#what i mean by attention is glances and just kind of barely not really acknowledging each other's existence like.....

[murderofravens]

DUSK TILL DAWN

pairing: hwang inho/young-il/frontman x fem reader.

part: 1/3 [finished]

warnings: age gap (reader is 20, inho is in his late 40s) slowburn. oral fixation. thigh riding. plot with porn. yearning. sexual tension. canon compliant. slight infantilization. no y/n used.

summary: he promised that you will make it out alive. he will make sure of it, no matter what it takes.

word count: 6.5k

SERIES MASTERLIST | MASTERLIST

please ignore any mistakes.

as you wipe the blood from your face, the reality of your situation sets in. you never thought you'd get used to the smell of blood— much less the sight of it. or the texture. and now you're covered in it. the white of your uniform splattered with crimson, the metallic smell of it almost overwhelming. in a situation like the one you're in, you can only laugh. the mere sight of blood used to make you feel faint; make you want to throw up because you're squeamish. now you're covered in it from head to toe.

it's not yours. it's of the people they shot dead during the second game.

you barely remember how you made it out alive. the second one was all thanks to your team— thanos and nam-gyu were the closest to your age, and teaming up with them worked in your favour. your age and gender was a liability to the others, but they were kind enough to take you in. or perhaps they were thinking with their dicks. would it really matter either way?

but with the way they act, you're not sure if you want to continue being in a team with them. especially since thanos keeps trying to woo you with his poor rapping skills. they're way too loud and reckless for you, and you're scared they might get you killed. they're not willing to give up the game anytime soon, either.

then there's the first game— you're alive, because of 456. that crazy man who supposedly had played the games before. if it wasn't for him pulling you behind his back, you would've left the premises in a cardboard box. especially because you fucking sneezed as soon as the doll turned back.

since then, you've decided you don't want to play this game anymore. 456 has been desperately trying to change the other's mind— but they're greedy and insistent. you pressed the cross for his sake, and for the others, and for yourself. hell, you can live in debt, but what use is that money if you die trying? you're not that much of a hard worker. you value your life above anything else.

you walk over to their team— 456, and his two loud team members. another man is sitting there— player 001. the one who ruined your chance of going home on the first vote. he seems ordinary, but you know of him because you saw him beat the shit out of thanos. that was another reason you decided to abandon that team— you could not be seen with a bully, or a loser. as you approach him, you give him a slight nod of acknowledgement, which he returns. you turn your attention to 456, and thank him profusely for what he did for you. he's kind, you'll give him that. you like kind people.

"if you don't mind me asking—" a voice interrupts, and you look over your shoulder. it's player 001. he looks at you curiously. "how old are you?"

"old enough." you retort cheekily. he doesn't look amused as he cocks his head to the side.

"i'm curious as to why a little kid like you would compromise herself for money."

that shuts you up. you're offended, to say the least. who is he to call you a little kid? the entire team also looks on, seemingly baffled. the question makes sense. you're sure you're the youngest out of all players. and people can tell because you look it too. you don't really know how to respond, so you just look on with a frown, mouth opening and closing like a fish.

"forgive me—" he lets out an awkward chuckle, "i didn't mean it the wrong way. i'm just worried."

you give him an uneasy smile, rubbing the back of your neck. the others go back to their conversations, and you shrug. he shoots a glance towards gi-hun before sitting back down and shifting slightly, as if making room for you. you take a seat beside him. there's silence before he glances at the symbol on your jacket— the cross.

"i'm sorry." he says with a small smile, looking straight ahead, "you wanted to go home but you had to continue because of me. i put a kid in danger."

"i'm not a kid," you huff softly, straightening up, "i'm twenty. but yeah, you should be sorry."

you give him a small smile to ensure he knows that the last line is lighthearted. he seems to understand and returns it.

"dont worry about it," you sigh, fiddling with the zip of your jacket, "im sure you had your reasons. just like i have mine for coming here."

"and your parents?" he asks. he's so polite, it warms your heart. polite and soft spoken. and visibly tough. probably some officer, you think, judging by his skills you previously saw.

"that's what i need the money for." you sigh, leaning back against the bunker. "i need enough money to establish myself. continue my studies. bring my mom and my sister to come live with me. settle off my father's debts because he's a coward who decided to pass down his sins onto his daughter."

he raises his eyebrows, and you take a sharp breath. there's a moment of silence between you two— you think for a moment, and feel your eyes get slightly glassy. you're not going to cry in front of a stranger. you put on a brave face. "if i die here, my mother—"

he stares at you silently, before putting a comforting hand on your shoulder, interrupting your cursed sentence. "you'll make it out alive."

the doors open, and the staff comes in again. they reveal the number of players left, showcase the money that each person would get, and then the voting starts again.

this time, player 001 doesn't disappoint you. he goes first, and clicks on the cross. the hope it gives you eventually shatters as more and more players begin to vote in favour of continuing the game. you see 456 get increasingly agitated as he begins to make his way towards the front of the crowd. before he can speak, he's interrupted.

001's voice rings out loud and authoritative, and worried. he reprimands the voters in favour, calls them out on their selfishness.

"we'll all die if we keep playing!" he chastises the crowd urgently. "you have to survive first, or there won't be a next step—"

"there's no next step for us!" he's interrupted by player 100. a stout old man who had been at odds against 456 since the start— you remember him having 10 billion won in debt. it makes you snicker. he eggs on the crowd. "with that money, we won't be able to pay our debts. we need to play one more game, then the money will increase to 240 million. with that we can pay atleast a little of our debts! isn't that right!?"

"you're going to die trying!" you snap, making your way to the front of the crowd. you glare at player 100, at all his little supporters cheering at the back. "your greed is going to get you killed. how can you be so confident to say that you'll survive the next game? what if you die?"

"you shut up, young lady!" he hisses, mouth scrunching bitterly. "is that how you speak to your elders? your brain is too small to comprehend real life problems. we can't continue with our lives with that little money!"

