#so I have just gone for Vibes down to the very ends of things (and indulged my long-held affection for copper-toed boots)

[chiropteracupola]

or a different palette ask: cowboyce alan and davie in ‘lobotomy’?

I traveled through October, the mountains and the plains / Hoping that the losses won't outweigh the gains...

[burymagdalene]

Drip by Drip - S. Reid x Reader

In which the nine long days spent apart ends in a harmonious reunion of a needy shower spent together.

pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader genre: plain smut. (18+ pls pls) I didn't even write 70k words of plot before like I usually do. tags: softdom!Spencer, shower sex, age gap (or could also not be...) pinv, a possessive vibe, fingering, handjob, making out, multiple things being very wet...playing with your tits, creampie, finger sucking, praise, & desperation! wc: 3.3k a/n: More of this. I had a lot of fun writing this even though I kind of felt really dirty to the point of religious guilt as a non-religious person so I hope you guys like it! <3

Your body finally relaxes after what feels like the longest day you’ve had all week once Spencer's shower stream washes over you.

Nine days. Nine brutally slow days of watching over Spencer’s apartment- or torturing yourself by being reminded of his belongings for over a week.

When he first left, you’d been naive. Spencer hasn’t been away for over a week since you’ve started dating. The first time he was gone for three days you felt like you were going to faint. You wish you still had those champagne problems as you’re washing yourself for the trillionth time alone in Spencer’s shower.

The past 24 hours have been especially hard. You were woken up at 5:00 am with Spencer calling you before he had to get ready in the hotel and go out to do whatever had taken up so  much of his time in Boise, Idaho. 

First, good news: He thinks there is a break in the case, and should be getting home later.

Second, great news: Spencer has conveniently woken up with a hard on that's throbbing helplessly against his stomach.

Which sounds like a heavenly wake-up call. But in the FBI he has to be adaptable to the quickest changes in plans.

Five minutes into purring into your side of the phone while touching yourself to Spencer’s groans, another charming individual begins to call Spencer as well. His boss.

So, tucking himself into the band of his underwear, Spencer leaves again. You could’ve finished yourself off, but self pity got the best of you as you drift off to sleep.

A painfully slow and hard day at work followed, rude people and small mishaps on your part that were blown out of proportion to make you feel worse. A crappy self made dinner that took longer to cook than to eat.

But in Spencer’s shower, you’re able to unwind, happy in knowing you can spend the end of a bad day in your lover's space. Regardless of if he’s here or not. Which is another problem, you haven’t heard from him since he was panting on the phone earlier– so it’s safe to say he probably will not be coming back today because of the rush in which he had to hang up earlier.

Over the water pattering against tiles, you do not hear the key jingle and door shut that signifies Spencer’s long-awaited return. Head down and eyes closed, most of your senses are just focused on trying to unwind.

Spencer, placing his bag down in the kitchen, can hear the shower going and immediately saunters over. Not having a plan, but just to show that he’s finally back. He can’t fathom being home right now without alerting you.

Slowly, as if not to scare you too badly, he probably will though, he slips in through the bathroom door, places his toiletry bag down on the sink.

You’re a bit unfocused, but not completely to the point of missing this. Out of your peripheral vision you see the slightest movement and your head whips to the side. Spencer. You could fucking melt.

Through the steam that has built up, you can make out his slouched figure and contrasting pleased smile. You can’t help yourself, with soft dripping skin you swing his shower door open to greet him.

“Spencer,” you whisper out in shock, trailing water onto his bathroom floor. “Oh my God.”

“Hi my baby-” He reaches out to swipe away some droplets on your face, but doesn’t finish. You’re pulling him into a tight, wet hug.

Arms slung fiercely around his neck, he barely buffers in returning your hug with his jacket-clad arms around your waist.

In the back of your mind you’re aware that the water on your breasts and stomach are soaking through his undershirt. That your clean hair is dropping water onto the shoulder of his jacket. You’re also aware how expensive a suit is. 

The harsh disparity from the cool air sticking to your wet skin from the hot (frankly, too hot) shower you were in previously is pebbling your nipples against his now soaked-through button up, your skin is covered in goosebumps that he’s swiping away with his thumb. 

A low hum into your ear as he’s trailing his thumb nail against the sensitive part of your inner waist, “Angel girl,” a deep sigh, “I missed you so much.”

Your arms tighten around him, forehead landing on his wet shoulder, you could cry. You could laugh maniacally. Either way, you feel cemented against his frame, the only warmth being produced near you since stepping out of the shower.

A small indent in your lower stomach is being formed from his belt digging into your pliable skin. You feel like a fresh heap of soft clay ready to be moved and constructed into anything Spencer’s hands can make of you. You feel utterly his.

You pull away slightly, uncomfortable from where his buckle was pressing against your belly. Pulling one hand away you trace it with a fingernail, Spencer and you both looking down at it between your bodies. Both noticing the drastically different attire. 

A chuckle slips from your lips without thinking, “you branded me, look.”

Spencer’s thumb stops rubbing circles into your side, a shiver rolls down your spine. Daring to look up at him, you’re met with his dark eyes resembling magic 8 balls. An underlying fortune there too: Outlook Good.

Warm hands are soon softly gripping your cheeks as you’re being pulled into a burning kiss. His lips against yours after all this time, you moan immediately. Dry and soft and pillowy he’s swallowing you and pulling you flush against him, buckle be damned.

Water from your hairline is rolling over your cheeks and soaking the cuffs of Spencer’s sleeves. You haven’t pulled away far enough, but you can bet that the white button up he’s wearing is see through.

You’re freezing, the air from the bathroom is torturous, your skin on high alert. It’s making you push yourself onto Spencer so hard he stumbles back. He grabs your ass to steady you both for a moment and you bite harshly onto his bottom lip.

“God, my girl,” Spencer shivers against you when he feels your cold hands seek warmth under his shirt, “My perfect girl, I can’t believe how much I missed you.” He places a kiss onto the top of your head.

Speaking into his shoulder, “I missed you too, I feel crazy. Such a bad day.”

Both of his hands slowly trail up your waist till they meet the side of your boobs, you pull your lips in to conceal a whiny moan.

“I’m sorry I left you hanging earlier, did you finish?”

“N-no, went back to bed.”

He groans against your head. Placing his hands firmly on your hips to push you away slightly, taking a long good look at your naked frame. You feel exposed, embarrassed, and hot. Looking back at him, his perfect suit, deliciously tainted by your wet body print, chest visible through the wetness.

One of his thumbs wanders from your hip, back to the small indent of his buckle, rubbing it back and forth. This time you can’t help but whine.

The tension is tangible and painful. Your hands feel stuck to your sides before you snap out of it, pulling him close by the tie before you try to remove it with slippery hands.

Tight and hard to undo because of the wet nature of his garments frustrates you as you try to untangle Spencer from his tie. Him being clothed feels utterly unbearable. Through half-lidded eyes and a lazy smile, he watches you struggle with the tie.

“Here- honey, let me.” Spencer's removal of the tie, his fingers taking it off rather steadily compared to your shaking ones. Though the excitement zipping through him equals yours.

You latch onto him again, completely devoted to his presence, there’s no way in hell you’re letting that much distance and that much time separate you again. Tugging one side of the collar of his jacket you slip it off of him, he grabs your wrist.

“I’m here, I’m here,” A wet kiss to your begging mouth, “Get warm in that shower, you’re trembling. I’ll be there in 30 seconds. Can you wait that long for me?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Knew it. Good girl.”

With that, your stomach plummets and you spin on your heels back to the shower. It’s almost orgasmic in itself to find yourself under the hot water pressure again. 

The door is almost completely steamed up now, you can hardly make Spencer out through it. You can only see movement and more of his tanned skin being exposed through a murky lens.

You can’t help it, greedy fingers come down to rub a few circles onto your clit as he finishes undressing and approaches you. The weight and stress of the nine days going straight to your clit to be absolved.

The door swings open, mercy.

You don’t feel polite enough to stop the rubbing, Spencer doesn’t seem to mind, mumbling “Jesus.” under his breath before meeting you with a kiss under the shower head.

His tongue rolls slowly against yours, making your toes curl in on themselves where you stand. Fingers picking up against yourself you moan into his open mouth, he pulls his face back to watch you. 

A kiss against your throat makes you whimper and pull your head to the side for another one to be placed. 

With Spencer’s rock hard dick against his stomach in your line of vision you wince while removing your hand from yourself, your hips instinctively kicking up to chase where your hand is now grabbing the base of Spencer.

He hums low, a bead of precum leaking out to be washed away by the stream. You glide your hand quickly, a desperate attempt to hear more of his moans vibrate against your skin. 

“Slowly, baby-” He gasps as you circle his head.

You can’t let up, you barely feel in control of your body. Your head is spinning, you just can’t believe he’s with you.

Finally, a louder moan is cut from Spencer’s lungs as his hips slowly fuck against the fast pace of your fist. The tip of his dick barely ever encases in your hand as he does so, only able to feel the sensation of bottoming out when he’s inside you.

While you’re distracted, moaning brokenly into the suffocating air and pumping your hand against Spencer’s throbbing length, Spencer trails down to pet your clit again for you.

“Fuck, I missed you. I miss touching you like this, the way I can feel your heartbeat in it, baby-” He draws out the last word in disbelief. You felt the thrumming against your own fingertips earlier, so by now you’re sure it’s fluttering against his hand in an obscene way. 

His middle finger circles your entrance. Your heart is in your throat. 

“Please-” You sob out, being teased right now would end you forever.

“Mhm. I am.”

Taking his time feeling against your spongy walls where his thumb continues its circles against your bundle of nerves, your hand against his cock grows sloppy.

You squeeze your eyes shut, the muggy air making you deliciously light headed against his ministrations. 

The second finger brings a delightful stretch, your head falls back against the wall as you whine. It’s been a while. You harness some sort of defiance that refuses to fuck yourself when he’s gone. The week of nothing stretching you out causing for a tight suction around his two fingers as he fucks into you.

“Tight, baby. It’s been too long. I left you too long, my poor thing.”

Though your hand slowed against his cock, you’re still trying to keep up simulation for him, not wanting to be a cruel tease when he’s working against you so perfectly. Spencer pulls that hand away eventually though. Without explanation, you know he was about to cum. His stomach always flexes and twitches when he’s using all his willpower to hold back.

“Need it. Need you-” You gasp against his lips. Totally overzealous. Spencer knows the way you’re tight around him, you’re going to need a third finger to take him without your common whiny complaints.

Teeth knocking together, he continues to tongue kiss you. He wants to expedite this process of feeling you around his cock just as much as you do, he just has more willpower than you. You can mumble and beg and plead till tears well up in your eyes. His stomach swirls with a burning passion because of it, but he has no capability to hurt you. 

So you get another long finger inside you.

You let out a high pitched whimper- proving yourself wrong immediately. You needed to be stretched out this way. Damn his perceptiveness.

Your eyes roll back and your hips roll against the fingers rubbing against that sweet spot in you that shakes your thighs.

“You gotta keep yourself open for me when I’m gone, love.” He whispers brokenly into the thick air around you.

“Can’t. Only you.” You grumble back.

Spencer can’t get into the health benefits of taking care of yourself this way, especially in the long periods when he’s away. He can tell you’re bordering speechlessness and he’s dizzy enough to follow your technique of just letting out pretty moans.

A tiny trail of white essence pools around his fingers and he nearly keels over. You’re definitely ready to take him now. Seeing the ways he makes you feel good in the mess you make always drives him to the brink of insanity.

“Taking them out now. Gonna give you what you want. Feel ok?” He whispers into your ear before nibbling the lobe softly before parting to analyze your face.

“Feel reallyy good, Spence.” You smile a dazed grin at him, eyelids fluttering shut. Bringing the fingers that were just inside you to his lips he sucks them off and bites down on his fingers a bit too hard at the divine taste.

“Do you want to turn around for me, angel?”

Spencer’s trying to think of the best way to do this. His shower is nice, but isn’t the biggest shower in the world, he lives in an apartment in D.C. after all. He’s gonna have to fuck you from behind.

“Yeah, course.” You shift slowly, forearms out to brace yourself against the cold wall. Sticking your butt out playfully, he grips it softly, lines his cock against you.

“You feel okay? Ready?” He plants a kiss on your shoulder, you turn your head to make eye contact, you and Spencer usually can’t go too long without looking into each other's faces.

“Feel okay, really want you baby.”

Your head stays tilted to the side and your temple rests against the wall as he nudges his head against you.

Opening you up just enough, the stretch of all of him after a considerable amount of time has you keening.

The hand not gripping your waist moves up to cup one of your tits, rolling the sensitive nipple between his fingers.

“Fuck-” you whimper out meekly.

Letting him all the way in, he squeezes your breast for purchase. Looking at how he’s fully settled inside you, Spencer begins peppering soft kisses over your shoulder and spine, calming you and himself down.

Using the wall as leverage you slowly move yourself back against him, notifying Spencer you’re ready to be taken.

Gasping, he pulls almost all the way out to slowly fuck himself in again before settling on a good, unyielding pace. The feeling of your warm skin under his hands, warm cunt around his dick and warm water falling against his back is making him feel like he’s on a cloud. Completely blissed out having you in his arms again.

You groan (rather unladylike while getting fucked this way) and circle your hips against his thrusts. Spencer peers up at you, making sure your face isn’t holding any tension that could be read as something hurting. Instead you just open your mouth, ready for a finger.

Begrudgingly, he takes his hand off your breast to place his thumb down on your tongue, you moan happily and smile around him as your teeth scrape him lightly when he finds a delicious spot in you to pound at. 

Overwhelmed, he has to look up at the ceiling. He’s been so pent up that letting his hips move in autopilot against you, the quiet sopping sound of you two together over the water falling, the base of his spine tingles.

“Still okay?”

He asks at your closed eyes, you gurgle out an uh-huh against his thumb, drool rolling down your chin to be forgotten in the shower.

“Kay- good.” He kisses your cheek.

Feeling his orgasm beginning to build, Spencer takes his hand from your waist to move to the front of your hips where your clit is exposed.

A trembling bite is met against his thumb as he uses three fingers against you in relentless circles. Keeps his hips going the same pace.

“Spence- you’re gonna make me cum.”

“Ha- trying to, doll.” His eyebrows furrow- trying to hold back long enough so he can fuck you through your orgasm, though the tone of your voice is making that increasingly hard.

Your head lolls back against his shoulders and with a few “ah, ah, ah’s” you’re coming hard all over him.

“Good, yeah. You’re okay, feel so good f’me.” He whimpers as you begin to pull his orgasm from him. His hips still against you at your deepest point as you let out a tiny mewl at the stimulation. Tongue pushing out his thumb to moan freely.

He rocks himself inside you while holding your hips up, making sure no slips occur in his bathroom today. Spencer keeps grinding and rubbing your clit until you’re both shaky with overstimulation, and till you mutter out a “can’t-”. He doesn't argue with that.

The shower water is beginning to chill as he watches his cum slide down your thighs into the basin. Spencer is rubbing your arms soothingly up and down till he pulls you against him. 

“You wanna get out, pretty?”

“Cold.” You shudder.

Your legs feel like jelly when he’s wrapping a towel around your shoulders and ushering you into his bedroom. Another towel tied lowly on his waist he pulls an FBI hoodie over your raised arms and boxers up your legs. His own robe pulled off the door to drape over himself.

The tender attention you receive no matter what type of sex you and Spencer have always heats your cheeks with delight. A tender pressure is being massaged into your thighs with the lotion you brought over from your own apartment, and your eyes flutter shut as he mumbles something along the lines of “princess.. blah blah blah…” to you.

“Please never be away from me that long again. I really missed you, Spencer.”

All warmed up and soft from his pampering, you lie against his rising and falling chest.

“I know. I did too. It’s strange, I feel like when I’m with you, you act as my circadian rhythm. You ground me and keep me in check, I know when to wake up when you do. I sleep better, eat better. When we’re apart I struggle with that. You’re a resounding part of my day.”

You nuzzle against his chest, preening at his words. 

“I love you so much.”

“My baby, I love you too.”

Squished together tightly in a way that’s breeding an almost uncomfortable warmth, you and Spencer fall asleep. Hearts mirroring each other in matching soft and measured beats, the 216 painful hours apart start healing with every drum in your chests.

[xinganhao]

🫶 svt reacts to you saying 'i love you' on accident.

★ prompt: Ot13 reaction to you saying I love you for the first time (possibly kind of by accident) 🥰 c/o anon

ⓘ friends to lovers vibes, flirting, pet names. headcanons under the cut.

🫶 read more?

seungcheol tries to take it in stride. really, he does. he's convinced he can be very normal about this, even though it will probably have him preening the whole day. he's always thrived most on words of affirmation, and what's more affirming than the truth?

jeonghan's joking, of course. he knows deep down that your little slip doesn't immediately entail a relationship, but he's definitely intent on going out swinging. the light teasing is an attempt to get you to think about a time where you can freely say 'i love you' to him every day.

there's a fair amount of sincerity in joshua's reaction. his first thought is to make sure that you're okay with it, since he has some idea that you've probably tripped on the words. but give him that leeway and he'll take it in a heartbeat. you've started saying it; he'll never let you hear the end of it.

if junhui manages to feign nonchalance, it's because of his acting prowess. he's smug and giddy, though he's not about to let you know that. he's the type to pull the rug underneath you a couple of days later, right when you've probably forgotten it. "so…" he'll drawl. "how much do you love me, hm?"

to no one's surprise, soonyoung is decisively not chill about it. this is A Big Deal to him! an 'i love you'? something he's wanted to hear for ages? he needs to make sure he's not dreaming. there's the dopiest smile on his face, because you love him. it's the best thing he's heard.

wonwoo's hands are shaking. his throat is suddenly dry, and he's relatively sure his brain has short-circuited. it's— just an offhand thing. at least that's what he tries to convince himself. the reality: he's going to be replaying the words in his head for weeks on end.

it doesn't strike jihoon immediately. maybe it hits him once you're gone; maybe it occurs to him when the moment has already passed. one thing's for sure: he's not going to let it go unanswered. he's a little late, not on time, but that doesn't mean he doesn't mean it. you know that, right?

the words make something bloom and blossom in seokmin's chest. they take root like a promise, and even though he tries not to get ahead of itself, it's hard. he's so, so happy to hear it from you that he'll be walking on clouds for the days to come.

mingyu doesn't hate you. that much is certain. he just hates the power you have over him— how you can upend his entire day with a couple of choice words. he had thought he'd be stronger than this, but here he is. panicking because of 'ily'? god, he can't afford to be in shambles like this.

ever the rational type, minghao will be the type to press, "how do you love me?" he can't afford any missteps, needs to know you're on the same page. if you love him as a friend, then so be it. but if there's a prospect for anything more, even just a minute worth of it… well. he would like to know.

joking about it is a coping mechanism. that's something seungkwan subscribes to, at the very least. it gives him time to gather his wits, this whole keeping-up-a-facade thing. (ask anyone: he had been smiling a little too hard at his phone when your text came in. the eyes never lie.)

rarely is vernon thrown off his game like this. he's not supposed to be melting over a flippant 'ily', and yet here he is— trying (and failing) to be cool about your slip-up. can you blame him? he's wanted you for so long, and the words can be as good as a promise if he really wanted them to be.

you're not playing fair. chan has half a mind to make you suffer, to not give you the satisfaction of a reaction. alas, he's always had a soft spot for you. that extends to unquestioning forgiveness, and reciprocity where it matters. yes, even in accidental confessions.

› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao

[hyunjincanraptoo]

Piece of you- L.MN

SURPRISE!! Today is a triple special day for me, so let's get started

First of all, it's my babygirl @sweetlifeofjoy 's bday!! Happy birthday, Nari! I hope you have a wonderful day, surrounded by those you love and I wish a lot of happiness 😊 And thanks for making my day a lot funnier whenever we talk... or flirt haha

Now, the second thing I wanna celebrate, it's Minho's debut on this blog yay! I tried to make something very Lee Know coded here, I guess it's giving off his vibes. I hope you all like it

And last but not least, I want to celebrate the 700 of us. I didn't even have time to thank you for 600 so consider that a combo. I am really really grateful for each one of you. Really. You make my little heart very happy 💜🤭

Word count: 1.0k

No warnings

Alexa, play Ink by Coldplay

Minho had been gone less than a day when you found the first note.

It was tucked beneath your toothbrush, folded into a tiny triangle with a doodle on the front— a cat  version of him, with exaggerated pouty lips and two big bright eyes that he asked Hyunjin to sketch. Underneath, in his unmistakable handwriting, it said:

“Miss me yet?”

You laughed, even if your chest ached a little. Opening it, you could listen to his voice in the ink.

“Brush your teeth, sleepyhead. I’m not there to kiss you good morning, but I still expect fresh breath when I call”.

You stood there for a long moment, grinning down at the paper, toothbrush forgotten.

The next one showed up that afternoon, in the hoodie you stole from his wardrobe. You slipped your hand into the front pocket and felt it— another folded piece of paper. This one had small hearts all over it and a simple message:

“Wear this one often. It smells like me. I gave it a final hug before I left. You're welcome”

You giggled, hugging the hoodie tighter.

Minho had always been the quiet type when it came to words, more teasing than tender, but it felt like he had left tiny pieces of himself all over the apartment just to keep you company.

Every day you found a new one. One was taped to the coffee jar:

“Drink water too. No, coffee doesn’t count. Neither does bubble tea. I'm watching you”

Another slid out from between your laptop screen and keyboard:

“Take breaks. Don’t sit there for six hours straight or I will find out”

And then there was the one beneath his favorite mug:

“Play our playlist. Skip the sad ones unless you’re missing me a lot. If you do listen to them, please don’t cry while holding my mug. It’s bad for the aesthetic”.

They were scattered everywhere— beneath your pillow, taped to the ice cream lid in the freezer, inside the pages of your current book. Each one perfectly timed, each one so Minho. 

One, though, made you stop in your tracks and cackle like a hyena. It was taped to the front of the air fryer, written in red ink:

“I SWEAR TO GOD if you break my air fryer while I’m gone, I will haunt you. Not gently. I’m talking about flickering lights and mysterious cat hair in your cereal”

And then, like the cherry on top, a tiny postscript:

“(Miss you though. Please eat something that isn’t chips)”

You shook your head, grinning like an idiot. Only Lee Minho could threaten you with ghostly vengeance and still make your heart flutter.

Another note had been left on the windowsill where the cats loved to take a nap. This one was softer, written with a little paw print doodle in the back:

“Tell Soonie he’s in charge. Doongie gets extra head kisses. And Dori… can’t be trusted, so watch him”

“If they look at you dramatically and cry like they’re starving, remember: they are liars. Do not fall for it. But also… maybe give them a snack anyway”

“If they sit on your lap, don’t you dare move. I don’t care if your leg goes numb. That’s the price of love”

“PS: If you fall asleep with them like that… just know I’m gonna be insanely jealous. But also please take a picture so I can melt over it for five minutes and then pretend I’m not crying in the tour van”

You were crying laughing by the end of that one.

