#the reference photo too with the sunlight on the hair……..

[otaku553]

My qpp got a haircut and looks very gorgeous and I had to doodle them,

[kmlottin]

What she wants - Kylian Mbappé fic

2 parts fic (next part will contain smut)

Thank you babies for your patience x

let me know what you think x (I lowkey became rusty)

It’s the kind of silence that feels intentional.

The penthouse suite is still, bathed in the hazy gold of a Miami morning. The AC hums faintly against the heat pressing in from the windows. You stretch, slow and unbothered, one arm sliding into the cool, empty side of the bed. He didn’t come home last night, team hotel rules. You knew he wouldn’t.

Still, you tug the sheet around you anyway. Not because you need it, but because it smells like him. A quiet kind of comfort. Soft against your skin. The city moves somewhere far below, but you stay still, weightless in the hush of your own space.

You check your phone out of habit.

Then you freeze.

It’s the Explore page that does it. A carousel of paparazzi shots, bright and overexposed, all stamped with the same caption in different fonts:

Kylian Mbappé spotted in Miami greeting influencer with a cheeky kiss 👀

Old crush? New flame? Fans are talking…

You don’t click on the post. You don’t need to. The preview photo is loud enough. Him in a white tee, shorts slung low on his hips. Her in a bikini top and denim shorts. One arm around her waist, his head dipped down, his lips brushing her cheek in a casual, too familiar hello.

And he’s smiling. That soft, distracted smile he gives when his guard is down. When he’s charmed.

You sit up straighter, thumb hovering over the screen. You tell yourself not to open the comments.

You do anyway.

“Oh she’s bad. Like… BAD bad.”

“Didn’t he used to follow her back in the day?”

“He still watches her stories. We’ve seen the receipts.”

“Poor Y/N.”

“Is he single again or what?”

You lock your phone.

It’s instinct. Like slamming a door before the scream can leave your throat. But the noise still echoes in your chest, a low throb of something you can’t name yet,jealousy? hurt? embarrassment?

No. Worse.

Familiarity.

You remember her. Not personally, just digitally. A name once floating in the mess of Kylian’s early Instagram follows, tagged in thirst traps, memes, beach pics. He used to like her photos back when you were still just flirting. Before things were real. Before you were real.

You’d asked about her once, in that early window of sharp edges and unspoken insecurities.

“She’s just some girl. I used to think she was hot. It’s nothing.”

He said it like it was harmless.

But the image of her standing in his arms says otherwise.

Your phone buzzes.

For a split second, you think maybe… maybe it’s him. Maybe he’s already texted. Maybe there’s an explanation waiting. A ‘hey, that wasn’t what it looked like’. A reassurance.

You flip it over.

Uber Eats.

No message from Kylian. No calls. Nothing.

He’s always said he hates public drama. That silence is protection. That he doesn’t owe the world anything.

But this doesn’t feel like silence for the world.

This feels like silence for you.

You lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Your chest tightens, not in heartbreak, but in humiliation. Because you know exactly how this will play out online. You’ll become a footnote. A passive tag in a viral post. A reference point for who used to be his girlfriend.

And maybe worst of all? You can already hear the questions in your own head.

Would he have smiled like that if she didn’t mean something?

Would he have touched her at all if you were there?

Would he have told you if no one else saw?

You don’t cry.

You don’t speak.

You just reach for your phone again, open the gallery, and flip to a recent picture of yourself, the one he took in Paris a few weeks ago, sunlight caught in your hair, smile crooked, his jacket draped over your shoulders.

Then you scroll back to the photo of him with her.

You stare at them side by side.

And something inside you clicks.

If he won’t say anything, fine.

You won’t either.

You’ll show him.

Yaëlle’s already waiting in the lobby when you descend, arms folded over her tablet, sunglasses perched on her head. Her expression is flat, unreadable, but the slight twitch in her jaw gives her away.

“You look,” she says, slowly, eyes raking over your outfit, “good.”

You smile faintly. “That’s the goal.”

Tight white vest, cropped to reveal a sliver of toned stomach. Pale denim shorts that hug your hips and bare the soft curve of your thighs. Heels, thin, impractical, unapologetically loud against the marble floors. You don’t need to dress like this. But you want to.

Not to catch attention.

To control it.

Two of Kylian’s bodyguards flank the entrance. Paparazzi already hover behind parked cars, their long lenses trained on the glass. You can feel them before you see them. The weight of eyes. The anticipation.

“You sure about this?” Yaëlle asks as she joins you, her voice low, more friend than assistant now. “You’ve got his team walking you out. Security. Me. You don’t think this is gonna make things worse?”

You glance at her. “No. I think it’s going to make things clearer.”

Yaëlle sighs. “He’s going to be pissed.”

“Good.”

You push open the door.

The flashbulbs start the moment your heel hits the pavement.

You don’t flinch.

Not when someone calls your name. Not when the cameras click in rapid bursts, filling the air like a swarm of insects. You don’t spare them a glance. You glide forward, shoulders back, chin lifted, a figure drawn in sun and silence.

The high street glints with heat, the pavement throwing up waves of light around your bare legs. Your heels click in a steady rhythm. Your shorts ride high on your thighs, frayed just enough to look accidental. The vest you chose this morning hugs your chest like a second skin, ribbed cotton pulled taut over skin warmed by Miami’s indifferent sun.

You don’t care if they’re watching.

You want them to.

The heat seeps into your skin like it was always meant to be there, the kind of warmth that wraps around your shoulders and settles deep in your chest.

You walk slowly, letting the Miami sun trail fingers across the slope of your arms, letting the rhythm of your heels strike deliberate against the concrete. The street is bright and curated, all whitewashed walls and glass storefronts, polished to perfection, a district that knows it’s being watched and doesn’t mind. It gleams without apology. Palms sway lazily overhead, indifferent to the weight beneath them.

And for a moment, a brief, treacherous moment, you forget you’re angry.

Your thoughts drift without permission. To him. To how he laughs when he’s half asleep, all gravel and softness, like he’s giving something away without realising. To the way he stumbles barefoot across the suite in the mornings, toothbrush in his mouth, scrolling his phone with one hand, looking for you with the other. To the look in his eyes when he thinks you’re not watching, full of something quiet and reverent, like he still can’t believe you’re his.

You love him.

God, you love him.

You’d almost forgotten what it feels like to think that without rage trailing close behind. Almost.

But then the image returns. Uninvited.

That photo.

Her cheek. His smile. His hand at her waist.

It slices clean through the warmth, fast and efficient, as if your body never wanted it to begin with.

The softness curdles. The memory stiffens. You blink once, sharply, and let it all drain out of you.

The sun hasn’t changed, but your chest has gone cold.

You adjust your sunglasses, lips pressing together, and keep walking.

Yaëlle stays close, half a step behind now, her presence felt but unspoken. She doesn’t ask how you’re doing. She doesn’t need to. The sound of your heels on the pavement is answer enough, louder now, more deliberate, echoing in the brief silences between passing voices and shutter clicks in the distance. Somewhere behind you, a man murmurs something under his breath. Another slows down to stare as you pass.

You don’t give him your eyes. You don’t give anyone anything.

But your spine straightens.

Your pace sharpens.

It’s not for them. It never was.

You pass a boutique and catch your reflection in the glass, all bare legs, back straight, sunglasses framing an unreadable mouth. There’s a glow along your collarbone, caught by the sun, and a smear of gloss that hasn’t faded since you left the hotel. You look poised. Unbothered. Slightly untouchable.

You look like someone who isn’t here to be forgiven.

And then, just ahead, the pale facade. Frosted glass, clean lines, silver letters that barely bother to announce themselves.

Prada.

You don’t slow. Don’t glance at Yaëlle. Don’t reach for the door like it’s just another errand.

You push it open like a statement. Like a boundary.

Like a line he’ll have to earn the right to cross.

You enter Prada and inside, everything changes.

The doors shut with a soft click. The temperature drops. The air smells like marble and leather and money that doesn’t need to explain itself.

No one greets you like they don’t know who you are. They don’t need to. A glass of champagne materialises before you’ve said a word, crisp, cold and dry. You take it without speaking, the stem cold between your fingers, and begin to walk.

You don’t look at Yaëlle. You can feel her behind you, careful, quiet, walking the fine line between friend and handler. She hasn’t said anything since the SUV. You haven’t offered anything back.

You don’t owe explanations today.

Summer 2025 is all smooth excess.

You trail your fingers across the new season’s offerings, the handbags are boxier this year, sharp-edged, structured. Sleek Italian leather in neutrals that whisper power: sand, bone, cinnamon. Hardware is minimal. The logo? Barely there. You like that.

Your fingers stop on a tan Cleo shoulder bag, the leather buttery, warm under your hand. A smaller one in black sits just behind it, glossy and mean. You reach for both. There’s a pastel row near the back, three in pink, lilac, and slate blue. You don’t pick. You point.

“This in tan. That in black. And those, all three.”

A sales associate appears like smoke, nodding wordlessly as she gathers your selections.

You sip your champagne.

You walk to the shoes next. A pair of square-toed sandals catches your eye, strappy, off-white, delicate like they’d snap if a man touched them wrong. You pick up one and balance it in your palm, admiring the weight. There’s nothing practical about them. They weren’t made for walking. Only for being seen.

You place them with the bags. No hesitation. No need to try anything on.

Yaëlle clears her throat behind you. “You didn’t even check if they look good on you.”

“I don’t need to.”

“Right.”

There’s no bite in her voice. Just fatigue. She looks pale under the boutique lights, more assistant than friend in that moment, but you know her well enough to see the tightness behind her silence. She’s already texted him. Or she’s about to.

You don’t say anything. You just turn away, eyes catching a silk scarf tucked into a display. It’s printed with tiny repeating motifs, seashells, maybe. You unfold it, then hand it over, too.

Add it to the pile.

You move through the store like you’re curating an exhibit. You don’t linger on anything for too long. You don’t need help. When the bags are boxed and the receipt appears, you reach into your bag without hesitation.

Not for your wallet.

For his.

Kylian’s card is black and heavy, the kind that doesn’t blink at five figures. You hold it outright towards the sales associate, lazy and precise, letting it catch the boutique lighting just enough for the name to shine.

Yaëlle sees it. Of course she does. So do the bodyguards waiting near the door, arms folded, pretending not to watch. But they do. All of them do.

The people he pays to protect him are here, protecting you.

You don’t look at any of them. You just slide the card across the counter.

“I’ll use his today.”

No explanation. No need.

The sales associate takes it quickly, professionally, but you see the glance, a flicker toward the men in black, toward Yaëlle, toward the name on the card. No one says anything. No one moves.

The air shifts just enough for you to feel it settle around you.

You sip the last of your champagne.

Let him see the charge. Let him flinch when he checks his phone. Let him realise that everything around him - his assistant, his guards, his name - is in service of you.

The machine pings. Approved.

Smooth. Effortless. Like the money was always meant to move through your hands.

You sign without thinking. First name only. It’s enough.

Then you slide your sunglasses into place, reach for the first bag, and walk toward the exit, heels sharp, stride unbothered.

Back outside, the sun slaps against your skin again, radiant and ruthless. The flashbulbs resume instantly. You hear one of the photographers shout, “Y/N, who are you wearing?” and someone else, “Did you see the kiss?”

You keep walking.

The Prada bags swing gently at your side, carried by one of the bodyguards. The click of your heels never falters. Neither does your expression.

You don’t look back.

And you don’t think of him.

You don’t say much on the ride to Hermès.

The SUV hums with air conditioning and quiet tension. Your sunglasses stay on. Your phone rests in your lap, screen lighting up every so often with a buzz or a blink, a name you don’t check, messages you won’t read. Not yet. Not now. You just sit there, still and composed, letting the silence stretch.

Yaëlle sits beside you, tapping out messages you don’t ask about.

Hermès is colder. Quieter.

Inside, it smells like varnished wood and restraint, like money that doesn’t scream. The showroom is calm, curated to feel exclusive, like you’re not just buying a handbag but being granted one.

You know how this works.

You’re greeted by name, taken past the velvet ropes, led to the private display room in the back. A soft voiced man in a taupe suit brings you espresso on a mirrored tray. Another produces the new Kelly colours before you even ask.

You hum in approval.

The first one is bone white with gold hardware. Clean. Timeless. Unbothered. You nod toward it. Then the crimson one. Then the black.

They bring out belts. You nod again. Scarves. Gloves. A pair of leather sandals you won’t wear twice but will absolutely be seen in.

Yaëlle shifts in her seat beside you, arms folded.

“You already have a Birkin in black,” she says.

You sip your espresso. “Now I have two.”

She doesn’t argue.

She just watches as the man packs your selections into the signature orange boxes, stacked neatly beside your feet.

One of the bodyguards reappears to carry them.

And again, you don’t think of him.

This boutique isn’t on the main strip. It’s tucked away, intimate, secluded, hidden like a secret only whispered between women who know what their bodies are worth.

It smells like rosewater and shadow. Warm wood floors. Low lighting. Soft music with too much breath and bass.

You walk slowly here.

Not because you’re uncertain, but because you want to touch everything. Satin, lace, embroidery so fine it’s practically invisible. There’s something indulgent in the quiet here, something decadent about being surrounded by things made to be worn and removed in moments you control.Nothing practical here. Nothing neutral. Just softness and power, stitched into the same fabric.

Your fingers drift across a black mesh set, trimmed in gold. You lift the hanger with one hand, letting the fabric catch the light. It weighs nothing, barely enough to cling, the kind of thing you’ve worn before, only long enough for him to beg to take it off.

The thought lands before you can stop it: his hands on the floor, your voice in his ear, telling him not yet.

Your throat tightens.

The power flickers there , sharp and low in your belly, familiar as breath. For a second, you can feel it, the way he looks up at you when you press a thumb to his jaw. That edge between want and obedience. The way he holds still when you make him wait.

You swallow it down.

The next thought hits harder: her cheek. His smile. His fucking hand.

Your jaw sets.

You don’t let it reach your face. You just fold the hanger over your arm and keep walking.

Next: a soft red corset with silk ribbon lacing up the back. Then a pair of sheer high waisted panties with matching garters, delicate enough to dissolve at a whisper.

You don’t try anything on. You don’t need to. The shop girl doesn’t ask questions. Just boxes it all with tissue and care, tied with ribbon like you’re taking home a gift.

Yaëlle lingers in the corner, arms crossed. She looks like she wants to say something but can’t find the words.

So you speak first. “Something wrong?”

“No,” she says softly. “It’s just… lingerie, huh?”

You don’t flinch. “You think it’s for him?”

Her mouth opens, then closes.

You take the lilac box from the counter. “It’s for me.”

The light inside Dior is blue toned and perfect. The floors shimmer. The air is sharp, citrus and wood and cool, curated exclusivity.

You step into the store and feel yourself slot into the rhythm of the space like a second heartbeat. Everything here feels like it was waiting for you. The soft silk. The tailored lines. The echoes of Paris stitched into every seam.

The store manager beams the moment he sees you. “Everything from this season’s collection has already been sent to your residence in Madrid,” he says.

You nod. “Send it again.”

He hesitates,just for a moment. Then, “Of course.”

You run your fingers along a rack of gowns you already wore from this season. In Lisbon. In Paris. In Marrakesh. A high necked cream silk with a daring slit. Kylian had looked at you like-

You blink.

No.

Not today.

You pull it from the rack and hand it over. Then the navy slip dress with the pearl straps. Then the asymmetrical white one with the open back.

Everything you already own.

Everything worth owning twice.

Yaëlle leans in closer this time, low enough that the staff won’t hear her. “You’re trending.”

You nod. “Good.”

She pauses. “Are you going to call him?”

You tilt your head. “And reward him for what, exactly?”

You’re halfway back to the SUV when you see it.

It catches your eye like a dare, dark glass and steel angles, a building that doesn’t belong beside soft white boutiques and polished flower stands. The showroom sits recessed, private, almost aloof. No sign. No slogan. Just one massive pane of tinted glass reflecting your face as you walk past.

Behind it: a car.

Or something shaped like one.

Matte black. Sleek. Low to the ground. Curved like sin and punishment in equal measure. There’s no line of customers. No sticker price on the windshield. Just space and reverence, as if even the air has to respect it.

You stop walking.

Yaëlle follows too closely and nearly bumps into you. “No. Whatever that is, no.”

You ignore her.

She exhales through her teeth. “Y/N, come on. Don’t be crazy.”

You tilt your head, staring at the car through the glass.

“I’m not being crazy,” you murmur. “I’m just curious.”

“That’s worse.”

The showroom doors open like they’ve been watching for you.

Inside, it’s colder than Dior. Cleaner. Everything gleams. The lighting is soft and directional, designed to spotlight the machine like art. The floor is brushed concrete. There’s only one car in the room.

Just one.

You walk slowly toward it, heels echoing. The thing is beautiful. Dangerous. The kind of car people fantasise about,  not for transport, but transformation. It looks like it should fly. Or hunt.

A sales associate emerges from behind a floating desk, expression controlled but eyes wide.

He smiles. “Would you like to book a test drive?”

“No,” you say, running your fingers along the edge of the hood. “I’d like to take it home.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“I see,” he says carefully. “Are you familiar with the model?”

“No,” you reply. “Does it matter?”

His smile flickers. “It’s… quite a piece of engineering. Custom specs. Limited release. The base model starts just under five hundred thousand-”

You slide into the driver’s seat without waiting for him to finish.

Yaëlle makes a noise like she’s swallowed a gasp sideways.

The leather hugs your hips as you shift, slow and careless. You don’t even glance at the dash. Just start adjusting the mirrors. The seat. The steering column. Like it’s already yours.

Like it should respond to your body before it responds to a key.

“Y/N-” Yaëlle hisses, panic rising. “You cannot be serious.”

You finally glance over your shoulder and smirk towards her. “Why not?”

“Because you’ve never driven one of these in your life! This isn’t a city car, this is-” She breaks off, gesturing helplessly. “You don’t even know where reverse is!”

You shrug. “How hard can it be?”

The salesman straightens. He can smell the sale, but isn’t sure who’s bleeding yet. He clears his throat. “Payment can be arranged immediately. We’ll need card verification or bank authorisation before finalising.”

You reach into your bag slowly, like you have all the time in the world.

You pull out his card.

Two fingers. No rush. You place it in his hand like it means nothing.

Yaëlle goes sheet white.

The associate nods, voice smooth. “One moment, please.”

Yaëlle grabs your arm, nails biting into your skin. “He’s going to kill me.”

You blink. “Why?”

“I’m his assistant. I’m supposed to manage this kind of thing. Not-” she gestures wildly at the showroom, the car, your legs crossed high inside it, “not this.”

