reverent—cup your cheeks, soft lips nipping at yours, his eyelashes tickle your skin when his eyes flutter shut in relief.

It had never crossed your mind to just kiss him. And oh, you’ve missed out on so much.

Because Viktor kisses like he’s been wanting you for the longest time—slow and deep, breathing in through his nose as he presses his face into yours. Close, so close you could melt into him, dissolve into liquid and flow down his throat, straight to his heart. His scent floods you, sweet on your senses and unmistakably him, nothing in particular yet everything at once.

Your hips move once more, but he doesn’t let you go. He groans into your mouth, biting down a moan when your pussy lips hug the underside of his cock, teasing the spot just beneath the head. You stay there, rubbing your clit in short, frantic movements, the sinful sounds falling between you, making you ache for more.

Desperation floods your veins, your slick coating every inch of him as you grind into the ridges of his groin, each drag of your clit sending ecstatic warmth down each of your limbs. Viktor is no better—his breath comes in ragged pants. He grips your hips unsteadily, trying and failing to guide you into something slower that he could endure.

“F-fuck… you are—” His voice trembles, his forehead falling against yours as if the weight of his pleasure is crushing. “So wet. You feel so—so good.”

You can barely reply, too lost in the heat of him, the feeling of his length dragging through your folds, the head catching just right where you swell, the sensation buzzing, building up. Still, you manage a breathy, “Your cock feels amazing,” and the whimper Viktor lets out is nothing short of wrecked.

His hands slip up your back, holding you close, his lips brushing yours as he mutters sweet, broken things—bits of words and phrases in his native tongue. You don’t understand them all, but the way he speaks them, ardent and needy, has your stomach tightening, your whole body scorched.

“Viktor, I’m—”

“I know. Please, cum. For me,” he pleads, his hands gripping you tighter as you begin to lose your rhythm. It’s there, you can already feel it creeping up your spine, twisting and prickling your skin where Viktor touches you, coaxing it out.

The heat in your belly snaps, and you cry out, trembling in his arms as your release gushes over him, soaking his cock, his thighs, pooling where your bodies meet. The wetness, the sheer warmth of you, sends him over the edge in turn.

Viktor shudders beneath you, his voice breaking on a guttural groan as his cock twitches and spills, ropes of hot cum streaking over his stomach, mixing with your slick into a sticky, messy heat between you.

Your mouth falls back to his, kissing away the sweat from his lips, your pelvis still rocking gently through the aftershocks—the slide so easy now that you feel like a whore doing it. Viktor hums when you pull his damp hair away from his forehead, his breath slowing down when he exhales a breathless chuckle. "You will kill me," he murmurs, voice hoarse and fucked-out.

"No," you whisper, nuzzling into his cheek, your body still moving against him, slow and unhurried. Like a cat rubbing against its keeper, needy and content all at once. "No, I would never. I need you."

Viktor groans softly at that, his hands tracing your sweat-slicked back before settling at your waist. "What do you need from me, sweet girl?" His voice is low, the tone suggesting that anything you ask for, he will give you.

"Please, fuck me," you breathe, pressing closer, your lips brushing against his jaw. "I feel so empty." Only now you begin to undo the buttons of your shirt and Viktor does the same, pressing your damp stomachs together. He inhales your scent from the crook of your shoulder and hums, eyes rolling back in his skull as if the words physically unravel him. His grip on you tightens briefly before he smacks your hips with both hands and says, “Get up. Please.”

Your legs nearly betray you, thighs shaking and knees weak as you try to rise from his lap, only to almost collapse back at the sight of the webs of your shared release stretching between you. It makes a sticky sound, gross and hot, and to your relief, Viktor must find it hot too—because he’s nearly fully hard again.

You don’t know if it’s the medicine or something else. You feel different now, though it definitely still holds, since Viktor gets up with ease, turns you to face the couch, and presses his fingers to the back of your neck, squeezing gently before bending you over. “Ass up, head down,” he says, a renewed lewdness in his tone.

You turn your head, catching him in the corner of your eye, and at the flicker of concern on your face, he smooths a hand along your spine and murmurs, “It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt.” He peels the sweat-dampened shirt from your back, and you smile at your shared state of half-undress—the way no time is wasted getting fully bare, the discomfort of parting greater than the inconvenience of underwear pushed aside clumsily and trousers still pooled around his knees.