Each note was like a breadcrumb trail leading you right back to him, even while he was miles away.

But the note that made you sit down and press a hand to your chest, was under his pillow.

You only found it on the third day. You weren’t even looking, you were just making the bed out of habit, and there it was— thicker than the rest.

You sat on the bed and unfolded it slowly, heart stuttering.

“This one’s for the nights that feel heavy”

“You don’t have to be okay just because I’m not there to see it. I know you’re strong, but I also know you. So cry if you need to. Eat ice cream for dinner. Watch that movie we’ve seen a hundred times”

“Then call me in the morning. I’ll listen to every word. You don’t have to do this alone. You never have to”

By the time Minho called you that night, the notes were lined up across the wall, like a paper mosaic. 

He appeared on your phone screen, hair damp from shower

 “Wow”, he said when he saw the background, “I didn’t think you’d actually keep them”

You rolled your eyes, pulling the hoodie tighter around you. “Shut up, you wrote them! You thought I’d read them and toss them in the trash?”

“I mean, yeah”, he said, “That’s what you do with my texts”

“I react with a heart to them!”

Minho looked at you, inexpressible

“You reacted with a heart to ‘did you eat?’ like it was a love confession”

You bit back a grin, “Wasn’t it?”

He paused, pretending to think, then nodded. “Well, you are right. I’m very romantic”

You laugh softly before confessing, “Damn, I miss you”

“Yeah”, he said, rubbing the towel over his hair, “If I were you, I’d miss me too”.

You let out a loud, theatrical gasp and flopped dramatically back onto the bed like you’d just been betrayed.

“I can’t believe this! I’m dating a menace. An actual menace”

He blinked at the screen, “You’re so dramatic”

“You’re not even pretending to miss me!”

Minho shook his head in disbelief, “You’re wearing my hoodie, laying on my pillow, surrounded by my notes and you’re gonna sit there and act like I don’t miss you?”

You were still pouting

He rolled his eyes

“I miss you so much it's annoying” he said, “Happy now?”

“No! You said it was annoying!”

“Because I’m annoyed at myself, he grumbled, “For being this whipped”

You grinned.

“Say it again”

“No”

“Say it!”

Minho sighed like he felt physical pain

“I miss you”, he muttered, “More than the cats. But don't tell them that”

You melted instantly.

“See?” You are romantic indeed”

He huffed, but his smile lasted— warm, bright and entirely yours.

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Taglist: @hyyunjinnn , @jehhskz , @mbioooo0000 , @nightmarenyxx , @rozsdascsaptelep , @thatonegirlonhere , @notmedina127, @sweetlifeofjoy , @jeonginsleftcheek , @yelhsaa, @my-neurodivergent-world , @hyunles , @lexlikesbts , @imagine-all-the-imagines , @mysterysold , @teenagepeterpan , @hangonhyunjin

[chaoticwriting]

One's man trash is another man's treasure

Run

Run

Run

His little legs swing as fast as he can. Escape is all his choice left. As incompetent as he is, he is very good at escaping. However, they don't need an escaper. What they need a warrior. And he is not one.

So he run. The league wishes to kill him. His grandfather Ra's sees him nothing as a lesser being. Even his mother Talia despises him. He has no one else here. He needs to be gone while they are focusing on the newest recruit.

So he run. And run. And run. He doesn't know how long has he been running. He only stops at the end of the day to sleep for an hour and drink some water. He is not a good fighter. Mainly because he isn't capable of killing. But his physical abilities are beyond what any of peers have.

He doesn't know where he is now. All he could see is towering building that pierce the sky. People in weird clothing, walking fastly along the road. And a huge fountain.

Water!

Rushing to it, he jumps straight into the water. He could feel the gazes coming at him but the feeling of the cool water is enough for him to ignore them for now.

???: Hey, you!

He turns around at the voice and sees a girl that's a little older than him standing there with her hands and her hips. English

????: Yes, you. You can't bath there. And you can't drink from that fountain.

?????: Why?

????: Because it's dirty. And it's not good. You should take a bath at home.

?????: I don't have a home.

????: What? What about parents?

?????: My mother hates me.

????: Oh! Errrm, would you like to come with us then?

?????: *Vigilant* To where?

????: To our hotel room. My mom and dad are out searching for ghost. So you can come use our shower. We even has food.

?????: No thanks. I'm not hungry *grrrrr*

????: Well, your stomach disagree. C'mon. I will make sure you eat the best food you will ever eat.

As the girl drags his wet body and clothes away, he wonders what is wrong with this girl. He will sneak out after he finish eating and showering.

?????: I'm Danyal

????:Hey Danny, I'm Jazz.

Danny: Danyal. Not Danny.

Jazz: Wasn't that what I say?

Danny: *Gives up* Whatever.

----15 years later----

Danny: Yeah, mom. I'm right in front of Gotham U right now. Ehhh, it's okay but it gives off serious haunted vibe. No. There is no ghost here. I will deal with the ghost here if there is any. I know. I will say hi to Jazz for you. Bye, mom. Love you too dad.

Danny enters Gotham U and true to Sam's rambling, it has the 70s gothic vibe to it. Sam did try to attend here too but her parents make her go to Metropolis U while Tucker goes to Star U. It is kind of weird going to class without them but it is not something he can't do.

As he opens his enters his dormitory, a figure rushes down the hall and accidentally bumps into him. Thankfully, he is fairly strong and the impact isn't strong.

The guy apologizes and immediately disappears at the end of the hallway.

Danny: Huh, what a weirdo.

After he enters the dormitory, he settles down and goes on his day.

---Wayne Manor---

Duke: You wouldn't believe what I just see at Gotham U this morning.

Steph: What?

Duke: I met a guy that look almost identical to Damian. If Damian smiles and his skin a little lighter, that would have been him.

Tim: Are you sure? We could try to do a background check on him if you want?

Duke: Nah. It's probably just a coincidence. There is no way he is somewhat related to Dami.

Tim: Daniel James Fenton. Birth of origin: unknown. 18 years old. Male. Have 2 sisters, a brother and parents. Live in small rural town. The only significant thing about them is that his sister is working at Arkham Asylum and his parents is ghost hunters.

Duke: What the fuck?! How the fuck do you know who to find out?

Tim: *Imitating Batman's voice* I'm Batman.

Duke: Whatever. See! He really does look like Damian. I'm not crazy.

Steph: No one says you are, dude. Anyway, we should show this to Damian. Maybe he knows him?

Damian: What are you all imbeciles talking about?

Tim: Hey, Dami. Look at this guy. Does he looks familiar?

Damian: *Freezes*

Steph: Uh oh. That isn't a no.

Damian: Where do you find him, Drake? Tell me!

Tim: Woah, dude. Chill. Duke bumps into him at Gotham U. He is studying there for Aerospace engineering apparently.

Damian: I need to make a call.

As Damian walks away, all of them look at each other signifying their shared thoughts. Yeah, they are not gonna leave this alone.

[houseofhyde]

I LOVE MANCHILD BUCKY SO MUCHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!! can u pretty pretty please do something literally anything where he picks the reader up and he's so strong and whatnot 😛😛😛 love ya thankssssss ur the best

wine, dine, whine. a manchild drabble.

pairing. bucky barnes x fem!reader. synopsis. bucky's plans go to shit on the night of your birthday. yet, beneath city lights and raining skies, he learns how little you require to have a good time. it turns out, all you need is bucky's strong arms. warnings. smut ( unprotected piv, strength kink, sex against a door, clothed sex, creampie bc i'm a whore with a very specific kink 🧍‍♂️, fingers are getting put in pussies and mouths!, the bucky barnes begs agenda 2025™ continues, lowkey sub!bucky ), protective!bucky aka guard dog!bucky, anger issues, banter, unlabelled relationship bc i like torturing these two losers, angst, fluff, the overall vibe when it comes to the narration of this is a little bit different to manchild due to this being told from bucky's pov but hopefully it's still enjoyable! reader inclusivity. bucky is able to pick the reader up (which, duh, he's a super soldier, bestie <3) and one mention of his jacket being too big for her. wordcount. 3.6k (we're playing fast and loose with the term 'drabble') hyde's input. i've realised i have a strange obsession with having it rain a lot when it comes to these two ( as y'all will see in the next full-length fic i'm writing abt them ), but they just give me such rainy couple vibes, y'know? ( i sound stupid 🤠 ) i hope you enjoy, anon! thank you for requesting, you are the best <33

Fate is either a gigantic cunt, or she simply hates one James Buchanan Barnes.

Every little thing that should have gone right tonight has taken the left exit into wrong-ville. First, it was the missed reservation — Bucky tried to argue the ten minute delay was out of your control but the restaurant had already handed your table off to someone else. Before the soldier could choose between grovelling and threatening, your hand clasped onto his and you dragged him someplace else. Just when he settled into the perfect routine of sipping his wine and admiring the glow of you across a candle-lit table, your dinner arrived and, with it, more problems: the edge of your plate had been ‘decorated’ with crushed almonds. While he was red with anger, you were calmly apologising to the waiter for not having mentioned your allergy. In the end, you both ate the food off his plate.

Slipping off to the bathroom at one point , he’d been confronted with a crooked tie and the fact he’d put his cuff links on wrong — meanwhile, back at the table, you were the image of a goddess, elegant and effortless, wrapped in a pretty black dress and a pair of stilettos. Another disaster struck after dinner, back out on the streets, when a stranger shoulder-checked you and caused the ice cream you’d just bought to fly out your hand; while he wanted to grab the stranger by the scruff of the neck and force them to apologise, you busied yourself with stealing a bite from his cone.

Then came the rain. Unwarned, unreported. The sky simply gave a deep cry and the heavens opened up, dropping buckets worth of water down. Bucky hurried to cover you with his suit’s jacket and you used the downpour as an excuse to tuck yourself into his side, arms curling around his mid-riff and head finding rest against his shoulder.

Now here you both are walking the rainy streets of New York, clothes reduced to soaked rags that cling to each inch of skin, and Bucky’s wondering if this is all his fault.

When he’d first learned it was your birthday this morning, a confession that cut off any loose threads of sleep still clinging to him, you had been adamant that it wasn’t a big deal.

“Birthdays are like assholes, Barnes,” you swat at his butt with the tea-towel you’ve been using to dry the dishes — this is the routine as of late, he washes them and you dry them. “We all have one, doesn’t mean we need to go around announcing it.”

Looking back, he should have left it well-enough alone. But he hadn’t been able to ignore that something that wouldn’t sit right in his chest when you told him you had no intention to celebrate yourself. As far as Bucky is aware, your existence is a blessing, an admittedly irritating flickering light illuminating the tunnel of infinite dark he’s spent most of his life wandering through.

How could he possibly sit back and not let you shine?

“I spy my with my little eye,” your voice pulls him out the pit of guilt he’s digging for himself, drags him back up to street level where you’re soft and present at his side. An arm over your shoulder, he encourages you to burrow deeper against him. “Something beginning with… P!”

You must not be very good at this game, as the likely answer is glaring at him from across the street in red neon lights: Pizzeria.

“What are you, four?” Bucky’s rolling his eyes and fighting off the red of endearment rushing to his cheeks.

“Watch it, soldier,” one of your fingers pokes into his side. “You’re already towing the line of predatory with our age-gap.”

The rain is but a drizzle now, and Bucky despises the way it has you stepping out from his embrace, curious and excited to let feel the drops of water run down your face.

“You can’t say I’m not the strongest centenarian you know,” he states, without even knowing the reason why.

Perhaps a part of him craves to prove to you he’s a worthy choice, more than just a nighttime companion but someone you can let yourself rely on, rest against, plant new roots in your life with.

He’s been thinking about it lately, more often than a man of his nature would dare voice aloud, how much of your time he’s allowed to pollute, and how much of your heart he’s allowed to consume. For all his wondering, he can’t bring himself to ask, in fear of finding out the story of you two he’s been writing in his head ends sooner than he intends.

“You’re the only centenarian I know,” you’re ahead of him on the sidewalk now, walking backwards and turned towards him to see his reaction as you tease him. “Not even my grandparents, rest their souls, would be as old as you.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” he’s trying to reach for you, feigning annoyance as the excuse to pull you back against him, where he wants you to belong.

But you’re nimble, faster on your heels than he expects you to be, and he marvels at how easily you evade his hands, feet moving so easily they almost seem to dance along the ground.

“Don’t worry, give me the greenlight and I’ll happily call you great-granddaddy while you hit it from the back-”

Like a lion pounces on a gazelle, he dashes to close the distance between you and swoops you up into his arms.

“What have I told you about watching where you’re going?” It’s an empty chastise, one that not even he pays any mind to, not when he’s so enthralled with the weight of you clinging to his neck, a vibranium arm holding up your back while his flesh one is tucked beneath your bent knees.

Your eyes are watching him, a smile upon your face that tells him you have no intention of looking at the river of a puddle he’s just rescued you from stepping into, sacrificing the polished leather of his shoes and the hem of his trousers as he walks you both across it.

“It’s more fun when you do it for me,” you wink at him, and Bucky’s in pain.

He’s known war. He’s known torture. He’s known what it means to lose every thread of autonomy, becoming nothing but a vehicle through which to kill. Never has he known ache quite like the one you carve into his heart, with something as simple as a smile and as soft as a kiss.

Deflecting his own thoughts, he jolts you higher up into his hold, closer to his chest, and renews the grip his hands carry you with. No puddles lay ahead anymore, left behind for you to finally spot over his shoulder, yet the soldier shows no intention of putting you down.

“You just had to prove your point, huh? Strongest man I know.”

The breeze brushes the skirt of your dress a little too high for Bucky’s comfort, not when there’s a group of men spilling out from a bar across the street. He readjusts his right arm, making sure the fabric stays caught beneath his iron grip.

Maybe that’s why it takes him a moment to notice you’ve altered his earlier claim, taking his age right out of the discussion.

“I never said man-”

You gasp, Bucky freezes.

“Put me down,” a command he obeys with heartbreak yet no hesitation, returning you gently to the pavement and keeping a hold on you until he’s sure you’re steady on your feet. Before he can step back, you shake your head, “Come here.”

Like a puppet, he gives himself up to you. Lets you tug him closer by his tie. Watches you place his hands firmly around your waist. Relishes in the squeeze of your arms interlocking behind his head.

Standing right in front of him, Bucky feels like he’s seeing you properly for the first time tonight.

Rivulets of rain run rampant down your face, smudged mascara paints an image of modern art across your cheeks, your lipstick has faded away to reveal the real hue of the lips he’s forever longing to kiss, the pretty shape of your dress has melted into your figure and the sleeves of his jacket keep sliding down over your hands. For every sense of the word, you’re a mess. A completely and utterly different woman to the one he stepped out onto the streets with hours earlier, before everything had gone wrong. And you’ve never been more beautiful.

Or more demanding, “Ok, now spin me.”

“Spin you?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to spin you?” It’s not outrageous, he’d argue, to seek confirmation when faced with such a strange request.

“Am I speaking fucking latin? S, P, I, N me, Barnes!”

Let the record show that there’s not a single thing, no matter how confused or skeptical it may leave him, that Bucky wouldn’t do for you. So, of course he spins you.

Gripping on tight to your waist and straightening his back, he lets his feet shuffle around in a circle and watches how your own lift off the ground.

“Happy?” He asks, his own existence hinging on your answer, as he puts you back down.

“No,” you shake your head, lips splitting in an eye-twinkling smile. “Again!

He does it again, and again, and again. Until you’re a twirling, giggling, grinning mess surrounding him. Until he feels himself begin to struggle for balance. Until a group of strangers are holding up their phones and recording the private bubble you two are living in. And, for a moment, he can almost picture it.

The before, the normal. A 1940s kind of New York, stained in the smell of cigarettes and gunpowder, and playing main stage to a love story for the ages. He imagines all the ways he would have won over your family, all the old-fashioned traditions he’d play privy to just to earn your hand. His sister would have loved you, and not just because she’d always complained at being stuck with only a brother, but because you’d be as loud, and as outspoken, and as crass as she’d always believed women should be. The kind of life where he’d leave for war with a promise to return to you, and he’d make damn sure of keeping that promise, arriving back at shore to greet you with a kiss and a ring.

When the fog around his wishful eyes clears, he’s left with the blinding lights of modern New York and the smell of your perfume. There’s no bitter feeling, however, no hatred towards the life he finds himself in now, leagues and bounds away from what could have been. It’s not perfect but there’s you, and that seems about as close to it as Bucky can imagine.

“Oh no!” You exclaim, laying a hand across your forehead as you pretend to fall faint against him. “I’m just ever so dizzy, Mr Barnes, I think you’ll have to carry me home!”

“Do you think I’m some sort of walking cab?” Despite the annoyance put behind his question, he’s eagerly offering you his back to hop onto.

“No, no,” you’re swatting him around, pulling on his strings again to command him just how you want him. He willingly gives himself to you every time. “Do it the same as before.”

One arm at your back, the other at the back of your knees, he’s lifting you against him again. For a moment, the creative part of his brain, that had painted a picture of another decade, tempts him with the thought of how this is the very same way a man carries his bride. The thought of such devotion makes him sick with shame and anticipation. 

“Everyday you sound more like a spoiled brat,” and he’s the one to blame, giving way to your every whim and plea.

Your response is physical, a hand grabbing onto either side of his jaw and giving his head a shake, “God forbid a girl wants to enjoy the view of this handsome face!” 

Even though he tries to frown, he can’t help the way he turns to putty with your touch.

The rain comes to a complete stop and leaves behind a satisfying freshness in the air, one that smells like hope and tastes like possibility. Or maybe that’s just the effect of having you pressed up against him, not only seeking safety in his arms but finding rest, head atop the very point where metal welds into flesh.

Here he is, a creature more disjointed than anything Frankenstein could create, and wanted only ever for causing harm, providing respite to a soul he’s spent months trying to save from herself.

Perhaps fate doesn’t hate him so much.

“The answer was party-pooper,” you interrupt his dwelling, like you do best, and make quick to clarify for his questioning glance. “To my I-Spy prompt.”

“What kind of answer is that?”

Carrying you is child’s play, as easy as breathing to the super soldier. That doesn’t stop him from putting on a show of readjusting his grip, jolting you enough into the air to earn a huff out of you.

“I don’t know, you tell me,” a finger trails over his mouth, catching on his lower lip and giving it a gentle tap. “You’re the one that’s been sulking up a storm all night.”

“I wasn’t sulking-”

“You literally were pouting at me from across the table, James.”

“I just wanted you to have a good night.”

Do you notice blood staining the tips of his ears with a blush? And, if you do, would you believe him if he said it was from the bite of the wind?

“I am having a goodnight, how could I not?” As your arms secure themselves around his neck again, he feels the brush of your lips atop the collar of his shirt. If only your lipstick were still intact, he could wake up tomorrow to a visceral stain of your kiss on the fabric. “I’m wearing a pretty dress and being carried by a hunky man.”

“Sometimes I think you only want me for my biceps,” a sarcastic comment feels easier than letting himself sink into the knowledge that he’s made the cut in your requirements for a good time.

“Guilty as charged! I’m using you for this hot bod and fine piece of ass.”

Just when he’s thinking of kissing you, you beat him to it, pulling yourself up to press your lips against his.

It’s short, it’s sweet, and it’s chaste. The kind of kiss one could blink and completely miss, but Bucky savours every second of it. Even if it does cause him to stumble with his next step.

Drawing nearer to your apartment, he wonders if you notice the way his pace is slowing, the way his feet are beginning to drag, the way he’s stretching out each step for as long as he can.

When he grows tired of the sound of passing cars and the muffled music from bars, he seeks out your voice.

“Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Depends what you want to hear,” you’re back at his shoulder, eyes slipped closed as you enjoy the subtle sway of your dangling legs. “There’s two things I’m thinking about.”

“Two or a million things,” his own voice is falling into a whisper, something sacred he wants to save for your ears only. “I want to hear all of it.”

For a moment, there’s only the tread of his footfall, and the calm of your breathing, and the wind singing a solemn tune. Then you speak and drown him deeper in his melancholy.

“You don’t need to get angry for me,” a montage of deep breaths, flaring nostrils, clenching jaws, all from tonight and completely selfish, born out of an ire that you had met only with kind eyes and forgiving words. “I don’t want a weapon, I just want you. And if that anger is the real you, then I want it too, but not if you’re forcing yourself to get worked up because it's what you think I expect.”

“Anger kept me safe,” and, if it could do that for him, then surely it could keep you safe too. “I don’t know who I am without it.”

“Then we can find out together,” you say it so sincerely he wants nothing more than to make it a reality.

Not just the prospect of relearning himself, but the togetherness of it all. A unit, a pair, a couple. Not just a man and woman living under the same roof. Would you want the same, though? Or is the way he touches you just something you enjoy, no deeper feeling buried beneath layers of skin?

“Do you wanna know the second thing I’m thinking?” There you are again to pull the brakes on his train of thought.

He nods, too afraid of the tight feeling in his throat to speak. But you, his little spitfire, are afraid of nothing and lean up to shamelessly whisper into his ear.

“About how good you’re gonna fuck me when we get home.”

The two of you barely make it past the threshold of the door.

Despite the fact his hands are on you, you’re the one leading the charge, pulling him in by his tie to meet your welcoming tongue. There’s a noticeable thud as your back hits the door but your grip tightens him against you before he can worry.

“Want you to show me how strong these arms are, Buck,” you hiss against him, clutching onto the bicep of the arm that’s snuck itself beneath your dress and writhing as his fingers swipe over your soaked folds.

Sanity has long departed from him, abandoning him to the wreckage of you. He’s barely cognisant of his own undoing, losing himself in the way you react so perfectly to his fingers curling into your cunt. You don’t let him enjoy it for too long, barely a moan ripped out of you before you’re unbuckling his belt and setting his dick free from the confines of cotton.

Following your orders, his arms hike your legs up around his waist and settle your back a little higher up the door, forcing him to gaze up at you in worship. It’s a blessing, he concludes, to watch your mouth drop into an ‘o’ as he guides you down fully onto his cock.

There’s no time for teasing. Everything is desperate and reckless, teeth clashing against teeth, hands digging into hips, skin slapping against skin. The hinges of the door shake at your back, in perfect tune with each thrust of Bucky’s cock, and, when he catches your hand gripping onto the handle, he redirects it to his shoulder and relishes in the sting of your nails digging into his flesh.

“Please,” he’s not sure what he’s asking for, but his mind tells him to grovel, to plead, to pray. “Oh, please, fuck!”

“Yes James, that’s exactly what we’re doing,” you somehow find the time to giggle, and he swears he might just lose his mind when he feels your walls squeeze around him. “I didn’t think you’d have a senior moment so soon.”

You’re so irritating, and maddening, and endearing. Bucky’s all confused, mind oscillating between turning you around, pressing your face into the wood, and showing you just how ‘unsenior’ he is, or focusing on how ridiculously breathtaking you are to gaze up at.