You smile without showing teeth. “Then don’t manage. Just stand there.”

“He’s going to think I encouraged you.”

“Did you?”

“No!”

“Then you’re in the clear.”

“Y/N,” she groans. “This isn’t a Birkin. This is a car.”

But you’re not listening anymore.

You’re watching yourself reflected in the black gloss of the hood. Hair perfect. Lips glossed. Sunglasses placed on top of your head.

Then you reach for the gear stick,  lightly, lazily, like you’re considering shifting the entire narrative.

The associate returns.

“I’ll need live phone confirmation from the cardholder to authorise the purchase. It’s standard for anything over two hundred thousand.”

“Call him,” you say, fingers still toying with the gear stick. “He’ll answer.”

Yaëlle lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a plea. “Please don’t make me do this.”

But you don’t answer.

You’re too busy adjusting the rearview mirror, watching your own mouth curve in its reflection.

She walks a few steps away, muttering to herself. The glass muffles most of the sound, but when the line connects, his voice carries, because you hear the silence on her end sharpen.

Her voice goes flat. Businesslike. “She’s serious.”

A pause.

“She’s in the car right now....”

Another pause. Voices muffled.

“...Yes. That one… With the sunroof.”

You glance at the touchscreen display, bored. Your nails click lightly against the steering wheel.

“She wants it delivered. Today.”

You lean back into the leather seat, legs stretched, fingertips brushing against the door.

From this angle, you couldn’t see what was going,but you can hear the sales associate and Yaelle’s voice falter. Just slightly.

Then lower, “Do I tell her it’s approved?”

A pause.

Then, quietly: “Thank you.”

You already know what he said.

The bus is too loud.

Not in volume, in presence.

Laughter. Music. The soft thump of trainers against the floor. A couple of the guys are passing around a phone, snickering over something one of the fan accounts posted. Someone’s Bluetooth speaker plays Spanish trap, low and fuzzy under the chatter.

Kylian’s at the back. Hoodie up. AirPods in, but nothing playing. Just silence.

He stares out the window, sunglasses hiding his eyes, the thrum of the road vibrating beneath his thighs. His legs are stretched out, but his body’s too tense to relax. His phone buzzes on his lap.

“Yaëlle”

He doesn’t answer.

Not yet.

He knows what this is about.

Because two seats ahead of him, Rodrygo’s laughing. Loud. And holding his phone up for Valverde to see.

Kylian doesn’t have to look to know what they’re seeing. He already saw it before boarding.

Slide one:

You.

Shopping bags in one hand, striding out of Hermès like Miami’s sidewalk was made for you. Tight shorts, sunglasses perched on your face like a crown. Yaëlle behind you, visibly stressed.

Slide two:

Him.

From yesterday. Hugging the influencer. Kissing her cheek. That fucking smile.

Side by side.

A perfect visual bloodbath.

He scrolled Instagram anyway. Just to torture himself.

“Y/N is the blueprint for rich revenge 😮‍💨”

“If I was Mbappé I’d be scared.”

“She’s spending his money like water. Icon.”

He’s not scared.

But he is hard.

His cock’s been half stiff since he saw the first photo. Since he saw the way you looked, curves sharp, eyes colder, mouth tilted in that subtle smirk he only sees when you’re done being nice. Since he saw you ignore his calls. Since he realised this was all orchestrated.

This wasn’t heat of the moment revenge.

This was strategy.

Punishment.

And he’s turned the fuck on.

His phone buzzes again.

He finally picks up.

“Talk.”

Yaëlle doesn’t waste time. She never does when she’s spiraling.

“She’s serious.”

He blinks. “What?.”

“She’s in a car. The matte black one. From Coral Way. She’s in it right now. The one with the sun roof.”

He leans his head back. “Of course she is.”

“She wanted two million. I got her down to one.”

A sharp breath hisses through his teeth. “You think that’s better?”

“I think it’s better than her driving out of there with two million euros of your money and no seatbelt.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just breathes.

Then, “She said to use my card?”

“She handed it over like it was hers,” Yaëlle mutters. “Said to call you”

His cock twitches.

He glances down. Adjusts the hem of his hoodie subtly. The fabric is already tented just enough to be dangerous.

He shouldn’t be getting hard on a team bus.

But he is.

Because of course you said that.

Of course you walked into a luxury showroom with legs bare and sunglasses on and gave no warning, no explanation, just control.

Because you know he’ll approve it.

Because you know exactly what it does to him when you treat him like he’s yours to use.

Not just his money.

Him.

His blood pulses low and hot in his stomach. He shifts in his seat again.

A teammate turns briefly, catching his eye with a raised brow. Kylian gives him a nod. Neutral. Calm.

But inside?

It’s chaos.

He taps the side of his phone. “Do they need me to confirm?”

“Yes. Voice confirmation.”

“Put him on.”

The salesman’s voice is overly smooth. “Hello Mr. Mbappé, just confirming the payment for today’s acquisition-”

He interrupts. “Approve it.”

Short. Clipped. Already done.

He ends the call.

The second he does, he exhales. Low. Controlled. His other hand slides over his thigh, slowly pressing down on the shape forming beneath his pants. His eyes flutter closed behind his sunglasses for a moment.

You’re going to destroy him tonight. Not with yelling. Not with jealousy.

But with silence. With calculation. With a look. A command. A hand tightening in his curls or between his legs as you whisper:

“Say thank you for the car, baby.”

And he will.

He’ll thank you. He’ll beg. He’ll take whatever you decide to give or take away.

This game you’re playing?

He’s already wants to lose..

And you haven’t even touched him yet.

The table is warm beneath your hands, sun-kissed and smooth, the kind of polished stone that glows gold in the late Miami light. The restaurant isn’t loud,  soft clinking of cutlery, the distant hush of wind through linen canopies, muted conversation around you.

It should be relaxing.

It would be, if not for the weight of your phone by your wrist. Still. Silent. Waiting.

Yaëlle sits across from you with her sunglasses perched on top of her head, curls wild from the walk over. She’s pulled her menu apart without ordering anything, more interested in telling you about her morning.

“So I had to pick up his dry cleaning and the bag from Dior,” she says, gesturing with one hand while stabbing at her straw with the other. “Like they both had to be done by noon because suddenly Ky wants to change his outfit after the press conference.”

You smile a little, folding your napkin into your lap. “Let me guess, he didn’t even wear it.”

“He wore it, but then had the nerve to say it was too ‘structured.’ Structured?! It was a plain white shirt with buttons.”

You let out a soft laugh, rolling your shoulders back. “Sounds serious.”

She scoffs. “I’m about to quit. I’ll become a florist.”

“No patience for that,” you say, lifting your glass. “You’d throw the tulips at people.”

Yaëlle grins over her drink, and for a moment, it’s easy. Easy in that way only she can be with you, half friend, half assistant, always somewhere in between. You’ve had dinner together in countless cities, drinks after long travel days, a few whispered fights in hotel corridors that ended in shared snacks and joint eye rolls.

Now she’s stabbing her salad like it insulted her family.

You’ve barely touched your plate.

The food is beautiful, all bright greens and citrus dressed chicken, perfect little segments of blood orange tucked between slivers of shaved fennel, but your appetite is lazy today. Blunt. Not missing, just… dulled at the edges.

“Did you end up booking Greece for next month?”

She nods. “Finally. I used points and got upgraded, which never happens.”

“Good. You deserve at least one peaceful flight a year.”

“You know it won’t be peaceful. I’ll have three phones, a tablet, and a grown man asking me where his socks are before we hit boarding.”

You laugh under your breath. “At least he’s cute.”

Yaëlle makes a face. “Not when he’s sleep deprived and two interviews behind schedule.”

Your phone buzzes, face down beside your water glass.

Once.

Then again.

You don’t look.

Yaëlle doesn’t comment. Not yet.

She knows. She’s seen the photos. Everyone has. You in that outfit, the walk down the street that turned into a full camera reel online. Your chest, your legs, your smile, all of it dissected by strangers, reposted, zoomed in on. One video even turned you into an edit. Slowed you down frame by frame as a man turned to look over his shoulder, caught mid-step, mouth parted.

The comments were worse.

“He fumbled fr.”

“She knows she looks too good. This is tactical.”

“I wouldn’t be able to let her walk outside like that.”

Your phone vibrates a third time. Longer.

Still, you don’t move.

Yaëlle’s fork pauses above her bowl. “You’re not even gonna check?”

You shake your head. “He knows what he did.”

“Yeah, but he doesn’t know what you’re thinking.”

You glance down, finally flipping your phone.

Kylian (6 missed calls)

Where are you.

Why the fuck aren’t you answering.

What the hell are you wearing.

There are pictures of you.

Are you doing this on purpose.

You press your napkin to your mouth. Chew. Breathe. Don’t flinch.

Another text.

Talk to me. Please.

Then another call. This time, you press decline and flip the phone over, screen-down against the linen tablecloth.

“I should’ve ordered rosé,” you murmur, half to yourself. The ‘please’ lands heavier than the rest.

Yaëlle shifts slightly. Her brow furrows. “He’s never seen you like this.”

“Then he can learn.”

“Y/N…”

“He kissed her. Smiled at her. And the world watched. He can survive one afternoon of discomfort.”

Then her phone starts ringing. You don’t have to look. You already know.

Yaëlle sighs. “It’s him.”

“Don’t answer.”

“He’ll just keep calling.”

“He deserves to sweat.”

“He’s not sweating,” she mutters, checking the screen. “He’s boiling.”

You say nothing. She answers anyway, turning to the side, voice low.

“Qui?”

There’s a pause. Then, “No, she’s okay. We’re eating. She’s fine.”

You chew slowly, watching her. She turns away slightly, lowering her voice.

“I don’t know, Ky. She hasn’t said anything about you. No, not like that. She’s just… quiet.”

You hear his voice through the receiver, not loud, but sharp. That controlled tone he gets when he’s trying not to break. You can’t hear the words, but the energy bleeds through. Static in the air. Pressure in your ribs.

“She saw the photos,” Yaëlle says, her voice gentler now. “She saw the comments.”

Her shoulders drop. Her eyes dart toward you. You hear him now. Not yelling.

Just… tight. Low. Controlled. But cracking at the edges.

You hear his voice leak through the speaker in broken phrases.

“…fucking everywhere, Yaëlle. Twitter. Instagram. Accounts I don’t even follow. I saw three videos of her walking and men turning around in the street… staring at her like that… and she won’t even answer the phone…”

Yaëlle murmurs, “I know. I know.”

“…what is she thinking? What is she trying to say? Is she angry? Is she trying to humiliate me? She’s letting people film her… I don’t fucking know… ”

Yaëlle lowers her voice. “Ky, breathe. She’s not trying to humiliate you.”

“She won’t talk to me.”

“She’s… recalibrating.”

A sharp inhale on the other end.

“She doesn’t care,” Kylian snaps, voice cracking. “She’s walking around like that and letting people film her, what am I supposed to do? What is she thinking? She didn’t even look at me after those photos. She just vanished.”

“She needed space.”

“I need her.”

There’s a long silence.

Yaëlle turns slowly. “He wants to talk to you.”

You lift your glass. “Tell him I’m busy.”

“Kylian,” Yaëlle says quietly. “She’s not ready.”

“I don’t give a fuck if she’s not ready,” he breathes. “Give her the phone.”

You lift your glass, sip slowly. “Tell him I’m eating.”

“She said-”

“I heard her,” Kylian bites out. “Tell her I’m coming to the suite tonight.”

Yaëlle lowers her voice. “She’s not ready.”

“I’m not asking.”

“She needs time, Ky.”

“She’s had time,” he mutters. Then quieter, like the words are catching in his throat. “I just want to see her.”

You sit back in your chair, pressing the edge of your thumb into your glass stem.

Still composed. Still breathing evenly.

But the heat at the base of your spine says you’re not untouched. Not immune.

Not anymore.

Yaëlle hangs up gently. “He’s leaving the hotel.”

You smile faintly.

“Let him.”

You drop Yaëlle off just before golden hour, letting her mutter one last “he’s going to kill me” before she disappears behind the hotel lobby doors. She doesn’t ask where you’re headed next. She knows better than to think you’re going back upstairs.

You change in the backseat of the car, nothing dramatic, just a top you bought that afternoon from Dior. The cream one with the low back and the halter neck. The one that feels like luxury when the fabric brushes your shoulder blades.

You touch up your gloss in the mirror and step out into the early evening heat letting it melt into your skin.

The rooftop bar smells like salt, tequila and someone’s cologne.

It’s golden hour, the sun stretching long across the sky, sinking past the edges of the glass balustrade. The pool reflects streaks of pink and orange, and DJ’s playlist hums under the buzz of conversations, low and familiar.

You’re sitting on a low cushioned lounger with your legs tucked under you, glass sweating in your hand. Something bright and sweet in it. Your back is bare, tied high behind your neck with one knot. You’re warm from the heat, but not sticky. Just golden.

You didn’t come here for anything.

You’re just here.

Miami feels like the kind of place you’re supposed to disappear into. Loose conversations. Pretty strangers. Waiters who flirt and forget. You sip your drink slowly, watching the water ripple from someone’s lazy cannonball a few loungers down.

“Didn’t expect to see you still in town.”

The voice comes from your left. Low. Not loud enough to startle you.

You look up.

He’s handsome in that way most pro athletes are. Clean lined. Confident without trying. Tan skin. Button down shirt half open like he’s allergic to modesty. You recognise the face. Ligue 1. Midfield. Maybe Marseille?  You’ve seen him in a lineup next to Kylian before, but you’ve never seen him this close.

You blink once, slow. “Do I know you?”

He shrugs. “Tunnel in Marseille. We spoke once. You were standing next to your boy.”

Your boy.

You tilt your head. Let the word sit heavy in the space between you.

He gestures at your drink. “Didn’t peg you for a cocktail girl.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Maybe I’d like to,” he replies easily. “Not every day I get a second chance.”

You say nothing. But the corner of your mouth quirks, not enough to be polite. Just enough to be caught on camera.

He shifts a little closer.

You feel it before you see it: a camera flash. Another. The girl on the lounger two seats down trying to pretend she’s texting.

You stretch your legs. Let your body shift toward the light.

“People are watching,” he murmurs, voice dropping.

“Let them.”

He watches you a second longer. Something curious in his eyes. Something like: Does she know what she’s doing?

But you do.

Of course you do.

The breeze picks up and lifts the ends of your curls, cool across your shoulders. The music shifts to something deeper, afrobeats, and the pool glows faintly now under purple light.

He leans in a littlecloser.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he says again, softer this time. “Miami, I mean.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

He pauses.

Shrugs once. “No reason.”

You watch him for a second. “That didn’t sound like no reason.”

A waiter comes by,  different from before. Nervous. Too eager. He looks between you and the man beside you, hands fumbling with the drink tray.

“Um.. would you two… like to see the bottle menu?”

You raise an eyebrow, slow. Let the silence thicken.

The man beside you chuckles. “We’re good with cocktails, thanks.”

The server lingers. Then, “You make a beautiful couple.”

And there it is.

You don’t answer. Not right away. Just sip again and adjust your top slightly, the movement subtle, but enough to show skin. Enough to be mentioned later.

The player beside you smiles, amused. “He’s not the first to assume.”

“He won’t be the last.”

He leans in a touch, head dipping beside your ear, and his voice is quieter now. Intimate. Careful.  “You know whatever he did to fuck this up… he’s not worth it, right?”

Your eyes don’t move. But your mouth does. “You don’t know what he’s worth.”

And maybe that’s what makes it crueler.

Because you do.

Another flash. Another burst of light catching the curve of your jaw, the shimmer on your lips.

Someone near the bar glances down at her phone and makes a noise. “Wait- isn’t that- ?” She leans to show her friend: DeuxMoi, 2 mins ago

“Spotted: Y/N in Miami with another player 👀 Not Mbappé.” “Looks like she’s already moved on 👑”

You smile without looking.

Because you can feel it happening.

And you know who else will feel it soon.

Your phone vibrates in your hand, once, twice, again. You don’t look. You know who it is.

Then Yaëlle’s name flashes.

You still don’t answer.

You lift your glass again, swirl the ice. And when the man beside you gets up to leave, called by someone at the bar, he touches your shoulder in parting.

You don’t stop him.

You let the camera catch that too. Let him see exactly what he turned you into.

Eventually, you leave.

Not in a rush.

You let the ice melt in your glass until it’s just sweet water and pulp. Let the pink in the sky slip into bruised blue. Let another DeuxMoi post hit while your feet are still up on the lounger.

But then, you uncross your legs. Pick up your bag. Nod once to the server when he offers to walk you down, and glide past him instead without a word.

You’ve done what you needed to do.

Now comes the hard part.

The lobby is cooler than the rooftop, but not by much. The air feels expensive, chilled and floral, filtered through quiet jazz and velvet ropes. You don’t pause when you pass the front desk. You don’t look around.

If anyone’s still watching, they’ve already got what they came for.

The elevator opens, empty.

You step inside.

The doors close behind you, slow and soundless. Your reflection stares back from the mirrored walls, sunkissed skin, smudged lip gloss, the edge of your collarbone catching the light. You don’t look away.

You take off your sunglasses and slide them into your bag.

Then you press the penthouse button.

It’s a long ride, but smooth. Barely there. No music. Just the hum of machinery and the quiet shift of your own breath.

There’s a faint pressure behind your ribs, not nerves, exactly. You don’t do nerves. But it’s something in that family. Not fear. Not guilt. Just… intensity. The kind of pressure that comes from knowing exactly how this will go, and still not knowing how it will feel.

Still, the pressure tugs behind your ribs. A reminder of how much space he still takes up inside you, even when he’s not around.

You’re still wearing the top he hasn’t seen yet. Still sticky with the Miami night and attention from men who aren’t him. You’ve spent the day punishing him from a distance. With Dior and gloss and posts you didn’t have to write because strangers did it for you.

You fix your hair in the reflection. Smooth your mouth with your thumb. Adjust your top so it rests just right above your sternum, pretty but sharp. Like something hard disguised as soft.

You think of the way he looked in that video. The way he smiled, not just politely, but fully. The way his hands landed on her back like they’d never landed on you first. How easy it had seemed.

Your jaw flexes.

The elevator dings.

Top floor.

The hallway to the penthouse is plush and quiet. Soundproofed. Sterile, but not cold. The kind of silence that makes your heels sound louder than they are.

You walk slowly. Inhaling deeply at the anticipation for the night ahead.

You stop at the door. Your hand hovers over the keycard.

When the lock clicks open, the sound is mechanical. Precise. Echoing around you.

You breathe once.