Only you know how many times you’ve pictured this exact scene. But your mind never drifted far enough to conjure exactly how wet and scorching everything would be, how your thighs would quiver in anticipation. The cushioned seat dips next to your knee as Viktor sinks down beside you, close enough that your legs touch. His cock hovers below your pussy, his hands undo your bra, then settle where your hips crease.

He rocks back and forth and tsks when you shift needily. “So impatient,” he hums, sickly sweet in your ear. “But I suppose I have your lack of restraint to thank for being here in the first place.”

A clever retort sits at the tip of your tongue, only to be punched back down when Viktor slides inside you with one smooth thrust, hitting deep. He groans, wide and loud, fingers digging into your flesh—but you don’t see his face. You barely see anything through the tears pricking your eyes, forcing you to squeeze your lids shut. Your nails bite into the couch, and your back arches to meet him, presenting your ass just as he asked.

Still tight from your last climax, you hug all of him snugly, yelping when his balls slap against your soaked lips. It’s slow, almost teasing—the way he stretches you out. He’s too busy gaping at his cock, appearing and disappearing inside you, to hear your little mewls of incoherent begging, the word please tumbling from your lips over and over with no meaning beyond desperation.

Finally, you’ve entered the realm of things he can touch. And it’s dishonourable, the way it happened—but he doesn’t care. The ability to touch you, to fuck you, quickly erases all shame as he slams into you, hard and measured, knocking moans and ragged pants from your throat. It feels better than anything he’s ever felt.

He fucks you hard and rough. Each thrust is forceful, precise, driving deep until the sound of bodies slapping against each other is all you can hear. When enough pressure builds, and he feels your walls tightening, clenching closer and closer around his cock, he fists a hand in your hair and yanks you up. A sharp cry spills from your lips, your belly presses out, and you have to brace a hand against the couch's backrest. His arm comes around your shoulders, holding your back flush against his chest. The other hand—the death of you—slides between your legs, fingers pressing ruthlessly against your clit.

No restraint, no kindness—no nice boy left in him. His teeth graze your ear before sinking into the straining flesh of your neck, his voice a ragged whisper against your skin. “Take it. Where do you want it?”

Your head lolls back onto his shoulder, mouth falling open as you breathe out a tired, “Inside. Please.” He bottoms out and wrenches it from you—an orgasm so violent it has you screaming silently into the ceiling of his dorm room. It’s devastating, ripping away all muscle control as your cunt seizes tight around him, milking him without mercy. Your hands tremble, knuckles whiten as you struggle to hold yourself up, trying not to slump face-first into a pillow.

It’s all too much for Viktor. He falters, his hand slipping from between your thighs. He whispers your name distantly, voice raw, and ruts upward—once, twice—before spilling inside you. Hot cum floods every crevice, thick and unrelenting, leaking out even before he pulls free.

Everything melts into one—your shared breaths, the wet warmth between you, the sluggish rhythm of your heartbeats syncing. Viktor sits back on his heels and wraps his arms around you, nosing into your neck. Leaves soft, loving pecks there, trailing from your collarbone to your temple.

“You really didn’t know?” he asks quietly, his thumb stroking your lip.

You swallow against the dryness in your throat and chuckle. “Oh, gods, no. I’d like to think I have more decency than to drug you into this.” Your face tucks into his throat as you whisper, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I have never been more pleased about someone missing a variable,” he mutters, and he’s back—himself again. His hands are gentle as they cup your cheek, swiping away your worry. His lips are sweet on yours, licking the salt from your skin. What this little mistake has just opened up for you—you have no idea. But you can’t wait to find out.

[fireinmoonshot]

Pairing: Joaquín Torres x Reader Summary: Joaquín notices everything – even when you get a small hair cut. Warnings: It's mentioned that reader has hair long enough to braid. Word Count: 838 A/N: Just another smaller drabble tonight – inspired by me getting my hair cut this week (and dyed, but I figured it was a little too specific to have the reader dye their hair blue like mine) 😅 This was so sweet to write though, so please enjoy 💗

Over the course of your relationship with Joaquin, you’ve heard many stories from your friends about how their boyfriends never notice when they get their hair done or get a hair cut. You, on the other hand, happen to be dating one of the most observant men on the planet. 