"continue your lives?" a laugh bubbles out of your throat. "look at that greying head of yours, you barely have a life ahead of you! why don't you let us live ours?!"

that seems to have ticked him off, because he quite literally turns red as he takes a threatening step towards you.

"what did you just say?"

"i said—" you step forward, shooting him a challenging glare, "you're too old to be playing children's games. vote wisely and let us go home."

he lets out a snarl before trying to lunge at you, but you're pulled back as player 001 steps between the two of you. like a wall. he looks at the old man, eyes cold, his voice low. "that's enough."

since the incident with thanos, nobody has really tried anything with 001. it's obvious enough they're intimidated by him, and they don't want to be on the receiving end of his wrath. 100 doesn't either, with the way he collects himself and steps back, embarrassed. you look over 001's shoulder, make eye contact with the old man and shoot him a taunting smile. you know it's childish, but you've resented him from the start.

before the old man can say anything, player 001 drags you to the side where you can't argue with people anymore. and the voting continues.

"you can't talk to people like this," he says lowly, gaze focused on the crowd. staring at something that you can't figure out. "you never know what they might do."

you huff bitterly. you know what he means.

"i don't care. i fucking hate bullies."

"potty mouth." he chastises, but theres a smirk on his face. he's teasing. you chuckle.

"remember you need to get out of here alive." he repeats, looking at you with an intensity that is almost terrifying. "you can't do that if you keep this up."

"jeez, okay dad." you joke, rolling your eyes. your words make him smile lightly.

"thanks for having my back there." you tell him sincerely. he looks at you for a bit before nodding in acknowledgement.

the voting ends, and they announce that the games will continue tomorrow. it makes your heart drop.

that night, you feel uneasy when you try to sleep. your clothes stick to your skin, and the side of your face keeps itching. with an irritated grumble, you get off the bunker and walk over to your new friend's side. you squint your eyes before looking for 001— and when you find him, you gently shake him.

"are you sleeping?" you whisper.

he opens his eyes, wincing slightly before sitting up. his voice is hushed as he responds, "not anymore. what is it?"

you bite your lower lip nervously before reluctantly asking, "will you go to the restroom with me? i'm kinda scared to go alone."

he blinks at you, confused. you continue out of sheer desperation.

"those guards just stare weirdly with their weird little masks and it makes me nervous." you hope your voice doesn't shake as you speak. "last time one of them kept knocking on the door while i was in the washroom and it just— scared the shit out of me. and my face is itching and i really need to go. please?"

he listens patiently. for a moment you think he'd decline but he just sighs and nods, and you cheer just a little as he steps out and follows you to the door. you bang on it, loudly telling the guards that you need to go. one of them opens the sliding window, and then immediately opens the door. it makes you feel strange, because usually it takes a lot more effort to convince them. either way, you're grateful.

you know your better option would've been to take one of the girls with you, but the sad fact is you haven't had the chance to get friendly with any of the female players yet. and for some reason, player 001 makes you feel a sense of safety and security that is almost strange— you feel at ease around him.

"i'll be in the men's room," he tells you, and you nod. he shoots a glance to the guard standing outside the women's restroom before walking away. you quickly go inside, and the first thing you do is splash water on your face.

you quickly clean the blood off your skin, holding back the urge to cry. you scrub at your cheeks till you're sure you can scratch the itch away for good. your nails dig a little too deep, and a little blood oozes out of the scratches on the side of your face. you clean that too, and then try to scrub the splatters of blood off your t-shirt. it's white, and you have no soap— so the stains remain. a faint reminder. you take your time, and anticipate the knocking— but it never comes.

you look in the mirror, at your tired face and sunken eyes, before giving yourself a nod and stepping out. 001 is waiting for you outside, looking to the side. he gives you an odd look as you step out, before walking alongside you.

"are you alright?" he asks gently, concerned. kind as ever.

you look at him again, give him a nod. "thank you."

when you two reach the room, he returns the smile with one of his own.

as you make your way to the bunker, he grabs your shoulder, "why don't you start sleeping on our side?" he says quietly, "join the team. there's a bed near mine. you won't feel so scared that way."

you blink, trying to see his face in the darkness. the offer is enticing— and most of all, it warms your heart.

"really?" you ask hopefully.

"really." he says kindly.

you follow him to the bunker, and he covers the railing with his hand to avoid you getting hurt as you bend down to get into the bed. he looks at the slightly wet patches on your shirt— blinks before getting a bedsheet and putting it over you. "get some sleep. we got a game to play tomorrow."

you smile softly at him. as he turns to get into his own bed, you grab his hand. it's warm against yours— big and rough. you don't allow your mind to drift that way. it's not right. he looks at you, gaze questioning.

"thanks again," you say softly, "it means a lot to me."

he leans down a little to ruffle your hair before going back to his bed and laying down. you close your eyes and drift to sleep— unaware that he stays up, thinking.

breakfast is boring— bread and milk. you sit on the bed, scowling. player 456 is surprised as he sees you there, before you two share understanding smiles. you bow a little and he bows back before going along with his friend. 001 comes to sit by you then, munching on his own breakfast.

"i miss home," you mumble, "how am i supposed to survive on just this? it's not even chocolate milk."

001 laughs, "don't worry, you can have whatever you want once you get out of here."