Then push the door open.

You’re ready.

Let him be the one who’s not.

Taglist: @ilovepablogavi @skipandahop28 @virgilsgurl @moorningvoice @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro @germanapples @scottishthistle @luz45789 @blckinback @haartemis - lmk if you want to join

[yourkidinthedark]

Happy belated Birthday-Part 2

Parings: Reader X Bucky Barnes X Platonic!Thunderbolts

Warnings: References to Sex, Swearing, Graphic Gore, Reader is shot, Panic attacks

Notes: As promised here is part 2 :) Click here for Part 1!

—————————————————————————————

You practically dragged him by his shirt into your apartment, all traces of sleep leaving your eyes as he handed you the flowers. The bouquet was adorned with vibrant pinks, purples, and yellows.

“I didn’t know which flower was your favorite, so I got a few that looked pretty,” he said, smiling. His eyes held a smitten gaze as he watched your smile grow.

“You could have brought me a bouquet of dandelions, and I’d still love them,” you said as you inspected the assortment, your heart fluttering at the old-fashioned gesture. “Thank you, Bucky. Really, you didn’t have to do that.”

You led him through your entryway hallway into the kitchen. Your apartment was small, but every inch of it felt like you. Bucky took in the photos hung on the walls and all your little décor scattered around on shelves and countertops. It sparked something in him that he hadn't felt in a while—a feeling of home. He set the tray of coffee down on your kitchen counter as you searched for a vase to house your flowers. The sun cast beautiful orange streaks throughout the room, catching his frame like a painting fit for the Louvre. He removed his sunglasses and tucked them onto the collar of his shirt.

“I know we’re heading out on a mission later today and I can't spoil you the way I want to, so I thought I’d at least give you something nice to wake up to,” he said, running a hand through his beautifully messy hair.

You made your way across the kitchen and wrapped your arms around his waist.

“Well, this is certainly a good way to wake up; I could get used to this,” you said, resting your head against his chest. “But I could think of a way you could improve.” You felt his arms drape around you, and you couldn’t remember a time you felt this way.

“Yeah? What’s that, pretty girl?”

You stood on your tiptoes and whispered into his ear, “I would have liked to wake up with you beside me, still sore from the night before.”

Bucky’s breath caught in his throat, and you could practically feel the heat radiating from his cheeks. Making him flustered was your new favorite thing. He may be the Winter Soldier, but his experience with women still dated back to the '40s. Maybe that was what you found so alluring and charming about him.

Sure, you’d had a few boyfriends throughout your life, but being a highly trained assassin definitely didn’t make finding love easy. The way Bucky makes you feel is like a supernova to the chest. You had admired him from afar: how he put his team first, the way he fights for what he believes in with everything he has. You even remembered referring to him as “the perfect example of boyfriend material” to Yelena once when you were training. That comment was met with Yelena making a gagging noise.

But now here he was, hugging you tightly in the first rays of sunlight in your kitchen, like it was the most natural thing. And with him, it was. All the nights you spent talking that left you pining for him like a lovesick teenager were behind you.

Fingers tracing your jawline tilted your chin up to look him in the eyes. A lazy smile on his face, he leaned in and kissed you softly. Tender lips moved slowly in sync with yours, drawing out a baited sigh from your mouth. Your hands found their way to the back of his neck, tangling in his hair and toying with the chain of his dog tags tucked just under his shirt. His hands moved slowly and with intent, resting on your hips, absentmindedly pulling you closer to him, the heat from his body creating a safe haven you leaned into.

“Where were you hiding that, Barnes?” you joked, lips still ghosting his.

“What can I say? You bring out the best in me.”

The morning went by way too fast for your liking. You were sitting together on the sofa, your legs draped over his lap. You always found it easy to talk with Bucky. He listened to every word you said, never interrupting or making you feel ashamed of your thoughts and opinions. The faint sound of the street below harmonized with your conversations—a perfect symphony you never wanted to stop listening to.

Eventually, you pulled away from his grasp with a long sigh. “I suppose I should get myself together for work. I wouldn't want to get ‘a talking to’ from my boss,” you joked, and Bucky groaned.

“Don’t say it like that; it sounds weird.”

“What? You are,” you said pointedly.

“Okay, yeah, maybe,” he said. “But what you are to me far outweighs that. And if I had the choice, both of us would be sitting out of this mission, tucked away here where nobody could find us.”

You internally swooned. “Maybe one day. We’ll retire and be free to just do nothing together.”

“I like the sound of that,” he said, pulling you in for a quick kiss. And with that, you stood up, stretching your muscles, and disappeared down the hall.

The mission was to take place at noon, meeting at the helipad at the Watchtower. You and Bucky walked down the busy street hand in hand, the leather jacket you borrowed the night before hiding his vibranium arm among the hustle and bustle of city folk making their morning commute. You knew Bucky well enough to know he didn’t enjoy having people stare at him like he was going to suddenly turn into the Winter Soldier and kill everyone on sight. Whenever he appeared in public with his arm on display, he seemed more quiet and reserved.

When you got to the Watchtower, you dropped his hand. Bucky gave you a puzzled look.

“It probably wouldn't look great if we just waltzed in, you know, as ‘us,’” you said. “Well, I guess Yelena more than likely knows, but other than that, the team might think I’m just trying to get special treatment.”

“You are getting special treatment, though,” he laughed, and you swatted his chest. “But you should also know that Bob knows.” You looked at him in shock.

“Bob?!”

“Yeah, well, I had to tell someone about how you had taken over my every waking thought, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be Walker. Besides, that kid is incredibly intuitive, and he picked up on it first.”

“Okay, so Yelena and Bob—that’s only a strong 40% of the remaining team that knows, excluding us.” You did the math; your odds of keeping this quiet weren't great, you had to admit, but it would be fun to see how long the secret could last.

The elevator ride up was quick, and you genuinely contemplated hitting all the buttons on the door to prolong this quietness with Bucky a little longer. Stealing a quick kiss from you, he looked you in the eyes.

“My place after we get back?” he whispered, his forehead against yours.

“You don't even have to ask.” You quickly kissed him again, but soon enough, the doors opened to the Avengers' common area, and all trace of ‘you and him’ was gone.

You and Bucky walked out casually, like you both just spontaneously arrived at the same time. You really tried to look anywhere other than Yelena’s shit-eating grin, but it found you like a beacon. You gave her a stern look that told her you’d fill her in later.

“Okay, everyone, listen up,” Bucky began with strong authority that made your knees weak. Jesus, this was going to be harder than you thought. “We know what we’re after. Valentina has graciously given us the files pertaining to the mystery disease. Even though she is responsible for creating it, we still have to go in and stop this ragtag group from making it and using it to their advantage.”

You heard Ava mumble under her breath, “I swear we are glorified janitors at this point.” You and Yelena snorted.

Bucky continued, “Since this chemical can compromise your ability to move, think, and operate, everyone with super soldier serum is on the front lines.” Alexei shot up.

“YES! Mr. Soldier, I will not disappoint! I spent years drinking poison to become immune! I visit sick kids in hospitals to make them happy. I have had every disease; this makes me strong!”

Bucky ran a hand down his face. “Right... So John, Alexei, and I will go in first. Ava, Yelena, and Y/N, I need you to secure the perimeter and make sure no one gets in or out. Then you need to plant explosives at these entry points so we can level the lab after we get what we need. Ava, you will take the East side, Yelena, the West, and Y/N, you will take the North.”

You nodded, trusting Bucky’s information and plan of attack. He had been through hell on earth many times before and always had a way of surviving. You trusted that this time wouldn't be any different.

You all bid your goodbyes to Bob and shuffled into the elevator, making your way to the helipad at the top of the tower. There, you found the Quinjet priming the engines, kicking up dust. You entered and found a seat in the cargo hold, strapping yourself in. You hadn't even finished clicking the belt until you felt Yelena plunk down beside you.

“This morning, you entered the common room with Bucky,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice.

“Well spotted; you could be a secret agent or something,” you said just loud enough to be heard over the hum of the engine.

Yelena rolled her eyes. “You are seriously doing this? Just tell me! I have been watching you two for MONTHS. I cannot take it any longer; it’s like having the Netflix subscription canceled when you're on the last season of a good show.”

“That’s really sad, and you need to get a life. But yes, we had a few... friendly exchanges. We haven't gone as far as to label it yet, but definitely more than friends.”

“I knew it! You have to tell me everything.”

“I thought you said we were disgusting?”

“I did, but I lied. I thought it would motivate you or something. Like I said, I don't know how to do the whole friend thing, but I am making an effort, and that counts, right?” She said, causing you to roll your eyes. And then, you told her everything.

The jet landed with a jolt, and you mentally thanked yourself for actually strapping in this time. The trip was longer than you expected; the last light from the sun had just sunk below the horizon. Alexei was the first to exit the jet; he practically left a ‘Red Guardian’ shaped hole in the wall. John followed after, securing his bent shield to his arm. Then it was Bucky; he gave you a look as if to say “Don’t die,” which you returned wholeheartedly. Hesitantly, he followed the other super soldiers into the lab.

Yelena, Ava, and you departed immediately after, flanking to your agreed-upon stations. You heard both of them confirm they were in position over your comms after a few minutes. Unfortunately, you were a few hundred feet from your post when you first noticed a group of armed men. You assessed the situation quickly and noted 19 soldiers carrying assault rifles. Your odds weren't great, if you had to admit, but you had definitely dealt with way worse.

Looping around slightly to attack from a different angle, you had to think quickly. Ripping the pin from a smoke grenade, you made your move. The grenade went off, clouding the scene in thick fog. You advanced like a shark on its prey. The first soldier, you took out with a slash to the Achilles tendon. You grabbed his gun, crushing the hilt of it against his nose in a sickening crunch. The second, you shot in the shoulder and knee, sending him to the ground with a shriek. A static-laden voice spoke through your comms.

“Y/N, what’s your status?” You recognized it as Ava.

“Busy,” you said, throwing a knife at another soldier, hitting him in the gut. Taking out the rest one by one was no easy feat. You were bleeding, bruised, and you were pretty sure a couple of your ribs had been broken in the process.

“Y/N, status.” You heard Bucky’s voice ring through the comms, biting back a hint of worry. You were just about to respond when you heard it—a faint shuffle behind you, and then an ear-piercing shot rang out. White-hot pain spread through your shoulder as you stumbled backward. Another shot rang out, and pain in your thigh mirrored your shoulder. Another, in your hip. Another, in your side. You fell to your knees and grabbed a discarded gun one of the soldiers dropped and pulled the trigger on the gunman. You watched the life leave his eyes as he slumped over, a bullet hole dead center in his forehead.

You were heaving in pain, the sensation creating black dots in the corners of your vision. But you had to get the explosives to the coordinates that Bucky had told you. If you were going to die, you at least wanted this shithole blown sky high. Bucky was counting on you.

With the last bit of strength you could muster, you stumbled forward. The explosion site wasn't far—just a few feet—but it felt like miles. Your blood was draining, and your suit was damp with the sticky sensation it brought. Your head was swimming, but somehow you managed to reach the explosion site. You set the explosives up and tried to get as far away as possible. You only managed to get a few feet before exhaustion took over. You fell against a tree, your back sliding all the way down until you were sitting on the ground. Your head was dizzy from the pain or the blood loss, you weren't sure. You heard a voice in your comms again.

“Y/N, come on, I'm going to need a status. We’re almost done here,” Bucky said with urgency.

Bucky. You thought fondly. You promised him that you would come home to him. You’d just hoped it wouldn't be in a body bag. This morning felt so far away. How did you go from being the safest you’ve ever felt to dying against a tree in the middle of nowhere? You’d just hoped that Bucky would be okay, that he would survive this. Your strength was fading fast, but you kept your eyes trained on the North entrance for as long as they let you. The pressure you were applying became lighter as you felt your consciousness slipping away. You held your fingers to your comm.

“4 Gun-sshot wounds... E-explosives... placed...” you mumbled, and you let sleep take over.

—----------------------------------------------------------------

Bucky didn't think he had trigger words anymore that would wake the Winter Soldier, but hearing your voice say those words summoned him. Bucky became lethal.

“Where are you?” he yelled into the comm, his voice thick with fear. When he got no response, his blood turned to ice.

“Bucky, go. We will take care of this,” John said, putting vials into an airtight container. That's all Bucky needed to hear. He took off in a sprint down the dimly lit hallway of the lab. He ran into a soldier and didn't even give him a chance to react. Bucky grabbed the soldier's head and slammed it into the concrete floor with pure vibranium force. He saw the blood spatter like a Jackson Pollock painting. He moved on, navigating the hallways like a labyrinth. Two soldiers stood between him and the exit. Eyes sharp, he looked at them through his brows. One of the soldiers threw a knife, aiming for Bucky’s head. He caught it mid-air, his metal arm whirring with swiftness. With all the strength his metal arm could muster, he threw the knife back at the soldier. It hit him square in the chest with so much force that the blade and the hilt were entirely buried. The other soldier tried to drop his gun, holding his hands up in surrender. Bucky, seeing nothing but images of you hurt or, worse, dying, approached the trembling soldier. Vibranium connecting with flesh, he picked the soldier up by his throat, suspending him in the air. Blood rushed to the soldier's head as Bucky willed the vibranium to crush the man’s windpipe. Bones and cartilage crunched, and the man’s life was taken.

Bucky moved, looping to the North side of the lab where you were to be stationed. The first thing he noticed was the scattered bodies of the soldiers you dropped—19 total. If he wasn't scared out of his mind, he would have stopped to admire your work. Bucky's eyes surveyed the scene with assassin-level precision. 18 of the 19 were alive, just disabled. The 19th was dead, a gunshot wound to the head. The corpse still holding a rifle.

He knew you couldn't be far from the scene; his mind raced with all the possibilities that could have happened in the time it took him to get to you. With all his strength, he pushed it to the back of his mind and focused. He spotted blood spread generously over the ferns, leading into the forest. Instantly, he was moving. The blood-spattered trail made his heart seize. He couldn't lose you. Not when he just got you. Not when he hadn't even taken you out on a date yet. Not when he never got to tell you that he loved you.

He found you slumped over yourself, completely and utterly broken. The scream that ripped through him was raw and guttural. He was at your side in seconds.

“No! No, don't you do this to me! Wake up, come on!” he rushed out frantically. His sobs were coming out broken and uneven. He couldn’t breathe. With shaking hands, he applied pressure to your wounds. He spoke into the comm.

“We can’t—she’s—someone bring the fucking jet,” he screamed, emotions pouring out.

He had seen thousands of injured comrades in his life, but nothing got to him the way you did. You were his second chance at life, but now you were barely clinging to yours. You were always untouchable; you held a fierce confidence wherever you went. It was one of the things that caught his eye about you. But now here you were, lying in his lap, looking as fragile as glass. He couldn't take it.

“How bad is it, Bucky?” Yelena’s voice came, caked in worry. “Rounding the jet now.”

He didn't lie. “Bad.”

He cried as he gently rocked your unconscious body. Your breathing was coming out in slow, shallow breaths. He whispered into your hair, “I’m sorry; I’m so fucking sorry.” He was in the middle of a panic attack. Sobs and uneven breaths ripped through him uncontrollably. “I love you; please don't leave me, not here, not yet. I am begging you, Y/N, stay alive. Please.”

Soon, the rumble of the jet was audible. He saw the lights of the jet touch down in a nearby clearing. He picked you up in a swift motion and carried your limp body to the jet. Yelena met him at the mouth of the door.

“I called the Tower; the medical team is on standby,” she said quickly. “Jesus, Y/N,” she muttered as the full extent of your wounds was visible to her. “Put her on the table.”

Bucky set you down as if you were fine china. His body was shaking from panic. Yelena wasted no time getting to work, with Ava and John working as her assistants. She barked orders, and they obliged without question. Losing you was not an option for the team, and they knew it. Bucky sank to the floor and watched helplessly as the team worked on you, patching you up the best they could with the supplies they had. Alexei knelt down beside him, patting his shoulder.

“She’s a tough kid,” he said. “I have no doubt she will pull through.”

Bucky didn't say anything. He physically couldn't. How could he have gone from spending a lazy morning with you, curled up on your couch, sharing coffee, to watching you bleed out on a steel makeshift table?

The ride was agonizingly long. Bucky cursed his super soldier hearing. He could hear your heartbeat struggling to keep going. No matter how hard he tried not to listen, it was all he could hear. At some point, John had brought a chair and set it next to you. He motioned for Bucky to take a seat, and even though Bucky and John had had their differences, Bucky was entirely grateful.

Yelena kept you alive, and Bucky was already planning on putting her in his will. She worked like a machine, threading an IV into your veins, changing your dressing, keeping pressure on your wounds. She stepped up when he couldn't, and he would forever be in her debt.

There was a huge jolt, and the jet had landed at the Watchtower. When the door opened, a fleet of medics rushed in. The Avengers made room so they could take you away and work on you. As soon as they came to get you, they were gone, leaving a hollow, dark black hole in Bucky’s chest.

“Come here, big guy,” Yelena said, letting the soldier lean on her for support. Numbly, he made his way inside the tower with her. Your blood was soaked on his tactical gear, leaving his skin feeling sticky and wet. When he reached the common room, Bob was there to meet him. His eyes widened at the sight of all the blood on both Bucky and Yelena.

“She’s going to be okay, Barnes,” Yelena said. “She’s too stubborn to leave you. I’ve watched her pine over you for months,” she said, rubbing his back in an attempt to comfort him.

“Why don't you go shower, and Bob will be on standby and relay any news immediately,” she added. Bob nodded, eager to help his friend.

“I will even come into the shower if I hear anything,” he said, and Yelena threw him a look.

“That is not helpful; do not come into my shower unless you want to be dead.” Her threat was empty, but Bob still looked nervous.

And so that's what Bucky did. He peeled his suit from his body, heavy with blood, and slipped into the warm shower. The water soothed his overused muscles, but did nothing to soothe his mind. He kept seeing the images of you laying broken on the forest floor. You still somehow managed to look ethereal despite being covered in blood and dirt. He stepped out of the shower, going through the motions but not really present. After dressing, he made his way to the elevator. John caught his arm before he stepped in.

“Look, I know we haven't always seen eye to eye, but I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry this happened. It’s obvious she’s not just a teammate to you. If it were Olivia, I'd shred this whole world apart in search of some sort of justice,” he said, keeping firm eye contact.

Bucky didn't know what to say, so he just nodded appreciatively before stepping in and hitting the button for the Med Bay. He found Yelena crouched outside the door in an oversized tee and a pair of pajama shorts. Her hair was wet from just having freshly showered. She didn't say anything, but Bucky noticed the tear stains on her face. He slid down the wall beside her, sitting in comfortable but fragile silence.