It’s no secret that Joaquin is easily distracted. If it were anyone else, Joaquin wouldn’t even blink twice. He remembers one time that he worked alongside someone for a whole month before noticing that they’d shaved their head. But with you it’s different. With you, he notices everything – even the smallest things.

Which is why, when you come home from the hair salon with a small trim, Joaquin notices. You hadn’t had time to tell him when you’d rushed out of the house earlier that day – you’d overslept and had been rushing to make it there on time. Joaquin had still been fast asleep and had woken up to a text from you saying you had an appointment and you’d be back a little later.

He’s sitting on the couch playing a video game when you walk in the front door. The second he hears your keys in the front door he presses pause and stands up so he can greet you. It’s the first time he’s seen you all day and he’s missed you. 

“Ah, mi corazón, you’re home,” he hums, walking over to pull you into a hug. He’s two steps away from you when he notices your hair. He reaches out, touching the ends of it. “You got your hair cut?”

You look at him, a little surprised. “I only got a trim, baby. How could you even tell?”

Joaquin shrugs a shoulder. “I don’t know, I could just see that it was shorter.” He wraps his arms around you, then, pulling you into his chest in a hug like he’d planned on doing before he’d noticed your haircut. “I’m a very observant guy. It looks good.”

You smile into his chest. “That, you are, and thank you. Were you playing a game?” You could see the paused screen on the TV as you walked into the room. Joaquin is probably one of the only men alive who would willingly pause their video game to hug their partner to welcome them home after being apart for a couple of hours. You have never once had to beg Joaquin to turn off his games or pull him away from the screen to get him to do things around the house.

“I was, yeah,” Joaquin nods, pulling away from the hug. “You wanna come and watch me play for a bit? Or I can turn on a movie or the next episode of our show.” Joaquin is probably also one of the only boyfriends who never watches the show that you watch together when he’s alone. It’s your thing as a couple, even if he gets invested and gets annoyed that he has to wait for the next episode until you both have free time.

You wrap an arm around his waist. “Can we watch a movie?” 

Joaquin agrees, leading you over to the couch and sitting down beside you. You curl up against his side, draping an arm across his chest and resting your head on his shoulder as he turns off the game and opens up Netflix to find something to watch. With his free hand that isn’t holding the TV remote, he reaches up and starts to play with your hair. He twists some of it around his fingers, then just runs his fingers through it a few times. 

“What are you doing?” You ask, a little confused. Joaquin is not the type of person to keep his hands to himself, but he’s never been known to play with your hair before. Not in situations like this, anyway.

He glances over at you. “Your hair is at the perfect length now for me to play with it when we’re sitting like this,” he says simply. “Also, I was thinking – maybe I should learn to braid. I could help you do your hair sometimes when we go out, and if we have kids it means you won’t have to do their hair all the time and I can be the cool dad who braids his kids hair.”

You don’t think it’s actually possible for you to love Joaquin more than you already do. 

“You wanna learn how to braid?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs a shoulder – the one you’re not leaning on. “I’ve actually already been watching some Youtube videos on it but it’s hard to learn when I don’t have someone to practice on.”

You sit up, taking Joaquin off guard. He looks at you, a little concerned. “We’re gonna watch a movie another night, baby,” you decide, turning around so your back is to him. “Tonight, you’re gonna practice braiding hair.” 

Joaquin is suddenly excited. He sits up a little straighter, eyes wide. “Wait, really?”

“Yes, really,” you chuckle. “Show me what you’ve been learning.”

[darkbluekies]

King Edmund & Jerry drabbles: teasing hands

Yandere!king oc x fem reader, yandere!mafia!female x reader

Warnings: suggestive

A/N: I don't write these kinds a lot so I'm shy posting this lmao but practice makes perfect I suppose. Don't expect much more than this though haha

King Edmund:

If there's one thing he loves, it's to show how much power he has over your body, your reactions, without you wanting to admit it. To see how you react when he graces your sking with his fingertips. Traveling alongside your jaw, throat, wrists, feeling you tense, hearing your heart beat faster.

"Your little heart beats quicker when I run my finger along your throat", he chuckles. "Are you scared of me? Or scared of yourself? Scared that you like this more than you admit? Scared to admit you like me?"

You roll your eyes and pull away from him, but he doesn't let you go far. He chuckles and pulls you back.

"I'm not done yet", he says. "Not nearly."