"will i?"

he looks at you, raising his eyebrows. you take his silence as a cue to continue, "im scared i'll die in here."

he looks down, before shifting to be closer to you. "you made it this far, didn't you?"

you look at him, voice getting shaky. "and what if i dont make it till the end? what if i die here and my family thinks i abandoned them? i don't want to die. i haven't even lived my life yet."

his expression is hard to read. "you'll make it out of here alive," he tells you with conviction, "ill make sure of it."

your lips wobble as you stare at him, and he smiles before poking you in the nose. "finish your food. you need the energy for the next game. we'll make it out alive, then we'll try to get the voters on our side and go home. sound good?"

you snort, rolling your eyes before nodding. "sounds good."

he gives you his bread then, tells you to eat more. when you protest, he sends a warning glare your way— the one with a quirked eyebrow and a knowing gaze. you roll your eyes, and happily eat it.

you were hungry. perhaps he can tell things like that. you're just grateful.

today, you decided to be a little rebellious. when you first joined the games, you used to spend a long time in the bathrooms— analyzing, looking for a way out. during that time, you'd discovered that one of the screws in the ceiling vent was loose. you hadn't really bothered checking it before, but since it's daytime and you have some time before the next game, you decide to explore.

your hairclip works— the screws were not tightly fixed, so it unscrewed easily. you'd contemplated checking it out last night, but you didn't want to take any risks, especially since player 001 was with you. so now whatever you do, the responsibility will be yours.

when the bathroom gets empty and all the women leave, you pull it down and try climbing up. it's moments like these that you can pride yourself on your agility— work that usually required two people, you could do alone. with one leg on the flush and the other on the top of the cubicle, you climbed up, scratching the side of your arm slightly before finally getting in the vents. you groaned to yourself, and then started crawling inside. there were two ways to go— you chose the left one. you looked down, trying to understand the layout of the place where you were practically held hostage. you keep crawling, making sure not to make too much noise before finally seeing a place through the gaps that you hadn't seen before— you carefully remove the screws and pull it apart.

the place looks empty. the walls are all sorts of pink and green. you put your head down and look both ways, seeing a door at the end of the hallway. carefully, you climb down and lower yourself to the ground with a thump. your shoulder hurts a little. you stand up, and aim for the door. as soon as you begin walking, you hear footsteps. it's as if someone splashed cold water on you— you realize the grave mistake you just made. guards walk here with guns, and you made the impulsive decision to explore a dangerous place like this by yourself?

you look around, running towards the other end of the hallway. the footsteps get louder, and as you look over your shoulder, something grabs you. out of reflex, you go to scream, but a hand clamps down on your mouth, and your back collides with a hard chest.

"shh, it's me." the voice hisses. your wide eyes look up, scared, before realizing who it is.

player 001.

your chest heaves as you break out into a sweat, a tear rolling down your cheek. he keeps you in a tight hold, looking to the side, your breath dampening his hand. the footsteps suddenly become faint, as if walking away. your breaths sync together, and after a moment, he relaxes.

he takes his hand off your mouth before harshly twisting you to face him. his voice is hushed but angry, "what were you thinking?!"

"what are you doing here?" you whisper shakily at the same time.

"everyone was back in the room except you. i came to find you!" he chides, eyes hard. he shakes you slightly, "do you really plan to get killed like this? is this how you want to die? can you go one moment without being a reckless brat—"

his words make you want to cower in on yourself.

"i wanted to find a way out." you try to sound assertive, but your voice betrays you. your words come out panicked, "I wanted to help and— fuck— i got you in trouble too— you shouldn't have come looking for me! fuck— how are we gonna make it out of here?"

he sighs, squeezing his eyes shut before looking at you tiredly. "the game is about to start. we'll mix in with the crowd when they leave, i doubt they'll notice."

"are you sure it'll work?" you ask. you hear a faint announcement. the game is about to start.

he looks up at the speakers, alert. he grabs you tightly and drags you away with an air of confidence. "let's go."

you don't encounter any guards on the way back. it's strange, but you figure it's because they're all preparing for the next game. player 001's plan worked, because you two mixed in with the crowd, and the guards didn't notice. one of them turned back to look at you, and you panted, staring back at him. your heart raced, but you felt the presence of 001 next to you, and you felt at ease again. the guard looked away.

"i told you to stop being reckless." he says quietly, looking at 456 and 390, before looking back at you. your legs hurt from climbing so many stairs. "what would you have done if they found you?"

you swallow the lump in your throat, staring up at him intensely, eyes glassy. he saved your life. "i guess you stopped that from happening."

he clenches his jaw, his gaze flickering up and down your face before looking away. "i won't always be there to save you."

you look away, heart dropping. "thank you, 001."

"call me young-il."

you look up at him, blinking back tears, quirking an eyebrow as you two walk. "only if you allow me to add 'sir' at the end of it."

he chuckles, eyes crinkling. he has such a nice laugh. "why's that? respect?"

you nod, giving a little bow. "respect is very important in my culture as well. so thank you for saving my life, young-il sir."

he grins a little and pats your head. you thank him again, and decide you like him enough. so you tell him your name.

he tests it on his tongue, and you quite like the way he says it.

the next game had to be the most terrifying so far.

it was called mingle, and you had to run to the rooms in groups according to the number announced. things like these were where you got scared— where you had to group with people. in dangerous situations, you know people usually only look out for two types of people— themselves, and the ones dearest to them.

you were not dear to anyone here. you really should've interacted with more people.

the platform rotates, before the number is announced. six. your eyes widen and you frantically look around, but young-il is faster. he grabs you and drags you to the room with the rest of the team. you pant as the 30 seconds pass, and then look out the window in the door to see how many people were left— quite a few. your eyes widen as the red guards move forward with their guns raised.

young-il leaps forward and covers your eyes with his hand before pulling you into himself as the gunshots ring out— you flinch and shudder at every single one, breathing sharp and your entire frame trembling violently. when there is silence and the doors open, you look up. young-il gently lets go of you, looking around. he's panting too, and you look at him with the most crushed look on your face before he meets your gaze. he can tell what you want to know— why would you do that?

"you shouldn't have to see all this." he says quietly, adjusting his jacket and putting a little distance between you two. 456 pats your shoulder and makes sure people are okay before moving out. you just look at young-il for a while, but he simply looks around, seemingly lost in thought. as if fighting a war within himself. you wish you knew how to reassure him like he did with you, but you realize you barely know anything about him.

the entire floor is painted with blood. the sight makes you want to vomit. you walk carefully, but your foot slips in someone's blood and you begin to fall over. 456 catches you. "are you alright?"

instinctively, your gaze tries to find young-il but he's standing away. his head is lowered.