If you’re a siren, then he’s a sailor who’s more willing than ever to drown in the waves with you and your melodic moans. Hungry eyes pull up the hem of your dress and seek out the sight of your pussy fucking itself down onto his cock. Lost in the sight of your bodies syncing together, he’s none the wiser to his open jaw until he tastes your fingers sink inside it.

“Look at you,” you coo, and he loves it, works harder and fucks deeper to hear more of it. “A big, bad soldier who’s whining for me.”

And he is. Pathetically, unabashedly, lips wrapped around the girth of your two fingers and letting you feel the vibrations of his pleasured whines. 

Bucky is the first to crescendo, with a fractured whisper of your name followed by stuttering hips. His eyes roll back as your legs lock around him and force him to deliver, devote every last drop of himself inside of you. He comes through just in time to press his thumb to your clit and guide you off your own edge into paradise, squealing and cheering against the door before he swallows your sounds with his lips.

In the dark of the apartment, you two search for a single breath between you, lazy-boned against the door as hands simply trail over one another’s outline.

“So,” your hand in his hair, tugging lightly until his chin rests on your chest and his hazy eyes stare up at yours. “Was tonight our first date?”

“No,” he almost laughs at how quickly the smile falls off your face, but he’s too busy rushing to fight away the disappointment that seeks to replace it. “You won’t have to ask when it’s our first date, you’ll know.”

And there it is again, the smile he likes best.

“Aww, does that mean I’m not getting a goodnight’s kiss?”

This time he does laugh, slowly bringing your feet back onto the ground and bumping the tip of his nose against yours.

“What you’re getting is tied to the bed and ruined until you forget your own name.”

+ extra hyde

· reader really loves to walk bucky like a dog (as she should!) · also its been a week since i posted manchild &, i don't mean to sound pathetic and emotional but i'm on my period so give me a break, i'm really happy that you all liked it enough to not only give me really kind feedback but to want more of them :( i love writing so much but i kind of hit a wall creatively about 8 months ago. i'm currently getting a degree and part of that degree requires me to not only write a lot but to write outside of my comfort zone (romance) and, despite achieving a first, it really just drained me and sucked the fun out of writing. so it's been really nice to feel myself slowly chip away at the writer's block & a big part of that has been thanks to every like, comment, reblog, and ask you guys have sent. thank you for making this loser (me) happy <3

[wolfbluebird]

The Tape we Erased

Natasha Romanoff x Female!Reader

(The Making of the Tape)

Summary: After a drunken night neither of them remembers, you and Natasha wake up in bed together — naked, marked, and silent. Best friends. Supposedly straight. You agree never to talk about it. But the footage doesn’t lie. What started as a mistake slowly unravels everything you thought you knew about your feelings for her — and hers for you. Avoidance turns to longing, silence turns to ache, until one quiet confession finally breaks the tension. This time, you’re awake for it. And this time, it’s not a mistake.

Word Count: 5.8k

Warnings: brief angst, avoidance/miscommunication, internalised confusion about sexuality, mentions of weight loss, mild deceptions of emotional withdrawal, first time wlw (r)

(WLW content- Men and minors Dni)

You wake up to a familiar scent—lavender and leather, something sharper underneath. And not your own shampoo. Which is weird, because this is not your pillow. Not your room. And definitely not your bed. You blink into the soft cotton, blinking away the crust of sleep, the throb of a hangover pounding at the inside of your skull like it’s trying to get out. Something’s wrong. Not oh-I-drank-too-much wrong. Not where’s-my-phone wrong. Something more serious.

Because you’re naked.

Fully, absolutely, no-socks-even naked.

And this is Natasha Romanoff’s room.

You sit up slowly. Very slowly. Like the world will tip over if you move too fast. The sheet slides off your bare shoulders and—yep. There they are.

Marks.

Everywhere.

Your collarbone. Your chest. Down your arms. Even lower. You don’t look too long, but your inner thigh looks like someone made out with it like it owed them rent.

You stare at nothing for a long moment.

Then say, very quietly: “…fuck.”

The door to the en-suite creaks open and Natasha walks out in a towel, hair wet, face flushed from steam, skin glowing like she’s walked off a runway and not, presumably, done unspeakable things to you while you were blackout drunk. You don’t know what expression you expected her to have—maybe smugness, maybe regret. But the way her eyes widen when she sees you says everything.

She doesn’t remember either.

“Shit,” she mutters.

You echo it, because there’s nothing else to say.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You end up in the kitchen twenty minutes later, both in your worst loungewear like you’ve regressed to hungover uni students. You avoid looking at each other. She cooks eggs. You make the toast, which you promptly burn, because your hands are still shaking. Coffee helps. A little. But there’s still this massive, smothering tension in the air.

And you’re still so naked under this hoodie.

“So,” Natasha finally says, chewing like the eggs offend her. “How drunk were we?”

You poke at your plate. “Drunk enough that I remember literally nothing. Like… not even vibes. Just darkness. Brain gone.”

She makes a noise. Not quite agreement. Not quite relief. You steal a look at her, try to gauge if she’s freaking out as badly as you are. She’s got that blank expression on, the one she uses in briefings and fights and when people get too close. You’re best friends—you know her tells. You know she’s quietly imploding.

Your mouth moves before you can stop it. “I mean, judging by these—” You pull the collar of your sweatshirt down slightly to show her the edge of a very angry-looking hickey. “—I think at least one of us had a hell of a time.”

Her face goes scarlet. “Please never say that again.”

“I’m just saying,” you mutter, laughing weakly, because humour is your default defence mechanism when your reality starts cracking like old paint. “Someone was enthusiastic. I have a bite mark on my ass. My ass, Nat.”

She makes a strangled sound like she’s swallowing a laugh and a scream at once.

Then the thought hits you, and it lands like a rock in your chest.

You look up. “Wait… doesn’t the common room have cameras?”

She freezes. Doesn’t answer.

“Oh my god,” you say. “It does. You’ve said it before—Tony has them everywhere. Even here. Are you telling me there’s a recording of us—?”

“Absolutely not,” she says, eyes wide. “We’re not doing this.”

“Come on,” you say, already reaching for your phone. “Aren’t you just a little curious?”

“No. I want it to stay a mystery. Like a blackout horror movie.”

“Natasha.”

She closes her eyes like she’s trying to will you out of existence. “Fine. One look. Then it gets deleted. Forever.”

You nod, trying to hide your grin. You’re totally chill. Completely unaffected. Just curious. Because you’re straight. Obviously.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You sit beside her on the couch, legs pulled under you, blanket around both your laps like that will protect your friendship from the trainwreck about to happen. The screen flickers on.

“JARVIS,” you say, too casually, “can you pull footage from last night’s common room? Starting around… 9 p.m.?”

“Confirmed,” the AI responds. “Shall I begin playback?”

“No,” Natasha says immediately.

“Yes,” you say over her.

She sighs like she’s aged five years.

And then it begins.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

It starts tame. You and Natasha sitting on the couch, drinks in hand. Laughing. Loud. Leaning into each other. You’re close. Too close. You remember this part, maybe. Sort of. The way her hand brushed yours. The way you nudged her shoulder. The way she was already a little too comfortable curling her legs into your lap.

Then you start touching. Hair. Knees. Her hand slides up your thigh and you don’t push it away.

Then your shirt’s gone.

Then hers.

Then she’s on top of you. You’re in her lap. Your mouth is on her neck. She’s laughing, breathless, flushed. Your hands are under the waistband of her sweats. Her hips roll up. You hear a moan and only realise it’s you when Natasha makes a noise next to you on the couch.

You pause the video.

Silence.

You turn to her very slowly. “We made a sex tape.”

“This is not a sex tape,” she says through gritted teeth.

“This is a CCTV sex tape in Tony Stark’s common room,” you whisper. “That is worse. That is so much worse.”

You stare at yourself on the frozen screen. Sweaty. Shirtless. Looking like you want to devour your best friend.

You’ve never slept with a woman in your life. Never wanted to. You’ve said that. Repeatedly. With confidence. With certainty.

So why does your stomach flip like that?

Why are you still kind of dizzy from the sight of her mouth against your throat, her hands on your hips, the sounds you were making—

“JARVIS,” Natasha croaks, “delete all footage from 9 p.m. to 2 a.m., yesterday. Immediately.”

“Footage deleted,” JARVIS confirms.

You exhale. Collapse into the cushions like your bones have turned to liquid. You feel nauseous. You feel high. You feel like you’re falling backwards into something very large and very dangerous.

“We can’t ever talk about this,” you say.

“Agreed.”

“Like, ever. Not even in passing. Not even jokingly.”

“Especially not jokingly,” she says.

There’s a pause.

And then you both start laughing.

It’s too much. It’s hysterical. The kind of laughter that comes right before a full-blown panic attack. You double over, face in your hands, wheezing. Natasha’s shaking beside you, shoulders hunched, hands over her eyes.

“I bit you,” she gasps. “Why would I do that?”

“I moaned,” you groan. “Like, actual softcore levels of moaning.”

“You straddled me in pyjamas.”

“You pulled my hair!”

“You liked it!”

“Stop!”

More laughter. Collapsing into each other, gripping your sides.

And then, slowly, breath returning, the laughter fades.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You stare at the blank TV screen. Something silent settles in the room. Not awkward. Just… delicate.

You break it first. “We’re best friends, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And we’re gonna keep being best friends?”

“Of course.”

“So that was… an accident.”

“Drunk mistake.”

“Cool. Cool cool cool.”

You nod. Like if you say it enough, it’ll become true. Like it’s not still sitting under your skin, all heat and confusion and maybe a little bit of longing.

“Pinky swear,” you say, offering your finger.

Natasha stares at it like it’s a grenade.

Then, with a sigh, she loops her pinky through yours.

“Deadly secrecy,” she says.

“Bury-it-under-a-shallow-grave secrecy.”

You both nod.

It’s a pact.

It has to be.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

Later, Bucky sees you limping slightly down the hall and raises an eyebrow.

“Yoga injury,” Natasha says smoothly, passing him.

You nod too hard. “Yep. Definitely yoga. Bad downward dog.”

Bucky shrugs and keeps walking.

Natasha smirks.

You glare at her.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You never talk about it again.

Not once.

But sometimes, she’ll glance at you in the middle of a movie night, and you’ll see her eyes flicker down to your neck. Like she’s remembering. Like she’s not supposed to.

And sometimes you still hear the echo of her voice in your ear, that slurred Russian endearment you didn’t even realise you knew.

You’re still straight. Obviously. Totally. Mostly. Probably.

You don’t talk about it.

You don’t even think about it.

Except when you do.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

Natasha’s good at burying things. Lives, missions, guilt. Feelings.

She tells herself she’s buried this, too.

Except she hasn’t.

Because it keeps coming back in flashes. Not even the good parts. Not the sex. Just the look on your face when you paused the footage—laughing, half-horrified, half-gleeful. You looked at her like you’d won something. Like you’d stolen a secret. And maybe you had.

Maybe you’d stolen her.

She can’t stop thinking about the way you touched her. Not even the memory of the touches—just the look in your eyes on the screen. Like you were starving. Like you meant it.

That’s what haunts her.

Because Natasha has always been attracted to women. She’s known it since she was twelve. She’s dated them. Slept with them. Loved one or two, even if she never said the words. But she never let herself think of you that way—not seriously—because you were you.

Straight. Untouchable. A little reckless, a little clueless, always warm, always there.

You flirted with everyone, but it was always harmless. Always safe.

She thought.

And now she can’t stop thinking about the way you said ours. “Our sex tape.” Like it was a thing you’d made together. Like it mattered.

You said you were straight. Again and again. Drunk, sober, laughing over dinner. “Not my thing,” you’d say when she teased you about some actress, brushing it off like it wasn’t even a question.

And yet.

And yet.

Natasha wakes up three nights in a row thinking she feels your mouth on her throat. Her hips jerking against phantom fingers. Your voice in her ear, slurred and aching: God, you feel so good, Nat.

She’s not imagining that.

She knows she’s not.

But she can’t say anything. Because you’re still doing the thing—playing it off, being casual, being you. Still laughing about it when it comes up in the smallest ways. You elbow her at breakfast when someone on the news says the word “tape” and go, “Not ours, though.”

And she laughs. She does. She laughs because that’s what she’s supposed to do.

But she thinks about the way your hips rolled down onto hers like you’d done it a thousand times before. Like it wasn’t the first time. Like it wouldn’t be the last.

And then she starts wondering—was it? Was it your first time?

You said you were straight. But you didn’t act like it. Not that night. Not with her.

Maybe that’s what’s ruining her.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

She tries.

She really tries to forget.

She throws herself into sparring. Takes extra missions. Works through lunch. Avoids the common room unless it’s empty. Watches you from corners and shadows like you’re a threat she hasn’t decided how to neutralise.

You’re not even doing anything. That’s what makes it worse.

You’re just… being you.

Messy hair, too-loud laugh, feet on the furniture, casual as ever. You joke. You poke. You steal fries from her plate. You fall asleep with your head on her shoulder during movie nights like nothing happened.

Like your teeth were never in her shoulder.

Like you didn’t whimper her name against her throat.

Like you didn’t grab her face with both hands and kiss her like she was air.

She’s drowning in it.

And you don’t even seem to know.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

It finally cracks on a night when the compound is quiet and the hallway smells like rain.

You find her in the gym, well past midnight, hitting the bag like it owes her something.

You watch her for a while before saying anything.

“You’re mad at me.”

She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t turn. “No, I’m not.”

You walk in anyway. Drop your bag by the wall. “You’ve been weird.”

She keeps punching. Keeps not looking at you.

You fold your arms. “Is this about that night?”

Nothing.

“Because you’re acting like I killed your dog.”

That gets her. She snorts, stops, breathes heavy. Lets the bag sway.

You step closer. “I get it. It was a mistake. You don’t have to keep punishing me like I ruined your life.”

She turns slowly. Wipes sweat from her brow. Her eyes are dark. Dangerous.

“You didn’t ruin my life.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

There’s silence. Long. Tight.

Then she says, low and rough, “You kissed me first.”

You blink. “What?”

“That night. You kissed me first. I watched the tape.”

“I—” you falter, “I don’t remember doing that.”

“Well, you did.”

She steps toward you, slow and deliberate.

“You kissed me first. And then you said my name like it was the only word you knew. And then you looked at me like you wanted me.”

“I was drunk.”

“You were you,” she says sharply. “You were you, and you knew what you were doing.”

You back up a step. Not from fear. From the weight of it.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“To what?”

You bite your lip. “I’m not… I don’t do that.”

“You did.”

“Yeah, but I’m not—”

“Not what?” she demands. “Not gay? Not into girls? Not into me?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Nothing comes out.

She softens then. Just slightly.

“It’s not about labels,” she says quietly. “I don’t care what box you think you fit in. I just know how you made me feel. And I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen anymore.”

You swallow. “Why now?”

She looks away. Her voice goes smaller. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you. And I’m tired of pretending it didn’t mean something.”

You stare at her.

And it hits you all at once—how close she is. How wrecked she looks. How scared.

Not of you. Of what she’s saying. Of being wrong.

You could lie.

You could say it didn’t mean anything. That you were drunk and stupid and it was a blip, a hiccup in time.

You could say you’re straight and you always will be.

But the lie sticks in your throat.

Because your body remembers.

You remember the feel of her hands gripping your thighs, her mouth dragging open-mouthed kisses across your chest, the low growl she made when you pulled her hair.

You remember thinking, mid-kiss, God, this is Nat. This is my Nat.

And it didn’t feel wrong.

It felt like falling.

So you don’t lie. But you don’t confess, either.

You just say, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

And Natasha exhales. Not relief. Just… release.

“Me neither,” she murmurs. “But I’m still here.”

She steps back. Gives you space. Doesn’t push.

“I won’t bring it up again,” she says. “But I had to say it. Just once.”

You nod. Almost imperceptibly.

And she leaves the gym, sweat-soaked and silent, like she just handed you her heart in a body bag.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

Two weeks.

Not a word. Not a glance. Not even a pity-like on your stupid sarcastic meme in the group chat.

Natasha Romanoff, former best friend and maker of your “not-a-sex-tape,” has gone dark on you. You know she’s still in the compound—JARVIS told you when you asked if she was on mission. But it’s like she’s erased herself from your orbit.

You’re not sure if you’re supposed to be mad. Hurt. Guilty. Relieved.

You just feel hollow.

You try to tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You weren’t together. You never were. You were friends, drunk, confused—nothing more. You’ve had meaningless flings. You’ve had blurred lines before. But this is Natasha.

You’ve never had silence with Natasha.

You think maybe that’s what’s killing you.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The final straw comes on a Sunday.

You pass her in the corridor.

Or rather—you don’t.

You hear her voice at the end of the hall, laughter in it, soft and easy. You freeze. You wait. You hope she’ll see you. Say your name. Even scowl. Something.

But she doesn’t.

She turns the corner, laughing with Sam, eyes shining, and never even looks your way.

And something in you shatters so quietly it doesn’t even echo.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You don’t go to Wanda right away.

You sit on it. Let it curdle. Try to swallow it down like spoiled milk and pretend it’s still edible.

It takes you three days.

And then you knock on her door like a ghost.

She opens it barefoot, wearing an oversized hoodie and leggings, hair messy, no makeup—so soft and real it makes your throat ache.

“Hey,” she says, gentle as wind. “You okay?”

You don’t answer. Just step in and sit on the edge of her bed like your body is moving without permission.

She doesn’t push. Just closes the door and sits cross-legged across from you, waiting.

And you break.

“I think I fucked everything up.”

Her expression doesn’t change. “Tell me.”

So you do.

You tell her about the night. The drunkenness. The tape. The moaning, the biting, the laughing, the pretending.

You tell her about the fight. The hallway. The way Natasha said “You kissed me first” like it meant something.

You don’t cry. But your voice wobbles.

“I told her I didn’t know what I was doing. And I meant it. I still mean it. But she’s been avoiding me ever since, and I feel like—like I’ve lost her. And the worst part is, I don’t know if I’m more upset because I lost my best friend… or because I think I wanted more.”

Wanda doesn’t speak. She lets you fill the silence.

And you do.

“I always said I was straight. I believed it. Still kind of do. Or did, I guess. But that night…” You laugh—shaky and bitter. “That night didn’t feel like a mistake. And not just because the sex was good, which it was, obviously, I mean it’s Natasha—but because it was her. And it felt like—”

You pause.

Wanda’s voice is quiet. “Like something that was waiting to happen.”

Your eyes snap up. “Yes.”

She nods. “And now she’s gone.”

You nod back, helpless. “And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this feeling. I keep thinking maybe I made it up. Maybe I wanted something she didn’t. Or maybe she wanted something I couldn’t give.”

“She wanted you,” Wanda says gently. “I saw it. I’ve felt it. For a long time.”

Your stomach twists. “Then why is she avoiding me?”

Wanda’s eyes are sympathetic. “Because you said you didn’t know what you were doing. Because you never told her if you regretted it. Because she’s scared she misread you.”

You shake your head. “That’s not fair. I didn’t know. I still don’t know. It’s not like I woke up the next day suddenly into women. It’s not that simple.”

“I know,” Wanda says. “But hearts aren’t logical. And Natasha… she doesn’t risk them often. You’re not just someone to her.”

You flinch. “Then why won’t she talk to me?”

Wanda gives a small, sad smile. “Because she thinks talking to you might hurt more than silence.”

You let that sit. Heavy. Dense.

“She looked at me like I mattered,” you whisper. “Like I was hers.”

“You are,” Wanda says.

You shake your head. “I’m not ready.”

“You don’t have to be. But you do need to tell her you’re still there. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s nothing more than that.”

You nod slowly.

Feeling unprepared and even more confused than before.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

It’s been a week since you told Wanda.

You haven’t really left your room since.

Not in any meaningful way, anyway. You go out once a day, at most, grab something from the kitchen that barely qualifies as a meal, then disappear before anyone can talk to you. Sometimes you reheat leftovers and let them go cold in your hands. Other times you just stand at the counter until your chest starts to ache, then walk away. The others have stopped trying to stop you. You suppose they think you’re busy. Or brooding. Or just being you.

You’re not.

You’re… stuck.

Wrapped in a knot of thoughts you can’t undo, spiralling slowly inward.

You’ve never been good at sitting still with feelings, and now they’re the only thing left in the room.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You keep trying to rationalise it, make it make sense.

You and Natasha were always close. You’ve shared beds after missions. You’ve fallen asleep with your head in her lap more than once. She used to let you paint her nails while she complained about Clint. You used to steal her hoodies, and she used to steal your fries.

It was always touchy. Soft. Familiar.

Comfortable.

It was never supposed to hurt.

But now it does. It hurts every time she walks into a room and doesn’t look at you. Hurts every time you hear her voice down the hall and your chest clenches like it’s trying to keep itself from saying her name.

Hurts to realise you can’t un-know what she tastes like. Or what she sounds like with your name in her mouth like a secret.

You thought it was platonic.

You wanted to think it was platonic.

But you keep dreaming about her.

Keep waking up flushed and guilty and alone.

And that doesn’t feel very friendly.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You haven’t messaged her.

She hasn’t messaged you.

She hasn’t been in the same room as you since that morning in the kitchen—since you both laughed awkwardly about your accidental sex tape and agreed, without saying it directly, to pretend it never happened.

You don’t think she meant to cut you out of her life.

But she has.

She’s been avoiding you so obviously it’s almost funny.

You catch glimpses of her sometimes, in passing—leaving the gym as you walk toward it, stepping into the elevator just before you round the corner. A shadow of her in every doorway you’re too slow to reach.

But she’s not ignoring you.

Not really.

Because she’s still looking.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You notice it in the little things. You left a mug in the kitchen—one you always use, the chipped ceramic one with the whale tail handle—and the next day it was washed and back in your cupboard. You’re the only one who ever bothers to clean up after you. No one else would’ve cared.

A few days ago, you passed Steve in the hall. He gave you that tight-lipped smile of his and said, “Natasha mentioned you’ve been keeping to yourself. You alright?”

You shrugged.

He didn’t press.

You think she’s been asking around.

You think she’s been trying to spot you without seeing you.

It should make you feel better.

It doesn’t.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You spend hours sitting on the floor of your room with your back to the bed, your knees pulled up and a hoodie wrapped around you like armour. It’s hers—dark grey, oversized, still faintly scented like something warm. She gave it to you two years ago after a mission in the Alps, when you’d taken a fall through thin ice and come out shaking and soaked to the bone. She tossed it over your head like it meant nothing, said, “Don’t freeze to death before debrief, dumbass.”

You never gave it back.

You told yourself you liked the way it fit. That was all.

Now, it feels like the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You’re not sleeping much. Or at all.

The thoughts won’t shut up long enough to let you rest. You cycle through the same ones on repeat, trying to make them mean something. Trying to figure out when exactly things changed.