"You're being annoying—"

"You think this is me being annoying? I can be ten times worse, I can make your body react in ways you could only imagine."

"That's it, I'm leaving."

You try to say it confidentally, but he can tell that you're embarrassed. Edmund lets out an evil laugh and pulls you back into his arms.

"What?" he grins, resting his chin on the top of your head. "You scared? My little darling scared of needing me?"

"Edmund—"

"You know I hate that name coming from you. Tell me your name for me, my jewel. Come on..."

His fingertips continue to trail along your collarbone, ever so slightly before resting his lips on your skin where your shoulder meets your neck.

"Call me Eddie, your Eddie", he whispers, but he doesn't sound begging nor pleading, but demanding, expecting. "Come on ..."

"Edmund, I swear to God."

"Not my name."

"Eddie."

His fingertips dig into your skin. "That's right, I'm your Eddie, and you are my jewel."

Jerry:

Sitting stradding her legs should give you an upper hand, you're on top, aren't you? On top of her. But you're not and you'll be damned if you think you are. Jerry's hands have snuck underneath your shirt, fingertips every so softly touching the skin of your waist, your stomach, your back. Smirking everytime you squirm.

"Oh, I think that was a sigh, don't you agree?" she smirks as you make the slightest sound. "Think we can get somehing bigger out of you? Something louder?"

"Jerry", you hiss out through gritted teeth.

"Yeah?"

"Stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"That."

"Oh, this?"

She lets her fingers run sligthly higher, barely touching your skin and grins wider as you stiffen even more. You glare at her, but she doesn't seem to care, doesn't even seem surprised by your reaction. Only happy.

"You're so fun to mess with, baby", she chuckles. "I'm not stopping anytime soon. It's so cute how reactive you are and how much you're trying to pretend you're fine."

"I hate you", you mutter.

"Do you? Hm, weird, I think your body is saying something entirely different. Weird how that happens, huh?"

"I'm leaving."

Jerry chuckles, but allows you to get out of her lap. She leans her head back agaisnt the couch, following you with her eyes, smirking and lifting her eyebrows.

"I know where to find you."

[khorneschosen]

I think you lack the critical skills to actually understand what you've made my point for me.

Because you haven't read one so far and every point you have been dismissive of what I write.

But perhaps you should.

At least understand something about this because quite frankly I've thrown tired of it. You don't know what ideology you serve You don't know exactly what ideology you belong to my guy and it's one where wealth is produced by labor only. No intelligence is required for it.

That is your philosophy, You may not realize it right now but you are parroting every single belief they have and I am smart enough and I've studied 10 years to understand the fact that behind the idea is that your parroting without any knowledge of what's behind them.

You are espousing theories that only can be maintained by the philosophical theories I am pointing to.

Actually because there was a man with a similar name I was trying to name but again this is text to speech. I could have named any number of people.

Braum is we have an entire world of people who are capable of doing unskilled labor in those exact terms most of them lacking even the skill of speaking the native language. And yet they are able to perform their tasks excellently. I should know I did most of those jobs myself. I've worked on a ranch I've worked in a factory I've worked retail I've worked every kind of job that you would consider beneath you.

Want to hear something that's even harder to understand than the fact that differentiation between skilled and unskilled labor is that labor can beyond skilled They can have 10 plus years of experience and it still will amount to nothing because they do not have the virtue required to expand that skill even further.

You know Starbucks is closing locations You know that right because it lost its competitive edge It's laying off workers because it is no longer a successful company something you don't seem to understand because you've always viewed it as an absolute. It is laying off its workers and then hiring CEOs at a much higher price because they are bringing in what they view as skilled talent to unfuck their situation This is what they do This is what a lot of the CEOs do rather than owning stock in the company they will take a huge paycheck so that they can unfuck their management situation.

You would know this if you would be able to place most historical or even current events in their own proper context.

But you don't because you don't put it in these contexts because you put it in a Marxist framework rather than a capitalistic framework. Because it is not a lack of skilled versus unskilled labor it is the incredibly and high-end skilled labor that is now missing from our society. And the shit does roll downhill.

Starbucks lost all of its competitive edge because it understaffed workers, has a menu that is far too complicated and gets more complicated by the day, has lost most of the atmosphere within its own restaurants, and doesn't even make the best coffee anymore every competitive advantage it once had besides brand recognition is now gone. Because it lost it to the local coffee house. So yeah and the long view of them as a company they very much said we will not be able to sling coffee for very much longer unless we get some new talent in.