"yes, thank you." you give 456 a smile, before assuming your place on the platform again.

you play a few more rounds. you're lucky enough to have someone to team with each time— young-il and 456 don't let go of you even once. but then the voice runs out again, and they announce the number 3. this time, 456 is dragged along with the old woman and her son. you look around frantically, and meet young-il's panicked gaze with your own. you begin to run towards him, but two people grab you and drag you towards one of the rooms.

thanos and nam-gyu. you shriek at them, clawing at their arms and trying to run back out. what if young-il doesn't make it? what if something bad happens?

this time, you have no one to cover your eyes or ears. thanos and nam-gyu talk shit within themselves, and you look outside the little window, flinching with every gunshot ringing out, trying to pinpoint if it's young-il's body falling to the ground. you can't help the light sob erupting from your throat, and thanos chooses the wrong moment to come bother you.

"watcha looking for, señorita?" he laughs, poking your side, "is it your old man? did he finally—"

you turn to him and punch him in the face. he falls back and groans dramatically, rubbing the blood running down his nose. nam-gyu rushes to his rescue, giggling. they're both high as a kite. the doors open, and you rush out before they can bother you further.

you look around. 456 is with the rest of the team, but you can't find young-il. frantically, you look towards the dead bodies, heart pounding against your chest and head throbbing. suddenly, there's cheers from your team, and you look up to see young-il walking over with a bright grin on his face.

you don't know what compelled you to do it. you were acting on your emotions— overwhelmed by the relief you felt on the sight of his face. before you can even stop, you're dashing towards him and crashing into his body, wrapping your arms tightly around him.

he's shocked, that much is obvious by the way he tenses slightly. but then he returns the hug, wrapping his arms around you and placing one hand on your head, gently patting. "i told you we'd make it."

you choke on a soft sob, nodding, burying your head further into his chest, as if ready to climb inside him, "i thought you—"

he shushes you softly, voice gentle as he runs a hand through your hair. you can feel his heart racing against his chest too. you wonder if it's for the same reasons as you. "i'm okay."

you wish the game ended there. but there was one more round to go. as you rotated on the platform— the moment you were dreading finally happened as young-il predicted it. the number announced was two.

you were ready to die there. things seemed to happen in slow motion— 456 took his best friend 390, 149 was dragged by her son. you didn't get the chance to see who took who next, because young-il had grabbed your hand and was dragging you towards one of the rooms. there were only fifty rooms— the first one you two got to was taken. he dragged you to another with a mere ten seconds left.

you sighed in relief as you got in, before seeing another man was already there. he was shaking in fear, and you jumped at the harshness of young-il's voice when he ordered him to get out. when the other player refused, young-il lunged at him and put him in a headlock.

your eyes widened and you stepped forward, panic stricken but he looked right at you and called your name, "close your eyes!"

you flinched. you looked at the man, then at young-il, before squeezing your eyes shut. you slid to the floor, pulling your knees to your chest as soon as you heard a 'crack' before opening your eyes.

the player was dead. young-il cracked his neck.

the timer finished at that exact moment, and young-il crawled over to you before pulling you into his chest. the gunshots rang out, and you flinched, sobbing.

young-il killed someone.

"i had to do it," he whispered against your hair, holding your head against his chest, "we both have to make it out alive. i had to do it. you know that right?"

you wanted to believe him, you really did. but in that moment, you felt scared of him for the first time.

the doors opened, and the game finished.

while you wanted to revel in your victory, the incident during mingle had rattled you to your core. the others checked up on you, especially 388 and 456. young-il maintained some distance. you could feel like he thought it's what you wanted. but you could really use his comfort. you just don't know how to talk to him again without being nervous. you force yourself to relive your previous interactions with him— he's still the same young-il who has saved you and comforted you countless times.

he did what he had to do to ensure your survival. that wasn't something you could hold against him. not when both of your lives were on the line.

the voting this time was just as challenging. you made your way to the front of the crowd, praying that they'd choose wisely this time. you need to go home.

one of the players in the old man's team showed you the finger before clicking the 'o' button. the action made your eye twitch, and you grit your teeth before straightening up to attack that guy and scratch his face off, but a hand to your chest held you back.

if looks could kill, young-il's glare could've sent that guy home in a body bag. as the votes in favour of continuing the game increased, you pushed his hand off you and addressed the crowd, "have you all lost your fucking minds?!"

their chitter chatter stopped and they looked at you. you clench your jaw, "after losing so many people out there you still want to play? what the fuck is wrong with you people? are human lives that invaluable to you?"

player 100 steps forward, insufferable as always. "don't you see how much money we're getting for each person? it could settle our debt! we can't give up after how far we've come."

"you're gonna die!" you snap, pointing at him, "you could take this money and go home and be happy instead of risking your life for something that is not assured to you! why won't you listen?! i want to go home!"

the others in favour of terminating the game start chanting with you, a string of 'i want to go home' echoing across the room.

player 100 glares, urging his own team to chant against you. he looks towards young-il, yells something along the lines of, "look after your fucking kid!" before the barell of a gun presses against the back of your head. the whole room freezes, and so do you.

"disruptions against a democratic vote will not be excused." the robotic voice calls out. for a second you think this is it. you look at young-il. if you die here, you'd prefer the man who saved your life to be the last person you see. he glares at the guard, his jaw clenching. the guard lowers the gun and steps back and you let out a breath of relief.

you immediately saunter over to him, gritting your teeth. the vote is a tie— and they announce the next voting to be held tomorrow.

456 says there's about to be a fight. the rest of the team got busy setting up a barricade— and you didn't get the chance to talk to your player. you knew his concern though, when he made sure to especially hide your side of the bed with two mattresses.

you play with the hem of your shirt as you sit in your bed by your lonesome. your food sits by you, untouched. you dont feel like eating. the weight on the bed shifts, and young-il appears into view.