Was it in Prague, when she kissed your forehead after a night op?

Was it in that bar in Berlin, when she danced with you like you were the only one in the room?

Was it on movie nights, when she always pulled you into her side before the opening credits even rolled?

Or had it always been like this?

Had you just been too afraid to look at it straight on?

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The worst thing is you still want her here.

Even now, even after everything, you miss her.

You miss her laugh. You miss the way she teases you, always two steps ahead. You miss the way she used to throw popcorn at you during bad horror movies and tell you to shut up when you overanalysed the plot.

You miss your best friend.

But now you’re not sure if that’s all she was.

You don’t know what she is to you anymore.

You don’t know what you are to her.

And that unknowing—that—is what’s undoing you.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The knock comes just after eight.

You’re sitting in the dark again, curled up on your bed with your back to the door, wearing her hoodie like a second skin and cradling a half-finished mug of lukewarm tea. You haven’t spoken to anyone in days.

The knock is soft.

Hesitant.

You freeze.

A second passes.

Then another.

Then a voice, low and uncertain: “It’s me.”

Your heart stumbles.

You don’t move. Don’t speak.

You think maybe if you’re quiet enough, she’ll go away. You’re not sure you can handle this. You’re not sure you can breathe with her in the room.

But the knock comes again.

“Please.”

When you open the door, the light from the hallway stings your eyes.

Natasha stands there in a faded tank top and joggers, barefoot, arms crossed tightly over her chest like she regrets this already. Her hair’s up in a messy twist, her jaw tight. But her eyes—they soften the second they land on you.

You know what she sees.

The tear-burns drying at the corners of your eyes. The sleeves of her jumper pulled down over your fists like you’re hiding in it.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does she.

She just stares for a moment, taking you in, like she wasn’t expecting you to look like this.

Like it hurts her to see it.

Then, quietly: “Can I come in?”

You nod without meaning to.

She follows you inside like she’s holding her breath.

You sit down on the edge of your bed, legs folding under you automatically, and she hesitates before lowering herself beside you—close, but not close enough to touch. She doesn’t look at you. Her hands rest between her knees. Her body is angled slightly away, like she doesn’t know if she’s welcome here.

You want to touch her so badly it aches.

You want to pull her close and feel her settle into your side like she used to. You want to bury your face in her neck and inhale the comfort you’ve been missing for weeks.

But you don’t move.

And neither does she.

“I’ve been worried about you.”

It’s quiet. Careful.

You nod again, eyes fixed on your knees. “I’ve been fine.”

You haven’t.

She doesn’t push. Just hums, soft and non-judgmental.

“I was going to check on you sooner,” she says, fingers playing with the hem of her shirt. “I kept meaning to.”

You wait for her to say but I didn’t. She doesn’t. She doesn’t have to.

You look at her from the corner of your eye. The low light of your bedroom makes her look smaller than usual. Her posture’s curled in on itself, defensive. Or maybe nervous.

Natasha Romanoff. Nervous.

It would be laughable if it weren’t so fragile.

“What changed?” you ask quietly. “Why now?”

She shrugs, like the answer is obvious. “I didn’t see you all week.”

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I know.”

And that’s it. Just that. I know.

She doesn’t excuse it. Doesn’t explain. Just owns it.

You almost wish she’d lie about it.

You don’t want to believe she had to choose to look for you.

You want her to have missed you.

You want her to—

“I missed you.”

You blink.

She’s looking at you now. She says it like it’s nothing.

Like it’s just a fact.

“I missed you,” she repeats. “Every day.”

You say nothing.

Your chest is filling with something you can’t name, something trembling and sharp at the edges. Something that wants to burst free.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

“I kept thinking about that night,” she says, voice softer now. “Trying to make sense of it. Wondering if I should’ve stopped us.”

You glance at her. Her brows are drawn in like she’s been stuck in this thought for days.

“I wasn’t that drunk,” she murmurs. “And neither were you.”

You feel your throat close a little.

“I think—” She breaks off. Sighs. “I think I wanted to believe we were more gone than we were. So I could tell myself it didn’t mean anything.”

The ache in your chest flares.

“And it did,” you whisper.

She nods.

You stare at her, stunned at the honesty in her face. No mask. No joke. Just… her.

She’s laying the pieces out for you.

All you have to do is say it.

“I’m in love with you.”

It comes out raw. Desperate. You didn’t mean to say it like that, like your ribs were cracking under the weight of it.

But maybe that’s the only way it could’ve come out.

Natasha freezes.

You stare down at your hands in your lap, blinking back heat in your eyes. You wish you’d eased into it. Said it pretty. Said it soft. You wish—

Her hand brushes yours. Then finds it. Her fingers curl around yours like they belong there. Your heart stutters. You look up. And she’s already leaning in.

The kiss is gentle. Quiet. Full of hesitation and history.

Her lips find yours like they’ve done it before—like they remember you.

There’s no firestorm this time. No drunken frenzy. No bite, no grab, no frantic unzipping of clothes. Just lips and hands and a slow ache in your chest that says home.

Her hand cups your jaw and your eyes flutter shut. You melt into her without a second thought, without even a choice. Your breath catches. Your fingers tighten around hers.

And it feels… right. Uncomplicated. Like this has always been waiting.

When you part, she keeps her forehead pressed to yours. Her breath warms your cheek.

“I knew,” she murmurs.

You frown faintly. “What?”

“I knew. Not that night. Before.” She breathes out a little laugh, short and self-deprecating. “I think I always knew.”

You want to ask why she never said anything. But you already know. The same reason you didn’t. You thought it was platonic. You wanted it to be platonic. Because that would’ve been easier. Because this? This changes everything. And somehow, it feels like you’ve never been more okay with that.

She kisses you again.

But it’s not gentle, not this time.

There’s something desperate in it, something deeper — not rough, but urgent. Like she’s only just allowed herself to want this, and now she’s starved.

You respond without thinking.

Her mouth moves against yours with more meaning, more ache, and when her hands find your waist, your ribs, the side of your neck — you let her. You open to her like it’s instinct, like your body remembers her even if your memory pretended to forget.

Clothes come off slowly.

Not in a frantic way, not like last time. You take your time now. Eyes on each other. Lingering touches. Bare skin unveiled like something sacred. Her fingers trail your spine. Your breath catches. She whispers your name like it’s a confession, and when you tilt your head back and exhale, her mouth finds the hollow of your throat like it belongs there.

You melt for her. You burn.

Your bedsheets get ruffled. Pillows shoved out of the way. Her hands never leave your skin, not for a second. You’re not drunk this time — you feel every press, every kiss, every moment with aching clarity.

You give yourself to her like it’s the first time.

Because it is.

This time, you’re awake for it.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You sleep tangled up in each other. Her arms around your waist. Your head buried in her collarbone. Her heartbeat against your ear, steady and human and soft.

There’s no shame. No dread in your gut. No fear of what tomorrow will mean.

You don’t stay up all night replaying the footage in your head.

Because this time, there is no footage.

No witness.

Just her. Just you.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The morning sunlight is softer than it was three weeks ago.

It bleeds across your floor in gold, catching on the outline of her shoulder where the covers have slipped low. Her skin is marked — lightly scratched and bitten in places where you’d been too caught up to think. And you know you match her now.

You wake in a bed full of heat, skin to skin, and you don’t flinch.

You don’t panic.

You just… lie there. Still. Warm. Whole.

Your cheek is pressed against her bare shoulder. Your legs tangled under the duvet. Her breath stirs your hair every so often. She hasn’t woken yet — or if she has, she’s pretending not to.

It’s peaceful.

It’s right.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You lie like that for a while, unmoving.

Your muscles are sore. Your throat’s dry. Your heart feels raw, but not in a bad way. More like you cracked open last night, and now everything else feels sharper. Realer.

Natasha shifts a little behind you and her arm curls around your waist without needing to be asked.

You close your eyes.

You wonder if she’s thinking the same thing you are — that this is where you were always supposed to end up. That maybe, despite everything, despite the silence and the fear and the three weeks of pretending… this was inevitable.

Maybe you both just needed to get out of your own way.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You don’t speak yet.

There’s no need.

Not now.

Last time, you woke in this bed naked and marked and full of questions. You spent the whole day terrified that it meant nothing. That it was a mistake.

This time, you don’t even need to look for answers.

She gave them to you last night.

In the way she touched you.

In the way she looked at you like you weren’t a secret.

In the way she kissed you like you belonged to her.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You shift a little, slow and careful, to face her. The duvet slips off your bare shoulder. She blinks awake at the movement — or maybe she was already awake, just like you.

Her eyes meet yours. She doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. You just smile, small and honest. She mirrors it.

Then her hand reaches to brush a strand of hair from your cheek. The touch is feather-light, but it sends a full-body warmth curling through your chest.

You lean in before you can talk yourself out of it.

And she meets you halfway. The kiss is soft this time. Not frantic. Not desperate. Just real.

[Masterlist]

[alfheimr]

My Favorite Cheap Art Trick: Gradient Maps and Blending Modes

i get questions on occasion regarding my coloring process, so i thought i would do a bit of a write up on my "secret technique." i don't think it really is that much of a secret, but i hope it can be helpful to someone. to that end:

this is one of my favorite tags ive ever gotten on my art. i think of it often. the pieces in question are all monochrome - sort of.

the left version is the final version, the right version is technically the original. in the final version, to me, the blues are pretty stark, while the greens and magentas are less so. there is some color theory thing going on here that i dont have a good cerebral understanding of and i wont pretend otherwise. i think i watched a youtube video on it once but it went in one ear and out the other. i just pick whatever colors look nicest based on whatever vibe im going for.

this one is more subtle, i think. can you tell the difference? there's nothing wrong with 100% greyscale art, but i like the depth that adding just a hint of color can bring.

i'll note that the examples i'll be using in this post all began as purely greyscale, but this is a process i use for just about every piece of art i make, including the full color ones. i'll use the recent mithrun art i made to demonstrate. additionally, i use clip studio paint, but the general concept should be transferable to other art programs.

for fun let's just start with Making The Picture. i've been thinking of making this writeup for a while and had it in mind while drawing this piece. beyond that, i didn't really have much of a plan for this outside of "mithrun looks down and hair goes woosh." i also really like all of the vertical lines in the canary uniform so i wanted to include those too but like. gone a little hog wild. that is the extent of my "concept." i do not remember why i had the thought of integrating a shattered mirror type of theme. i think i wanted to distract a bit from the awkward pose and cover it up some LOL but anyway. this lack of planning or thought will come into play later.

note 1: the textured marker brush i specifically use is the "bordered light marker" from daub. it is one of my favorite brushes in the history of forever and the daub mega brush pack is one of the best purchases ive ever made. highly recommend!!!

note 2: "what do you mean by exclusion and difference?" they are layer blending modes and not important to the overall lesson of this post but for transparency i wanted to say how i got these "effects." anyway!

with the background figured out, this is the point at which i generally merge all of my layers, duplicate said merged layer, and Then i begin experimenting with gradient maps. what are gradient maps?

the basic gist is that gradient maps replace the colors of an image based on their value.

so, with this particular gradient map, black will be replaced with that orangey red tone, white will be replaced with the seafoamy green tone, etc. this particular gradient map i'm using as an example is very bright and saturated, but the colors can be literally anything.

these two sets are the ones i use most. they can be downloaded for free here and here if you have csp. there are many gradient map sets out there. and you can make your own!

you can apply a gradient map directly onto a specific layer in csp by going to edit>tonal correction>gradient map. to apply one indirectly, you can use a correction layer through layer>new correction layer>gradient map. honestly, correction layers are probably the better way to go, because you can adjust your gradient map whenever you want after creating the layer, whereas if you directly apply a gradient map to a layer thats like. it. it's done. if you want to make changes to the applied gradient map, you have to undo it and then reapply it. i don't use correction layers because i am old and stuck in my ways, but it's good to know what your options are.

this is what a correction layer looks like. it sits on top and applies the gradient map to the layers underneath it, so you can also change the layers beneath however and whenever you want. you can adjust the gradient map by double clicking the layer. there are also correction layers for tone curves, brightness/contrast, etc. many such useful things in this program.

let's see how mithrun looks when we apply that first gradient map we looked at.

gadzooks. apologies for eyestrain. we have turned mithrun into a neon hellscape, which might work for some pieces, but not this one. we can fix that by changing the layer blending mode, aka this laundry list of words:

some of them are self explanatory, like darken and lighten, while some of them i genuinely don't understand how they are meant to work and couldn't explain them to you, even if i do use them. i'm sure someone out there has written out an explanation for each and every one of them, but i've learned primarily by clicking on them to see what they do.

for the topic of this post, the blending mode of interest is soft light. so let's take hotline miamithrun and change the layer blending mode to soft light.

here it is at 100% opacity. this is the point at which i'd like to explain why i like using textured brushes so much - it makes it very easy to get subtle color variation when i use this Secret Technique. look at the striation in the upper right background! so tasty. however, to me, these colors are still a bit "much." so let's lower the opacity.

i think thats a lot nicer to look at, personally, but i dont really like these colors together. how about we try some other ones?

i like both of these a lot more. the palettes give the piece different vibes, at which point i have to ask myself: What Are The Vibes, Actually? well, to be honest i didn't really have a great answer because again, i didn't plan this out very much at all. however. i knew in my heart that there was too much color contrast going on and it was detracting from the two other contrasts in here: the light and dark values and the sharp and soft shapes. i wanted mithrun's head to be the main focal point. for a different illustration, colors like this might work great, but this is not that hypothetical illustration, so let's bring the opacity down again.

yippee!! that's getting closer to what my heart wants. for fun, let's see what this looks like if we change the blending mode to color.

i do like how these look but in the end they do not align with my heart. oh well. fun to experiment with though! good to keep in mind for a different piece, maybe! i often change blending modes just to see what happens, and sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. i very much cannot stress enough that much of my artistic process is clicking buttons i only sort of understand. for fun.

i ended up choosing the gradient map on the right because i liked that it was close to the actual canary uniform colors (sorta). it's at an even lower opacity though because there was Still too much color for my dear heart.

the actual process for this looks like me setting my merged layer to soft light at around 20% opacity and then clicking every single gradient map in my collection and seeing which one Works. sometimes i will do this multiple times and have multiple soft light and/or color layers combined.

typically at this point i merge everything again and do minor contrast adjustments using tone curves, which is another tool i find very fun to play around with. then for this piece in particular i did some finishing touches and decided that the white border was distracting so i cropped it. and then it's done!!! yay!!!!!

this process is a very simple and "fast" way to add more depth and visual interest to a piece without being overbearing. well, it's fast if you aren't indecisive like me, or if you are better at planning.

let's do another comparison. personally i feel that the hint of color on the left version makes mithrun look just a bit more unwell (this is a positive thing) and it makes the contrast on his arm a lot more pleasing to look at. someone who understands color theory better than i do might have more to say on the specifics, but that's honestly all i got.

just dont look at my layers too hard. ok?

[plutoasteroids]

PAC How Will Your Future Spouse View You

Pile 1 Pile 2 Pile 3

DISCLAIMER THIS IS A GENERAL READING TAKE WHAT RESONATES AND LEAVE WHAT DOESN'T.

Strictly for entertainment purposes.

PILE 1

So, before I get into the tarot bit of the reading the overall vibe I am getting is that you and your future spouse will be that couple that are still doing cute stuff together even in old age. You know those older couples you see on TikTok on dates still happy and very much in love, yeah like that. One word I can use to describe it is cozy, just very warm and affectionate basically feeling like this person is your home. It's going to be like 'I'd rather come home to you then be anywhere else'.

On to the tarot bit, Your FS sees you as someone very confident and optimistic (even if you don't see yourself that way). They see you as being positive and very wholesome. Again, before I pulled cards I channelled and I still got the warmth.

Oh my gosh, if any of you have read The Song of Achilles that's basically it. Before anyone points out to me they were a same sex couple .Yes, I know but I am talking about the relationship dynamic between Patroclus and Achilles.

You may have gone through a difficult time in your life and your future spouse will admire how strong and resilient you are, how you're able to adapt to challenges and changes in environment. You may be the type of person who is connected to both their divine feminine and masculine and they truly find that attractive.

They certainly view you as their other half and I know its cliche to say soulmate but that's all your future spouse is saying. You just give them so much happiness and emotional fulfilment.

'They are my home, my soulmate, my forever'

PILE 2

Ugh Pile 2 your spouse will literally worship you😩. Like you'll tell them your insecurities and they'll just sit there kissing every scar, mark, dimple anything you're insecure about they'll adore. If you're a female or a feminine reading this and you have thick thighs I heard them say 'Come here and crush my skull with those sexy thighs'. Whoever you are you have someone's poor child down horrendous for you.

I think they may be the type to just watch your social media whether you are getting to know each other, dating, engaged or married your social media pages, pictures and videos will always be on their phone screen and they won't go to sleep without listening to a little voice message you sent. Once they get attached baby there's absolutely no getting rid of them, I heard 'You'll have an easier time getting rid of bed bugs'.

When you meet them, they may be a party animal or a player.

Disclaimer it's not toxic obsession more like they will let you be your own person but at the end of the day they are yours and you are theirs, you are their spouse, and they are your spouse and they will forever put you on a pedestal not to the open where they will neglect themselves.

They see you as a prize (again not in a creepy way) You may have options when you meet this person but best believe they'll make sure to stand out and win you over. They see you as the best the world has to offer in terms of what a wife/husband/spouse should be. Your person may have had a few letdowns when it came to love and just know that they see you as a dream come true and again, I know that's very cliche but trust me when Isay they view having you as a spouse as their biggest accomplishment and they want you to know that they'll prove to you every day they are worthy to call themselves your spouse. They feel like you have gone through a period of depression and sadness, and they want you to know that they acknowledge it and they see you as strong every day.

The couple I channelled for you guys is Queen Charlotte and King George from Bridgerton.

PILE 3

First thing I heard 'Sugar Daddy'. This person will spoil you but love you even more. Yes, they may have money and give you gifts but this person truly does love you, care about you and respect you.

They may be older than you that's why people may think that they are your glucose guardian which is not technically wrong and not technically correct either. I feel like that will be a long term joke you two have about them being your sucrose supplier..

They will definitely view you as delicate, I want to say that they are the protective type but not protective to the point of you feeling suffocated by them. They want you to be comfortable and have what you like 'If my spouse wants that watch I'll get it for them'.

They will view you as fun loving, yet you have this air of power to you that they love. Sure, they view you as delicate and they want to protect you, but they also view you as strong and beyond capable of taking care of yourself and those around you basically your spouse is saying 'they want me, but they don't need me'. They know that you can walk away from them anytime and they like that you're always in your power no matter what.

Your spouse admires how you don't need them to feel whole or for financial gain they see you as a breath of fresh air, a change of pace, an adventure.

He may touch you a lot with your consent obviously, like a hand on your waist, shoulder or they may steal little quick kisses. Also, there may be a lot of friendly banter in the relationship.

The couple I channel for you guys is Fallon and Liam from Dynasty.

[juleswritesstuff]

'Cause I’m a taker, 'cause I’m a giver

or

Would our beloved marauders and skittles prefer to be on the giving or the receiving end during oral ? 

warnings: smut

James would be a giver through and through, one hundred percent, no questions asked.

He’d be the type of man that gets fully offended when he hears other guys refuse to go down on their girlfriends. He wouldn’t understand it, wouldn’t even start to comprehend how that could even be possible.

He’d live to please, to make sure you are spoiled, worshiped like you were more holy than human. Especially in the bedroom. Your body is a temple, and he’d be devoted to it, every single inch of it.

He’d use just his tongue to bring you to tears the first couple of rounds, nothing else. Not even his fingers.

He would start slowly, teasing, leaving feather-light kisses on the soft skin of your inner thighs, giving you the sweetest of tortures and creating a path that’d lead to the very object of his desires.

He’d pick up his pace as soon as a drop of your essence makes contact with the tip of his tongue. From then on, he’d be gone. He’d lick and suck and lap at your core like his life depended on it.

He'd delve his tongue in to feel you whole, feel your softness, your tightness, the way your sensitive and velvety walls would contract around the delicious intrusion, how wet you'd be by just the attention of his skilled mouth.

He'd take his sweet time with it, too, alternating between relentless flicks of his tongue and languid laps that make your legs shake in both need and impatience. He’d add his fingers then, slowly, one by one, stretching you out and brushing that sweet spot until he brings you so close to the edge that your vision blurs, your mind blanks, and you come undone with a cry of his name on your lips.

He'd dirty talk you through the whole thing, too. And when I say dirty, I mean absolutely filthy. 

It wouldn't matter if his mouth is already occupied with its mission to make you fall apart piece by piece; he'd let it run free and wild to add fuel to the fire already consuming every cell of your body.

Sirius would be both, in equal parts.

I feel like he wouldn't really have a preference. He'd love to please you as much as he'd love to be pleased. 

It would depend on the mood, on the vibe, and on who decides to make the first move.

If it's you, he'd let you take the reins, look at you with the lewdest bedroom eyes ever (this man has the most sensual ‘fuck me’ gaze, I just know that) as you sink to your knees, and he’d fully let you do whatever you wish to him. Slow strokes, fast rhythm, swallowing him whole, sucking his head leisurely, using your hands, using your mouth; it wouldn’t matter. You set the pace, make the rules, and he’d gladly take everything you offer him. Not without any complaints, though, especially when you’d have a little too much fun. He’d whine and grumble and grab the chair handles or the sheets so tight his knuckles would lose all their blood flow, but he’d never tell you to stop.

Because the truth is he’d love to be teased a little but would absolutely never admit it.  He wouldn't need to; you'd feel it right down your throat.

If it's him, you better buckle up because you'd be in for a ride.

He’d be a full-on menace, the biggest of teases.

He’d drag it out as much as he could without making you actually come, slowly but surely work you up with his tongue, his fingers, pumping them carefully, precisely, spreading your wetness all over your tender cunt just to dive in right after and eat you out like a madman until your eyes get watery, and it’s the fourth time he brings you so close to heaven, only to snatch it away from you when you’re just about to get through the gates of pleasure. 

And he’d do all of that with the sultriest smirk on his face.

Remus would be both, but with a little twist.

Because I feel like no matter the scenario, he'd be the one to have the upper hand.

It would be the softest, gentlest kind of dominance, but he'd still be the one leading, whether it's his head between your thighs or the other way around.

His words would be as sweet as honey, his voice a velvety whisper sending shivers throughout your whole body, the coaxing tone he'd use betrayed by his labored breathing, his filthy words, and his hands shaking as he'd resist every instinct his brain would scream at him to succumb to.

But he wouldn't listen to it; he'd keep politely telling you to relax your throat for him, hollow your cheeks a bit more, stroke him faster, swallow around him.

He wouldn't straight-up order you around; that's not the kind of ‘control’ he would be into, in my opinion. He'd be firm, sure -or as firm as he'd manage to be with your mouth or hands on him- but his tone would be laced with a sensuality, a sultriness that would turn his words more into enticing suggestions.