And again if you're not able to put things in their current context to understand what is going on with them and merely just rely on this Marxist framework which has been proven to be not only academically but in reality wrong every time, then new will not be saved by your ignorance. Like the ignorance of when I am pointing out that you are using a Marx's framework to turn around and go So anyway I don't like to use this term the skilled labor versus unskilled labor I like to go with undervalued labor and properly valued labor. Which is again using the Marxist labor theory of value. Like I wouldn't recognize it. Fucking absurd. If you can't understand economics can you do me a favor and least understand good philosophy.

I said take someone off the street and see if they can do it is a point about skilled and unskilled labor because what we describe as skilled and unskilled labor is the scale of that skill. But it doesn't matter because you've already made my argument for me so I'm not going to argue with you further.

Look at you trying to make it more argument like you understand right from wrong.

You call it wealth warden because you don't understand what wealth is doing. You are ignorant of economics and you're even ignorant about the people you're talking about.

Oh yeah no that he shouldn't have left anything for his children They should have to struggle and work hard to survive as well because you see that's what we consider charity that your parents work hard and they leave you with nothing.

Again place that work in its proper historical context and you'll see that yeah it wasn't much different for those who were doing other dangerous jobs at the time. Because I I'll put this in your terms materialistically these were the jobs available to them.

Darling I'll ask you a question, what is there to be admired about people to you. I have a great deal of answers I'm wondering if you can come up with one you'll actually practice

Answer: Roughly $400 per month.

[wondoras]

hii, could you write the hyung line giving riki and his girlfriend THE talk?? 🤍 it doesn't have to be explicit, it can also be a funny situation

THE TALK

SYNOPSIS: after getting caught in an embarrassing position, you and niki receive “the talk” from the older members. or, well, at least they tried.

PAIRING: nishimura niki x fem!reader

GENRE: suggestive, crack (??)

WC: 1k (1068)

TW: make out session, a few moans and groans, suggestive, bad English, not proofread, bad ending (because idk how to end things), my extremely bad attempt at something funny (i tried my best) (i don’t know what to put here #help)

author's note: this is my first ever fanfic in English, so i'm apologizing in advance for the mistakes that may be scattered throughout the story, but i also want to thank you for giving me this chance! i'm open to constructive criticism on what i can improve in my writing or what i should tone down a bit. thank you again for this opportunity and sorry for the delay in delivering the request <3

Kissing Niki was always one of the best parts of your day, especially when he looked so pretty with his hair undone, breathless, plump lips all red and swollen and eyes hooded with desire, looking at you like you’re the only goddess he would ever worship in all of his future lives.

You and Niki were dating for a few months and up until now you didn't do much besides kissing and making out, but every time his hands would start roaming your body, you really wished he could take the initiative and take the relationship to another stage.

"So pretty..." he whispered softly against your lips, slowly caressing his fingers on your neck, almost reverently. "I'm so lucky to be your boyfriend."

Placing your face in his neck to hide your shyness, you began to leave soft kisses on his skin, making shivers run through his body. With a groan, he squeezed your waist, pulling you closer in his lap, making you feel the bulge starting to form in his pants. Lifting your head from where it was nested in his neck, your eyes found his, questioning if he wanted to take the next step. You two were alone in the dorm, the others were at the studio and probably would take a long time to come back, so you had time.

Without thinking twice, he claimed your lips with his, kissing you like his life depended on it, sliding his hands from your waist to your hips, squeezing hard and moving your hips gently against his, and the friction created drew soft moans from your mouth, that he gladly took for himself. Bringing your hands to the hem of his shirt, you broke the kiss momentarily so he could take the shirt off, throwing it somewhere in the room. Breathing heavily, you looked at his body, admiring his beauty while slowly caressing his naked torso, enjoying his reactions to the feeling of your fingers on his skin.

You were so engrossed in the moment, that you didn't hear the front door open or the other members' voices ringing through the dorm until it was too late.

“Hey! We brought ramyeon…” Heeseung’s voice rang through the room, startling you and Niki, who quickly covered his body with the sheet while you tried not to die out of embarrassment for not having heard when the boys arrived.

“Hyung!” Niki exclaimed, widening his eyes towards the hallway, signaling him to leave.