"you're not eating."

you swallow the lump in your throat. "i don't feel like it."

he contemplates, eyes lowered before he looks at you again. "im sorry you had to witness that. I don't want you to be scared of me."

you want to cry. "im not." you whisper, "you.. you had to do what you had to do. to save us."

he blinks, nodding.

"back there, i thought that was it. it's over." you chuckle bitterly. "but you saved me again. you acted on impulse. i could never resent you for it."

your eyes are bloodshot as you look at him again. fat tears roll down your cheeks, and he frowns. he sighs before leaning closer, brushing the tears away. "why are you crying?"

"i wouldn't have survived this far if it wasn't for you." you whisper, voice cracking. "promise me you wouldn't abandon me. promise me you won't die."

his gaze softens. he's silent for a bit, his hand coming to rest on your knee, "i promise."

you sniffle, wiping your tears away. a small smile appears on your face, "i punched thanos."

"thanos?" he frowns, confused before raising his eyebrows in recognition, "ah, the loud kid with the purple hair?"

you nod proudly. "he said something like 'did 001 finally die?' so i punched him."

he laughs heartily— face scrunching cutely, eyes crinkling. he shakes his head fondly before ruffling your hair again. "attagirl."

it makes you blush slightly and you smile, looking down at your lap. he grabs your dinner— the roll sitting next to you and unwraps it, taking out a piece before holding it out, "eat."

you snort before leaning forward and taking a bite. he looks at you for a while with that faraway look in his eyes, before wordlessly continuing to feed you the rest. the words go unsaid. 'what are we doing? why are we so comfortable with each other?'

some sauce sticks to the corner of your mouth. he raises his hand to hold your chin, his thumb gently wiping it off. your breath hitches.

neither of you protest when his thumb brushes across your bottom lip, gaze focused on it like he's hypnotized. he's thinking, mindlessly feeling the plush texture of it.

you've always been impulsive. especially in situations where you shouldn't be. it happens so naturally— how your lips part just slightly. and maybe he's impulsive too, because his thumb slips inside, and his breath hitches as soon as your lips wrap around his thumb.

his gaze raises to meet yours— and you blink almost dazedly. his thumb presses down on your tongue, and he calls out your name in the softest voice.

"i'm too old for you." he whispers, shaking his head in disapproval.

your eyes flutter, and you lean forward, grabbing hold of his wrist. he pulls his thumb out, and you almost whine in protest. to your utter delight, he replaces it with two of his fingers, and your eyes almost roll back as you crawl forward till you're situated on his lap, mouth stuffed with his index and middle finger. you suck on them enthusiastically. they're long and thick and perfect and you don't want them out of your mouth ever again. it elicits a soft moan out of him— and if you could put that sound on repeat for the rest of your life, you'd be happy.

he pulls his fingers out and grabs the back of your head, pulling you close till your foreheads press together. you try to lean forward, to capture his lips with your own. he chuckles slightly, eyes closed, playfully rubbing his nose against yours. you whine.

"so impatient." he whispers, and then his lips are colliding with yours. it would be embarrassing if someone were to catch you two like this— more so for him than for you. thankfully, the others are busy strategizing for the night, and are not looking for either of you.

you moan softly and he bites down on your bottom lip, allowing his tongue to slip into your mouth. it's desperate and reckless and so full of spit— it makes you whimper into his mouth and he pulls you further into himself, as if telling you to shut up. his experience is obvious in the way he kisses, and you follow his lead. unknowingly, your hips start gently grinding against his thigh, and he lets out a soft hiss. he pulls away slightly, strings of saliva connecting your mouths. he licks it away.

"come on, sweetheart," he whispers, one hand coming down to help your hips grind against his thigh, "make yourself feel good— that's it, that's my good girl."

you moan softly, and his free hand clamps your mouth shut. he speeds his movement, clenching and unclenching the muscle of his thigh, guiding your hips to move faster against his lap. it's been so long since you've masturbated— and this is unarguably the hottest situation you've ever been in, with the hottest man you've ever seen. so you're already close. you cry out into his hand, your voice muffled. he understands what you mean and lets you move on your own speed then, pulling your head into the crook of his neck as he whispers soft words of praise into your ear.

the moment he calls you his good girl again, you cum. he muffles the sound with his hand, squeezing his eyes shut before he looks at you intensely. you collapse against him, slightly sweaty, your hands holding onto his shoulders as you cling to him. he runs his hand through your hair, breathing sharply. it's a small moment of bliss in the hell you've found yourself in.

soon, the lights go out, and dread settles in your stomach once you feel his body tensing. player 388 pulls one of the mattresses back slightly, hisses a quick "get under the bed!"

and the next game begins.

A/N: this was incredibly fun to write. i love writing him a little soft and fatherly, so deal with it. i might write a part 2 for this, if anyone wants that. this idea has been in my head for a while. i love him so, so much. this fic is my baby and i truly hope you guys like reading it as much as i liked writing it.

tags! @carolinevoight @lovers-roq @wildtigerlili @menabuser16 @deadlyobsessivfennec @watasinekoru @hanakokunzz @cowuies

[d1anna]

i said i wanted attention but..

[p0orbaby]

Centre Court

summary: you’re starting to think that tennis is an aphrodisiac

warnings: suggestive, mentions of sexy times

a/n: yes, i know wimbledon is long gone…

word count: 1.2k

-

You’re on your annual trip to Wimbledon. A place where the scent of freshly cut grass and overpriced strawberries mingles with the murmur of the crowd. Leah’s next to you, a distracting presence as always, her elbow grazing yours every time she shifts. You wonder if anyone else can feel the static electricity she generates with every casual brush against your arm.

“You know…” she begins, pulling your attention from the back-and-forth of the second point.