“I hate to say it, but she is my best friend,” Yelena spoke, her lip quivering slightly. “I’m sorry; I tried to stay strong for you, but I am really fucking scared.” She said, hiding her head in her knees. Bucky didn't speak for a moment; he just let her cry. Eventually, he put his hand on her shoulder.

“I’m scared too,” he said, his free hand toying with his dog tags.

“You know she talks about you all the time. Even if you guys just started to move past the ‘friends’ stage, she never shuts up about you.”

The tears that were threatening to fall finally spilled over in his eyes. Yelena leaned on his shoulder, and for a moment they just cried together—Yelena for her best friend and Bucky for the love of his life.

It was around 6 AM when a doctor exited the Med Bay. Both Bucky and Yelena were on their feet in an instant.

“She’s stable; we were able to stop the bleeding and give her a few rounds of blood. The bullet in her shoulder and hip hit her joints, so she will have to undergo some pretty serious physical therapy, but other than that, I don't see this impacting her long term,” the doctor said, and you could practically see the relief radiating off of Bucky and Yelena. “She is resting, but please feel free to see her.”

“Go,” Yelena said. “I'll give you guys some space.”

That's all Bucky needed to hear. He navigated the Med Bay like a madman trying to find you, and when he finally did, his world stopped.

You were hooked up to various wires, but the steady beeping of the heart monitor made up for it. He sat down in the chair next to your bed. His hands reached for you, and he laced his fingers through yours.

“You don’t know how bad you scared me, Doll,” he said, his voice wavering. “I never had anything worth protecting, but now I’d spend every day of my life just making sure you’re okay. I have never loved someone the way I love you. Please come back to me.”

“Hell of a confession,” you rasped. Bucky almost fell over. The relief that flooded his body was a tsunami of emotions. He was worried he had just imagined your voice, but then you shifted and winced.

“Oh thank god,” he breathed. “Thank god you’re awake.” Tears spilled over his eyes as he rushed closer to you.

“Yeah, I wish I wasn’t; I’m in so much pain, Buck,” you said, wincing from your words. “But you gotta know, I’ll always come back to you; I love you.” You said, pouring your heart out. You weren’t sure if you were woozy from the pain meds or just that in love with the man that sat before you, but everything came rushing out at once.

“God, you don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to hear that,” he said, rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand. “I want to hear you say it over and over again, but now you need to rest. I promise I’ll be here when you wake up.”

You shifted to get more comfortable, wincing slightly at the movement. “You promise?”

“I promise, my love.”

————————————-

Two Months Later

The bed dipped slightly as warm lips pressed a kiss to your temple. You opened your eyes, rubbing them from sleep to find Bucky coming home from a late mission. You weren’t medically cleared yet to accompany the team, so you made Bucky promise to wake you as soon as he got back. You even told Yelena to drag him here if she had to, in which she enthusiastically agreed.

Bucky continued to kiss down to your cheek, slowly trailing down your jaw, lingering over that spot you loved.

“You’re home,” you hummed, waking fully from your slumber and trying not to sigh into his kiss. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

“I missed you,” he said in between kisses. You couldn’t hold it back anymore and let a low moan slip out.

“I’d say you missed me too,” he smirked against your skin.

“You never answered me, my love,” you said, turning over to face him. You took in his appearance through the low light coming from the hallway of your apartment. He had scrapes and bruises, but you couldn’t see any major injuries. You let out a baited breath you didn’t know you were holding. The tension you had this past week while he was away finally snapped.

“Oh thank god,” you whispered. You grabbed his face and crashed your lips onto his. He immediately returned your kiss, rolling on top of you and cupping your face with his metal hand.

“There’s nothing that could keep me from coming back to you,” he said in between kisses.

You giggled. “Hey, come up with your own line!”

He pulled back, resting his forehead against yours.

“I mean it,” he said, his nose brushing yours. “I couldn’t have dreamed of anything nicer than what it feels like to love you.”

With his words, your heart swelled. You feverishly kissed him back.

That night, wrapped tightly in his arms, you knew that Bucky Barnes was the best birthday gift you had ever gotten.

[bootywrestlerman]

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶ -> Never Be Mine

ummm this is really REALLY short its just. wallter has a little dream to escape his bummy real life blah blah blah READ IT YOU FOOL!!!!!!

{ AO3 LINK } https://archiveofourown.org/works/66402979

Far too long in the comforts of her own, brought down to her knees by nobody but herself. As though she denies it, this was the fault of only herself. Ever so determined to stay in bed, was there a reason to get up anyway? Food? She had no appetite. To kiss her only love alive? Long gone, far better off without her. And a kiss like that would surely bring her to her knees. Tears did not run, but eyebags hung ever so clear from her eyes as she hoped to be rid of this weighing, crushing sorrow.

She speaks none of the photo on her bedside, perhaps the prettiest ever taken. The face of freedom sat in a frame, clad in what was daggy fashion, though nobody but her could pull off such a look. The picture gave such strange comfort, even longing. The real thing was a form of torture. She couldn't bear to step under yellow flickering lights and stare at a face so pained. It didn't show, not to anybody else but it was so obvious to her. When she stood there next to someone she used to know, the rot under her eyes, the tiredness in her face, the now unkempt hair, stains she never bothered to scrub out of her shirt, all tortured her.

Call it dependency, but it was so hard to drag her hand back to her side despite the kick inside. The kick to reach out, just to feel, if only for a moment, like she was back where she was, happier. In sights of now, she feels only fear. She bore weight of the knowledge that something was coming, and finally will she be set free from the torture she brings herself. Silence she chose, so she sits as a wilting flower, collecting dust in the corner of an uncomfortably empty room. And perhaps a dream may hold something she could actually want, unlike having nothing but empty possessions in her waking world. So she sinks.

---

Quiet is the morning, but not a quiet undesired. Sunlight cuts through cold air, finding a pair or only one. She shifts her body, yet her arm remains crushed happily underneath... Mark. The good kind. The one she remembers. The Mark whose hair she found her face pressed into, smelling of sweet strawberries and maple syrup.

Mark lay still, hand still wrapped over her love's. Here, she had no face of hurt. Relaxed, pushing her back into her lover's chest. And oh, that kind of pressure was the only thing she craved. She held Mark tighter, because what could possibly make her want to let go? Perhaps eyes at her back, observing the embarrassingly pathetic scene before them. But she was not unaware of this, as much as she wishes she was.

A low chuckle and she tightened her grip around Mark's waist. "I'd love to point out what this scene implies, but I'm sure you're well aware of it, Wallter." First attempting ignorance, yet of course there was nothing that would make it last.

So came words, "Go." short and straight to the point. Foolish, as it would do nothing but fuel the desire to tease.

Laughing once again, they continued. "Try to drown out your sorrow, Brickstone. I'm sure it'll make your reality all more enjoyable to return to." The teasing voice was out of sight, and still the words ached and burned into her brain.

"I have nothing left," she spoke. "let a poor man weep."

Strange words, as tears still did not run, but the gaping hole in her chest was obvious. And there was not a lot left to taunt when she already taunted herself. Dreaming of happiness and never experiencing it, was there much left to say? A surprising defeat, but the presence left her mind.

And only here did tears fall. She sobbed into Marks hair that smelled of sweet strawberries. The one underneath was completely unbothered by it, seemingly in an unwaking rest.

The clumsy goodbye kiss could surely fool her.

the song of reference btw is Never Be Mine by Kate Bush if it wasnt obvious bruh

pls comments i like comments guys

[echantedtoon]

Ocean Deep Ch2 Spectacles And Scales

((Warnings for mistreatment of the mers by the sideshow owner and some of the other people, Buying and selling of mers, mistreatment of animals briefly shown, etc.

 typed in random anime man into Google and this is the first photo that popped up so I'm using this as reference to what Akira looks like.

https://images.app.goo.gl/Kxk9rU7mkMZRiRXbA)

It was a beautiful day today. 

That's usually what the default positive thing you thought was whenever something went wrong or you were feeling bad. You'd look outside and even if it was raining, you'd still find something outside to think about. The clouds looked like funny bunnies today. The next the sky would be a beautiful blue. Those flowers look wonderful. The snow looked sparkly in the sunlight. 

Anything to stay positive in the crazy world ruled by creatures unseen and more powerful than the average human. You've never seen one personally thank the gods, but you knew something must've been going on with all of the disappearances that's happened for hundreds of years. Whether it's some humans, natural accidents, runaways, or something else you didn't know but you weren't going to be one of the ones that ended up disappearing. You had a plan for your life. 

You wanted to work on yourself and maybe find someone to settle down with, and then maybe have a few children later down the line when your career was solid and you knew you'd be secure enough. Maybe even adopt a few animals! You've always wanted a small pony! Maybe a big dog you could roughhouse and snuggle with. That'd be nice. Just you and a domestic life. But for now you were just content with just working at the local florist shop and putting your life together. 

It wasn't bad. You got to help with lots of pretty flowers all year round, there was always the pleasant smell of flowers in the air, it earnt you a decent living, it wasn't too far from your house, and your boss was a very kind old lady who's been doing this for years. You were lucky to have found such a good job. 

"Thank you for coming by. It's always so nice to see you again, Akira." 

You briefly looked up from where you were watering a pot of begonias with an old teapot. One of the local men was in today buying a small bouquet of peonies for whatever reason he wanted them. Being a decently big town, you kinda knew him but with the town still being big you also didn't. You knew this man, Akira, was the son of one of the fishermen families while his mother's family were glass blowers. You only knew that because your boss mentioned that Akira's mother's family were the ones that made the giant glass greenhouse connected to her house, she used it to grow all her flowers year round. But outside of that and just seeing him around every so often, you didn't personally know Akira. But he also had a reputation for being handsome. 

He certainly has the looks to back that up. Greyish-white soft hair. Silver eyes. A tall muscular physic. And a handsome face that looked like it was sculpted by an excellent artist. You only gave a brief look over your shoulder as the two spoke.. before going back to work. It'd be rude to stare while they spoke and you had a job to do which was to finish watering these plants. 

"You too, Mrs. Satoshi. And may I say you don't look a day over forty."

A strong of chuckles that had you rolling your eyes and inwardly groaning. "Oh, stop. You always say the sweetest things to people."

"I can't help it if I wear my heart on my sleeve.~ But while I'm here, I might as well give you this." You heard a distant sound of rustling paper and a moment later Akira spoke again. "Here! I've been handing these out for everyone to see."

There was a pause of silence before your boss hummed again. "Your uncle finally gotten that display up has he?"

"Absolutely! He calls it an 'ocean viewing through glass' and he's planning on showing it off at the end of this month!"

"Having a small tank of pet fish is one thing, but who's ever heard of people keeping giant tanks full of fish just for people to gawk at? Anyone can just go down to the beach and see most of the critters in the water."

Akira gave a deep chuckle in return. "Oh it's going to be be so much more than 'just fish's, Mrs. Satoshi. The opening night is free to everyone who shows up, and there's going to be plenty to see."

"I'll certainly think about it. Tell your family I said hi."

"I certainly will." Footsteps carried away the man from the counter before they slowly came to a stop right behind you. The sudden feeling on eyes on your back had you pausing before turning over your shoulder and finding Akira staring at you with a half lidded smiling face. "I can't forget about your lovely assistant now!"

You blinked and a second later a hand held up a piece of paper to you. F/c eyes glanced at the parchment and noticed that he must've pulled it out of the bag slung over his right shoulder since a few more corners of paper were sticking out and the top opening. The paper made some crinkle sounds when he waggled it at you pulling your attention back to it, and slowly you reached out to take it from him. Your eyes gazed over it and it became pretty apparent that it was a flyer advertising the opening of a new business. Hand written too, detailing the opening date and time and other things. 

"Oh...Thank you," you remained polite.

He smiled maybe a bit too widely but only turned to start walking away with the flowers in his hands. "I hope to see you there."

You watched as he left through the front door and slowly looked back to the flier in your hands.. before just putting it away and carrying on with your business. The roses were in need of the water and the flowers weren't going to water themselves.

"You know I think he likes you."

"...What?" Your head turned to the smiling older lady.

"He passed by here practically every day and he always gives a look at you through the window," she teased, "He's a rather handsome young man, and his family has such a profitable business."

You grimaced. "That's just really creepy. If he likes me then he can be a man and talk to me about it, and I don't even know him. We're strangers. Besides-" You turned back to the flowers pouring more water from the large teapot in your hands. "-he's not my type."

You just wasn't feeling like getting close to Akira. He gave you a bad feeling, and genuinely he really was not you type. He looked really handsome but it was more than good looks that counts. What about personality and character? Nah. The other girls could have him for all you cared. The older woman only hummed in thought before shrugging.

"If you say so, Dear. Just remember you're only young once. It wouldn't hurt to find someone nice to settle down with before it's too late."

"I also have my whole life ahead of me so I have plenty of time to settle down and find someone if I even wanted to. I don't want to rush into anything that I'll just regret later." 

You didn't want to end up like so many unhappy couples you've seen over the years. Fighting and yelling and having affairs- No. You didn't want that. You were going to take your time and if someone comes along then it'll happen. If not- Well you can always get that pony or dog you've always wanted to keep you company. You didn't need to be married or have children to have a good fulfilling life. 

Besides you were perfectly content right now with how things were. You didn't need anything changing or any surprises. Everything was just fine how they were. Not a single thing needs to be added. 

"Are you going to his uncle's grand opening? I think it would be quite interesting to see what all of the excitements about."

"I don't think so. It's just going to be a bunch of fish in giant tanks. If you ask me, that's too much work to maintain. Not to mention that the amount of cleaning the tanks and constantly hauling new water to replace the old sea water-..." You shook your head. "No. Not worth it if you ask me."

She hummed turning to grab a pair of tweezers and cut away the dead leaves off a miniature rose bush. "Well you never know. It might be fun to just go and look. It is going to be free after all. "

"Maybe."

You both left the conversation at that and didn't bring it up again. There was no point. You didn't want to go and really you shouldn't to not give Akira any more encouragement for his creepy behavior. It made a shudder run through your spine and you cringe in disgust. You'd definitely be avoiding him from now on. You'd just ignore him and everything would be fine again.

With a sigh of relief, you just went on about your day and ignored the feeling in the back of your mind. It was nothing.

You hadn't heard anything else for the next three days, and it was just business as usual around here. You were having a peaceful time with your work and had all but forgotten about the encounter with Akira or his uncle's 'grand opening' except for the occasional old flier on the ground or the occasional topic of it being brought up in conversation, but it wasn't very often and you'd forget about it quickly after anyways. But there was one strange thing that happened to at the end of the week. It was really a spectacle. Really it was. Not really a thing you'd usually see around these parts. You hadn't even noticed it really, with your back towards the roads. You were too busy helping your elderly boss pick up big plant pots outside that her frail body was too weak to lift. You'd be needing these for an upcoming big delivery for (ironically) Akira's Aunt Linna as you were informed by your boss. Apparently she was planning on adding a whole lot of giant rose bushes around her home and these heavy pots were gonna be used to transport the bushes over once they were ready in one of two weeks. Unfortunately your work was interrupted by your boss when the kind lady looked over her shoulder and gasped catching your attention.

"My oh my." She looked surprised with a hand to her chin.

You followed her gaze and paused surprised as well as a few other people on the streets around you. Coming from up the road was two giant stallions being pulled along by a strong looking middle aged man. He was cursing at the animals straining to pull along their cargo and angrily whipping the reigns with each curse.

"That's sick!" The words escaped you before you could even think.

A nasiating disgusted feeling churned about in your stomach as you watched as the poor animals strained and slowly came up the road and past you both. The sounds those poor ponies were making made you want to grab a whip and swing it at the gruff looking man as they slowly walked by you. The cargo they were straining to pull was...Well you couldn't tell what it was. It was BIG. At least six feet high, ten feet long, very rectangular, and covered by old wet tarps tied together by ropes. Your eyes widened looking up at the thing as it slowly pulled past you with the man yelling at the struggling ponies, briefly a shadow fell over you both and you froze solid as it continued to be pulled by you both. 

"It ..seems like they had come up from the beach. That's probably one of the tanks Akira's uncle wanted for his opening," your boss eventually broke the silence and pointed out the size of the presumed tank.

You didn't say anything about it for you were frozen in shock. For your eyes could have SWORN they saw the brief sight of a hand and half a face peeking out at you from a gap in the tarps..The light. You told yourself. It was just the light playing tricks on you. There's no way a human was under that tarp. You were seeing things. You shouldn't involve yourself in this. Forget it. Don't get involved in this. It wasn't worth it. Nothing good would ever come out of sticking your nose into other people's business anyways. You turned away from the sight of the cart disappearing and the distant cries of the man's cussing to place another heavy pot down off to the side, the last thing you needed was unnecessary drama in your life. 

Besides it's not like whatever Akira's family was doing would affect you.

[deadratdonoteat]

Yuji Itadori x reader

Damsel In Distress

Y/n needs rescued and a pink haired teen does just that. With a little movie date!

Tags- fluff, trapped, movie night, movie references, Snacks & Candy, matching Oonsies

W.C= 1.5k

This is not how my mission was supposed to go. I struggled against the restraints. The stupid curse that was supposed to be an easy fix now held me captive. My arms were getting tired from being behind my back. The dinghy chair that I was tied to was not comfortable. No doubt someone was coming to rescue me. I doubt it will be soon but at least it’s something. The curse was hiding behind the door to the room. It was a fat glob. Looked dirty.

“Why are you waiting by the door? No ones coming for me,” I called out to the green gooey curse. It just mumbled something that wasn’t english. What a waste of time. The rope had to be cursed, my knife wasn’t cutting it. I’m going to be stuck here forever. Right as I was coming to terms with my fate the door was flung open. The door smacking the curse.

“Don’t worry L/n! Help is here!,” the blurry figure shouted. My eyes weren’t used to the bright light from the open door. I already knew who was calling for me. The new first year that I briefly met at the school. Yuji Itadori. The one people would whisper about, something about a curse within him, I wasn't listening.

“Oh Itadori! My savor,”I say sarcastically. I saw the pink haired boy looking around. Probably looking for the scary curse holding me captive. “It was hiding behind the door,” I told him. Itadori whips his head to the door he flung open.

“Oh Yikes Sorry little guy,” Yuji apologizes as he slowly closes the door, revealing the gross looking curse. He made quick work of it. He turns back to me with an eyebrow raised. “How did that weak ass curse do this to you?” He asked with a genuine tone. Anyone else would have made fun of me.