Heeseung left the room still in shock, trying to understand what he had seen. He knew Niki wasn’t the same kid from I-Land anymore, but he still saw him like that kid, and seeing him and his girlfriend doing whatever that was, it was the wake up call he needed. Walking blindly to the living room, his distraught face alerted everyone that something had happened, and Sunghoon’s arched eyebrows indicated everyone’s clear curiosity to know what happened.

“What? What happened? Where are they?” Sunoo asked after helping Jay and Jungwon organize the table.

“I think it’s time we have that talk with Niki.” It was the only thing Heeseung said, looking from Jay to Jake and then Jungwon, who slowly widened his eyes when he realized what Heeseung was talking about.

“Oh shit…” Jay whispered surprisedly, while Jake and Sunghoon tried not to laugh.

In Niki’s room, you two were trying not to die of embarrassment while holding back the laughter that wanted to come out. Looking at him through your fingers, you saw how red he was and you had to count to 10 to not burst out laughing.

“You know that they won’t let us live it down, right?” He asked softly, putting on his shirt and avoiding looking at you.

“I know” you whined, feeling even more embarrassed.

After a few minutes of silence, a knock was heard at the door and soon a voice was heard against it.

“Hmm... can you guys come to the living room real quick?” The voice, which you suspected to be Sunoo, asked hesitantly.

Looking at each other, you and Niki went pale, wondering what they wanted to talk about that was so important at that moment.

“... Sure…” You answered, listening to Sunoo’s feet moving away from the door.

Getting out of bed, you left the room slowly, wanting to drag out this moment as long as possible. In the living room, the six boys were spread out across the couch and the floor, busy staring into space. When they heard the sound of your footsteps, they raised their heads, and having their attention on you made you want to hide from everyone forever even more.

“Hey…” you whispered shyly, sitting next to Niki on the remaining sofa.

“We called you here because we think it's time to have the talk.” Jungwon started, signaling to Jay to continue.

“So, you're at the age where you start doing... this, but we want to make sure you know how to use protection.”

You've never wanted the ground to open up and swallow you as much as you do now, and you're sure the same goes for Niki. Looking from Jay's uncomfortable face to Jungwon and Sunoo looking blankly at the table and Heeseung, Sunghoon and Jake trying not to laugh, you decided to stay a few days without setting foot in the dorm.

“Hyung...” Niki whined, asking Jungwon with his eyes to make the older one stop, receiving only a shrug in response.

“It's important that we talk about this, Niki.” Jay argued. “We don't want any surprises nine months from now.”

That was enough for the trio to stop holding back and burst out laughing, hitting each other as they laughed, while you just wanted to disappear. Niki gave a side eye to his hyungs, planning how he would get revenge on them for this.

Slowly stopping laughing, the trio looked at Niki and Sunghoon gave the youngest a mischievous smile, pointing to something in the corner of his mouth.

“New lip gloss, Niki?”

Without hesitation, Niki threw a pillow at the boys, which soon turned into a pillow fight, with you and Sunoo trying to defend yourselves from the pillows that were heading your way.

“You better sleep with one eye open today, Sunghoon hyung!” Niki roared from behind the couch, winking at you seductively, making clear to you his plan to distract the other six boys from the conversation.

⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀© wondoras

[thranduel]

if byler isn't endgame...

what was the point of making will in love with mike?

why was will used as a plot device to force mike and el back together and "fix" their relationship issues? (the writers literally took his OWN feelings for mike and his OWN painting for mike that was supposed to be something special between them only and made it all about... el? this is genuinely one of the most cruel, ridiculous and unnecessary writing decisions i've ever seen if it doesn't result in will getting the person he loves)

why did they clearly highlight the contrast between byler and m*leven's relationships all season? how mike makes el feel like a monster for being different vs how he does NOT make will feel like a mistake for being different? how mike and el had the biggest fight after mike apologised vs how mike and will made up and ended up closer than before after mike apologised? how mike and el don't have healthy communication and struggle to understand each other vs how mike and will always have genuine heart-to-heart conversations, understand each other so well and sometimes don't even have to say any words? how mike feels insecure in his relationship with el and has his trauma/feelings invalidated vs how will manages to always make him feel special, confident and gives him strength when he's struggling and needs help?