“Hm?” you hum, eyes glued to the court despite the magnetic pull of her voice. It’s the kind of acknowledgement that means, ‘Please don’t say anything outrageous, we’re in public,’ but you both know that’s wishful thinking.

“You’d look good in one of those little skirts,” she murmurs, her tone low and familiarly conspiratorial. There’s a glint in her eye that suggests she’s not really talking about tennis anymore. You’re not sure why you’re so surprised.

You chuckle softly, your eyes drifting to the player’s attire. You had to admit they wouldn’t look out of place in your wardrobe. “Oh, would I now?” you reply, raising an eyebrow at her. “And what makes you think that?” It’s a rhetorical question, though Leah’s known for her uncanny ability to undress you with her eyes.

Leah leans in closer, her breath warm against your ear. “Just a hunch. You’ve got the legs for it. And besides, I’d love to see you show them off.” Her words tickle your ear, and you suppress a shiver even under the rays of the sun.

You smirk, finally turning to meet her gaze. “You’re awfully bold, aren’t you, Miss Williamson?” You try to sound stern, but your lips betray you, curling into a smile.

She shrugs, her grin widening. “I know what I like. And I know I’d like you in one of those skirts.” Her tone is as casual as if she were discussing the weather, but her eyes tell a different story.

You shake your head, amused. “It’s nothing you haven’t already seen, baby”

Leah’s eyes darken, a playful glint there that promises trouble. “True, but these outfits have that certain… je ne sais quoi, don’t you think?”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?” you tease, nudging her with your elbow. “A bit of French flair to spice things up?”

The match continues, punctuated by grunts and the rhythmic thwack of the ball. You’re only half paying attention now, Leah’s words and the heat in her stare pulling you in. Her hand rests lightly on your thigh, a touch that’s barely there but feels like a live wire.

“You think you could keep up with me?” you challenge, a playful edge in your tone.

Leah’s smirk turns into a full-blown grin. “Oh, I know I could. I’ve got stamina for days, babe”

You bite your lip, trying to suppress a laugh in the quiet of the court. “Big talk for someone who’s never seen me play”

Leah’s fingers tighten slightly on your thigh, her eyes locked onto yours, swimming with amusement and something else that makes your pulse quicken. “Maybe we should find out,” she says, her voice low and full of confident assurance.

You’re about to bite back when a particularly loud cheer from the crowd reminds you of where you are. You glance around, half-expecting to see a camera trained on the two of you, but the spectators are blissfully unaware of the electric current between you and your girlfriend.

“Behave,” you whisper, though the word lack the conviction needed to stop your mate in her tracks.

Leah leans in, her lips brushing your ear. “Now where’s the fun in that?”

You shake your head again, a smile tugging at your lips. “You’re impossible”

Leah’s fingers begin to trace small, infuriatingly light patterns on your thigh, the sensation sending shivers up your spine. “Impossible? I prefer determined,” she says, her voice dripping with mock innocence.

You try to refocus on the game, but it’s a losing battle. The players might as well be on another planet for all you care right now. Leah’s hand inches higher, and you give her a sideways glance.

“Leah, we’re supposed to be watching the match,” you murmur, though your tone lacks any real reprimand.

“Oh, I am,” she assures you, her eyes never leaving yours. “I’m just multitasking.” Her hand gives your thigh a gentle squeeze, her thumb brushing just a bit too close to where it shouldn’t be in public.

You let out a small, involuntary gasp, quickly covering it with a cough. Leah’s grin is all too pleased with herself. “You’re going to get us in trouble,” you warn, though you can’t deny the thrill coursing through you.

Leah’s other hand joins the fun, now resting at the base of your neck. Her thumb begins to make small, maddening circles just behind your ear. You try to keep your focus on the game, but the match is losing its grip on you, fast.

“Remember the first time we came here together?” Leah’s voice breaks into your thoughts, once more.

You do remember. It was less about the game and more about the impromptu christening of the private box. “Vaguely,” you respond, the memory making your cheeks warm. “I recall you getting us kicked out”

Leah laughs, the sound drawing a few more curious glances. “I’d say it was worth it, wouldn’t you?”

“That’s one way to put it,” you reply, grinning at the recollection. Leah had insisted on testing just how soundproof those VIP boxes were. Spoiler: not very.

Leah’s hand squeezes your thigh gently, her fingers drifting higher. “It’s funny, you know. How you always pretend to be so proper and composed”

You arch an eyebrow at her. “Pretend?”

“Yeah,” she continues, her voice a seductive whisper. “Like that time at the charity gala, when you were giving a speech and I—”

“You really want to bring that up here?” you interrupt, your heart pounding at the memory. Leah had been insufferable, sneaking suggestive touches under the table before you tried to maintain your composure on stage.

Leah smirks, clearly enjoying your flustered state. “Just saying, you’ve got a wild side. And I love bringing it out”

You glance around again, paranoid about the camera but also thrilling at the risk. Leah’s hand ventures even higher, and you place your hand over hers to stop her. “Leah, we’re in public”

She pouts, but there’s a glimmer of triumph in her eyes. “Fine. For now.” Her fingers retreat, but she leaves a lingering touch that promises more mischief later.

As the match progresses, Leah continues her playful torment, her fingers wandering back to your thigh at every opportunity. You can’t help but recall all the other public places where she’s pushed the boundaries: the quiet corners of museums, the back rows of cinemas, even that one unforgettable time on a nearly deserted beach.

You lean in close to Leah, your lips brushing against her ear. “You keep this up and we’re going to have to find somewhere private,” you warn, your voice a low murmur.

Leah’s grin is positively wicked. “Now that sounds like a plan.” She glances around, then her eyes settle back on you, filled with that familiar, enticing mischief. “How about we slip out after this set?”