And you'd listen to him so well, of course.

So much so that you would deserve a reward for it, wouldn't you ?

He'd gladly give it to you, gently nudging your legs open, kneading the supple flesh of your thighs with his big hands as he approaches your heat slowly, kissing and worshiping every inch of skin under his lips except for where you’d need him the most, where you’d be dripping for him.

Because he wouldn’t simply give you what you want; no, that would be too easy. He would make you beg for it, tease you until you’re nothing but a stuttering mess throwing insults at him because you're losing your mind over him and his cruel little games.

He’d honestly be endeared by it, thinking you’re so cute with that frown on your face and the flames of desire and impatience burning in your eyes so brightly.

He’d give in, in the end. Because you deserve it.

And because, let’s face it, he couldn’t go one second more without your taste on his tongue.

Regulus would be a giver for the most part.

Why ?

Because he would want to look at you and all your little blissed-out expressions as he is taking you apart piece by piece.

He is an observer; he has learned to study people ever since a very young age, reading every single change in someone’s voice, posture, walking pattern, micro-expressions, and mannerism.

But with you it would be different. He wouldn’t observe you like he does with other people, like he is reading an instructions manual to know what to expect from the person in front of him with just a quick, simple glance. He’d read you like a poem. Attentively, carefully, taking his time to understand the magnificent work of art that is you. 

He wouldn’t do that because he has to. But because he wants to.

He'd want to catch every single shift in your features, every soft exhale leaving your lips, every moan you’d try to swallow down as he lays next to you, his skilled fingers pumping leisurely in and out of you, breaching through your sensitive core, massaging the tender skin of your walls in a rhythm so exquisite yet so excruciatingly slow that you’d have to start begging for him to do something, anything, to relieve the growing ache between your legs.

The heel of his palm would press on your clit with every prod, every stroke of his long and slender fingers inside of you; the friction so good, so sweet and addicting it would snatch the breath out of you, leaving you a blubbering mess as he takes in the way your features contort in pleasure.

Only then, when you would be a step away from reaching your high, your mind hazy and filled only with a perpetual chant of his name that would also roll off your lips, would he get his mouth on you.

And you’d already be soaked, drenched, and so hypersensitive that he would only need to get a taste of you, gather your essence on his tongue, and spread it on your folds, licking and lapping until he’d reach that little bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs, wrapping his lips around it and sucking gently.

You’d be gone in seconds, and he’d have the image of your blissful, fucked-out expression engraved in his brain forever.

Barty would be a receiver. One hundred percent.

And with that I don't mean he would never ever go down on you, because he would, and with immense pleasure too, might I add.

But the feeling of euphoria he'd get from seeing you on your knees, your mascara messy and ruined from the sheer veil of tears coating your eyes as your lips stretch around his cock, would send him into overdrive.

He’d look at you the whole time, lidded eyes darkened with hunger, looking at you through his lashes even when all he’d want to do is throw his head back and get lost in the feeling. He wouldn’t let himself do that, though; he would keep his eyes on you, drinking in the sight he’s being blessed with. His hands would be everywhere: in your hair, sometimes pulling gently, some other times moving them out of the way to fully see you and your sinful mouth working him up; on your face, brushing away the black ink staining your cheeks as they hollow to accommodate him better, farther. 

But his favorite place would be right on the curve between your chin and your neck, where, if he’d put just the slightest bit of pressure, he’d feel your throat contracting and relaxing every time he drags his cock in and out of you. It’d make his head spin.

His whole body would be tense, too, the muscles of his thighs, of his torso, flexing beneath his heated skin as he’d try to stop himself from literally choking you with his erratic thrusts.

But his hips would gain a consciousness of their own, arching forward to meet your greedy mouth, seeking its warmth, its perfect embrace around him, slithering himself in deeper, faster, his head hitting the back of your throat as a string of breathless groans rolls off his tongue.

He’d like it a little messy, honestly. Just like him.

Hello to all of you beautiful people 💗

How are you ? I hope you're doing good and that you spent some amazing holidays ❤

For the first time in months, I finally managed to write something decent, or at least I hope so. So here it is.

It's not exactly what I had promised you, I know (part two of the last request is in the works, don't you worry but I am afraid you'll have to wait a little more), and, on top of that, is also later that I had anticipated, so I am once again really sorry.

I'm also sorry to inform you that I'm taking another writing break until mid February. My exam session will end around then, and I'll finally be able to write more and better 😭

Sorry again for my absence, and sorry for having to disappear again for a little while.

I hope you enjoyed this little thing I came up with, and thank you again for reading my work💗

[fancyfeathers]

Hello Fancy! I'd like to request yandere Tim Drake/Red Robin with a nursing student darling who patches him up when she finds him injured. Maybe he's a little out of it and asks her out/proposes and she doesn't take him seriously but he means it (kinda like Orpheus and Eurydice's first meeting in Hadestown).

Darling doesn't want any involvement with any vigilantes so she just hands Tim over to the first vigilante who finds him and thinks thats the end of it while Tim is desperately trying to find darling, who he did not get the name of and whose face is very blurry in his memory.

Hope this request made sense, and is ok

Come Home With Me

(Yandere!Tim Drake/Red Robin x Reader)

Oh my god I adore Hadestown, I went to go see it earlier this year and it was amazing, I cried, I absolutely sobbed. It is a show I would recommend everyone to see if they get the chance or at least listen to it.

But I definitely get Orpheus vibes from my interpretation of Yandere!Tim Drake, a little delusional and very obsessed

Gotham was not always an awful place to live, rent was never high and no one really cared to bother you after all no criminal would really try to kidnap, harm, or blackmail a university student who lived off of the university campus in a studio apartment with no ties to anyone in the city. You were a nursing major at the university that bore the same name of the city it was located in, Gotham University. You had originally lived in Metropolis, born to adoring parents but with their own finances to worry about you had applied to Gotham University without their knowledge and got accepted, the school was good though the tuition was cheaper due to the extreme crime rate, plus a scholarship would cover the cost and getting an apartment was cheaper than living on campus. Your parents told you not to go and that they would cover everything but you wanted to be on your own and for them to not worry about you, but turns out that was not exactly a smart choice.

So here you found yourself about to head home from a night class, things near the university tend to be a bit calmer, you guessed the criminals of the city really do not have much motivation to go after teenagers and young adults who do not have a bone of self preservation in their bodies. Poison Ivy tends to leave the school alone because of the strict green policy on campus and the biology and botany majors taking care of the campus and grounds. Actually you had heard rumors about some of the more infamous names being graduates from the school, Harley Quinn, the Scarecrow, and you think Two Face attended there for his undergraduate, but you could be definitely misremembering that-

“God… fuck, that hurts…” A young masculine voice caught your attention as you walked out the nursing school building. You had decided to take the back entrance since you did not have a car like your friends and classmates and this was a short cut. You glanced toward where the voice came from, there was a little alcove where there were bike racks that were rarely used by the door and there you saw a young man resting against the brick building. You gasped as your mind recognized the man in his red and black suit, yellow gear, and that black domino mask you saw a lot of the vigilantes around here wearing.

This was Red Robin…

And judging by that gash on his leg, he was badly injured.

He was barely able to move from how much pain he was in. You thought about running to go get your professors, but they could leak his identity. After all, who wouldn’t want to know the face behind the mask? Besides he looked too messed up to wait for help and your professors were probably gone, then there was that one Nightingale Vow you had to remember for graduation.

Heal and do no harm.

You certainly would be breaking those vows if you left him here, and you have worked far too hard for that nursing license. You knelt down besides him, taking his left arm and looping it around your shoulders while your right arm wrapped around his back and under his right arm to support his weight as you tried to stand him up to get him inside. Your instincts from working on the floors of the hospital as a nurse appreciated kicked in as you pushed open the door with the shoulder that was not supporting his weight. As a nursing student in Gotham you had to deal with victims of all sorts and your mind went back to when you had to comfort a teenage boy who got caught in Scarecrow’s fear toxin. “You’re going to be alright, you’re safe now.”

“T-thank-“

“Save your strength, don’t strain yourself.” You cut him off as you turned the knob of one of the lab rooms, it was not a perfect hospital setting but it had what you would need. You helped lay him down on the table in the room, which was probably last used by a cadaver during an anatomy class. You went to rummage through the cabinets in the room, pulling out whatever you could use, latex gloves, syringe, bottles of liquid painkillers, bandages, and goss, they did have any equipment for stitches so this would have to be done. You opened the paper packaging the syringe was in, grabbed the needle to attach to it before opening the lid of the liquid painkiller and pushed the needle tip inside and watched as the needle filled up with the clear yellowish liquid. “Do you have a tracker or anyway to contact anyone, you will need stitches and X-rays for any broken bones-“

“Bats… he… he is on his way…” Your heart skipped a beat in worry at the mention of the Batman showing up in the nursing hall. You pushed down the growing fear and walked back over to him, pushing the needle into some exposed skin on his leg where the suit was ripped and pushed down on the syringe as he hissed in pain which was followed by a chuckle, probably half out if from blood loss. “You’re a lot… a lot gentler than-“

“Don’t tell me, I don’t want to get dragged into anything.” You replied as you walked back to the counter to grab the rest of your supplies to at least try to patch him up. “Sorry… that was rude…”

“It’s alright…” He leaned his head back on the table, closing his eyes from the pure exhaustion he was feeling along with the pain medication starting to kick in and making him a bit more loopy than before. “…I think I would want to marry you one day.”

“W-what?” You were caught off guard for a moment, pausing as you began to lift up his injured leg in order to wrap it up. “I-I am sorry but, I d-don’t even know who you are.”

“The man who is going to marry you.”

The response was so quick and confident that you wondered if he was actually serious or just out of it, there is no possible way for him to be serious… right?

“I-I… Are you always like this?”

“Ignore him.” A voice from behind you, in the doorway, nearly made you scream and you would have jumped and bumped his wound if it was not for Red Robin grabbing your hand a little too tightly as if he was afraid to let go, if he were to let go then you would disappear. You turned your head around to see a man who definitely was not Batman, but with the blue bird-like symbol on the chest of his black suit he was just as recognizable, Nightwing. The new vigilante patted you on the shoulder and looked over at Red Robin on the table. “You just keep working, we’ll get him back safely.”

“We?”

“The Bat is keeping watch outside.”

Oh… oh god… that was not a terrifying thought at all.

“A-alright…” Your voice clearly cracked as you looked back at the other vigilante on your table, you grabbed a bottle of disinfectant and cloth from the counter and you wet the cloth with the strong scented liquid before you dabbed it against his wound which made him hiss in pain as the painkillers did not stop everything but you tuned it out and kept working. You glanced at Nightwing who was resting against the wall, watching you work. “Elevate his leg for me while I get the bandages over it, he will need stitches after this, but this will keep him from losing a substantial amount of blood and prevent infection until then.”

“Whatever you need.” The vigilante pushed himself off of the wall and towards the table that Red Robin laid on, he grabbed the young man’s leg by the upper calf and lifted up from the table, the other vigilante too high on painkillers at this point to even react. You began to wrap the gauze around his leg first, making sure it covered the area of the wound before moving towards the roll bandages, following the same steps as the gauze. You snipped the bandage off of the roll when you were finished and stepped away from the table and towards the sink, turning on the hot water and washing the blood from your hands under the faucet, and drying them off with one of the paper towels you ripped from the dispenser by the sink. “I know you all are vigilantes or heroes or something, but get him to an actual doctor, just tell them it was an accident when he was on his bike or skateboard or something. He should not be walking on that leg for one and a half to two weeks, at least.”

“Noted, and thank you.” You nodded in response to Nightwing as he expressed his gratitude and handed you your backpack from where you threw it on the ground. As you put it on, Nightwing helped Red Robin up from the table, throwing his arm around his shoulder and supporting his weight, carrying him just like how you did when you brought him in, though it looked easier for him than it was for you. “I would take the front entrance of the school out, the Scarecrow it out tonight and if I were you I would not want to get caught by us. Just get back to your place, lock the doors and turn off the lights and you’ll be fine.”

“I will, thank you Nightwing.”

_______________________________

It has been about a week and a half, almost two weeks since the incident with the vigilantes of Gotham, with Red Robin, and like always nothing changed, life went on. You sat on your bed in your apartment, everything you had was fairly simple, the budget of a university student. A simple metal bed frame and mattress that your old man picked out for you before you left home. You had your laptop on your lap and your lower back pressed against your pillows and your legs hidden under your weighted blanket. It was really late, probably one or two in the morning and you had made the mistake of being the designated driver for your friends when they wanted to go drinking, so now after they were done and you had to drive them all home which only made you get home even later than you wanted to be, but alas you had work to finish.

You drummed your fingers next to the mouse sensor on your keyboard, over the sticky notes that were filled with all sorts of reminders…

Call mom after classes…

Pick up groceries on Friday…

Go to the gym on Saturday….

All of them were slightly smudged, the ink having smeared when you pressed them down to stick them to your laptop. So much to do in so little time…

As if fate always hated you, your current computer page crashed, showing up with that little message to let you know that you had lost internet connection. You groaned and set your laptop down and pulled the blanket aside, getting out of bed and walking to the router on the other side of your small apartment, placed in a blind spot that you can’t see from your bed, the small black box being placed on the windowsill by your front door…

You paused in your tracks as you saw the vigilante you saved that night on the stairs of your apartment’s fire escape outside of your window, Red Robin. The black haired young man gave you a small smile, as if embarrassed at being spotted outside, before he waved his hand, as if gesturing you to come outside and talk to him. You rolled your eyes with a heavy sigh and walked towards the window, grabbing your shoes from right by your front door and you struggled to put them on as you unlocked the window and you let him take care of the rest, pushing up the stiff glass pane as if it was nothing. He held out his free hand to help you down as you crawled out of the window and your feet landed on the metal fire escape next to him.

“I needed to see you again-“

“I told you I didn’t want to get involved with-“

“That can’t be true because otherwise you would have never helped me that night.” He cut you off just like you cut him off before. “Why did you want to become a nurse?”

“Because I want to help people.”

“Then that is something we have in common-“

“So did you shut off my internet?”

“…I needed to talk to you.” He gave you a smile before revealing his other hand which he had kept hidden behind his back this entire time, he revealed a bouquet of red carnations. He reached them out to you for you to take even if you were quite shocked by the gesture. “I got you these, a peace offering if you want them.”

“Um… okay.” You took the bouquet from him, holding it in both hands to keep your hands occupied in this awkward situation. “…look if that’s all I have to go, it’s getting late and I have to pick up groceries tomorrow- oh my god!”

He interrupted you without words, quite literally getting on a knee and pulling out a gold and diamond ring which would probably cost more than everything you have owned, your parents have ever owned, sell all of your organs on top of that and you still would not be able to afford it.

“Come home with me.”

“I-I… I don’t even know you are!”

“The man who wants to marry you.” He stood up straight and you watched in horror as he took you by the shoulder, spinning you around so your back was against your window and his back was to the city of Gotham, he peeled back his black mask from his eyes and your lips fell agape at seeing the identity of the vigilante, you have seen the magazines, you knew who he was, Timothy Drake, a single child of a wealthy family who only got more rich when he was adopted by the richest man in Gotham, Bruce Wayne, when his own father and mother passed on. He seemed to catch onto your reaction or recognition and just smiled as he pressed the mask back onto his face. He looked back down at the ring, a fond smile on his lips. “This was my mother’s ring…”

“It’s beautiful but I am not… I can’t marry you, I don’t know you.” Your words trailed off as you head turned slightly to glance at the internet router in your window and a sudden realization came across you. “I never gave you my name… you have been stalking me, haven’t you?”

“I wanted to protect you, people cold come after you for helping me and I didn’t want you to get hurt.” His voice was starting to sound slightly annoyed but not annoyed enough to sound upset with you. “I was trying to make sure you were safe, please understand-“

“I don’t… I won’t understand.” You turned you to your open window, turning your back on him. “You stalked me, probably broke into my house while I was asleep, didn’t you? Actually I don’t want to hear it, it’s best if you leave and don’t come back.”

You stepped up onto the windowsill, your hands coming to grab the sides of the windows to pull yourself up and in process you dropped the flowers onto the metal ground up the firescape and the soft sound of the petals hitting the iron somehow covered the sound of him stepping towards you and his arms reaching out so his forearms pushed down on your windpipe, it was in a way that would not be painful or bruise unless you squirmed around and you certainly did.

It only took less than a second for him to yank you back, his arms putting pressure on your neck as he laid you down on the fire escape as you struggled against him and you tried to scream but nothing was able to come out as he only hushed you as if you were a colecy child.

“Shh, it’s okay, go to sleep.” You could see your vision darken at the corners of your eyes as you struggled for breath but none came into your lungs. “I’ve got you, you’re okay… you’re okay.”

Those were the last words you heard before you fell limp in his arms, out completely cold. The young vigilante made quick work of taking your phone from your pocket and setting it inside your apartment, in the windowsill before reaching up and closing it. He would be able to come back later for anything you would need, he just did not have time to grab it right now because it would not be long before someone could potentially spot him. He took the bouquet of flowers and slid their stems into a loop on his utility belt. Then he took the ring and took your limp hand, sliding the ring onto your finger.

A perfect fit.

He picked you up in his arms, holding your body on his hip with one arm, holding you like a child and leaving the other free to hold onto the grappling line. He did not have to go far, just needed to get a hold of Bruce and get you home, he would understand, he has to, after all he is doing this all to protect you and just to be with you…. Of course he’ll understand.

[aemondsbabe]

Taunt

obviously, i feel very normal and chill about ewan's new performance in saltburn. anyways lmao this is my version of michael gavey from the vibes i got from him in the 5 seconds he's in the trailer! i have no idea if this is accurate to how he is truly portrayed in the movie! if the movie comes out and i'm totally wrong, then i don't care bc i got to have fun writing about a cheeky lil oxford student!!

summary: you're nearly failing statistics and the student your professor asks to tutor you seems to gain a sick satisfaction from seeing you squirm; he hates you...or so think.

pairing: michael gavey x reader

warnings: mature, 18+ (minors, do not enter!!!) no use of Y/N, afab reader, profanity, smut, piv smut, fingering, oral sex (m receiving), dom/sub, brief daddy kink (literally one mention), dirty talk, dumbification, humiliation (only a bit), size kink if you squint, mild angst but happy ending, choking i guess (barely), public sex (they're alone but like it's still public lmao), brief discussions of math -- please let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 10.5k (dear lord)

a/n: baby's first fic omg! if you enjoy this one and want to see more from me, please feel free to send in requests! (GoT, HoTD, Stranger Things, Marvel, etc!)

PRAISE | Taunt Part 2

MAKING AMENDS | Bonus

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

🌟add yourself to my taglist to be notified when i post new fics!🌟

“Right, so,” Professor Davies began, pulling a thick textbook off the shelf next to his desk, “Since we’ve only just returned from Easter holiday, I thought I’d go easy on you today.” 

A few quiet groans could be heard around the room, a couple students turning to look at one another with grimaces; in the few weeks you’ve been in Professor Davies’s class, he’s never once gone easy on you. With a small sigh, you shuffle through your spiral notebook until you come to a blank page. 

“D’you think you’ll go to the party this weekend?” Louise whispers, leaning over closer to you as she twirls a pen around in her fingers, “I heard this one is supposed to be fucking insane.”

“Like any of Felix’s parties aren’t insane?” You whisper back, smirking as you doodle a small flower on the corner of a page of paper, “Of course I’ll be there,” you murmur, watching as Professor Davies writes an intricate formula on the chalkboard, “I could really use a break, anyway…I’ve been so stressed recently.”

“Christ…” A boy, in the row of desks in front of you scoffs, just barely shaking his head as he copies down the formula, his handwriting sharp and choppy. You feel blood rush to your cheeks as you narrow your eyes, staring intently at his sandy hair. You didn’t really know him, this being your only class with him, but you’d seen him around campus, regularly passing by him in the halls. Oxford may be a large university, but when you’re on campus everyday, you begin recognizing familiar faces. 

He didn’t run in the same crowds as you at all, and you got the distinct impression that he looked down on you and the rest of your friends, but you knew his name – Michael and that he was incredibly smart, his hand promptly shooting into the air anytime Professor Davies asked a question. In the few weeks you’d been in the same statistics class, you had yet to see him get a question wrong, watching as he grinned, cocky, everytime he was praised for correctly solving even the most intricate of formulas. 

You, on the other hand, couldn’t be more the opposite, always shying away and praying not to hear Professor Davies call your name in his deep, baritone voice every time his eyes scanned the crowd, looking for a volunteer, or victim, more like. While Michael clearly enjoyed the class, practically glowing with an arrogant confidence as soon as he walked into the wood paneled lecture hall, you were simply here to check it off as a requirement of your major, hoping to survive the class with a C and nothing more. 

It was annoying, you wouldn’t deny that, the way that smug smirk seemed to be permanently etched onto his face, how that stupid taunting glimmer was an ever-present fixture of his blue eyes — blue eyes which, seemingly, always managed to find their way to you, one way or another. 

His attention was intimidating at first, his cold stare leaving you unsure of what exactly his intention was. Was he trying to challenge you? Trying to determine if he knew you from somewhere else? A small part of you, a naive part, hoped that his staring was meant to be affectionate; he was cute, you’d admit it! Always showing up to class in cozy knit sweaters, his wavy hair still ruffled and untidy as if he’d just gotten out of bed, gold rimmed glasses perched atop a strong nose.

You quickly tear your gaze away from the back of Michael’s head, biting your bottom lip as you begin copying down the problem on the chalkboard, pausing briefly when you see, from the corner of your eye, his head turn as he glances at you over his shoulder. You felt your cheeks flush despite yourself, that small, sanguine voice in the back of your head cheering. 

“Now, then,” Professor Davies booms, dropping the textbook down on his desk with a cacophonous thud before sweeping his eyes across the classroom, “A bit of review before we really dive in…” He continues, pacing around the front of the room as he explains the various parts and pieces of the equation on the board. 

“What do you think you’ll wear?” Louise asks, leaning over once more to whisper in your ear, you can smell her signature floral perfume on her hair, “I was thinking I’d do that new blue-ish dress I got, you know, the strappy one?”

“Might still be too cold for strappy,” you whisper back, half listening to the professor drone on as you continue doodling on your paper, pausing every few minutes to jot down a few haphazard notes, “I was just thinking I’d do a jumper, probably a skirt and tights–”

Suddenly, you hear Professor Davies call your name, your cheeks practically stinging as blood rushes to your face. Sitting up straighter, you finally find the courage to meet his stern gaze, “Since you seem all too eager to share your thoughts,” He continues slowly stalking towards you across wooden floorboards that softly creak beneath his feet, “Would you care to enlighten us with the solution to the quadratic equation on the board?” He comes to a stop, hands clasped behind his back as he patiently waits for you to answer, a small, knowing smile poised on his lips. 