why are there so many parallels and similarities between will and el as individual characters AND also their relationships with mike?

why is mike's relationship with will different from all his other platonic friends? (and don't just say "because will is in love with him", because in some scenes, MIKE is the one who initiates things and goes out of his way for will. which reminds me, you know how everyone says mike does so many romantic things for el? like not giving up on her when she's missing, taking care of her, being protective over her, etc.? he actually did all of those things for will first)

why did mike vent to will about his fight with el (the fight he claims they "can't come back from") without directly saying what the fight was about? all he said was "maybe i should've said something... and if i would've said that thing, then maybe she'd want me there with her." so... you're venting to your friend and you can't even specify that your big fight was about not being able to say "i love you"? why was it kept so secretive if you truly love her and it's no big deal? you've said you love her in front of a group of people before anyways, even when will was there, so why can't you even say the words to him while venting?

why did mike vent to will (again) and say that if he would've explained himself to el, maybe she would've taken him with her? will says he thinks it's scary to open up like that, to say how you really feel, but shouldn't mike and el already know how they both feel about each other at this point? el heard mike say he loved her in season 3, and at the end of the same season, she said "i love you too" before kissing him. they have kissed a lot, sent letters to each other and do lovey dovey things, which should make their feelings quite clear?????

and what was the point of this line from will?

"because... what if... what if they don't like the truth?"

we're supposed to be talking about el here. sure, will was subtly speaking about himself, and we know that as the audience. but mike doesn't. this conversation is about el, so mike still thinks will is talking about her. why on earth would he NOD after will says the part about how she might not like the truth? mike knows that "the truth" she WANTS to hear is "i love you", so why wouldn't she like the truth? why did mike nod at what will said and why did he agree with him? what is actually even happening in this scene??????????????

why did they make all the canon couples stand together in the final shot of season 4, with mike and will standing together too?

what was the point of ANY of this if they weren't planning on making byler endgame?!?!?!?!?!

[rabbitindisguise]

Personally I like him because he paints things as they are, not what they look like or what the brain thinks things should look like.

An abstract painting paints the concept itself, a photorealistic painting paints light the way the human eye sees it. Van Gogh paints how he sees the world or how he wants you to see the world, and it draws focus to things by omitting other things. You can't focus on the expressions and see the happiness because they're not there- this could be a tearful hello or a casual "it's lunch time yay!" So you put down the emotions yourself. You're extrapolating from being pushed into a corner, and yet simultaneously only getting the scant information you need to paint a mental image renders something very specific and unique. Doing otherwise is basically redundant. It's something known as (iirc) economy of strokes in painting, or economy of movement in dance, or economy of words in writing. Doing the most with the least resources.

Consider:

"hello my dear" could be a literal statement

"my dear" could be a poem title

"dear" alone though has ten thousand things wrapped in it for a character introduction. It's not just a form of address anymore, and it's not necessarily a greeting. The scene around it fills in the meaning with context, minimizing the use of extraneous words.

That's just him being one of the best impressionists ever though because that's just what impressionism is. I think what he did particularly well with economy of strokes was combining it with his use of color. My favorite painter ever was Monet and he used desaturated pastels in similar non-photo realistic ways to shape the mood and tone to his paintings. Van Gogh in contrast has very rustic and grounded uses of color that adds a sense of "dappled light" over everything. Like we're looking at the paintings through trees. There's some subtle motion and living quality to it. But ymmv on that one ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Can I ask your thoughts on something art related? What is everyone's fuss with Vincent Van Gogh? I don't get what is so good about him and you sharing made me think to ask what I've always wondered about. I'm hoping this isn't an embarrassing or offensive thing to ask you. I do like some of his paintings, but I feel like I'm missing something that everyone else understands or appreciates and maybe I wasn't taught to recognize it.

It's interesting, isn't it? We have so many ideas and criticisms and conventions about what makes good art, and he seemed to break them all.

I think he understood loneliness. Maybe more than any artist before or since.

When you look at a painting like this—

—you can see it, I think.

There are no faces. No expressions. But it's a bright, cheerful day on a family farm. Everything is full of life and warmth. A father has thrown down his shovel to catch his child. It's love.

But his hands are what you notice first. Big, heavy hands. And they're empty. Maybe they will be filled. We don't know what will happen. We feel happiness only because of what we expect.

That's what all the fuss about Van Gogh is.