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part fifteen: creature of habit

word count: 1.2k

warnings: smoking, mentions of smoking as an unhealthy coping mechanism, talks of quitting(?)

fourteen | fifteen | sixteen

The moment she slid into the passenger seat of the now familiar car on Wednesday afternoon, she wrinkled her nose. It wasn’t too obvious—not like she meant to do it—but Lando caught it immediately. Her face didn’t quite scrunch, but her lips pressed together, and she shifted slightly like she was trying to put some distance between herself and the lingering scent in the car.

It had been a bad night. A bad fucking night. Lando had barely slept, the nicotine still sitting thick in his lungs after going through nearly half a pack while trying to cool off. He thought he’d aired the car out enough, but apparently not.

“You smoke?” she asked, her voice light but laced with something he couldn’t quite name.

Lando barely flicked a glance her way before putting the car in drive. “Not really.”

She gave him a look. The kind that made it clear she didn’t buy his bullshit but wasn’t going to press him on it either. “Oh,” she murmured.“It smells like smoke in here.”

Lando barely paused as he shifted gears, glancing at her with a blank expression. “Does it?”

She sniffed again, like she was double-checking, then nodded. The thick scent of tobacco hit the back of her throat with every inhale, forcing her to breathe it in through her nose instead. “Yeah.” 

He played it cool, turning his attention back to the road. “Must’ve been the guy who had it before me.”

She frowned slightly. “You let people borrow your cars?”

Ah, fuck.

“Not usually,” he said smoothly. Lando played dumb, shifting the car into drive. “Why?”

She shot him a look before waving a hand slightly in front of her face. “Because it reeks in here.”

He exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly like he was considering it. “Huh. Must’ve been the guy parked next to me then.”

Not that I own my own private three-story garage or anything.

She didn’t look convinced.

He kept his expression neutral, his grip on the steering wheel relaxed. She wasn’t stupid—he knew that. But he also wasn’t about to sit here and talk about why he had needed a cigarette so badly after what had gone down the night before.

She turned to the window, clearly put off by the lingering scent, and he caught the way she subtly pulled at the collar of her sweater, like she wanted to block out the smell completely. She fidgeted with the collar of her shirt before deciding it’d be rude to show her distaste so blatantly, instead opting to fidget with her fingers in her lap. Her fingers curled against her thigh, her shoulders tensed just the tiniest bit.

Interesting.

The next day, he brought a different car.

He didn’t acknowledge it. She didn’t bring it up. But when she got in, there was no wrinkling of her nose, no slight shift of discomfort. Instead, when she noticed the scented dangling tree ornament hanging from the rearview mirror, there was a twinkle in her eye.

This car was swirling with the artificial scent of french vanilla – much warmer and sweeter than the overwhelming haze they’d had to inhale the day prior. Instinctively, she smiled.

Huh, it smells nice in here.

Warm scents always had been her favorite, with her always stopping to smell candles that smell like vanilla or snickerdoodle or s’mores whenever she found herself at the mall. And now, her lips curled in a subconscious display of approval as she sat beside him, before she began to delve into all the details of her day.

It was stupid how much that pleased him.

A week later, his boys started noticing.

“Alright,” Max Fewtrell said, arms crossed, watching Lando fidget with something in his hands. “Enough of this shit. You’re fidgety as fuck, mate. What the fuck is going on with you?” He eyed Lando, watching the way his fingers twitched slightly on the table. “You good?”

“What d’you mean?” Lando muttered, scowling as he flicked an unlit cigarette between his fingers. He exhaled sharply, tapping his fingers against the table. He’d been doing that a lot lately. Twitching. Tapping. Clenching his jaw. Running his hand through his hair. All the fucking things he used to do before he ever picked up a cigarette.

Max Verstappen raised an eyebrow. “You’re miserable.”

“I am not miserable!” Lando snapped, then hesitated, rubbing a hand down his face.

Deep breaths. Get your shit together Norris. For fuck’s sake.

“Okay, maybe a little. But nothin’ more than usual, you muppets.”

Carlos Sainz paused in the middle of their game of pool, watching his boss like the kid was a puzzle missing half its pieces. “Didn’t you just buy a fresh pack the other day?”

Ah, so there’s a brain in there after all.

“Yeah,” Fewtrell agreed, his analytical gaze scanning Lando from head to toe and back again. “And then I saw you throw it in the bin an hour later.”

Can’t you ever mind your own fuckin’ business?

Lando snarled in nor particular direction, twirling the unlit cigerette between his fingers while he stared at it as if it had personally offended him. If he stared at it any harder, the poor thing would likely disintegrate.

Daniel Ricciardo, ever the opportunist, grinned wide and knowing. Mirth danced in those warm brown eyes. “I mean, hey, if you’re quitting, you could just say so.”

Lando let out a sharp breath, leaning against the counter. As soon as he pocketed the stupid cigarette, his fingers twitched like they wanted something to hold. A moment later, he had his lighter out instead, flicking it on and off in repetitive motions. “It’s not quitting.”

Fewtrell narrowed his eyes. “It looks like quitting.”

Daniel snorted. “Bullshit. You’ve been chewing gum like it’s your last meal and looking pissed off for the last three days.”

Fewtrell narrowed his eyes. “You are quitting.” He grinned. “What, you on a sudden health kick? Givin’ up joints for spring rolls?”

Lando sighed through his nose, his jaw tightening slightly. He didn’t even like smoking—never had, not really. It was just something that came with the job, something that filled the space between the cracks.

But now? Now it was annoying him. He found himself thinking about it in a way he never had before.

Max Verstappen lifted a brow, actually looking up from his phone. “Since when do you give a shit about that?”

Lando scowled. “It’s just—” He exhaled through his nose, frustrated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well– Erm, it’s– It’s just not right, y’know?”

Silence.

Carlos exchanged a glance with Fewtrell. Verstappen’s eyes narrowed slightly. Daniel just looked amused, using every once of self control not to burst out laughing in front of everyone. Oh, this was hilarious.

The guys exchanged glances.

Not right? Since when did Lando give a shit about right and wrong?