“I– uhm, well,” you stutter, glancing back and forth between your barely there notes and the chalkboard, throat growing tighter as you feel everyone's eyes on you, “Don’t you need to solve for G first?”

“And how would you go about doing that?”

“Well, you would…” You trail off, desperately trying to remember the lessons you’d had before Easter holiday, absentmindedly picking at your cuticle as you pray to be anywhere but here or for a hole to open in the floor and swallow you whole, “I…I don’t recall, professor. I’m sorry.” You finally say, not being able to meet his gaze as you stare intently at your lap, desperately willing yourself not to cry, even as you feel your eyes stinging. 

“Perhaps, in the future, it would be of benefit to socialize with your friends outside of my classroom.” Professor Davies admonishes, giving a sharp glare to Louise as well, who manages an apologetic smile. “Yes, Professor.” You whisper, keeping your eyes downturned. 

Finally, you hear the floorboards softly creaking once more as Professor Davies makes his way back up to the podium at the front of the room and once again resumes his lecture. You can’t help but pause for a second when you hear a small snicker from the tall boy in front of you, sensing as he peers at you over his shoulder once again. 

“Would anyone else like to take a crack at the problem on the board?” Professor Davies asks, leaning against the old, worn podium at the front of the room. Like clockwork, Michael’s hand shoots into the air. Somehow, that makes you blush even harder.

Eventually, Professor Davies finishes his lecture and retrieves his dark leather briefcase from under the desk, pulling a thick stack of papers out and sitting them on the podium, leaning over it with a sigh, “I have your tests graded. Most of you did very well, you should be pleased with yourselves. Some of you, however,” He says pointedly, “Could benefit greatly from a closer study of the material.”

Slowly, he walks around the room passing back tests, throwing out a comment here and there as he did so. You already know you hadn't done well on that particular test and dread getting it back and confirming your suspicions, so you keep yourself busy, choosing to meticulously pack up your things instead. 

“Mr. Gavey,” he said a few feet away from you, papers rustling as he slid the test across the wooden surface of the long bench desks, “Once more, an outstanding job! Top of the class, keep it up.” 

“Thank you, Professor,” you glance up, watching as he takes the paper with a humble nod, that same, oh-so pleased smile gracing his angular face. He must sense you looking at him and quickly shifts his gaze in your direction, eyes glimmering with self-satisfaction behind his gold-rimmed glasses as his smile quickly turns into a smirk. Finally, you tear your gaze away from his with a small, bewildered huff. Why did he seem to get so much satisfaction from besting you, of all people? It’s not like you were exactly an academic threat. 

“Ms. Bickerstaff,” Professor Davies says, finally appearing next to the table you and Louise sat at, “Not bad, a bit more effort next time and you’re sure to be on track,” he remarks, sliding her paper across the desk. Louise thanks him with a small smile as she flips through her test, eyes scanning over his marks. 

Finally, Professor Davies stands before you once again, your paper the very last in his hands. You hear him mutter your last name before he slides the paper across the desk to you, and you can’t help but deflate as you see your grade; you knew it would be bad, but that? How on Earth were you going to recover your average? What if you had to retake the whole course? What if you failed out of Oxford entirely? Your parents had sacrificed so much to help you get here, spending years and untold amounts of money on private tutors and extracurricular materials, all to help you have an impressive application! Not to mention the money just for the course fees! Unlike most of your friends, you didn’t come from piles and piles of money and status – your family was alright, sure, but you were definitely several tax brackets below them. 

As your thoughts spiraled, you felt Louise elbow you in the side at the same time you heard Professor Davies address you again. Shaking your head to clear your scattered thoughts, you clear your throat and finally turn to look up at him, “Sorry, yes, Professor?” 

“As I was saying,” Professor Davies continues, tapping the papers in front of you, “I would like to discuss your performance with you today, after class. Please meet me at the front of the room before you go.”

“Yes, sir.” you mumble dejectedly, nodding as you quickly flip the test over, embarrassed at the thought of anyone else seeing your grade. 

“I’ll see you later, babes,” Louise says a few minutes later as everyone is clearing out of the room, “Good luck!” She whispers, giving you a reassuring pat on the shoulder before making her way to the door.

“Thanks!” you smile weakly, swallowing the lump in your throat before picking up your things and heading to the front of the room. The afternoon sun is already getting lower in the sky, beams of light shining into the room, bathing rectangular swaths of the floor in bright, golden light and highlighting motes of dust as they scatter in the air. Only a few students are left in the classroom, some of them finishing up notes while others type out quick texts. As you walk by his desk, you notice Michael scribbling down notes in his planner. 

You shuffle your feet nervously as you stand in front of the sizable oak desk that your professor sits at, watching as he adds a sticky note to the top of another stack of papers, “You wanted to see me, Professor?”

“Ah, yes!” He says, looking up at you over his glasses. He quickly caps his pen and stands, walking around the desk to stand in front of you, “I know this class has been quite the challenge,” he begins, leaning against the desk, “But, I think I’ve found a solution for you.” 

“You have?” You ask, tilting your head in confusion.

“I think you could benefit greatly from a tutor, perhaps a peer who could explain the material to you in a different way,” he continues, “And I have just the student in mind.” Instantly, you feel a pit beginning to form in your stomach, biting your bottom lip as you watch Professor Davies motion for someone behind you to come up to the desk, “Mr. Gavey, if you could join us up here, please.”

You freeze when you feel him saunter up beside you, eyeing him out of the corner of your eye. He was so much taller than you, your head barely grazing his shoulder, as he came to a stop next to you, standing casually with his backpack slung over one shoulder. 

Professor Davies once again turns his attention to you, motioning to Michael as he speaks, “Mr. Gavey here is one of my most capable students,” you can’t help but notice him stand up straighter at the comment, growing somehow even taller, “I’ve taken the liberty of asking him if he would be so kind as to assist you with some of the course work and he agreed.” You freeze a little at that, stunned that he would be so quick to help you when he seems to relish any opportunity to make you squirm. “I’ve given it some thought,” the professor continues, fixing you with a stern gaze, “And I’m willing to let you make corrections to your test and resubmit it for half credit.”

“Oh, thank you so much, prof–”

“However,” he adds, crossing his arms over his chest, “This will be the only time I do so. From now on, I suggest you see Mr. Gavey here on a regular basis; the material is only going to get more challenging as we begin this next unit.”

“Of course, professor. Thank you again.” You respond quietly, shifting uneasily as you stand between the two men. 

“Right, well, now that’s sorted,” Professor Davies says, clapping his hands together once as he turns and makes his way back over to the desk chair, sitting down with a tired sigh, “I trust the two of you can come to an agreement upon when and where to meet. I’ll see you again Monday, have a pleasant weekend.” He says, waving his hand dismissively as he goes back to organizing his papers. 

The two of you murmur your goodbyes before making your way into the hall, the hairs on the back of your neck standing up as he follows you out of the classroom. Eventually, you come across a small alcove in the hallway; finally turning to face him, you let your eyes sweep up his body, finally coming to meet his blue eyes, slightly hidden behind the glare of the hallway lights on his glasses. 

“So,” you clear your throat and shift on your feet awkwardly, “Uh, what time works for you? I really can’t do Saturdays–” you begin, only to be cut off.

“Shame,” Michael sighs dismissively, a smirk pulling at one corner of his mouth, “Saturday is the only day that works for me.” 

The tone of his voice and the mirthful glint in his eyes makes you very much doubt that, your gaze narrowing, “Okay, well Saturday’s are the only day I have off,” you huff, only growing more annoyed as the stupid smirk on his face grows with satisfaction, no doubt pleased that he’s being a nuisance, “Besides, I super can’t tomorrow, anyway. I already promised my friends I’d come with them to this party tha–”

“Oh, I know about your little party,” Michael scoffs, “Trust me, love, the whole damn class heard about that stupid fucking party with the way you lot were running your mouths earlier,” he chuckles coldly, continuing in an exaggerated high-pitched voice, one hand coming up to mime twirling a lock of hair, “Oooooh, it’s so cold, can’t wear the fuckin’ strappy dress, gotta wear me jumper and little slutty skirt, la-dee-dah.” He finishes with a final huff of laughter. 

“What is your deal with me?!” You finally snap, glaring at him, even as you feel your face redden, “You’ve been a dick all semester and I haven’t done anything to you! I’ve never even talked to you!” Glancing around the empty hallway, you cross your arms over your chest, praying no one’s in earshot to hear your hissed tirade.

“I might not know you but I know plenty about your little friends,” he sneers, shaking his head like a disappointed father; the sight makes your blood boil.

“What does that even mean?” You demand, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. What did your friends have to do with any of this? None of them ever spoke about Michael, none of them even knew him as far as you were aware. 

His face softens, if only for a moment, as he registers the genuine confusion on your face, smirk faltering as his eyes narrow. He leans in closer to you as he begins speaking again and you can’t help but get a brief smell of the cologne he wears, something warm and woodsy that makes you think of a bookshop and the smell of the forest after it rains, “Come on,” he starts, blue eyes flitting between both of yours as he looks at you intently, “Felix Catton? You and your little friend, the one from class, you go around with him, yeah?”

You nod, giving him another puzzled look, confused as to what the hell Felix has to do with any of his disdain, “Yeah,” you say slowly, drawing out the word, “But, what does he have to do with anything?”

Michael huffs once more, almost laughing to himself as he shakes his head, burying his hands in the pockets of his jeans, “See, we went to school together, him and I – some of primary, all of secondary,” he shrugs, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he traps you in his gaze once again, “And I just don’t fucking like the guy. Can’t stand him, never could’ve.” 

You’re silent for a second, and now it’s your turn to flick your eyes back and forth, searching each of his for some sort of coherent answer and yet you come up empty. “But, what does that have to do with me?” You ask slowly, making sure to carefully enunciate each word.

“Don’t trust the people around him either,” he mutters, gazing down at his shoe, “Weirdos, the whole lot. There’s something…off about the guy. Can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something dark there, all around him. Like he’s putting on one big show. All his little gremlins do too, they all act the same.”

The two of you are silent for a moment, neither knowing quite what to say next. You chance a glance up at him, nearly gasping when you find him already gazing at you – an unreadable expression on his face. Yet a light blush still blooms on your cheeks as you quickly look away once again, your heart thudding so loudly you’re wondering if he can hear it – hell, you’re wondering why you’re reacting this way at all, why you’re so shy and skittish around him. 

“M’not like that,” you very nearly whisper, finally seeming to regain your voice. Only to lose it once again when he takes a half step toward you, suddenly crowding you further into the small alcove.

He makes a small noise, damn near cooing at you, tilting his head to the side when he notices you flinch as he raises an arm, gently raising your chin with one hand, angling your head up to meet his gaze, that signature smirk once again taking hold on his face as he looks at you curiously, “You’re not like that, are you?” He asks, his voice low and raspy. 

You quickly shake your head, blinking up at him, unsure of what exactly he wants from you. You feel your cheeks stinging for the umpteenth time today with how hard you’re blushing, a strange feeling taking root in your stomach the longer you stare at him, that small voice in your head positively cheering. 

But, as quickly as whatever spell he seems to have on you takes hold, it’s broken as he suddenly lets go of your chin and steps back, casually pursing his lips and nodding to himself, coming to some unknown decision in his head, “Meet me in Bodleian, tomorrow at five. There’s hardly anyone up on the third floor on the weekends, so we'll be able to focus.” He says simply, turning on his heel to leave without even giving you a second to answer.

“But I’m bus–”

“D’you want a good grade or do you want to go get drunk with your creepy gremlin friends?” He asks, peering over his shoulder as he saunters down the hallway, raising an eyebrow at you over the shiny gold rim of his glasses, “S’your call, love.” He finishes with a shrug, disappearing as he turns a corner and leaves you standing there alone, frowning and dumbstruck. 

“Bodleian at five it is,” you mutter to yourself, sighing as you turn and walk the opposite way, desperately trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach and the fog in your brain. 

Your shoes tap against the stone pavement as you walk up to the old library, backpack slung over one shoulder; reaching into a pocket of your backpack, you blindly grab for your phone as you pull open one of the heavy, old wooden doors and step into the atrium. Out of all of Oxford’s libraries, you had to admit that Bodleian was one of your favorites; it had such a soothing atmosphere – from the way the evening light trickled in through the old glass windows, to the intricate wooden decor, and the way the entire place smelled of the old, well-loved books that lined the countless rows of shelves. 

Stepping to the side of the entryway, you check the time, your hand shaking a bit as you unlock your phone – 4:53pm, a little early, still. Sighing, you crane your head, nervously looking for Michael. Not seeing him, you decide to bide your time examining one of the tall bookshelves near the entrance, eyes skimming over their titles as you fiddle with the strings of the hoodie you’d decided to wear. Smiling, you lean up on your tiptoes to grab a copy of The Two Towers, happy to see a familiar book. Just as your fingers graze over the embossed gold lettering on the spine of the book, a large pair of hands grab you by the shoulders.

“Boo!” Someone whispers, close enough that you feel the warmth of their breath on the side of your neck. 

You spin around with a small shriek, jerking your head to the side when a hand is suddenly clasped over your mouth.

“Shh! Hey, relax!” Finally managing to focus on the face in front of you, your breathing slows as your gaze meets a pair of round blue eyes. Michael’s face is only inches from yours, concern evident, even behind the mask of a smirk he wears. “It’s only me.” He says softly, smirk softening into a genuine smile that sends a frantic tingle down your spine, which you desperately try to ignore as you nod against his hand, gasping in a small breath as it lowers once again to rest on your shoulder. 

“Hi.” Blinking up at him, you breathe the word more so than say it as you settle back on your feet, cheeks flushing as you realize he has his other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you forward ever so slightly, like he wanted to make sure your head didn’t hit the sharp edge of one of the shelves; the voice in your head purrs as the butterflies in your stomach summersalt. 

“Hi.” He answers and you feel the hand on your shoulder twitch, the ghost of a comforting squeeze or rub causing the hair on the back of your neck to stand on end as some strange, warm weight settles in the pit of your stomach. 

Suddenly, whatever spell the two of you seemed to be under broke and you quickly clambered away from one another. Michael cleared his throat, running a hand through his wheat colored hair as you tugged at the sleeves of your hoodie, trying to look anywhere but in his direction. “Should we–” He starts suddenly, nodding his head to a staircase at the other end of the room, “It’ll be quieter up there.”

“Sure!” You chirp, giving him a curt nod, “Lead the way, you seem to know the place better than I do.”

“Well,” he chuckles, keeping his voice low as he moves past you, “S’what happens when you don’t spend all your damn time at weirdo parties.” 

You roll your eyes behind him, huffing as you start following him up the staircase, one of your hands gliding across the smooth, polished wood of the bannister. 

“Sorry.” He says suddenly as you reach the third floor of the library, running a hand through his hair once again as he stands at the top of the staircase. 

“What?” You ask, coming to a stop on the last step and looking up at him, tilting your head to the side as you lean against the handrail. 

“For earlier,” he explains, gesturing for you to follow him as he starts making his way to the back corner of the large, open space, the one furthest from the stairs, “Scaring you, I mean. Didn’t mean to.”

You’re quiet for a moment, following him as the two of you walk past aisle after aisle of towering bookshelves. The area is definitely quieter than the main floor, nearly vacant aside from one or two lone students sitting at the long wooden study tables. It’s calm up here, evening light filtering in through large windows on either end of the long room, casting large shadows on the floor and vaulted ceilings.

Eventually, the two of you come to a stop at a table, the very last in its row, tucked away in a corner. “It’s alright,” you shrug, trying to keep your voice soft in the quiet space as you sit your backpack on the edge of the table, “I don’t know why I’m so jumpy today, maybe the tea from earlier.” You lie, hopefully smoothly, and quickly grab a pen and notebook as well, before sitting down.

Michael huffs to himself as he sits his things out on the table as well, like he’s laughing at a joke you can’t hear, “Maybe it’s all that tension.”

“Wh– tension?” You question, cringing at the urgency in your voice as you pray that he doesn’t pick up on it, shifting in your seat as he pulls out the chair next to you and plops down, completely relaxed as if he owns the place. 

“The stress? That you were meant to be working out at Catton’s?” He gives you an odd look, resting his head against his hand as he leans his elbow on the table, “Couldn’t help but overhear your little conversation yesterday.”

“Oh…” You breathe, a pink haze settling over your cheeks once more as you fidget with your pen, acutely aware of how easily he seems to be able to make you blush. 

The smirk on his face widens as he narrows his eyes, studying you in a way that makes your heart squeeze, your thighs clenching together as that heady weight from earlier makes itself known again in your stomach, “You can’t keep one thought in that head, can you, love?”

You blink, unsure of what to say, as two halves of your brain argue with one another. Why is he so mean? You wonder to yourself, eyes searching his, as you frown, And…God, why do I like it?

“Why don’t you like me?” You ask, finally breaking the silence with your small voice. 

He scoffs again, shaking his head as if the answer should be obvious to you, “You don’t take it seriously. You come to class and whisper and gossip with your damn friend or doodle in your little notebook, but you don’t fucking listen.” He sits back up, frowning, “I work hard every fucking day in there, for fuck’s sake, I only agreed to help you because I want to be Davies’s teaching assistant next year! Yet you and Catton and everyone like you can just pay their way in here, collecting a little diploma from Oxford just so their parents can brag about it with their stupid fucking rich friends.” He finally finishes, turning his head to stare out the window. 

“Told you, I’m not like that,” you whisper after a moment, voice wavering from the tightness in the back of your throat, “I’m here on scholarship, same as you.” 

His eyes flit back to you, his frown deepening, “How did you know ab–”

“Like I’m not going to ask around about the guy tutoring me?”

“Fair enough.” He concedes after a minute. 

Silence settles over the two of you again, like a stalemate, waiting to see who would crack first. Finally, you turn to him with a sigh, nodding to your test paper on the desk, “Can we just get this done? I don’t want to be here any more than you do.”

“Ah, of course,” he nods as he picks up your test, looking over the first incorrect problem, “Catton’s big important party. And you’re stuck here with a loser like me; must really be doing your head in, huh?” 

You want so badly to correct him, to tell him that no, actually, for once, you were kind of excited to not be at one of Felix’s parties. You wanted to tell him that you’d hoped things would be different, maybe if it was just the two of you he would drop the arrogant asshole bit, that you stupidly hoped it was just an act. 

Instead, you bite your lip, determined not to lash out and give him another reason to dislike you, “I don’t think you’re a loser, Michael,” you say, tiredly meeting his gaze, “Can we just focus on this now, please?” 

He’s quiet for a moment, frozen like you’d said something groundbreaking. Finally, he nods his head, almost imperceptibly like he’d come to a decision you weren’t privy to, “Sure,” he says gruffly, grabbing your test and reading over the first incorrect problem, “S’not like I’m the one failing.” He finishes, his voice tight and determined, like he knew it was something he’d regret saying even as the words left his mouth. 

See? You think silently, pointed words aimed at that stupid voice in your head, Told you so.

It’s barely an hour later and you already feel cross-eyed, groaning as Michael flips your test over to the next page and you see you’re only just now halfway done correcting the ones you’d gotten wrong. You hate to admit it to yourself, but his tutoring was helping — problems that you’d hardly been able to finish the first time seem far less daunting as he explains them to you. Even he seems less daunting as the hour goes on; shockingly, he doesn’t make anymore snide comments and you can tell that he genuinely enjoys talking about the subject, patiently helping you through each problem. 

“Can we take a break?” You grumble, laying your head down on top of your textbook. 

“What?” He scoffs, rolling his eyes as he checks his watch, “It’s hardly been an hour and you’re ready to give up?” 

“‘M not giving up,” you mumble, “I just think we could use a little break…” You say hopefully, looking at him with a small smile. When he doesn’t break, holding your gaze with a frown, you sigh, “Just, like, ten minutes, please?” 

You want to groan again when you see that formidable smirk make its home on his lips again, “Say please again.” He commands, his voice low. 

“Huh?” You balk, nearly dropping your phone as you retrieve it from your pocket. 

“Say please again,” he says slowly, his smirk only growing wider as he watches your cheeks redden, “Beg.” 

“W-why?” You question, face burning as you try your damndest to look unbothered by his request. 

He shrugs dismissively, “Makes you squirm,” he answers finally, leaning back in his chair, “I like that.”

“Why?” Your voice is so small you doubt he’d even know you spoke if his eyes weren’t fixed on you. 

He hums, a satisfied noise, like you’ve finally managed to meander into a trap he’d set ages ago, “S’fucking cute,” he huffs out a laugh when he sees your eyes widen, “Makes you blush and act all dumb.” 

You know you should be offended, but you can’t find it within yourself to care, “You think I’m cute?” 

He chuckles, sighing, “That’s what you choose to focus on?” 

“Do you?” 

“Fine, yes.” 

“Please, Michael,” you say suddenly, the words feeling practically punched from your throat, “Please, please can we have a break? Please, only ten minutes?” You beg, breathing hard as you quickly scan the room, shoulders relaxing when you don’t see anyone else sitting at the study tables. 

You see the way his eyes widen behind his glasses, like he can’t believe you actually did it, before they narrow once more, overtaken by a satisfied gleam, “Ten minutes.” He says simply, leaning back in his chair yet again, letting his head flop back, relaxed, and closes his eyes. 

You don’t move for a second, letting your eyes study the side of his face, looking over his sharp jawline and the curve of his nose. After a moment, you look away, deciding to pull out your phone. 

A few minutes go by as you answer a few texts from Louise, telling her that you miss her too and how you wish you were at the party — a lie, though you can’t find it within yourself to care. You busy yourself for a while longer, watching a few people's Instagram stories, the volume on your phone muted as you watch your friends dance under colorful strobe lights, blowing smoke at the camera and clinking drinks together. 

“I meant what I said.” You say finally, laying your phone on the table and picking at one of your cuticles. 

“Hm?” Michael questions, not bothering to open his eyes. 

“I don’t think you’re a loser,” you answer, fidgeting, “I never have. I think you’re…intriguing.”

“Intriguing?” He asks, finally sitting up and looking at you with a questioning stare, “How so?” 

You swallow, tucking your hair behind your ear with a shrug, “You’re smart…you know you’re smart,” you start, voice small and shaky, “I like that.”

“You like that or you like me?” He’s looking at you like a cat playing with a helpless mouse, looking at you like he knows he’s already won a game you don’t even know the two of you are playing. 

“You.” It comes out as a breath. 

He doesn’t answer and eventually you look away from him, choosing to stare out the window at the streetlights outside, the sky dark. 

Finally, the silence becomes overbearing and you break first again, “Thank you,” you smile at him, keeping your voice low even though you know the rest of the floor is vacant, even though the noise of the floors below has drastically faded over the last hour, “For helping me, I mean. You probably have a dozen things you’d rather do on a Saturday.” 

He stays quiet for a few seconds, “I didn’t really have anything better to do,” he smirks, “No parties.” 

“None?” 

“Never,” he shakes his head, shrugging, “Don’t get invited.” 