“He had a civilian captive and when I tried to help her she pushed me into the chair instead,” I retold the events. Yuji had a finger on his chin as he nodded along. “Itadori?” I asked. I caught his attention, he tilted his head. “You mind untying me?” he rushed over after i finished my sentence. He made quick work of the ropes. I stood up as soon as the bindings were off. Blood rushed to my head. My vision developed dots. I started swaying.

“Wow L/n, are you okay?” Yuji asked, grabbing my shoulders. I leaned into him.

“Yeah yeah, I just stood up too fast,” I answered him. He was warm. His arms were supporting my weight. His chest is not as soft as I thought it would be. With my vision coming back and blood returning to my legs, i straighten my posture.

“Thanks for the rescue, Mr. Itadori,” I said in a dramatic tone while bowing to him. He laughed. Amused by the formality.

“Of course L/n! I’ll always be there to rescue you,” He announced loudly

“Your personal Damsel In Distress,” I started walking forward.

“I love Hercules! It's a good Disney film,” he stayed behind me to make sure I could fully move.

“Not everything I say is a movie reference,” I said as I opened the door.

“So you don't want to watch Hercules in my room and make Gojo Sensei buy us snacks?” He said cockly.

“Calm down there! I never said that,” I laughed as we both stepped outside, the warm setting sun hitting us both.

“So 8pm in my room?” His smile glowed in the sunlight.

“Of course,” We walked shoulder to shoulder.

When you two asked Gojo to get snacks he was a little bummed out about not being invited but he just winked at Yuji before skipping away. It was a bad idea to leave Gojo alone with his card. He came back with way too many snacks and matching onesies, mine being a f/a onesies while Yuji wore a cat one. Gojo took so many photos there black dots filled your vision from the flashes.

“Why didn’t we go with Gojo-sensei?” I asked while taking a seat on the small couch Yuji had in his dorm.

“Are you complaining about all these snacks?” he asked, dumping the snacks on the coffee table in front of us. Looking at the varieties of sweets, looking for my f/c. Grabbing it and opening while leaning into the cursed user's shoulder. The movie started.

Yuji laughed at about every joke in the movie. I forgave him when he offered me some piece of candy from his pile, he fed it to me like a baby. Sometimes I would hear a deep voice speak and then Yuji would slap his cheek. The credits began to roll. I sat upright. Stretching my back. Thinking about the potion I was just in. My back was pressed against Yuji’s chest. His arm wrapped around me. We were straight up cuddling? Pushing the thought from my head.

“Yuji are you alright?” He gave a nervous smile when I asked.

“Of course! Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well sometimes your voice would go super low but then you’d smack yourself,” I explained, he looked nervous.

“You're the only one who doesn’t know about him..” he started but trailed off. I raised a brow

“Who?”

“The curse that I’m a vessel for..” he looked away, not sadly but a different emotion

“What are you talking about?”

“Why do you think the counsel wanted me dead?”

“I thought you were on trial because you killed a bunch of people,” I tiled my head. No one ever told me why Gojo-sensei had to speak up to the counsel men. I never cared enough to ask.

“WHAT??” Yuji shot up, matching my up right position.

“Yeah, i thought you were like a crazy murderer,”

“And you still hang out with me??” He started to raise his voice.

“Well we all do things we’re not proud of,” I nodded with my words. The pink haired teen started laughing. My face grew hot with embarrassment. Was I wrong?

“I’m a vessel for a once powerful curse, Sukuna,” He told me suddenly, with a serious tone. My head fell to a tilt again.

“Who?” I asked, his eyebrows going up. He seemed surprised that I didn't know. His cheek started to change.

“Never heard of me, doll?” the mouth that morphed spoke, the single eye trained on me. I backed up from my spot. The mouth grew into a smug smile, seemingly amused by my fear.

“EW! Yuji what is that!?” I exclaimed. The mouth frowned trying to open its mouth but was slapped by Itadori’s hand. Yuji laughed at the situation. He grabbed his stomach from laughing too much. I was still so confused by the random mouth that appeared on my friend's cheek. The teen whipped his tears of joy.

“That was Sukuna, the curse inside of me,” He explained. It clicked in my head. After more questions I was fully educated on the situation.

“So it can hear all your thoughts? Sukuna I mean,” I corrected myself from calling him an ‘it’.

“I think so…Im not actually sure..” He put his finger to his chin.

“I can.” The oh so scary curse appeared on the hand that was resting on Yuji’s chin. Nodding my head. An idea and question popped into my head.

“Wait” leaning over to the pile of junk food. I unwrapped a sweet. Putting it up to the cursed mouth.

“Can you consume food while being just this mouth?” I asked while putting the candy closer to the mouth.

“L/n be careful,” Yuji said, worrying that Sukuna would bite off my fingers. The eye stared at the candy then at me. I don’t think he knew if he could. The mouth frowning.

“Come onnnnn it’s good!” I persuaded the curse, swaying the candy in front of it. As Sukuna glared into my eyes he opened his mouth slowly. Even though he didn’t open very wide I shoved the sweet in, pushing it all the way in and quickly pulling back just in case.

“Wow, I can taste it!” Yuji called out. He seemed to be savoring the candy as if it was really in his mouth.

“Do you feel the candy or is it more of a phantom touch?” I asked. My eyes switch between staring at the hand mouth and Yuji. The teen opened his mouth to prove there was no candy.

“That's so cool!” I exclaimed. I saw Yuji’s throat move so the curse must have swallowed the sweet. Right as we were about to change the subject-

“Another!” a demanding voice shouted. Looking down at the cursed mouth, it was grinning. Guess the King of curses likes sweets.

The rest of the night was spent talking while occasionally feeding Sukuna candy. Watching a stupid romcom that neither of us were very interested in. I left Yuji’s dorm around midnight. I was supposed to leave earlier but we got lost in conversation. I’m sure Gojo-sensei won’t like that I was in a guys room for so long. I checked my phone for the time again. Seeing the new wallpaper that Gojo set when he stole my phone for pictures. It was a picture of me and Yuji with our arms interlinked, wearing the silly onesies, smiling big.

Maybe I should get kidnapped more often if this is how it will turn out.

<3

[tartquez]

thinking about your time travel au and those flower prompts so if it strikes your fancy: RUE. grace/clarity, and “we dreamed of each other before we met.” hope you feel better !!!

Thanks Callie! Perfect opportunity to play on the time travel episodes being remembered by Vale as dreams concept which I’m coming more and more around on

Vale blinks once, twice, three times. Rubs his eyes as the pale walls of his hotel room slowly come into focus. Someone forgot to draw the curtains last night, not that Vale is surprised, sunlight streams into the room. It’s morning. Uccio is slumped over to his left, snoring on the ugly patterned couch, empty beer cans litter the room.

Vale yawns. Stretches.

It was a strange dream, fragments of it coming back to him in dribs and drabs. He scratches his chest idly. Sometimes he has those dreams, where everything feel so vivid and real. Even now as he’s waking up properly, he’s getting flashes of big brown eyes, framed in thick lashes and smile lines. A big light-filled house with brightly coloured paintings on the wall.

You don’t have any photos? Vale thinks he had asked. There are photos all over his house back home but he didn’t see a single one in the pretty brown-eyed man’s.

The man shrugged, we’re not big on framed photos, he said though not unkindly. Vale can’t remember who the we was referring to. He screws his eyes shut, tries to remember, something. Anything. A yellow child’s bicycle leant up against the staircase.

Vale blinks again, he thinks — he thinks the man was wearing a gold ring. We. His wife maybe.

Do you know me or something? Vale had asked, interest piqued by the way the man wasn’t remotely surprised to see him.

He just smiled, I’ve known you a long time, was all he said.

The man had smiled a lot. Vale’s throat goes dry at the memory of it, there were flecks of grey in the man’s dark hair but something almost… ageless about his wide smile. The warmth. He was wearing a dark red sweater, probably expensive, it had clung to his strong shoulders. His narrow waist. Something in the pit of Vale’s stomach weighs sits heavy, the man’s wife is a lucky woman.

It’s not — Vale is straight. Mostly straight. He glances over at Uccio’s sleeping form, his soft mouth, rosy cheeks. Yeah, whatever, mostly straight, Vale thinks. It was just a dumb dream after too much to drink, he shouldn’t be reading too much into it.

He leans over to fish an empty beer can out from between the sea of blankets and aims it at Uccio’s ankles. He flinches, cussing loudly, and Vale grins.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he crows.

Uccio flips him off with a yawn. He’s grinning too even as he shakes his head.

Vale’s smile softens.

Somewhere in Cervera, Marc is stumbling down the hallway to his parents bedroom, pushing the door open and quietly creeping in. He stands on his tiptoes so he can lean over the side of Alex’s cot. “Alex, Alex,” he whispers because his parents are still asleep but he can’t quite keep the urgency from bleeding into his voice, “I just met Valentino Rossi.”

[wandasdove]

Hellooo i was wondering if you could write something with reader being a kind of pickpocket and accidentally stealing Wanda (could be an avengers or not idk)

And she find out who stole her because of her magic and she's mad but when she finds reader she just try to Get away with some flirt?

(I hope make sense I'm sorry if not, English isn't my first language 😭😭)

— PICKPOCKETS

Pairing(s): wandaxpickpocket!reader

Summary: in the bustling streets of new york city, a skilled pickpocket inadvertently steals the wallet of wanda maximoff. realising their mistake too late, they try to lie their way out when confronted by an angry wanda. despite the tense situation, the pickpocket attempts to use flattery to defuse the situation. wanda, slightly amused but still stern, warns them never to steal from her again and walks away, leaving the pickpocket both relieved and intrigued by their encounter with the avenger.

Warnings: the story references wanda's emotional pain and loss regarding her twin boys, which might be distressing to readers sensitive to themes of loss and grief, but there is nothing triggering.

Author's Note: i really loved the idea of this, thank you for requesting this nonnie!

The bustling streets of New York City were your playground. You moved through the throngs of people with a grace and confidence that made you nearly invisible. As a pickpocket, your skills were unparalleled; your fingers were quick, your eyes sharp, and your demeanour unassuming. Today, you had your sights set on the busy outdoor market in Greenwich Village.

Vendors shouted their deals, and the air was filled with the tantalising scents of street food. You manoeuvred through the crowd, eyes scanning for potential targets. A well-dressed businessman here, a distracted tourist there. Easy marks. But your attention was drawn to a woman standing by a fruit stall, her auburn hair catching the late afternoon sunlight. She wore a long, dark coat that looked a little out of place in the warm weather, but what intrigued you more was the way she seemed to float through the crowd as if she were parting it with an invisible force.

You sidled closer, your heart pounding with the thrill of the hunt. As you neared her, you noticed her coat pocket was slightly open, revealing a sleek leather wallet inside. Intrigued and undeterred, you decided to make your move. You brushed past her, your fingers deftly slipping into her pocket and extracting the wallet. You quickly pocketed your prize and blended back into the crowd, your pulse racing.

Finding a quiet alleyway, you pulled out the wallet. It was well-crafted, with a subtle yet elegant design. You opened it and found a couple of $20 notes tucked inside. As you rifled through the card section, a photo slipped out and fluttered to the ground. You picked it up and stared at the image: a woman, smiling warmly, with two boys who looked just like her. The realisation hit you like a freight train. You had just stolen from Wanda Maximoff, aka the Scarlet Witch.

A cold sweat broke out on your forehead as you quickly stuffed the wallet and photo back into your pocket. Before you could plan your next move, you felt a strange, tingling sensation in your chest. Turning around, you saw Wanda standing at the entrance of the alley, her eyes glowing a fierce red. Panic surged through you as you realised she had found you.

"You know," Wanda said, her voice calm yet carrying an undeniable authority, "stealing isn't very nice."

You swallowed hard, trying to maintain your composure. "I, uh, don't know what you're talking about."

Wanda raised an eyebrow, her smirk growing more pronounced. "Really? Then how did this get in your pocket?" She raised her hand, and the wallet floated out of your pocket, encased in a red, shimmering aura.

Your eyes widened, and you quickly tried to come up with an explanation. "I-I don't know! It must have fallen in there somehow."

Wanda looked at you, clearly unconvinced. "You expect me to believe that?"

You felt your face flush with embarrassment. "I... I swear, I didn't mean to take it. It was just... an accident."

"An accident?" Wanda repeated, her tone laced with skepticism. "So, you accidentally reached into my pocket and took my wallet?"

Desperation creeping into your voice, you said, "I just... I saw it on the ground and picked it up. I didn't know it was yours."

Wanda stepped closer, her expression hardening. "Do you have any idea what it feels like to lose something precious? My boys... that photo is one of the few memories I have left."

Your heart sank as you saw the pain in her eyes. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to cause you any pain."

"Sorry isn't enough," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "You clearly don't know what it's like to lose everything."

Trying to defuse the tension, you said, "I... I can't imagine. But I can tell that you're strong. And those boys in the photo, they’re lucky to have a mother like you."

Wanda's eyes softened for a moment, but then her stern expression returned. "Flattery won't get you out of this. You have no idea the lengths I'd go to protect them, even if it's just their memory."

You nodded quickly, your heart pounding in your chest. "I understand. I really do. Maybe next time I’ll just ask for your attention instead of your belongings."

Wanda's smirk widened. "Next time, try starting with a simple 'hello'."

With that, she turned and walked away, the wallet securely back in her possession, the red aura fading. You watched her disappear into the bustling market, a mix of relief and excitement bubbling inside you. This encounter had been a close call, but also the most thrilling experience you'd ever had. As you slipped back into the crowd, you couldn't help but wonder when you might run into the Scarlet Witch again—and what kind of magic that encounter might hold.

[kmlottin]

Why are people coming to your account to talk shit about Kylian, like know your audience

Also please can we just get even a tiny bit of the fic tonight we need it!!

I honestly don’t mind cause the comments don’t even make sense

And here’s the opening paragraph🤭

It’s the kind of silence that feels intentional.

The penthouse suite is still, bathed in the hazy gold of a Miami morning. The AC hums faintly against the heat pressing in from the windows. You stretch, slow and unbothered, one arm sliding into the cool, empty side of the bed. He didn’t come home last night,team hotel rules. You knew he wouldn’t.

Still, you tug the sheet around you anyway. Not because you need it, but because it smells like him. A quiet kind of comfort. Soft against your skin. The city moves somewhere far below, but you stay still, weightless in the hush of your own space.

You check your phone out of habit.

Then you freeze.

It’s the Explore page that does it. A carousel of paparazzi shots, bright and overexposed, all stamped with the same caption in different fonts:

Kylian Mbappé spotted in Miami greeting influencer with a cheeky kiss 👀

Old crush? New flame? Fans are talking…

You don’t click on the post. You don’t need to. The preview photo is loud enough. Him in a white tee, shorts slung low on his hips. Her in a bikini top and denim shorts. One arm around her waist, his head dipped down, his lips brushing her cheek in a casual, too familiar hello.

And he’s smiling. That soft, distracted smile he gives when his guard is down. When he’s charmed.

You sit up straighter, thumb hovering over the screen. You tell yourself not to open the comments.

You do anyway.

“Oh she’s bad. Like… BAD bad.”

“Didn’t he used to follow her back in the day?”

“He still watches her stories. We’ve seen the receipts.”

“Poor Y/N.”

“Is he single again or what?”

You lock your phone.

It’s instinct. Like slamming a door before the scream can leave your throat. But the noise still echoes in your chest, a low throb of something you can’t name yet,jealousy? hurt? embarrassment?

No. Worse.

Familiarity.

You remember her. Not personally, just digitally. A name once floating in the mess of Kylian’s early Instagram follows, tagged in thirst traps, memes, beach pics. He used to like her photos back when you were still just flirting. Before things were real. Before you were real.

You’d asked about her once, in that early window of sharp edges and unspoken insecurities.

“She’s just some girl. I used to think she was hot. It’s nothing.”

He said it like it was harmless.

But the image of her standing in his arms says otherwise.

Your phone buzzes.

For a split second, you think maybe… maybe it’s him. Maybe he’s already texted. Maybe there’s an explanation waiting. A ‘hey, that wasn’t what it looked like’. A reassurance.

You flip it over.

Uber Eats.

No message from Kylian. No calls. Nothing.

He’s always said he hates public drama. That silence is protection. That he doesn’t owe the world anything.

But this doesn’t feel like silence for the world.

This feels like silence for you.

You lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Your chest tightens, not in heartbreak, but in humiliation. Because you know exactly how this will play out online. You’ll become a footnote. A passive tag in a viral post. A reference point for who used to be his girlfriend.

And maybe worst of all? You can already hear the questions in your own head.

Would he have smiled like that if she didn’t mean something?

Would he have touched her at all if you were there?

Would he have told you if no one else saw?

You don’t cry.

You don’t speak.

You just reach for your phone again, open the gallery, and flip to a recent picture of yourself, the one he took in Paris a few weeks ago, sunlight caught in your hair, smile crooked, his jacket draped over your shoulders.

Then you scroll back to the photo of him with her.

You stare at them side by side.

And something inside you clicks.

If he won’t say anything, fine.

You won’t either.

You’ll show him.

[scrilladge]

yeah! My girlfriend’s little sister is albino! Her eyes are purplish and it’s pretty neat! She has a lot of eyesigh issues and will likely be completely blind by 40 tho. she thinks I am very cool, but also she refuses to wear her sunblock for some reason. 😭 LIKE GIRL I AM GINGER I KNOW THE IMPORTANCE OF SUNBLOCK WEAR IT

(being ginger is a form of erythrism which stops your body from converting the pheomelanin it produces into eumelanin, unlike eumelanin pheomelanin when in contact with uv rays can actually damage skin which is why being ginger is less common the closer you are to the equator and becomes more common the farther you are from the equator because there’s less selection pressure against it. I don’t know if there are any benefits to being ginger other than cool hair, oftentimes freckles, and orangish skin. I think it just is more common because there’s less selection pressure against it. (By the way you don’t have to be white to be Ginger it’s just more common in northern-European populations for the reason I mentioned above which just so happen to be pale. (Which is just an adaptation to produce more vitamin d in response to less sunlight. Unfortunately this increases the risk of things like skin cancer because there’s less melanin in your skin.) There are ginger poc! You guys are really cool! We shall all do little ginger dances. Also no matter your skintone you aren’t completely immune to skin cancer please wear sunblock.)

sometimes I wonder how I would look if I wasn’t ginger tho! It seems like eumelanin is a bit darker than pheomelanin so I wonder if I would have dark brown almost-black hair like my mom or if it would be lighter brown. (Eumelanin is red-brown and pheomelanin is red-orange.) erythrism is also what causes pink grasshoppers, golden tigers, and strawberry leopards!!