“Oh,” you answer simply, “Well, still, either way, thank you.” You smile again, but it falters when he leans forward suddenly, crowding into your space with a sly grin, so close that you can feel his breath on your neck. 

“I know a way you could repay me, love,” he whispers lowly into your ear, your hair standing on end, “Only if you want to, of course.” He adds, his long fingers toying with a strand of your hair. 

Your eyes grow comically wide as you process what he just said, “H-how do you want me to repay you?” You whisper, your eyes finally meeting his. 

He laughs softly, letting go of the strand of your hair to rest his hand lightly against the side of your face, his thumb skimming over your cheek as he watches a rosy hue settle across it, “I can think,” he starts, thumb moving lower to skate across your bottom lip, slightly tugging the skin with it, “Of one very fucking good way to put this mouth to use, love.” 

You part your lips slightly, letting the tip of his thumb into your mouth, just barely holding it between your teeth as you lightly run your tongue over it, heart skipping a beat at the way his lips just barely part in shock as you do. The voice in your head purrs again, roaring back to life, and you nod, smiling around his finger. 

“Yeah?” He questions, smirking as he watches your lips twitch around his thumb, “”Y’wanna?”

“Yes.” You reply around his thumb, your hands coming up to hold onto his forearm, the fabric of his rust colored sweater soft under your hands. 

“Beg.” He commands again, eyes twinkling. 

You take in a breath, eyes slipping shut as your thighs clench around nothing – missing the way Michael glances down at the movement, a knowing grin forming on his face, “Please, Michael.” You practically whine. 

“Ooh,” he coos, finally moving his thumb from your mouth, only to trail his hand down your neck, lightly resting it against your throat, “I think you can do better than that, pretty. Open your eyes and damn beg.” 

You follow his orders, a small whimper skirting past your lips at the new pet name as you open your eyes, “Please, Michael, please let me repay you, let me thank you, please.” The words tumble out, your eyes wide and pleading. 

“How’re you planning on doing that, empty headed little thing?” He taunts, the hand around your throat just barely tightening but it’s enough to make you let out a small, desperate whine. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, moving close enough to you that the front of his chest is plastered to your side, his heart beating against your shoulder, “Ask for what you want, beg properly.” His breath fans across the side of your face again, the feeling of his lips brushing over the side of your jaw making you jump. 

“Please, God, Michael,” you whine, squeezing your legs together so hard you’re surprised they haven’t fused together, “P-please let me suck your cock — to thank you, thank you for helping me.” You add quickly, breath shaky as you turn your head to look at him imploringly. 

He chuckles, but he looks pleased as he leans back momentarily, craning his neck to make sure there isn’t anyone around, “Alright, alright, love,” he soothes, coming back to face you, nodding his head to the empty space in front of his hair, below the table, “Not God, but I’ll give you what you want.” He teases.

Your breath catches in your throat as you look down at the floor beneath the desk, then back up at him before nodding, “Yes, sir.” You push yourself off your chair, sliding down beneath the desk. 

“Goddammit,” you hear him groan above you, running his palms over his thighs as he parts them, making room for you, “Keep that up, love, might even give you extra credit.” 

You rest your palms against the tops of his thighs as you move between his legs, getting comfortable on your knees, the old wooden floor cool against your skin, even through your black leggings. Finally, your eyes settle on the sizable bulge, covered by his dark jeans, and you can’t help the small whine that leaves your lips. Slowly, you move your hands up to the button of his pants, quickly popping it open and dragging the zipper down, smiling when Michael sighs above you as he pulls his sweater up out of the way, exposing the pale skin of his stomach. You let your eyes roam over him, warmth settling between your legs as you spot the dusting of light hair that starts beneath his belly button and leads downwards, disappearing under his plaid boxers.

You move closer to him, crowding in between his long legs, as you hook your fingers over the tops of his boxers, before finally looking up at him, “Can I…?” You ask, nodding to where his cock is straining against the fabric. 

“Don’t be shy now, princess,” he groans, running a hand through your hair as he stares down at you, “Get on with it.”

You keep your eyes on his as you pull his boxers down, just enough to free his cock, watching the way his chest heaves as he lets out another relieved sigh. Finally, you tear your gaze away from his as you look at his cock, gasping in a breath as you do. As far as dicks go, Michaels is impressive, beautiful even – long and thick with veins running up the underside, leading up to a flushed, leaking tip. 

You take him in your hand tentatively, squeezing him lightly around the base, your confidence growing when he grunts, breathing heavier. Finally, you lightly lick the tip, eyes sliding closed at the pleasant, salty taste of his pre-cum. You take the tip of him in your mouth, humming around him when his fingers tighten in your hair, lightly pushing on the back of your head, silently urging you to take more of him. 

“Fuck, that’s it,” he roughly groans, managing to keep his voice low, “Knew that pretty fucking mouth was good for something.” He moves his hips, impatiently thrusting his cock an inch deeper into your mouth, breathily cursing under his breath. 

You start bobbing your head up and down over his length, taking more and more of him into your mouth, more of his pre-cum leaking onto your tongue as you feel his dick throb and twitch in your hand. After a moment, you take a deep breath through your nose and remove your hand, resting it on his thigh, as you take him all the way to the base, your nose nestled in the short patch of hair there as you breathe in his heady scent, your eyes glazing over as you savor the feeling of him at the back of your throat. 

“Jesus!” He grunts, louder than he meant to, keeping your head in place as he thrusts his hips up again, keeping you in place at the base of his cock, “Fuck, that’s it,” he praised lowly, your center throbbing, no doubt leaking onto the fabric of your leggings, “Look at me, wanna see your eyes while I fuck your throat.”

You whine, desperately blinking back tears as you look up at him, trying to keep your breathing even. You hold his gaze as you stick your tongue out, licking lower, down toward his balls, relishing the way his eyes roll back as you do, stomach muscles twitching as he continues thrusting his hips up into your mouth, soaking his boxers and jeans with your spit. 

“Oh, fuck, that’s it,” he groans, looking down at you, his eyelids heavy, “God, yeah, cry on my cock love. Fuck, you look so pretty crying on my cock.” He mumbles, talking to himself more so than you. 

His words send a shiver down your spine, adding to the heat in your center, and you whimper when he finally moves his hand from the back of your head, allowing you to come up for air. You do, with a gasp, thin strings of spit connecting your reddened lips with the flushed head of his cock. You keep your eyes on his as you wrap your lips around him once more, running your tongue along the thick vein on the underside before sucking at the swollen tip, relishing the way it makes him clench his jaw and gasp through his teeth as you stroke the rest of him with your hand. 

Above you, he smirks again, gently running his hand through your hair but making no move to press your head down again. He cocks his head to the side, studying you, grinning at the far-off, foggy look in your eyes, “Not a thought in that pretty head, is there?” He asks, bringing his hand down and gently patting your cheek; the ghost of a slap making your thighs clench, making your head dizzy with need. 

You nod around him, moving your head up and down along his length. You feel yourself throbbing with need, pulsing with heat; almost automatically, your hand starts to wander, a small sigh escaping you as your hand presses against your center through your leggings. You feel a warmth settle across your cheeks again as you feel your own wetness, leaking through the fabric just as you’d suspected. You whimper as you press down again, your eyes falling shut as you let your hips grind against your fingers, the wet fabric creating a delicious friction against your clit. 

Which you get to feel for all of five seconds before Michael is suddenly yanking your head from his length, causing you to yelp as he tugs your hair. “Did I say you could touch your cunt?” 

“N-no,” you whine pathetically, eyes watering from the harsh hold he has on your hair, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t think—“ You try to explain, only for him to cut you off with another harsh tug, making you mewl. 

“That’s a pattern with you, isn’t it?” He asks, looking at you with a condescending smirk, studying you again, “You were being such a good girl earlier, what happened? Hm?” He questions, pushing his chair back enough to pull you out from under the table. 

You get to your feet, suddenly feeling shy in front of him once again despite having his cock in your mouth mere moments ago. “I…got distracted.” You answer finally. 

“I got distracted….who?” He asks, looking up at you expectantly over the rims of his glasses. 

“I got distracted, sir,” you quickly correct yourself, eyes frantically scanning the still vacant floor of the library, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s much better, love,” he drawls, placing his hands on your hips, “Now, what could’ve been so fucking distracting, huh?” He starts moving his hands, slowly, toward your center, still looking up at you, his eyes questioning. You nod your head, just barely but enough for him to understand, and any hesitancy from him quickly disappeared. “Could it be this, I wonder?” He questions sardonically, suddenly cupping your heat in his large hand, the warmth of it nearly making your knees buckle, even through the thin fabric of your leggings. He hums, the sound low in his chest, when he feels how much you’ve soaked the fabric, 

“Oh,” you whimper, grabbing at his shoulders to keep yourself balanced as his fingers continue to tease you, rubbing circles into your clit, “Oh my God, fuck.”

“Christ,” he breathes, staring up at you with dark eyes, “So fucking wet, love, holy hell. Did you get this way just from sucking my cock?”

“Yeah,” you whine, nodding your head desperately as you try to swallow all the small noises you want to make in your throat, your hips rutting against his hand, “Please, sir!”

“Oh, so now that dumb brain has no trouble remembering damn instructions, huh?” He taunts, a wicked grin on his face as his fingers rub your clit in smaller, harsher circles, making you see stars, “Need your wet little cunt played with to be able to do as you're told?”

You nod your head frantically, tears nearly spilling from your eyes at the zaps of pleasure radiating from you, your walls clenching around nothing. Just as you feel yourself about to tip over the edge, he stops, jerking his hand away from you with a knowing chuckle, “W-what?” You question, eyes blinking open, “I was so close!” You whine, nearly stamping your foot on the floor like a petulant child. 

“Told you,” Michael shrugs, pulling you to sit in his lap, your back against his chest as he wraps his arms around you. His breath tickles the side of your neck and face when he speaks again, “You’re so fun to tease, love, can’t help myself.”

You wiggle in his grasp, making him groan as your ass grinds against his hard length, desperately trying to get your hands free to touch your pussy again, nearly out of your mind with need. “P-please, sir, please touch me!” You finally gasp out, knowing he won’t give in until you do.

“Now there’s a good girl,” he says, voice pleased and cocky as he plants kisses along the side of your neck, “Since you asked so nicely…” He says, letting go of one of your arms, letting you grasp the arm still wrapped around you with your hands, as his free hand skirts down your stomach to the top of your leggings, pausing long enough for you to nod again, before he finally touches you. 

You whimper, jerking in his lap at the feel of his warm fingers directly on your heat for the first time, spreading your wet folds with a satisfied hum. His long fingers move down to your entrance, gathering some of the wetness there, “You’re so fucking wet,” he marvels, dragging his fingers up to your aching clit, “Fucking dripping on my fingers.” He murmurs in your ear, nipping at the side of your neck and sending tingles down your spine as he starts rubbing tight, wet circles against your bud. 

You tilt your head back, resting it against his shoulder as your chest heaves. A moan leaves your mouth, louder than it should be, and Michaels free hand shoots up, wrapping around your mouth. “Gotta be quiet, love,” he whispers, not slowing down the movement of his fingers in the slightest, “Wouldn’t want someone to interrupt, hm? Make me stop again?” 

You squeeze your eyes shut, whining desperately against his hand as he moves his fingers against you, the coil in your belly winding tighter and tighter. Your whole body lurches atop his, making him suck a breath in through his teeth as you move against his cock, still hard and hot as it presses against your lower back, when he moves his hand lower, plunging two fingers into your tight heat with no warning. “Fuck!” You yelp, muffled against his hand; tears leak from the corners of your eyes as he moves his fingers, scissoring them into you relentlessly as his thumb circles your clit. 

“S’fucking tight,” he mumbles lowly, voice vibrating his chest against your back, “God, you’re tight.” He grunts between clenched teeth, repeatedly crooking his fingers inside you as he fucks his fingers in and out of your heat, letting out small, barely there groans every time your pussy squelches around his fingers as he punches muffled whines and whimpers from you. He crooks his fingers up suddenly in a way that makes you see stars as you writhe on his lap, your knees shooting up off the floor as you attempt to curl up on yourself, “That the spot?” He teases, relentlessly rubbing his fingers against it as his thumb quickens against your clit. He adds a third finger without warning, curling them up against that rough patch inside you as he bites down on your shoulder, muffling his own groan as he feels you clench down on his fingers. 

“You gonna come?” He mumbles, grinning like a cheshire cat when you frantically nod your head, tears leaking onto the hand still wrapped tightly around your mouth. “Open your eyes,” he commands, not stopping his movements, “Want you to watch what I’m doing to you when you fucking cum.”

At the promise of finally getting to come, your eyes shoot open as you pick your head up off his shoulder, looking down the length of your body to where his hand disappears under your leggings. You practically come undone at the sight, watching as his hand moves against you through the dark fabric, maintaining a careful rhythm. “Michael, please!” You whine against his hand, desperately trying to keep your eyes open. 

He chuckles lowly, clearly proud of how quickly he’s been able to reduce you into a begging mess, the sound reverberating off your back. “Fucking come,” he commands, doubling his efforts, “Soak my fucking hand, love.”

The coil in your stomach finally snaps and you sob, eyes snapping shut as your whole body clenches, shaking in his lap, as fireworks burst behind your eyelids. Your entire core clamps down so tight he has to fight to keep his fingers within you, muting the sounds of his groans against your neck and shoulder as he feels your cunt pulse against his fingers. He doesn’t let up, pressing incessantly against that spot within you as you come, until he finally gets what he wants – both of you groaning together, noises muffled, as a stream of fluid seems to erupt from your center, soaking his hand and the inside of your leggings, though you can’t think enough to care at the moment. 

“Goddammit,” he grunts, finally removing his hand from your leggings, running his fingers through your folds one last time just to make you squirm. Suddenly, he’s lifting you off his lap enough to turn you around, maneuvering you to face him. You’re practically boneless in his lap as he lifts you just enough to pull your leggings down over your ass, pressing his bare cock against your still throbbing center when he sets you back down, “Gonna let me fuck you, love? Hm? Want me to make you go dumb around my cock?” 

You nod your head weakly, not bothering to lift it from his shoulder as you straddle his lap. He doesn’t make you beg this time, too desperate to feel your wet heat around him, as he swiftly lifts you up again, just enough to align his length with your entrance. 

Both of you moan as he lets you sit back down, his hard length disappearing into your warmth. He holds the back of your head, pressing your mouth against his neck to muffle your cries; you can feel his jaw clench with the effort of keeping his own muted. He fills you deliciously, thick cock pressed against every part of you, as your clit presses against the small thatch of hair above his length. 

“Fuck,” he huffs, the word hissed between his teeth as he squeezes his eyes shut, savoring the way your pussy pulses around his length, the way you desperately mouth and lick at his neck, “God, knew you’d feel good.” 

Somehow, that remark works it’s way through the fog in your brain, “Hm?” you hum against his neck, your hands coming up to tangle in his golden hair, “You thought about me?” You whimper, words whiny and breathy as he rocks you against him, spearing you on his length again and again, head kissing your cervix just enough to knock the air from your lungs every time he lowers you back down. 

He sighs, as if just now realizing what he’d said, and nods, swallowing down a moan before he speaks, “‘Course I did,” he admits, grinding you down against him, his hips pressed against yours. “Looked so damn pretty in class,” he continues, “So cute all, fuck, all flushed and embarrassed every time you got asked a question.” 

His admission makes you clench around him, heat flooding through your system as you process what he’d said. Your clit grinds against his body again, just as the head of his cock brushes against that spot in your center, and it’s like your brain has been whited out, all you can do is mewl against his neck as he rocks you up and down along his cock. 

“Fuck, I feel this sweet cunt getting tight, love,” he says, breathing heavily as he gets closer to his own release, “Y’gonna come?” 

“Yes!” You whimper, voice high-pitched and broken as you nod frantically against the skin of his neck, now wet with your spit and tears as you rock yourself against him, moving your clit against the hair at the base of his cock. 

“Hold it,” he commands softly, more breathing than speaking. He chuckles when he hears you whine, loving the way you mewl for him like a soft little kitten, and the hand still holding your head against him strokes your hair, soothing you. “Want us to come together,” he huffs, cursing under his breath as he feels you grow somehow tighter around him, “Fuck, I’m close just hold on.” The hand on your hip tightens, grinding you tightly against him, groaning as he feels your center milking his cock, your walls clenching around him desperately. 

“F-fuck, Michael,” you whine, breath hot against the column of his throat as you feel yourself tipping over, “Please! Please I can’t hold it, please!” You beg beautifully, weeping against his skin, trying so hard to keep it down to a whisper so you don’t draw attention, not this close to your release. 

“Where, fuck,” he curses, pulling your head up to look in your eyes, the blue in his nearly swallowed by blackness, “Tell me where.” He pants, his voice urgent.

“Inside me!” You breathe, cunt clenching around him as you feel him twitch inside you.

He groans, forehead resting against your shoulder for a second as he tries to maintain control, both of his hands gripping your ass hard enough to leave bruises, “Are you s–”

“Yes!” You nod, resting your forehead against his when he picks his head back up, “‘M on the pill.” You reassure him as you keep nodding. The two of you move together for a few more seconds, wildly grinding together, before the coil in your stomach is finally wound too tight, “Michael, oh, fuck!”

“Fuck,” he gasps, seeming to get somehow thicker inside you, “Come for daddy, fuck, be good and come.” He commands, his own voice low and frenzied.

Hearing him call himself that does you in, and you shatter around him, walls gripping him tightly. You open your mouth, unable to control a loud moan, which he quickly hushes by pressing his lips against yours, licking into your mouth as he thrusts up into your center harshly a few times, each rise of his hips accompanied by a grunt into your waiting mouth as you mewl at the heat of his cum filling you up, extending your own release. 

The two of you stay quiet for a moment, breathing heavily as you sweetly kiss, tiredly pressing your lips together. Finally, you pull away from him giggling shyly when you meet his eyes, blushing as you feel his length slowly softening inside you. “Getting shy on me now?” He teases, smiling at you as he gently plays with your hair. 

You smile back at him for a second before suddenly coming to your senses and remembering where you are, “Shit,” you whisper, hopping up off his lap, “I cannot believe we just did that!” You quickly scan the floor with wide eyes, shoulders visibly relaxing when you still don’t see anyone.

“Wasn’t in my plan,” Michael starts, tucking his member back into his boxers and zipping up his jeans, “But I’m certainly not complaining.” He finishes, smirking at you before standing. He leans down, helping you pull up your leggings. He doesn’t miss the way you grimace when the damp, now unpleasantly cool, fabric presses against you. “Sorry,” he apologizes, gesturing to them, “I should’ve…controlled myself better with that one.” He finishes, awkwardly scratching at his chin. 

You laugh quietly, trying to play it off although you’re dreading the half hour train ride back to your flat. That feeling doubles when you look down, eyes widening as you see the dark patch around your crotch, hardly visible on the dark fabric but enough that it makes you nervous, “Getting home is gonna be fun.” You joke, turning to begin gathering your things. 

You’ve gotten your textbook put back into your backpack when you feel a tap on your shoulder; turning your head, you look wide-eyed when you see him sheepishly smiling at you, holding his red sweater out as he stands in a band t-shirt, “Here,” he says softly, waving the sweater at you, “You need it more than I do and it’s my fucking fault anyway.”

You blush, taking the sweater from him with a small thank you, tying it around your waist as he busies himself with picking up his things, before putting the rest of yours into your backpack as well, “Oh, you didn’t have to do that!” You tell him as you finish situating his sweater around you, satisfied that the stain is covered.

He huffs out a laugh, “You sucked my cock on the floor of a library,” he jokes, eyes sparkling with mischief yet again, “S’the least I could do.” 

You laugh, playfully shoving at his shoulder as you put your backpack on. The floor is truly, blessedly, empty as the two of you leave and walk downstairs, not seeing anyone on the second floor either and only a few stragglers on the main floor at this hour on a Saturday evening. He pushes open one of the heavy wooden doors at the entrance, holding it open for you as you duck under his arm. The door thuds closed behind you as you both stand outside the library, the air cold now that the sun’s gone down. 

“I really like them, that band,” you say, nodding to his shirt, “Their last album’s really good.”

“Oh!” He says, eyebrows raising in surprise, “You know them?” He asks, smiling when you nod again, “Their new album is probably my favorite too, actually.” The two of you stand in a comfortable silence for a second later before he notices you shiver as a breeze blows through the stoney courtyard. “D’you live close to campus?”

“Half hour on the train,” you shrug, pulling your phone out to check the time, “I should probably go soon if I’m gonna catch the next one…”

“You could come to mine?” He asks, his voice hopeful, “It’s only a walk from here, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes?”

Your eyes widen, having not expected his invitation, but you nod nonetheless, “If you’re sure,” he nods, “Then, yeah! That would be great.” You smile, walking beside him as you start heading in the direction of his flat. 

“Would you maybe want to get lunch sometime?” He asks, glancing down at you.

“I would love that,” you smile, your hand brushing against his as you continue down the sidewalk, “I think I might need more tutoring, too…”

His hand catches yours, your fingers intertwining as he smirks, “Will you suck my cock every time?” He teases, grinning as you laugh, the sound echoing off the buildings and filtering into the night air. 

Told you so. The voice in the back of your mind echos as you lean your head on Michael’s shoulder.

tagged lovelies: @schniiipsel @arcielee @darlingofvalyria @aemshaircare @imaegontatgaryenwife0 @valeskafics @beautbuck @watercolorskyy @marysucks-blog @fan-goddess @drakonflames @helloworldiamnotarobot

(tags are based on your answers to my google form; if you were mistakenly tagged, please contact me & update your answers on the form! thank you!)

[botchedsundoll]

L. KENNEDY, C. REDFIELD, C. OLIVEIRA X READER (SEPARATE)

ೃ⁀➷ sypnosis; general relationship/ domestic hc’s

ೃ⁀➷ warnings; none!

ೃ⁀➷ author’s note; hi giys my requests r open😝 request please… pls☹️, idc if some of these r ooc in my world they are very much in character i love them all so much oh my god, didn’t include much abt their jobs bcos i wany thrm all to be happy okay..