(Someone help me find the artist of this piece I want to follow them.)

Pictures of my finger ass for reference (most of these are from my senior photos because my shitty iPhone 8 camera isn’t great. The ones with me in a suit were from prom tho.) if you look closely you can see most of my freckles are orange which is neat! here’s pics of more gingers too because erythrism is cool!! Even if it does make you more sensitive to the sun.

also a bunch of other ginger animals

All the purple-eyed hetalia characters must have Alexandria’s genesis /j

they all most certainly have eye problems lol. violet eyes do exist irl but it's usually a result of some type of albinism which does cause vision problems

[gyllenhaalstories]

THROUGH THE AFTERNOON — SUGAR DADDY!JAKE GYLLENHAAL 🎂

summary: why get out of bed to celebrate your birthday when you can be a pillow princess?

warnings: mentions of food, curse words, established sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship, smut (use of the princess pet name, daddy kink, praise kink, finger sucking, mild spit kink, biting & marking, nipple play, humping, eating out, fingering, masturbation, messy cumshot). 18+ NO MINORS.

word count: 3300

photos credits: @/gyllenhaaldaily (cropped) / divider credits: @/firefly-graphics

notes: today is my birthday and, just like last year, i’m making it everyone’s problem! this year’s self indulgence is that reader is clearly PLUS SIZE and the story includes descriptions of a fat body. i highly suggest you check out THIS FIC and THIS OTHER FIC to understand their dynamic. 🍰 thank you for reading & REMEMBER TO REBLOG!    

Jake was putting things away. It was a special weekend, the two of you were celebrating your birthday. For the occasion, he sent all his at-house employees away. For privacy purposes, intimacy too, and mostly just so he could enjoy your presence.

And your presence, so far, had consisted of eating delicious cake and other desserts he purchased himself from a nearby, fancy pastry shop. In bed, out of all places. You shared a plate and devoured one delicacy after the other, reminiscing of the previous year and discussing your hopes and dreams for next one.

You also watched the day go by, the sunlight change and dance around the bedroom until it was late in the afternoon. You clung to Jake’s body, silently asking for just five more minutes of basking in his warm embrace.

Instead, he decided there had been enough of those five minutes that turned into hours and into the two of you relaxing the day away. “It’s a special day. We need to do something.” Jake kept repeating.

“The day is perfect the way it is.” Despite your reassurance, he still slipped out of the bed and left the room, bringing with him dirty plates and various cardboard containers. His black sweat pants laid low on his waist, giving you the best view of his Adonis belt when he leaned closer for one last kiss and of his back dimples when he left the room.

So. You waited for him to come back.

Not without hearing your exaggerated sighs and whines, Jake came back to the bedroom with empty hands, but with something much different about him.

You sat on the bed, the silk sheets wrapped around your chest to cover yourself. You watched Jake put away boxes of expensive watches, gifts from connections with brands and purchases he made on the regular basis to cheer him up.

He felt your eyes piercing through him and spoke while he walked in the direction of his comically spacious walk-in closet. “Tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours.”

You let the question sink in. There was everything and nothing going through your head. Thoughts were fighting, words were failing to escape your throat.

The silence worried him, he froze in place. Consequently, the symphony of noises as he put away his luxury clothing items stopped. “You heard me.” His head poked through the large doors, you could read the ounce of concern that cast a shadow over his face.

“You look good in my clothes.”

He was now standing in the doorway, head tilted with a strand of hair that fell off his both effortful and effortless swept hair.

“You heard me.” You chuckled and squinted enough to notice the blush on his cheeks.

“Thank you.” He gave you a wink and disappeared in the closet again. He spoke, louder so you could hear him. “Do you mind?” He referred to the creamy white sweater he stole from the clothes he kept for you at his place.

“Absolutely not.” As soon as he entered the room again, you gestured in a grabby-hands way to get Jake to come closer. You caressed the soft fabric of the sweater with your hands, smoothing it over his body.

The fit at the shoulders was a bit tight, not that he minded. The sleeves were slightly scrunched up around his wrists. But the rest fell softly around his sides, loosely, comfortably.

“I like it a lot, actually.” Your hands travelled to find his and give them a squeeze until you let your thumb rub on his skin and the bump of his veins. “You should wear my stuff more often.”

“Is that so?” He arched a brow until you answered with a nod. “I didn’t have to tell you to use your words. Such a good girl.” His right hand let go of yours so that he could place a finger under your chin and tilt your head up to place a kiss on your lips.

You pulled away to speak. “Will you think of me when you will wear the clothes you bought me?” It was his turn to squint, unsure of where you were heading with that question. So, you continued. “You’ll remember how we fucked by the fireplace in Aspen and I wore this gift you got me for the trip.”

His tongue ran over his lips when you marked a pause. “Keep going.”

“You can wear the black shirt you got me in a hurry when you forgot about a meeting and made me pretend to be your assistant only to tease me the whole time with your hand up in my skirt.” You looked up at him, through your lashes. “Or the blazer from the fundraiser gala we sneaked out of. Or the cardigan when we visited your business partner and you took me to his study. And that —”  

“Fuck.” He threw his head back with a wave of laughter, there was a hint of embarrassment too as he relived each and every memory you listed. “Now you got me thinking of them all at once.”

“What’s wrong, Daddy? You’re saying it like it’s a bad thing.” You teased Jake, faking an innocent smile. “Welcome to what’s going through my head most of the time.”

Jake placed his hands on your cheeks and captured your lips in a second, much deeper, kiss. “I love knowing I’m on your mind so often.”

You pouted when he moved his face away from yours.

“Got Daddy on your mind like the good princess you are.” He presented his right pointer finger to your lips and you opened your mouth, slowly.

He took a long look at you. The bed sheets pooled around your tummy and waist, your chest rose suddenly when his digit pushed past your parted lips, swollen from all the kisses you exchanged during the day. You laid your hands on his hips, fists gripping on the soft fabric while you tugged on it.

He pushed his finger deeper inside of your mouth, he pressed on your tongue to keep you from twirling it around his digit. Jake’s jaw dropped when he inserted a second finger, as if he had not done this countless times before.

You kept one hand on his hip, resting on the barely apparent curve of his waist. You wrapped your hand around his exposed wrist, pushing his own hand closer in your direction.

He clicked his tongue at you, warning you about your eagerness.

You could practically watch the gears turn in his head from one look into his darkened blue eyes.

He was debating whether to keep up the act, teach you one more lesson about patience and manners that would go inside one ear and out the other before he would be done. Or, if he should oblige —  give in. It was your special day. But every day was special as long as you were a part of it. He swallowed thickly, blinked the thoughts away.

You let go of his fingers with a pop, his skin turned a pale shade of red after you basically left a faint hickey on them. “That’s all you want to do, Daddy? Just stand there and watch me?” You raised a brow at him.

His response was quick, instinctive. In a swift movement, he pulled the sweater up and over his head, tossing it on the plush carpet on the floor. His lips were pressed against yours, rough and hungry, he pushed you down so you could lay on your back while he climbed on the bed and hovered your body.

“That’s better.” Your cockiness was rewarded with a smirk that spread across his face and morphed into an amused smile.

He planted one hand on each side of your torso, right below your armpits to lock you in place. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood.”

You rolled your eyes, his threats, more often than not, fell flat. They did now, at least, after you had gotten acquainted that there was nothing but an heart of gold behind his cold, stern, almost cliché facade.

Before you could open your mouth to retort, Jake’s teeth sunk in the soft skin of your neck and you felt the tip of his tongue gently brushing over the marks he left. He kept going, biting and sucking his way down to your collarbone and over your throat. There was an appetite burning inside of him to mark you up in places he tried to keep pristine. There was nothing on the calendar for the next couple of days. Plenty of time to heal.

Plenty of time to use you like his own perfect, precious toy. You moaned at your own thought, and at the feeling of his warm breath tickling your nipples.

His nose pressed on the flesh of your breast while he sucked more of your nipple in his mouth, lapping and sucking at the sensitive bud. He replicated the same action to the other nipple until the moans that left your mouth turned into needy whimpers that sent an electric shock straight to his cock.

While his upper half was exposed, and at the mercy of the scratching marks you left all over his back, his bulge was growing tight in his pants and you felt him press harder against your thigh. You slid your hands down his back so they rested on the curve at the end of it, pushing him more against you.

Jake pulled away from your chest, a strand of spit dripped down his flattened tongue. The strand broke when his body started to move against yours, determined to get off on the friction of humping your thigh. He let out a grunt when you dug your fingernails, your hands back up on his shoulder blades. “Wanna let me get a taste?”

You nodded frantically and begged for him to give you more. You repeated Daddy, daddy, daddy over and over again to the point you lost yourself in the thought of him as he trailed kisses down your body.

He pressed some more kisses on your belly while he positioned himself in between your legs. You had grabbed a pillow and rested it under your head for support. “That’s it Princess.” He praised you while your hands reached to your tummy, pulling on it.

At the same time, he pushed your legs open and back. He gave your right thigh a bite, similar to the one he first left on your neck. Kisses, always more kisses. He made his way closer and closer to your pussy that he exposed for his own viewing pleasure. His palms laid on your inner thighs and he pulled them out of the way, used his thumb to spread your pussy open. His eyes were filled with lust and, finally, after swiping his lips with his tongue, he leaned closer to lick a gentle swipe from your core.

You threw your head back on the pillow and exhaled audibly.

His tongue grazed over your clit, quickly replaced by his nose that bumped against it as his tongue explored your folds. “Sweet girl.” He whispered against you, just loud enough to let the words resonate in your mind.

Your mind, it emptied itself more and more while he licked, sucked and lapped at your pussy. He did not even mind when you had to get a better grip on your belly, hands slippery from the sweat brought out by the arousal and the warmth growing inside of you.

He closed his eyes and kept going, eating you out with such a passion that it made your toes curl.

“You’re not gonna cum right now. I’m just getting started.” He pouted while he spoke, his eyebrows curling into a fake sad, but mostly mischievous expression.

You groaned, frustrated that he stopped giving your clit the attention it deserved.

“You’re Daddy’s good girl. Isn’t that right?” His tongue pressed on your clit, awaiting an answer.

“Yeah!” You cried out, eyes shut from the desire. You tried to control the tears that started to form, not to give in for a few minutes of him eating you out.

His nails left crescent shapes in the skin of your thighs, anchoring your legs in this position that was making your hips burn with pain from the stretching. “Mhm.” He sounded displeased.” Try again.”

You opened your eyes, invisible daggers thrown in his direction. “I’m Daddy’s girl.” Surrender. You could not do anything but surrender when his tongue plunged into your entrance. You were so set on cumming that you did not even realize, all this time, that Jake’s hips had been working as hard as his mouth, humping the mattress like he did to your thigh.

He fucked his tongue inside your hole, his nose hitting your clit repeatedly and it was just enough to draw louder moans out of you, but still not sufficient to take you over the edge. His own noises were muffled by your folds when he rested there, tongue all the way inside of you. He shook his head from left to right, ever so slightly.

You tried to close your legs around his head, the pleasure growing so strong and so fast.

Jake was having none of it. He switched from pulling your thighs out of the way to pressing down on your legs, harshly. He sucked on your clit until he noticed you arching your back, your body starting to prepare for your orgasm.

Your orgasm that did not come. “Fuck!” You groaned. You let go of a breath you did not know you were holding and sobbed. You sobbed, and he laughed.

Jake laughed softly when he soothed the skin that rubbed against his short beard with small kisses. “You can’t blame me, baby.” He started to speak, voice raspy. He raised himself on his elbows and you let go of your tummy to hold on your legs.

Your body was on fire and it almost distracted you from when his middle finger, the one you sucked earlier, bottomed out inside of your pussy. “Please, Daddy, please!” Tears fell down your cheeks.“Need you to fuck me, please!”

“I love it when you get needy on me” He lowered his head against and licked your clit while his finger curled inside of you, trying to reach even deeper.

Through your lashes, you caught sight of him. His back was covered in a layer of sweat, his face was reddened from the intensity with which he ate you out, his whole arm was flexing while he fingered you hard and fast until he let you cum.

Finally. You felt it rise from the tip of your toes all the way up your legs, which were shaking in the air. Your hands fell down from them and you could not not even bring yourself to do something with them, grip Jake’s messy hair, or the just as messy bed sheets, or even your tits. The pleasure reached your stomach and pulled and pulled and pulled, your back arching and relaxing while Jake was giving you no time to breathe or register just how good it felt. And it reached your mind, clearing it of anything except the feeling of bliss that spread over you.

Jake pulled his face away from you and slowed down on the thrusting of his fingers until your clenched walls relaxed around him, allowing him to slide out of you. He sucked his finger clean while you tried to catch your breath. “Happy,” He spoke, kissing the spot where your hands were on your belly. “Fucking,” he reached up to the valley between your breasts. “Birthday.” He finished with a deep kiss so you could taste yourself on his lips and tongue.

You mouthed a very faint thank you and let out a surprised gasp when you felt something press against your sensitive core.

He started to hump you, still covered under his clothes that you lost no time soaking with the mess of juices and spit that he left between your legs.

You tried to tell him you were too sensitive, but words fail to leave your mind. Instead, you held him close and let him reach his own high. Your mouth was open, sometimes you would capture his bottom lip in between his but you left him as much freedom as he needed to let out all the moans. “Daddy?”

His eyes opened to watch you, thinking he would find confusion on your face as to why he preferred to hump you rather than fuck you out of your mind  — to be fair, he already did. Instead, he found pupils blown out with lust and love. “You did so fucking good for me.”

“Yeah?” He nodded and you noticed how his body started to twitch, losing the rhythm he used to fuck his hips against you.

He sat back on his knees just long enough to pull down his pants and finally free his rock hard cock from its confines. “Shit!” He exclaimed, jerking himself off with a hand that cupped his balls and rested at the base of his cock and a tight fist around the tip. His jaw clenched when drops of cum started to fall down on your skin and he grunted loud, he could feel it deep in his chest.

You watched him cum over your lower stomach, but most of it covered your puffy folds. His tip leaked a few more drops of cum before Jake went to lay down next to you.

He failed to catch his breath for a while, just like you did too. You helped him with thank yous, I love yous, and a soothing hand rubbing over his abdomen.

“Happy birthday to me.” You chuckled, exhaustion manifesting itself with heavy eyelids and laziness taking over your body.

“How about we take a quick bath to clean up?” You mumbled something that sounded like an excuse to lay there even longer — not only did you lay in bed through the afternoon, but you wanted to do it through the entire day. “We need it, Princess.” Jake squeezed your hand and brought it to mouth for a kiss with his swollen lips.

“Only if we go back to bed as soon as we’re done.” You negotiated, eyes squinting as you anticipated his response.

“Bath, dinner, then bed.” He raised an eyebrow, a hint of playfulness lit up his eyes despite the darkness of the evening swallowing all of the daylight that previously shined through the room. “I have a counter offer.”

“I’m all ears, sir.” You rolled to your side and he shifted too, giving you the place you need to reach for his cheek and plant a kiss.

The nickname did not go unnoticed, but he, too, was too tired to bring it up or think of any witty come back. “You can take a quick nap in my arms while we’re in the bed and after we eat, we cuddle for a movie.” He watched attentively the grin that appeared on your face, from one ear to the other.

“We reached a deal.” Another kiss, this time on his temple where his small vein was still bulging, sealed the business proposal. “Do I have to sign a contract this time?”

He smiled, realizing how he forgot about the papers of your peculiar agreement. “No need for one. I trust my partner.”

“So you trust me to make the water of the bath extra hot?”

His laughter made his chest rise up and down. “Yeah, that too.” He sat up and helped you, offering a strong, but tired, arm to pull you up. “Happy birthday again, my beautiful Princess.”

[littlemisspascal]

The Infinity Cube Part 20

Main Pairing: Marcus Pike x Female Reader

Word Count: 3400+

Series Summary:  When you play with a strange cube, you’re transported out of your current reality with your boyfriend Marcus into brand new ones starring alternate versions of your boyfriend who look and act entirely different every time. With each encounter, you start to wonder if you’ll ever make it back to your real universe?

Warnings for the chapter: language, Devil!Dio deserves a warning for being Devil!Dio, making out, inspiration from Star Wars Rebels + JLU, references to previous chapters, fluff + angst, 

Author Note: One year later and here we are, the final chapter. I’ve had this ending in mind from the very beginning and I can’t believe it’s finally over 😭💜 I want to thank every single reader of this series, seriously y’all’s support has meant the absolute world to me and gave me the motivation to keep writing this crazy roller coaster. Fingers crossed y’all enjoy it and also be sure to keep an eye out for an epilogue coming soon 👀

Special shoutout to @beecastle​ for talking me out of losing my sanity several times and helping me cross the finish line 💗

PART 1 / PART 19

Gif by: @nicolethered

You find yourself looking up at a large, solid white house draped in ivy vines with circular windows and, if you squint enough against the blinding afternoon sunlight, a rooster weathervane on top of the roof. It’s a nice place, charming in its own unique way, but whose it belongs to and why you’re standing in front of it are two questions you lack the answers to. 

Despite being in an unknown location, you’re not afraid. There’s no hint of tension in your muscles or anxious thoughts spinning circles in your head. Instead there’s only a numbing sort of calmness, a sense of certainty telling you you’re in the right spot. 

You’re thinking about walking up the front porch steps and knocking on the door, but then, as if reading your mind, it swings open and an impatient Dio appears in the doorway, looking down his nose at you.

“Finally,” he says, enunciating every syllable with a punch of passive-aggressiveness. “Took you long enough. I’m starting to get gray hairs, Specs.”

Eyebrows lifting, you do a double-take of your surroundings, then look back at Dio, expression still bitchy.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, more confused than fearful. “Where are we?”

“Oh, right, duh, where are my manners?” Dio makes a show of smacking himself in the forehead. “Welcome to my own little corner of hell. Yes, yes, I know it’s beautiful so stop staring and get your ass inside.”

After huffing out an incredulous laugh, you obey, finding the inside of the house to be just as pretty and solid white as the outside. White walls, white floor with a white rug, white furniture and accessories all elegantly arranged. You stand in the living room, thinking it looks as if Dio copied a page out of Better Homes & Gardens, and the thought is so absurd it has you rubbing at your nose to conceal a smile.

“I asked if he robbed Pottery Barn,” a voice chimes in from behind.

You whirl around, finding a woman sitting in a chair nestled in the corner. One look at her face has your heart freezing solid in your chest. It’s quite possible your brain has stopped functioning too, because there’s no way it can be her, that she can be here with you in the same space.

“Stranger things have happened.”

Your eyes widen. “Can you…?”

“No, I can’t read your thoughts,” she says, mouth curling up with a smile. “Our face, however, is an open book. We’d be absolutely shit at poker.”

It’s so easy, so casual, the way she confirms who she is. And you would have laughed at her remark if your brain wasn’t too busy exploding.

You’d seen a photo of the thief and his dear, saw she wore the same face as your own. Still, being here together, looking at her as a real, living and breathing person, a carbon copy of yourself, is so fucking bizarre.

Dearheart, in contrast, seems calm and composed, expression almost serene. It occurs to you then with a bright flash of clarity, she’s finally free. After countless cycles of temptation and heartache and endless waiting, she’s no longer a prisoner of the cube.

Your eyes well up with tears before you can stop them, chest constricting with emotion, and a sob escapes your throat. It catches up to you all at once—you solved the Infinity Cube, the long journey has finally finished, you can go home. It’s all finally over.

Dearheart stands up and throws her arms around you, uncaring of how you immediately bury your face in her shoulder, sobs wracking your body with every gasp of breath. Your hands grab fistfuls of her shirt, finding comfort in her physicality, in her quiet shushings and murmurings.

“You did it,” she tells you over and over again, squeezing you tighter, and there are tears in her voice now too. “You saved us.”

You don’t know how long the two of you stand there, hugging and crying, but Dio’s patience only lasts so long before he’s pointedly clearing his throat.

“As much as I love witnessing touching moments,” Dio starts, completely unaffected by the twin glares directed his way, “we three have much to discuss.”

Although you hate to admit it, you know Dio’s right. You scrub at your burning eyes and wipe away the residual tears clinging to your cheeks. It’s actually more than a little embarrassing, being the one being comforted instead of offering it to Dearheart. Swallowing harshly against the thick lump in your throat, you manage to croak out, “Start talking, Dio. Why are we here exactly?”

Dio drops down onto the couch, arms casually stretched wide over the fluffy white pillows. “The cube brought you both here, back to where it all began.” He smiles then, a wide thing with too many teeth. “I never said congratulations to you Specs, did I? Welcome to the finish line, you clever girl.”

“I didn’t do it alone,” you reply, thinking of Javi’s help and of Dearheart’s hints along the way. You turn to look at her, finding her already staring back. “That was you, right? Marie Shaid and the book?”

“Not entirely. With my magic, I can’t create matter out of thin air, only alter how people perceive it. The book was real, in that universe, at least. All I did was make you see it a little differently,” Dearheart says. Her gaze falls to her hands then, turning them over palms up and wiggling her fingers. You swear you glimpse little sparkles of light leaping between the digits, almost like firecrackers. “That trick nearly drained me of my magic, but I had to get your attention somehow.”

You stay quiet, staring at her hands still faintly glowing. It makes sense she has magic—after all, the thief had also possessed it and Dearheart is from the same universe. Still, actually witnessing it up close is enough to send your head spinning. Just when you thought there wasn’t much more the multiverse could surprise you with, it throws you Dio, his picturesque white house, and your variant with magical powers all at once.

“Be careful, would you? I’m still trying to get rid of the magic stains from your partner’s failed attempt to steal from me,” Dio gripes, but there’s mischief glittering in his dark eyes, indicating he knows exactly which buttons he’s pushing. “We don’t want a repeat of past mistakes now, do we?”

Dearheart’s eyes narrow, hands curling into fists, and your own tongue burns as if it can feel the scathing retort she’s about to unleash. You quickly intervene before any furniture or limbs end up broken. “Dio, we made a deal, remember? I solve the cube and you make sure everything goes back to the way it was.”

Dio smirks, and it’s the same little mean curl of his mouth you’d previously thought made him look like a cat who caught a canary. It bothers you now to see it just as much as it did then. “Of course I remember.”

A beat of silence follows. The kind of quiet before a bomb drops, before everything irreparably changes and what was familiar is gone. Lost forever.

Your alternate self must feel it too, this almost tangible fizzle in the air, because she steps closer, arms brushing. A touch that says: you’re not alone. Not anymore.

The Devil sits up, bracing his forearms on his knees while pinning you with his stare. “I have a question for you, Specs. And it might just be the hardest one you’ll ever have to answer in your whole life, but once you do, I’ll send you home. Both of you,” he corrects before you can argue.

“I don’t like this,” Dearheart mutters, and you tilt your head in wordless agreement. Unfortunately, as guests in Dio’s home, you don’t have much of a choice.

Exhaling a quiet breath, you ask Dio, “What’s the question?”

He studies you for a long moment, like he can see straight through to your fractured heart and tender soul, expression uncharacteristically blank. The seconds of quietness stretch on, each one adding to the weight pressing down on your lungs.

And then, “Do you wish to forget?”

Your heartbeat stutters. “Wh-what?”

“Not many can say they successfully fulfilled a deal with the Devil. You’ve…impressed me, Specs,” Dio says, and a beam of sunlight bounces off his silver star earring, as blinding as it is surprisingly beautiful. “So, I’m giving you a choice. Carry the memories of all your precious Brown Eyes back home with you, or leave them behind.” 

You’re uncomfortably aware of the two pairs of eyes watching you, waiting for your response. You turn the question over in your head for a second, thinking about how you feel, about your conversation with Javi. He’s already forgotten about you. Everyone you’ve ever met across the multiverse has had their lives reset, none the wiser you ever crossed paths at all. 

Is it really so bad to want that same blissful ignorance they have?

You make the mistake of glancing at Dearheart. One look at your face, and she already knows what you’re going to choose. One look at hers, and you know she’s okay with it. 

Somehow, that makes the small pang of guilt hurt all the worse.

“I’m sorry, I just, it’s…” You make a face at your tongue’s clumsiness, fumbling for a way to explain everything, how it feels like the memories will continue to fester inside of you until there’s nothing left of who you are. There’s just too many of them. You’ve lived too many lives.

She smiles, and it’s soft and devoid of judgment. You blink harshly against the burn of returning tears. “You don’t need to apologize or explain. I already know.”

“But—”

“You’ve done more than enough for me, Specs,” she cuts you off, gentle yet firm, placing a hand on your shoulder. “You deserve a peaceful life with the one you love. The life the multiverse intended for you.”

“You deserve that too,” you blurt out, impulsive yet sincere. 

Dearheart blinks with surprise, visibly taken aback for a second, before letting out a quiet laugh. “It’s hard to imagine it. A pair of thieves settling down together, living a quiet life. Then again,” she gives you a pointed look, one eyebrow arching up, “strangers things have happened, yeah?”

 It startles a laugh out of you. “Yeah,” you nod, smiling wide. “Yeah, they really have.”

“And I’ll hold onto them. Every single one,” she says, lifting her hand from your shoulder to tap her temple. “Maybe write a book or something.”

“Well, well, well, wouldja look at that,” Dio remarks, pitching his voice higher to reclaim the spotlight once more. He stands up, moving closer to stand in front of you both. “Everybody gets what they want and goes home happy. I thought endings like that only happened in fairy tales.”

“What are you going to do with the cube, exactly?” you ask, carefully watching his face.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little mind about it,” he answers flippantly, but the cracking of his knuckles does little to mollify you. “It won’t be a problem for you or your Brown Eyes anymore. That’s what you’re really asking, right?”

“And I’m just supposed to take your word for it?”

“You do you, clever girl.” He shrugs, looking like he could honestly care less about your poor opinion of him. “Now, let’s get this all wrapped up already. I’m a busy guy. I’ve got other souls to play with. Punishments to inflict. Deals to arrange.”

The tempo of your heartbeat accelerates, the realization that this is it buzzing through your nerves. “What–” your voice cracks under the weight of emotions suddenly springing to life inside of you. “What do I do?”

Dio chuckles, a genuine-sounding one, like you’ve just said something funny. Then, without sparing a second to explain himself, he licks a long, wet strip up the center of his palm, a strange symbol lighting up in the center of it, before he begins chanting in a language you’ve never heard of before, words tumbling out of his mouth rapid-fire in a low, steady stream.

Your whole body goes stiff, limbs held in place by invisible strings. You open your mouth to yell or curse at him, only to find you’ve lost your voice, just a weak gasp of air escaping your lips. 

“Don’t fight it,” Dearheart tells you, voice breaking through the thunderous sound of blood pounding in your eardrums. “Just breathe.”

It feels like you’re being torn apart from the inside out, all of your atoms burning one by one. A scream presses against the backs of your teeth, the taste of blood sharp on your tongue. You might be crying; you can’t really tell anymore.

Dio continues his chant without any sign of stopping.

“Breathe,” Dearheart says again, sounding so close it’s as though she’s inside your head, wrapped around you, holding your hand. “It will all be over soon.”

Her words are a balm against the worst of the pain, and something inside of you relaxes upon hearing them. You close your eyes, forcing yourself to follow her command and breathe. In and out, in and out, even as numbness starts to creep up your legs. Along your spine and abdomen. Inch by deadening inch.

Your senses are next to go. Dio’s voice fades away seconds before the floor disappears. And you’re left with the sensation that you’re floating in a sea of nothingness. A second passes, then another, and another, and then—

Then you’re falling.

~~

The room is full of open doors.

That’s the first thing you realize upon opening your eyes and regaining your bearings. Every direction you turn your head there’s dozens of doorways leading to unknown locations. The air is still, neither hot nor cold, and the entire space is as silent as a tomb. It’s…unsettling, to say the least.

A tugging sensation prompts you to start walking, even though you have no idea what or where your final destination is. There’s no sky here, no light source, but somehow you’re able to see the path in front of you clearly, each step sure-footed. 

Every doorway you look through when you pass them reveals glimpses of the same woman and man in different settings. There’s a sense of vague familiarity, a name sitting on your tongue you can’t quite recall. Sometimes they look happy, obviously in love, other times they’re fighting, spitting curses and crying tears. Their physical characteristics change, too, hairstyles and ages and the appearances of scars. For all the variations though, there is one single constant.

They’re always together.

In one doorway, they’re sitting on a beach, the woman leaning back against the man’s chest while she holds up seashells from a small collection pile for him to see. Whatever the man says about one of them makes her laugh, tossing her head back against his shoulder, and he hides his crooked smile by burying his face in her hair.

The next shows them with a little baby girl crawling across a carpet floor. She’s got a head full of curls and a pair of beautiful, sparkling eyes matching her parents’. The man is videotaping her, the widest of smiles on his face, while the woman watches from the sofa with an expression you can only think of describing as pure contentment. 

Another reveals them in an office arguing over a gemstone clutched in the man’s hands. The woman makes several attempts at grabbing it only for him to keep evading her reach, holding the item close to his chest as though it were his most precious treasure. You don’t know what’s going on, why the gem is the source of their strife, but you have the sinking suspicion their situation is about to go from bad to worse.

There’s a split-second you actually think about pausing—to do what, you’re not exactly sure. Yell at them? Reach through the door and take the stone for yourself? But then that internal tugging starts up again, more insistent this time, urging you to keep walking.

So you do.

The doors keep emerging from the blackness on either side of you, far more than you can count, and vanish just as soon as you pass them. This is without question the most elaborate dream you’ve ever had, but curiosity overrules your desire to wake up. If there is an ending to this, you want to see it through.

Eventually, after what seems like miles even though your feet don’t ache at all, you reach a fork in the road, discovering two doors which look different from the rest. On the left, light pours out of the open doorway, so much you can’t even tell what the scene is inside. On the right, a door which has been shut, offering no clues as to what’s on the other side of it.

Wary of the closed door, you approach the left one first, squinting against the brightness until you can make out the shapes of furniture and people. A green leather sofa. A massive fireplace. The man and woman are wrapped in a passionate embrace, kissing each other as if they’re starving for it, hands roaming over each other’s bodies. 

You must make a sound, a gasp or something, because the woman’s eyes lock onto yours as she exposes her neck for the man to continue lavishing with his lips. 

And then, as if it isn’t awkward enough already, she wiggles her fingers at you. At first you think she’s waving, or perhaps shooing you away, but then the door abruptly slams shut like it’s got a mind of its own, causing you to leap backwards with a yelp. 

“Curiouser and curiouser,” you murmur, blinking at the now-closed door.

The only option left, whether you like it or not, is the other door. Nervousness twists a knot in your stomach, growing a little bit bigger with every approaching step. There’s nothing outright scary about the door—it’s literally just a door. Rectangular piece of wood with a brass knob. But the unknowing of what awaits you on the other side has your hand hesitating. After all you saw on your walk here, the possibilities are endless.

Okay, okay, okay. Stop overthinking things. You can do this. It’s no big deal. Just turn the knob. Just. Turn. The—

You tilt your head, a faint sound tickling at your eardrums. Your brow furrows, recognizing it to be music playing, and then your eyebrows climb up your forehead in disbelief when the lyrics click within your brain. That’s a One Direction song. And it’s coming from behind the door.

As if reacting to the beats of the song, the tugging in your chest starts to synchronize with it. Come on inside, it seems to say. Don’t be afraid.

You take a deep breath, pushing down your fears.

And you open the door.

~~

You may not look it—bobbing your head along to the One Direction song blaring from your computer, shamelessly mouthing the lyrics—but you take your job quite seriously. You’ve been an archivist for the FBI’s art crime division for a little over a year now, responsible for cataloging, organizing, and examining recovered museum artifacts with gloved hands and a pair of specially designed spectacles hanging from a chain around your neck.

It’s tedious work, no doubt about it, but if not for this job you never would have met your boyfriend, Marcus, aka the man of your dreams. And for that mere fact alone, you wouldn’t trade this life for any other.

“Hey, Specs, you ready to head home?”

You look up from your computer, locking eyes with Marcus standing in the doorway. He’s dressed in his usual dark blue suit, but after a long day’s work his dark hair has been ruffled by restless fingers, striped tie hanging undone around his neck, and overall looking eager to cuddle on the couch in your apartment and watch a Netflix documentary.

There’s something about him that looks especially beautiful today, you can’t quite put your finger on it. You’d seen him earlier at lunch, but the strange ache in your chest, heart overwhelmed by a sudden burst of adoration, makes it seem like it’s been years or something. God, he’s turning you into such a hopeless romantic it’s ridiculous.

Turning off your computer, you go to him, greeting him with a kiss on the lips, soft and tender, a little teasing nip at the end promising more to come later. You nuzzle your nose against his before pulling away to grab hold of his hand, loving the way his fingers immediately intertwine with yours. He really is perfect.

And he’s all yours.

“Yeah, Brown Eyes,” you say, smiling and pulling him along. “Let’s go home.”

[goldryush]

[4:53 pm] :: lee donghyuck

You had impulsively dyed the ends of your hair green in your senior year of school to make it memorable and your best friend decided to never let a day go without calling you grass ever since.

Sighing, you pressed down the tulle of your dress and gave yourself a thumbs up in the mirror because you knew that if no one got you, at least you got yourself. You walked out of your bathroom hoping for your best friend to not address you by the colour of your hair once again, not today at least.

You find him lying on your bed, aggressively tapping at the gaming console giving all his attention to the screen in front of him, with absolutely no care in this world, not even about his tuxedo that was going to have creases later in the photos.

You walk up to your bed, taking the console off of his hands, grabbing his attention immediately.

If it were any other evening where you were asking him to go home because it was getting darker, the boy would've pulled a face at you.

But today wasn't your regular evening after school that you two were gonna spend doing your science project, today wasn't just any Sunday when you hid his(read: your) favourite mangas just to annoy him and the fact that your best friend had been staring at you for the past five minutes wasn't helping either.

You toss the gaming console onto the opposite side of your bed.

"So…..," you trail off, holding your sides in an attempt to show off the dress that you had spent weeks picking and carefully matching with the right shade of your best friend's bowtie that you had spent even more weeks trying to convince him to wear it so that you guys, in your words, can look like real dates.

You snap your fingers in front of him before he looks up again to see you wearing a dress that went strangely along with the tuxedo you two had spent weeks together to pick from a plethora of them.

Your palms were sweating at that moment. It was as if you had put on the dress for the first time even though you had shown it to everyone you knew, including your prom date.

"How do I look?" you ask while tugging at the tulle of your dress.

"Really…," you look at your best friend, anticipating either a 'green' or 'grassy' to come out of his mouth, considering the below-average descriptive skills of your friend and to your surprise, he blurts out, "Pretty," pressing his lips into a thin line. He was looking everywhere but at you.

You notice the slight tinge of pink playing on his cheeks, maybe it's the sunlight seeping in through the window pane and falling on his face making him look sun-kissed.

You brush off the thoughts immediately, asking him how your hair looked in an attempt to avoid the awkward silence that followed after.

You had let your hair down for the first time in the longest time ever because according to your mom, it looked more put together when put down. You couldn't care any less about your hairstyle because no matter how you styled it, everyone else would be focusing on the unusual color so you went with it anyways.

The boy was now looking rather perplexed before continuing with,".....Long, lustrous and luscious.."

"HYUCK!! I swear to GOD!! Are you referring to me as grass, AGAIN?!", you continue, earning a chuckle from your best friend. You plop down on your bed, beside him.

"I prefer Prairies but that works too I guess," his response urged you to throw a pillow at him.

"I'm not letting my best friend go to the prom with someone who looks like grass."

Hyuck laughs, wiping his (fake) tears away (almost cries) and turns to you, taking your hands in his and looking at you ever so sincerely.

"Judge me all you want but I simply do not care if my date looks like grass, I've never seen someone prettier than them and I'd rather spend the rest of the night playing Nintendo with them instead of going to prom without them."

☆ :: moodboard

[llondonfog]

My diasomnia family Valentine's day headcanons 💚

Lilia presents his V-day gifts in the most frilly and gaudy heart-shaped boxes he can find. They sparkle in the sunlight and are covered in a bunch of cute little bat stickers he put on them. When his valentine opens the box, it's completely filled with Dark Matter. They pass out, the sound of his laughter echoing in their ears.

Sebek is only physically capabale of gifting people items that pertain to the young Lord, be it pocket sized photos of malleus, a self-made compilation of stories of malleus's greatest triumphs, or a one-use ticket that permits someone to directly look at malleus for five (5) seconds (the ticket idea was signed off by malleus).

Silver is incredibly thoughtful with his gifts. His father taught him all about how to be a proper prince and he really takes that to heart when it comes to gift giving. He'll pay close attention whenever he talks to his valentine and hone in on any mentions of things they like or desire. His gifts can sometimes turn out to be more practical than romantic (like giving his valentine a new coat because its been getting cold out and he remembered they mentioned not packing a thick enough one when they enrolled at school, rather than giving them chocolate or flowers), but anything he picks out always ends up being just what his valentine wanted.