C. OLIVEIRA

have you seen them photos of them big beefy scary men underneath like thick hello kitty or very feminine blankets? yeah that’s him

SNORES. SNORES SO LOUDLY. he wraps his arms around you instinctively at night and his grip is so tight you genuinely can’t escape his warmth or snoring

on the topic of that, he runs warm. he’s a genuine heater in winter - cold? cuddle up to him, saving money on the heating. win win!

whenever he comes home from the gym or wherever and he spots you watching one of your shows on the tv, he’ll stand behind the couch and watches it himself before eventually sitting down besides you. he can’t help it

every friday IS date night. whether that be something as simple as dinner at home together or something as extravagant as going to a fancy restaurant, the two of you are spending time together. he will make sure of that

going off of my previous hc’s, he can’t bake for life of him. cooking he’s rather okay-ish with all the simple stuff but baking? alone? absolutely not

the two of you decided to bake something for one of your date nights once. you asked him to pour flour and cocoa powder into the wet ingredients and turn the mixer on - he forgot to put the splashguard on and turned it right up to the fastest setting

safe to say your kitchen, and carlos, looked as if they’d just came out of winter wonderland

gives off the biggest girl dad vibes. just imagine him letting his little girl put random clips and bows in his hair jshwiaianwi omg

he has such a soft spot for strays. has genuinely brought home a puppy before because he saw it laying out by the dumpster before and couldn’t leave it alone

he’s all over you. CONSTANTLY. arm over your shoulder, hand on your hip. he can’t get enough of you

L. KENNEDY

he wakes up a few minutes earlier than he actually needs to (when he does actually fall asleep) just stare at you and how peace you look asleep

you’ve asked him to help you with your hair so many times to the point he’s genuinely become an absolute professional at it. the moment you give him that look he tells you to turn around and starts working his magic

keeps photos of you in his wallet, he knows deep down its rather risky but can’t help himself

in the instances that he does fall asleep before you (extremely rare) and you cuddle up against his side, his arm automatically wraps around you. it’s like muscle memory at this point

has your name engraved into his key chain on his keys

ALWAYS helps out with dinner whenever he’s home, despite you constantly telling him to get the fuck out and relax for a bit. ends up in him dancing with you in the kitchen

his showers are like, the ideal temperature- perfect for you to just hop in with him. he never minds and rather welcomes it

ALWAYS SURPRISES YOU FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY!! goes absolutely FULL out, waking you up with kisses on your shoulder, an expensive outfit you’ve had your eye on for a while, extravagant dinner and a nice little stroll in the park at night. switches it up every year so you never know what’s coming

has you as his emergency contact for sure

plays old rock songs in the car. causes you to make fun of him and call him an old american dad - even though you definitely don’t actually like the song. definitely

C. REDFIELD

i just KNOW this man can be out sass you during arguements. growing up with claire certainly prepared him for that

he’s gone quite most of the time, so he makes sure to spend as much time as possible with you whenever he can

recently saw this thing where it was an ex military with his kids, where he’s shouting out orders like a drill sergeant during bath time. chris. it just screams chris.

— “I’M PUTTING SHAMPOO IN YOUR HAIR, DO NOT OPEN YOUR EYES! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

— “OK!”

just imagine hearing that every time it’s his turn with bath time. just constant giggles and shouts (if there r kids ofc)

you and claire are CLOSE. chris has made sure of that, definitely introduced you two once he knew it was getting serious

regrets it at times, as whenever something happens at home with the two of you - no matter how stupid the arguement may hve been claire is always the first to know. and always the first to knock some sense into her brother

wears hawaiian dad shirts in summer. for a fact.

like carlos, runs SO WARM. feels as though he’s an actual bear and has genuine fur on him keeping him so warm

sleeps flat on his back, arms by his sides. usually a very light sleeper but at times absolutely nothing will wake him up. you’re free to roll around all over him, strew your legs out over him and he’ll simply stay lying on his back like always. hands by his sides and the only indication of him actually being alive being the rise and fall of his chest

his appetite is absolutely outrageous. you best believe whatever you make is being absolutely devoured, he loves your cooking. sometimes all he needs is some home cooked dinner to put a smile on his face

he will genuinely let you do almost anything to him. you wanna massage his back? sure. do a face mask on him? alright, but no photos. wax a patch of hair on his leg? did it before, never letting you do it again. he has a hard time saying no to you - he’s lost too much people, he needs to make the most of his time with you

[orimuraa]

๋࣭ ⭑⚚⊹ ࣪ ˖ I brought the heat back - OT7

(synopsis) ☀︎ how enhypen is when they're jealous ๋࣭ ⭑

ot7 enhypen x fem!reader ☀︎ fluff, tiny angst if you squint ☀︎ jealous enha ☀︎ petnames ☀︎ wc

𝑳𝒆𝒆 𝑯𝒆𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒖𝒏𝒈 - 이희승

you were currently on a date with your boyfriend, heeseung, and he had gone to go order for the two of you when a familiar figure approached. "hey y/n! long time no see!" turning and recognizing the guy as an old school mate, you smiled, happy to reunite with an old friend. "oh my gosh! it's been ages!" as the two of you caught up, someone's eyes were drilling holes into the back of the dudes head. heeseung saw the way he looked at you and how you were oh so oblivious to it. making his way over, heeseung sat down next to you, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you closer to his side. "hey baby, who's this?" he asked, smirking at the guy. immediately, the dude noticed what was going on and left with an apology in a speedy exit. "hee~ were you jealous?" you teased, not being able to help a giggle that slipped past your lips. "me?? jealous?? pssh! never!!" heeseung shot down. oh he was totally jealous.

𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑱𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒈 - 박종성

as jay was waiting in line, you had been wandering around the store when a person tapped your shoulder. thinking it was jay, you turned around quickly, only to find a random stranger. "hey, you're really cute and i was wondering if i could get your number?" he asked confidently. before you could even say a word, someone pulled you in by the waist and said: "she's not interested. so no," looking up, you say jay with his jaw clenched and a serious expression on his face that screamed "mess with my girlfriend and you're dead" kinda vibe. the dude looked like he was about to shit himself and then ran off, leaving you and your very jealous (but hot!) boyfriend. "oh my gosh! were you jealous jongie??" you gasped, bringing your hand up to your mouth to add more of an effect. "no! i would never!" but his red tinted cheeks gave him away.

𝑺𝒊𝒎 𝑱𝒂𝒆𝒚𝒖𝒏 - 심재윤

you had spent the whole day cuddling with layla and your big baby of a boyfriend had had just enough of it. "baby! stop paying attention to layla and pay attention to me!" jake whined, pretending to be annoyed at the fact that you were giving his dog more attention than him. to be entirely honest, jake was a tad bit jealous of his dog because why was she getting all of your attention when he was sitting right there? he would never admit it though because he would never see the end of you teasing. "aww ok i'm sorry jakey! are you jealous of layla and all the cuddles and kisses she gets?" you asked, knowing fully well that jake was in fact jealous of his dog. "n-no...that's stupid if i'm jealous of layla! of course not!" he blushed, looking away. oh gosh, he was so cute.

𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝑺𝒖𝒏𝒈𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒏 - 박성훈

you and sunghoon were just shopping and you happened to pass by one of your co-workers, so naturally, you smiled at him and said hello as you passed each other. unfortunately though, this caught the attention of your boyfriend and he would not let it slide. "who's that guy you said hello to? why were you smiling at him like that?" he questioned, not caring if his jealousy was showing. you couldn't help but giggle at how jealous sunghoon got over a tiny little thing. "hoonie! he's just my co-worker! silly goose," you teased, poking at sunghoon's cheeks. "hmph! i didn't like the look he gave you though...does he know your mine??" oh boy, jealous hoon was a very persistent man.

𝑲𝒊𝒎 𝑺𝒖𝒏𝒐𝒐 - 김선우

it was vert rare for sunoo to get jealous, but when he did, oh boy, you were in for a full day of pouting. according to sunoo, one of the cashiers was "checking you out" instead of checking the stuff you were buying because he obviously couldn't see your beautiful, handsome boyfriend right next to you! so now, you had a whiny and pouty sunoo walking beside you, complaining how blind that guy must have been if he didn't see that you had a boyfriend right next to you. "don't worry sunny, i'm sure he saw you and was just too memorized by your beauty!" you said, trying to cheer him up. he wasn't actually mad but you knew that he was a tad bit jealous due to the cashier practically flirting with you in front of sunoo. "well, i know you love me anyway so there's nothing for me to be worried about," he stated with sass, flipping his hair and doing his iconic model walk. goodness he was so precious.

𝒀𝒂𝒏𝒈 𝑱𝒖𝒏𝒈𝒘𝒐𝒏 - 양정원

right now, jungwon couldn't help but feel the jealousy running through his body. some random guy had the audacity to come up to you, WHILE he was right next to you, and ask for your number, saying how cute you were. naturally, you were flattered by the kindness but quickly turned him down, saying that the guy next to you (jungwon) was your lovely boyfriend. "oh come on wonnie! don't let it get to you, he didn't know any better. plus, i only have my eyes set for you!" you winked, trying to lighten his mood. his smile broke through his jealous expression and he suddenly felt better after just hearing your reassuring words. of course he knew you would never leave him like that, but it was nice just to hear your sweet words.

𝑵𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒂 𝑹𝒊𝒌𝒊 - 西村 力

in the busy hallways of school, you saw one of your old friends pass by and he said a quick hello with a sweet smile before disappearing into the school crowd. so when you sat down at your desk, and your boyfriend, ni-ki, was there too, with a look of jealousy? what were you supposed to do? "who's that guy who said hello earlier? he questioned, a dark look in his eyes. at first you were scared on why he looked so pissed, but then you stopped, and then smiled realizing that he just had a nasty case of jealousy. "ni-ki!! you were jealous weren't you!" you accused, giggling slightly at your realization. "what? no!" he denied, furrowing his eyes brows. "aww it's okay ki, i only love you," you smiled, teasing him slightly. "alright fine, i was a bit jealous. but only because i don't want anyone looking at my girl like that!" of course he wouldn't. nishimura riki doesn't like sharing.

eeep! of course i had to add the famous lines in bthb for hoon and riki cuz it's their lines, but other than that, this was so fun to write sense i basically just put bthb on repeat and based this off of it. i hope you enjoy! reblogs, likes, and feedback are very much appreciated! <33

⚘. Perm taglist: @vmpivory, @yuvany, (send an ask to be added! ^3^)

[lanabuckybarnes]

Might have re-watched Captain America: Winter Soldier again 🫣....and it's just something about the way he says "You're my misson." All I know is this gives off HUGE smutty vibes. I love your written so I just knew I had to ask you!

Ohh nonnie the way he growls it as well (panties soaked)

18+ MINORS DNI, DUB/NON CON THEMES AHEAD

His metal hand pressed against your throat, you should’ve passed out ages ago but he wasn’t squeezing enough to hurt. He was keeping you in place.

You don’t know how you ended up on Hydra’s watchlist. You were a regular person, a security expert who woke up at 6am every morning, showered and got ready for the long hours at the office.

Your boss had some new clientele. They were in the market for top-notch security and they’d chosen the company you worked for, and your boss had chosen you to be part of the team. You learned quickly that they were a very secretive group, you only ever met the messengers and even then they blanked every other word you spoke besides a polite hello.

It was one boring day, completely uneventful, the usual in your office. You were working on the can’t security side of the project when your screen went black, then a logo appeared—an octopus? Weird.

“Hey Jim come look at this” you notified your cubicle neighbour who peaked over the barrier. Just as he did mountains of files filtered onto your screen, many of them in Russian it looked like but one thing was for certain. You definitely shouldn’t have seen it.

That night after packing up and heading downstairs you noticed Jim still at the revolving doors.

“Hey, you alright?” You asked, he looked pale, if you were in an old house you were sure you would’ve mistook him for a ghost.

“T-the—“ he cleared his throat before his brown eyes bore into yours. They looked dead, it shook you to your core. “The logo, on your computer…I searched it up and…”

Your jaw dropped to the floor when you digested the content on his phone. Hydra. Your new clients were Hydra and you’d accidentally seen all their files.

—

You jumped from your dreamless sleep at the sound of your landline. Checking your clock lets you know it was well past midnight, who on earth would be calling at this time?

“H-hello?” You rasped, eyes shutting by the second.

The frantic voice spoke your name. It was Jim and by his tone, he was panicking.

“Jim? Jim, are you alright?” You pressed, holding the phone closer to your ear.

“T-they’re here, listen to me whatever you do, do not open your door. Find a weapon and hide…oh god…Do not op—“ BANG!!

You let out a shriek at the sound, Jim’s side turning eerily quiet. Then your door knocked.

Once.

Twice.

Your door was gone before it could be knocked for a third time. Kicked so hard it hit the opposite wall, you screamed, dropping the phone from your ear and falling to the ground like you were made of jelly.

Tears flowed freely down your face as the huge body stalked forth, his arm glistening under the dim light you kept on at all times. A mask sat upon his face obscuring his emotions from you but you were certain he was enjoying the torture he was putting you through.

His heavy boots stopped just in front of your knees, his metal hand grasped at your throat squeezing until your vision spotted, until you garbled pleas up at him. Only then did he pull you up, your toes pointing to reach the floor, you were trying desperately to relieve some of the pressure around your throat.

You should’ve died a long time ago, his brain screamed at him to fulfil his mission, put a bullet in your skull and be done. But the more he looked at you the more he wanted.

The spaghetti straps of your nightgown had slipped down off your shoulders, catching in the crooks of your elbows but not before giving him a delicious tease of your bust.

He wanted more.

He raised his flesh hand, hooking a long thick index finger into the material before ripping it from your body in one fell swoop. You yelled and struggled against his grasp but a harsh squeeze of your trachea had any fight dying quickly.

He let his knuckles trace the swell of your tits, pinching a nipple in between his fingers, smirking darkly under the mask as you squirmed.

You look cute all scared of him; wide-eyed and chest heaving, your tummy sucking in to get away from his hand as it trailed down to your cotton panties.

A dark chuckle escaped him as he felt along your gusset.

“You’re wet”

You shook your head, eyes darting anywhere but him, your thighs squeezing his hand and keeping it pressed firmly against your mound.

He ripped the panties from your body as well, running two fingers through your folds and bringing them up to your face. Absolutely soaked.

“Wet” he spoke matter-of-factly before pushing his hand back down there; fingers plucking your hard little clit effortlessly until you were crying out.

“W-why are you doing this” you moaned, head hitting off the wall with a bang as you sucked in air greedily.

“You’re my mission” he growled back, fingers stretching you out until your brain turned to mush.

He coaxed four orgasms out of you that night. His mask, thrown to the floor so he could kiss you sloppily before leaving.

He returned night after night, Hydra sending him to complete his task but he’d do the same again, play with you, eat you out until you were a writhing mess—all dumb and thinking of nothing but him.

You were his mission. For days, months, years. You were his.

—

I pulled this outta my ass but I hope it was up to your standard nonnie 🤭🤭

Also thank you so much, it’s nice to know some people enjoy reading the poo I write.

Likes, Reblogs and Asks are always appreciated ❤️❤️

[hargreeves-duncan]

⎯⎯ ADVENTURE IS OUT THERE

visual is for vibes only, reader’s appearance is nondescript!

pairing: luca x fem!reader

summary: you come home to your little family after their daddy-daughter day

warnings: brief mention of alcohol

word count: 1.6k

a/n: girl dad luca has my heart so i, of course, had to write a little something for him - enjoy!

Work had dragged on painfully.

You weren’t sure if it was your job itself or if it was just the knowledge that your husband and daughter were at home, doing all sorts of fun things, without you.

Most of the time, you felt lucky to work from home. It meant you could spend plenty of time with your three-year-old daughter and really get to be present during her formative years.

And for that, you were undeniably grateful, but these last few months, it just so happened that your ‘office days’ kept falling on the rare days that Luca was getting off.

Since his place had gone under new management, Luca’s workload had almost doubled and, upsettingly, you couldn’t remember the last time all three of you had sat down to a meal together.

At least, you still had the evenings.

Turning on your phone as the lift carried you up to your flat, you were greeted by the sight of Luca and Isla’s beaming faces on your lockscreen - and the time; 7:14

With any luck, Luca would’ve gotten your little girl into her pyjamas and winding down in time for bedtime at 7:30.

The lift came to a halt and you stepped out, letting yourself into the flat and slipping off your shoes by the door.

You closed it gently behind you, setting your key on the hook and, from down the hallway, you could hear soft chattering of Isla in her bedroom.

You padded down the hallway until you reached her doorframe. Leaning against it, you took in the sight of your 6”2 husband curled under the bright-pink covers of your daughter’s princess single bed and your heart soared.

He looked completely at home there, despite his comical size compared to the mattress meaning his feet dangled over the edge.

“Mrs. Hedgehog had… a big, massive carrot cake and…” Isla tapped on the page of the Beatrix Potter book sprawled across Luca’s lap.

“And she said to Mr. Rabbit, ‘I have some extra carrots, if you would like some for you!’”

“Did she? That’s very nice of Mrs. Hedgehog.” Luca said with mock-seriousness, nodding solemnly along to his daughter’s story.

You smiled to yourself as you watched her light up.

“Yeah, but then…” she paused, pushing her finger into the page of her book with a furrowed brow.

“Mr. Rabbit said,” she squeaked, putting on a high-pitched voice, “‘No, thank you, I have lots of carrots at home’ and hopped, hopped, hopped away.”

She bounced gleefully in Luca’s lap like Mr. Rabbit, her lilac, knocker-bead hair bobbles clacking together in her pigtails.

With dramatic flourish, she slammed the book shut, declaring, “Done!”

Luca laughed, squeezing her side, “Done? Is that the end of your story, darling?”

“Mhm.” she nodded decisively, then clumsily swiped at the fly-aways tickling her face with far more force than is necessary.

That’s when Luca’s eyes finally flicked up and found yours, standing in the doorway.

His face softened instantly.

“Hi, gorgeous,” he said, voice warm and tender.

At the nickname, Isla’s head whipped around and she lit up like a Christmas tree the moment she saw you, “Mummy!”

“Hello, my little angel,” you cooed, bending down beside her bed.

You pressed a kiss to her forehead and brushed a stray curl from her face, “All snuggled up for bed, are you?”

She nodded, grinning, slightly bouncy from the excitement of your arrival.

Luca shifted up against the wall and pulled Isla into his side, “Come on, little monster, make room for Mummy.”

Isla let out a monster-like growl, trying her best to be scary as she looked up at her dad. He leaned down and pretended to nip her nose, sending her into a flurry of giggles as you settled in beside her.

“Are you feeling tired?” Luca asked her, his voice lilting.

A silly question to ask the three-year-old, who immediately shook her head in protest, pigtails flopping from side to side.

Luca tapped his chin with one hand, pulling her closer with the other until his cheek was pressed to hers, “Hm… well, what about a Daddy story, then?”

“A Daddy story?” she echoed, awe-struck, squeezing her dad’s forearm with all the strength her little hands could muster.

You began to undo her pigtails, tugging off the bobbles and fixing up Isla’s hair for bed as she pleaded with her father for a ‘Daddy Story’.

You leant over to reach her bedside table, gathering some hair products to tidy her hair before she went to sleep, “You can have a Daddy Story if you sit nice and still for me, how’s that, angel?”

“‘Kay.” she nodded, settling down as you began to comb through her hair.

Luca smiled down at her, eyes twinkling playfully, “Alright, then… once upon a time, there was a very brave little princess called Isla.”

Isla gasped, grinning as she tucked her teddy closer. You gently brushed the knots from her hair after today’s excursions.

“She lived by the sea,” Luca continued, “and one day, her best friend, Princess Coral the mermaid, popped out of the water and said, ‘Princess Isla! Help! The mean sea witch has taken all of my sea creature friends!’”

“Meanie sea witch,” Isla muttered, frowning.

“Very mean,” you agreed, kissing her temple as you continued to treat her hair.

“But Princess Isla was brave,” Luca said, “and kind so she dove in to help her friend. And, like magic, she suddenly had a beautiful, sparkly mermaid tail, just like Princess Coral’s!”

“Ooh,” Isla whispered in awe, lifting her feet slightly under the covers, as if she could see the tail herself.

Luca wiggled his fingers, “They swam all the way down to a dark and smelly cave…”

He pinched his nose, turning his voice nasally, “And they held their breath because it was just so smelly!”

“Eww!” Isla giggled. You tilted her head straight again, continuing your treatment to her hair.

“And inside was the tickly-tentacled octopus-“ he tickled her belly and she squealed, “-the rainbow fish, and the sleepy turtle trapped in a huge cage.”

“‘Help us!’ they cried,” you joined in, making your voice small to mimic the creatures as you finished with her hair, “‘Save us, Princess Isla!’”

“And she did!” Luca grinned, “She opened the cage and all the sea creatures gave her little tail-swishes and cheek kisses to say thank you.”

You kissed her cheek with an exaggerated mwah and she giggled again.

“Then Princess Coral said, ‘Quick! We have to get home! Your Mummy and Daddy are looking for you!’”

“‘I’m coming!’” Isla chimed in, bouncing in her bed.

“They swam up super fast, and whoosh! Princess Isla landed right on the beach.”

“‘There you are!’ Mummy said-” Luca nodded to you, smiling encouragingly.

“‘We’ve been looking everywhere!’” you added, cuddling her to your chest.

“‘Sorry, Mummy! I was helping my mermaid friend,’” Isla said shyly, tucking her covers up around her.

Luca tapped her nose, “And Daddy said, ‘Next time, take us with you!’”

You both snuggled in closer as Luca finished, “And Princess Isla promised that next time they’d have the best adventure ever, together. The end.”

You stayed still for a moment, listening to the soft little hum Isla made as she curled deeper into her covers. You adjusted her blanket up to her chin and gave one last kiss goodnight.

“She’s getting so big,” you whispered as Luca climbed not-so-graciously out of the tiny bed.

Luca nodded, catching his breath and smiling as he looked back at your daughter, “She really is.”

You exchanged a quiet smile, then slipped from the room together, carefully pulling the door until it sat just shy of shut.

The hallway was dim, lit only by the golden light spilling from the still-lit living room. You headed for the couch while Luca disappeared into the kitchen.

“Wine or tea?” he called softly.

Sinking into the couch cushions, you sighed, “Whilst wine is incredibly tempting, if I have any, I’ll pass out in the next twenty minutes.”

Luca returned with two mugs and a small smile, “That’s the idea.”

He offered you the one that smelled like chamomile and honey, which you accepted gratefully, “Thanks.”

Luca dropped down beside you with a soft groan. His long frame curled into the corner of the couch, knee bumping yours as you swung your legs into his lap.

“I’m knackered,” you murmured, leaning your head back against the cushions.

He glanced sideways at you, running a hand over your shin, “Work was that bad?”

“It was just… long. Emails. Revisions. Fifty-five different presentations that all said nothing.”

“I’m sorry. That sounds rubbish,” he said, voice low, apologetic.

There was a brief moment of contemplative silence, broken only by Luca’s cheeky smile, his green eyes bright in the soft light, “We should sneak away for dinner next weekend. Just the two of us.”

You raised your eyebrows, smirking, “And leave Isla with a babysitter? Unlikely. You know how she gets.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of my mother…” he offered, scooting closer and tracing your shin with his fingers.

“She really wants to spend more time with Isles anyway… it’s a win-win.” Luca shrugged, and you bit your lip, mulling it over.

It had been forever since date night. Luca’s mother, Catherine, was wonderful with Isla - the only person your little girl was truly happy to be left with.

You relented, smiling, “I’d like that, yeah.”

“Good,” he leaned over and kissed your lips, “I need time with both of my favourite girls, not just the one.”

My girls. God, you’d never get tired of hearing that.