Malleus presumes that others enjoy the same things he does - that being experiences rather than objects. He will invite his valentine to come visit some old ruins or abandoned locations with him, and he'll happily regale them about the history of the place and tell them all about the peoples who once lived there. He'll even use his teleporation magic and take them to go admire his favorite gargoyles with him. (Yes, he asks them to take photos of him and the gargoyles together).

incoherent blubbering noises about how wholesome these hcs are!!

Lilia — I LOVE THIS AND 100% AGREE!!! Somehow, I feel that Lilia gets more joy than he gives on Valentine's Day from his lovingly handcrafted gifts... He has to keep the youth reminded of the fact that fae can be so devilishly capricious, and irresistibly cute too!

Sebek — NOT THE HAND-WRITTEN AND HOME-STITCHED POCKET REFERENCE BOOK OF MALLEUS' GREATEST QUOTES, that has taken me out!! (Silver is staring at him in utter bewilderment as Sebek hands him his copy with smug exuberance and one slightly crumpled ticket as if the previous owner had a crisis of faith before handing it over to a certain sleepy human; as if your paltry gift of hair gel could even hold a candle to my offerings, Silver!)

Silver — Currently he's a bit miffed that Sebek didn't appreciate the effort that he went through to get him that hair gel; the poor boy was subjected to hours of the finer details of potion-making and hair care from Vil and Azul! BUT THIS IS SO SWEET, MY HEART? The fact that he'd try so hard to stay awake and pay attention to what his loved ones need to make their lives easier aaaaaa Lilia you can claim NO credit about how thoughtful and darling this boy is, we should just be thankful he wasn't ruined by your impudent nature.

Malleus — I WAS CACKLING; not prince malleus having zero social skills and a certain haughty demeanor to assume that looking at stone gargoyles for hours would be the perfect valentine's day experience NEVER CHANGE HIM!! He tried to take his family with him one time; Silver fell asleep on a gargoyle, Sebek was fretting over his every step lest he trip over exposed stone, and Lilia was more amused to see how many crows would land on Silver's shoulders before he woke up. Needless to say, it was only one time.

[oliveo-il]

Sunflower sure is neat, take some headcanons

They both absolutely love cats and talked about how they were gonna adopt one when they were kids. They did, he’s a brown gabby named Tofu.

Sunny is obliviously affectionate with touch and flustered by words and Basil is the opposite.

Basil is terrified of bugs despite being a gardener, he likes bees and butterflies but that’s it. He HATES ants with a passion.

Sunny doesn’t like working outside usually, but enjoys planting seeds and watering the flowers with Basil.

Sunny gets sunburns very easily while Basil gets freckles and a very light tan

Their favorite flowers to grow are sunflowers. 

Their home is practically drowning with plants. The curtains are never closed during the day so that they can get all the sunlight they need.

They like to go on walks together when it’s cool out. Basil stops to pet every dog he sees. 

Sunny really doesn’t like dogs but Basil just adores all animals.

Sunny loves art of every kind. He paints a lot, usually flowers and other still life. He writes poetry and is somehow always shy about showing his work to Basil. He’s obviously overwhelmingly supportive and showers all of it with praise.

They both hate pda with a passion and holding hands is the only exception. Mari teases them for being sappy as if she’s not shamelessly flirting with Hero half the time.

Basil is taller and stronger than Sunny, which he finds offensive.

Kel and Aubrey are both sports nerds and are always trying to get Basil and Sunny to play baseball/basketball. They will on occasion, and both absolutely suck.

Sunny is naturally thin but isn’t frail or weak. He’s still a twig compared to all his friends though since all his hobbies are calm and indoors.

Neither Sunny nor Basil like to go out on actual dates. They prefer to simply relax with each other, stay at home with their cats, and do whatever they want.

Basil is constantly taking pictures and has filled his photo album completely. He displays the rest of them on his wall with little fairy lights. He plans on getting a second album though since he worries that they’ll be damaged.

When Mari and Aubrey dyed their hair, Basil wanted to do it to. He was too nervous to go through with at the time but later on he dyed the tips of his hair light green.

Sunny loves that Basil wears a flower in his hair and is the one who picks them. Basil always wear Sunny’s flowers until they wilt.

Sunny loves horror movies and Basil can handle them but they aren’t his favorite. He doesn’t like them mostly because they’re unrealistic and too similar. On movie nights with the gang he just uses them as an excuse to cling to Sunny and fall asleep.

Sunny is an artist and is fascinated my hands. He likes to play with Basils hands and use them for reference. He finds it interesting how different their hands are and also compares his hands to the rest of his friends.

[fivelakesinwriting]

hii!! id love it if youd make a rafe x reader enemies to lovers fic where the reader gets a nipple piercing and rafe sees the piercing thru their thin/tight top? reader tries to tease him but rafe tries to ignore it and shit gets FREAKKYYYY lollol

Author's Notes: Y'all are little freaks...and I love that about you. I named the girl in particular for this story, sometimes it's just easier! Please let me know what you think if you have a moment. If this was your request, I hope you love it! xoxo

Warnings: Talk of piercings (might make people uneasy), Swearing, Drinking, Sexual references - Sexual innuendos, Smut *(biting, rough sex, mentions of choking , unprotected sex - please be safe out there, your choice how! ) All Characters are 18+

Requested? YES! Requests for OBX are OPEN!

*My work is not to be transferred, copied, translated or reposted to any other sites without my permission. Please see my masterlist for all other works and warnings. Thank you! xoxo

To say that Rafe loathed his sister Sarah's friend - Evie - would be an understatement. He didn't know why he disliked the girl so much, she had never really done anything to him to make him dislike her so much. There was just something about her that rubbed him the wrong way.

Maybe it was the way she didn't move out of the way for him when they crossed paths in the hallway at Tannyhill, the way she called him by his full name - Rafe Cameron - or perhaps, because she looked like the kind of girl that wouldn't give him the time of day. And that bothered the shit out of him.

It was a lazy Summer afternoon and Rafe planned on doing nothing with his day. Topper and Kelce weren't available for golf, and Barry was out. So Rafe cut his losses and decided he would hang out at home by the pool and drink beers all day.

As he descended the stairs towards the kitchen to begin his afternoon he heard his sister's laugh and the distinct sound of Evie's laugh just after. Rafe exhaled heavily as he rolled his eyes, succumbing to the notion that his relaxing afternoon would have the background noise of a witch's cackle.

"Ladies." Rafe grumbled as he quickly made his way through the kitchen, a beeline towards the fridge to grab a beer.

"Rafe Cameron, nice to see you." Evie smiled over the top of her phone as she showed Sarah a photo.

"Evie, see they rescheduled your burning at the stake." Rafe glared as he popped the top of his beer, sipped, then made his way out the patio doors towards the pool.

"Rafe!" Sarah scolded as she picked out a piece of fruit from the bowl on the counter in front of her, and threw it at the door as he closed it behind him.

Just as Rafe started to get settled on the lounge chair by the pool, the sun hot on his chest and face, the patio door opened and the girls came outside still giggling.

"Do you need to be here? Can't you take the car and like, leave?" Rafe sighed as he turned his hat back around to shield his eyes from the sun to properly glare at his sister.

"Last I checked this wasn't your house, Rafe. So, we're staying. Deal with it, or go back inside." Sarah replied with a roll of her eyes as she stepped into the pool.

Rafe let out a long, dramatic sigh as he pulled his hat down over his eyes but kept it high enough that he was able to see the pool just under the brim. He crossed his arms over his chest and listened intently to the conversation the girls were having.

"So, you and Anthony are done?" Sarah asked as she waded further into the water.

"So done. Couldn't be more done." Evie stated firmly, and Rafe heard the sound of clothing drop to the deck of the pool.

"That's what you said the last time, and then I had to come pick you up from that party and your knees were all scratched up -" Sarah stated a smirk evident in her voice.

Rafe's ears perked up at the turn the conversation was taking. He knew his sister had a tendency to pick friends that were less than good influences on her. But this? Oh, he would stay and listen to this.

"And that's why I got these done. It's my gift to myself for kicking that loser to curb. And my constant reminder every time I see it." Evie replied with a laugh.

Rafe was beyond curious as to the gift she had given herself. His mind raced as he thought of all the possibilities. And he had not even known she was with someone until that moment. Rafe pulled his hat back up over his eyes, squinting against the sunlight, then stood up from the lounge chair as not to seem like he had been eavesdropping.

But he was.

"Oh, Rafe Cameron! Wait up." Evie called after him as he headed back into the house to grab another beer.

Rafe gave the door a push to keep it open for her as he continued his walk inside the house again, the air conditioning cool on his skin. He opened the fridge doors once more, but felt uncomfortable, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as he felt a pair of eyes on him.

"Stop staring at me." He ordered as he grabbed another beer and closed the door of the refrigerator harshly.

"Just waiting for you to move, Rafe Cameron." Evie smiled while she leaned against the island counter, her sunglasses pushed up on the top of her head as her eyes scanned his body.

"Can just ask." Rafe grumbled as he shifted out of the way, flicking the tab of his beer can. He felt uncomfortable under her gaze but also confident, and powerful. He didn't know which way to go.

Witch.

"Thank you." She nodded as she made her way passed him to open the doors of the fridge again and peered inside.

Rafe looked over at her through the corner of his eye as best he could, trying to figure out what she had been talking to Sarah about. What was the gift? He cursed his inquiring mind with a bite of his top lip and quickly turned on his heel to leave again.

"Oh, wait. Rafe? Can you help me? I can't reach the glasses up there." Evie asked with a strain in her voice.

Rafe turned around again with a sigh, placing his beer down on the counter then walked back over to the short girl trying to reach a glass in the high up cabinets. He easily reached above her head, grabbed a glass and placed it in front of her.

"There you go." Rafe mumbled as his fingertips trailed over the countertop as he backed up a little to give her some space.

"Thanks, Rafe Cameron." Evie nodded as she turned around to face him, leaning against the counter.

It was then as she was leaned up against the counter, arms holding her body up as Rafe noticed what Evie had been telling Sarah about all along. It had been under his nose, and under her tiny t-shirt the whole time.

"Who's Anthony?" Rafe asked with a clear of his throat he hoped wasn't too obvious before he pointed to her nipples, pierced, very visible through her white t-shirt.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Evie grinned as she got close to him, close enough that he could smell the chlorine from the pool on her and whatever perfume she used. She brushed by him, her nipples grazing his bare arm as she exited the kitchen and Rafe shivered.

Witch. Bitch....fuck, she's hot.

Rafe growled low in his chest as he turned around, grabbed his beer and took a big drink. He pushed the door open to the pool area again and stalked out to see Evie sitting on the pool deck, her feet in the water as Sarah floated on an obnoxious flotation device shaped like a swan.

"You didn't bring a suit, Evie?" Rafe muttered as he took another generous sip of his beer and placed it on the table beside his lounge chair.

"This is my suit." She replied as she kicked a leg out of the water.

"A white t-shirt and bikini bottoms?" Rafe inquired, attempting to keep his tone even.

She didn't reply, only tossed him a smile as she placed her leg back in the water while she leaned back on her hands. She extended her neck back, letting the sun hit her face as she let out a content sigh.

Rafe didn't like to be teased.

"Sarah, go pick up Wheezie." Rafe ordered as he finished off his beer and adjusted his hat on his head, turning the brim backwards.

"Why do I have to do it? You're the one with no friends and nothing to do." Sarah replied with a glare over the the neck of the swan.

"I'll get us all dinner if you go and pick her up. I don't like that Samuel kid she hangs out with." Rafe grumbled as he leaned back in the chair.

"Do you like anyone?" Sarah sighed as she pulled herself over to the edge of the pool and climbed out.

Sarah asked Evie if she wanted to come along, but Evie declined. She said she would stay here, dry off and make sure that Rafe didn't fuck up the dinner choice for them all.

"You want a beer, Evie?" Rafe asked once Sarah had left and it was just the two of them and the tension he wasn't sure how to label.

The two of them stood in the kitchen, looking through take out menus and avoided conversation. Rafe's eyes flickered over the top of the menu he was pretending to read and zeroed in on her nipples, still visible through her shirt and he was reeling.

"You should change your shirt before Wheezie gets back." Rafe mumbled as he quickly looked back at the menu in his hands so she didn't catch him staring.

"For whose benefit? Hers or yours, Rafe Cameron?" Evie smirked as she tossed the menu she was holding onto the counter, then leaned on her forearms and looked up at him.

"Listen. Maybe this Anthony character liked to be teased and have you shove your tits in his face, but I don't. So quit it." Rafe growled as he dropped his own menu to the floor and reached over the counter to take hold of her face, making her look right into his eyes.

"You don't like my tits?" She questioned, hands pressed to the counter as she started to climb onto it to get closer to him. The other shoe starting to drop.

"I love them." Rafe practically whined as Evie climbed onto the counter and crawled over to him. He tugged off her still wet t-shirt, dropping it to the floor before he reached for her breasts.

"Gentle!" She hissed with a yank of his hair as he tugged at either of the steel bars that pierced her nipples.

"Hurts?" Rafe breathed out as his nose brushed over hers, his palms kneading her breasts a little more gently as he let her pull on his hair.

"Not too much. You just look like you can get rough." She muttered as her other hand reached for his bicep and squeezed.

"Can be, yeah. Won't be this time if you don't want that." Rafe exhaled while his lips got closer to hers. She still smelled like chlorine, and her perfume was some sort of flower he couldn't name. He loved it.

Evie twisted her fingers into the hair at the back of his head and pulled his lips to hers, the other shoe finally dropping. Rafe groaned against her mouth as he released his hold on her chest in favour of wrapping his arms around her instead, pulling her close against him.

"Don't bite! Your sister will notice the marks." Evie gasped when Rafe removed his lips from his and kissed down to her collarbone, sinking his teeth into her skin still warm from the sun.

"Give you one of my shirts. Have to cover these anyways." Rafe mumbled into her clavicle as he reached up to palm at her breasts again.

"Because Sarah and Wheezie coming home to me in your clothes isn't more suspicious, Rafe." She scolded as she reached for his hair to tug his face up, making him look at her.

"Let me worry about them." Rafe growled as he grabbed her hips to lift her off the counter then placed her on the cool tiled floor in front of him. He spun her around and pulled her bikini bottoms down her legs, his breath in his throat at the naked woman in front of him.

"Here?!" She squealed as she tossed a frantic look over her shoulder at him, eyes wide as she waited for his next move. Rafe ran his hands from her shoulders down her back to her hips, simply admiring her form.

"Too much for you?" Rafe grinned, an eyebrow raised to challenge her.

"So, teasing is okay as long as you're the tease?" Evie shivered as her head dropped down, forehead pressed to the countertop as Rafe reached around to roll her nipples between his fingers again.

"Yes." Rafe stated simply, as if this were a fact she should have known upon walking into Tannyhill. He bent down to press a kiss to the back of her neck, a groan in the back of his throat as she pushed back into him.

"C'mon, Rafe." Evie whined as her right hand reached back to pull at his hair as he bit down on the creased of her neck while he untied his swim shorts, letting them fall to his feet.

"You're so whiny. So bratty. I fucking hate it." Rafe growled into her neck as he lined himself up with her entrance, choking out a breath at how wet she felt against him.

"Are you sure?" She exhaled and Rafe could hear the smile on her face.

Fucking witch. Beautiful, pierced, whiny, wet and warm fucking witch.

"If you wanna keep this gentle I suggest you keep your mouth shut, sweetheart." Rafe breathed in her ear as he pressed his tip inside of her, and he swore his heart stopped for a second as she clenched around him.

Her back arched and she let out a pathetic little whine that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he sunk inside of her completely. She reached a hand back to grab his wrist, her nails deep in his skin as he settled inside of her to let her adjust to his size.

"Damn." Rafe groaned as he pulled his hips back, fingertips pressed into the skin of her hips to keep her steady as he thrust back in. He sunk his teeth into her neck again, loving the way she bounced back into him when he did.

"More, Rafe. Please." Evie begged breathlessly, her neck extended to the side to let him mark her up. Rafe pulled his calloused fingers over her hips and up to her breasts again, kneading them before he rolled her nipples between his fingers.

"Hate how good you feel. Goddammit, Evie." Rafe growled while he wrapped one arm around her chest to pull her close while his other hand reached between her legs.

"Shit! Too much!" Evie gasped, her eyes wide when Rafe gave a firm thrust that sent her forward to the countertop once more. Her nails scratched over his forearm as he pressed his middle finger to her clit, finding it easily.

"Can't handle it?" Rafe grunted as a smile tugged at the corner of his lips, his middle finger circling her clit as he pounded into her from behind.

"Fuck you, Rafe Cameron." Evie sobbed out, back arched as she pulled one hand down his forearm and the other reached back to pull at his hair.

"You already are, and I can fucking feel you coming. You always this easy? Hmm?" Rafe panted as he unwrapped his arm from her chest to press his large palm to her collarbone, bringing her upright against him. He wanted to wrap his hand around that delicate little neck so badly, but he would wait. She had asked him to gentler with her, and he was trying so hard.

"You're a fuc - " She cursed but was cut off by Rafe reaching up and pushing two fingers in her mouth.

"Shut up, and just cum for me." Rafe growled as he pushed his middle and index finger further in her mouth, a shiver going down his spine as he felt her tongue swirl over the pads of his fingers.

As she came around him, whining around his fingers, Rafe was reconsidering his deep hatred for Evie. He chased his own release and kept an obnoxiously bruising grip on her hip with his free hand. Rafe groaned against the back of her neck, pressing his palm flat against her stomach to keep her flush against him as he finished inside of her.

"Shit." Rafe breathed out against the back of her neck, removing his fingers from her mouth. He gave her a soft kiss below her hairline as a thank you, and he hoped she didn't feel the way his breath shook on his exhale.

"I still don't like you very much." Evie whispered as she rested her head back on his shoulder, her eyes closed as she twisted his hair between her fingers.

"Don't like you all that much either." Rafe scoffed as he pressed a kiss to her forehead, although he had to admit in that moment just the two of them in the quiet house wrapped around one another - he didn't hate her all that much.

"I might let you do that again, though. If you give me a shirt, and order me food." Evie responded, her eyes opening just a little to watch as he kissed her forehead to the tip of her nose and then her chin.

"If you don't get burned at the stake first, be happy to do that again."

Hotties:

@anonymousobxfan @starkey-babie @barrysjumpsuit @sodasback

@fashion-fasting @vintageobx @babeyglo @rottenstyx @pogueslandia @soph0864 @whcclxr @beauvibaby @plutooryectors @rafecameronspolo

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Please let me know what you think if you have a moment! Thank you so much xoxo

Requests for OBX ARE OPEN!