Carlos raised a brow. “Since when do you care?”

Lando didn’t answer. Instead, he flicked the lighter shut, shoving it into his pocket.

Fewtrell tilted his head. “Not right… how?”

And since when? He wanted to ask. You’ve been smokin’ a pack a week since you were old enough to reach the checkout counter at the corner store, so what’s this bullshit?

Lando pushed off the counter, grabbing his car keys. “Don’t worry about it.”

Daniel grinned. “Ohhh, I see.”

Lando barely looked up from where he was flipping a lighter between his fingers. “Dunno what you’re talking about. Y’don’t see shit,” Lando muttered, flipping him off as he walked out the door.

Daniel’s grin widened. “Whatever you say, boss.”

a/n: if this feels too filler again, i'm sorry. i'm just trying to build their dynamic a bit, but hopefully the upcoming chapters will be more interesting for you guys. thank you for reading!

[magical-reid]

Between the Lines (Part 1)

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Shy!Reader

Genre: Slow Burn

Warning: This was originally going to be one part so I hope there's no weird cuts

Time Line: Season 4 Timeline (but Eddie gets a happy ending!)

Summary: When Eddie Munson pulls you out of your shell, neither of you expect it to mean everything—until Hawkins turns against him, and you’re the only one still by his side. Through the chaos of the Upside Down, near-misses, and a battle for survival, Eddie realizes he can’t lose you—and this time, he’s never letting go.

Word Count: 5.4K

Hawkins High’s cafeteria was a battlefield. Jocks and cheerleaders occupied the best real estate, their laughter bouncing off the walls, while the outcasts huddled in their usual places, dodging judgmental stares. You, however, had perfected the art of blending in—head down, nose in a book, quietly existing on the fringes where no one paid much attention.

Or at least, that’s how it used to be, until Eddie Munson had noticed you.

It started small. A few glances from across the room, his dark eyes flicking toward you whenever he was in the middle of an exaggerated monologue for Hellfire Club. Then came the nods in the hallway, casual, like he was acknowledging an old friend instead of someone who barely spoke.

You weren’t sure why.

Maybe it was because you sat behind him in English, quietly scribbling notes while he ignored assignments in favor of doodling song lyrics in the margins of his notebook. Maybe he saw you watching his campaign speeches in the cafeteria, not judging like the others but listening, even if you never had the courage to join.

Or maybe Eddie Munson was just the kind of person who noticed people that the rest of the world ignored.

“Y/N, right?”

Your brain short-circuited. Eddie was standing in front of you, talking to you.

You had been preparing to leave the library when he appeared like some chaotic apparition, rings glinting as he drummed his fingers on the table. The question was casual, like he wasn’t shattering your entire routine by acknowledging your existence.

“Uh—yeah.” Your voice came out quieter than you wanted, and you mentally kicked yourself.

Eddie grinned like you’d just said something hilarious. “Knew it. I don’t forget a face.”

That wasn’t true. You’d heard him confidently call Dustin “Darwin” once and insist Steve Harrington’s name was actually “Stan.” But you let it slide, because your brain was still stuck on the fact that Eddie Munson was talking to you.

“You’re in Ms. O’Donnell’s class with me,” he continued, rocking on his heels. “You always look like you wanna be anywhere else.”

You did. English was a nightmare when participation counted, and your voice never seemed to work properly when put on the spot. But you hadn’t realized Eddie noticed.

“I, uh—I like the books,” you admitted, gripping the strap of your bag. “Just… not the talking part.”

Eddie’s smile softened. “Yeah, that tracks.” He cocked his head, studying you in a way that made your stomach flip. “So, if you’re into books, what’s stopping you from joining Hellfire?”

You blinked. “What?”

“I see you watching,” Eddie said, smirking as he leaned in conspiratorially. “You think I wouldn’t notice? You’re always listening when I’m giving my grand, Shakespearean-level speeches in the cafeteria.”

Your face burned. Had you been that obvious?

Eddie’s grin widened at your reaction. “So, you like stories. You like fantasy. That tells me you’d probably love Dungeons & Dragons.” He paused, then added dramatically, “And yet, you never come sit with us. Tragic, really.”

You fiddled with the hem of your sweater, struggling to find words that wouldn’t make you sound ridiculous. You had thought about it. More than once. But joining Hellfire meant attention, meant speaking up, meant being looked at. And that terrified you.

Eddie seemed to sense your hesitation because his voice turned softer, teasing but not unkind. “Tell you what—I won’t force you. But if you ever get tired of being a background character, there’s a seat at the table for you.”

You swallowed hard.

A part of you wanted to say no, to retreat back into the safety of anonymity. But another part—the part that secretly loved fantasy worlds and the idea of being part of something—held onto Eddie’s words a little too tightly.

Because Eddie Munson had noticed you.

And maybe… just maybe… you wanted to be noticed.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You thought maybe Eddie would forget.

People talked all the time—offhand invitations, casual offers that didn’t really mean anything. You figured that’s what his words had been in the library. A moment of whimsy, a fleeting thought from someone who didn’t actually expect you to take him up on it.

But Eddie Munson wasn’t most people.

So when Friday rolled around, when Hellfire Club took over the cafeteria for their weekly game, Eddie saw you.

You were sitting in your usual spot, book open but unread, fingers fidgeting with the worn edge of the page. You could hear them—the boisterous laughter, the dramatic voices, the excitement of a world unfolding in dice rolls and storytelling.

And then, his voice.

“Still in the background, huh?”

Your stomach flipped before you even looked up. Eddie was standing in front of you again, hands braced on the table, a smirk tugging at his lips.

You blinked, unsure what to say. You hadn’t expected him to follow up.

“Not even a little curious?” he pressed, tilting his head, his curls falling into his face.

You hesitated. Of course you were curious. But curiosity meant risk—meant walking into a world where you couldn’t just blend in, where you’d have to speak, to engage.

Eddie, as if sensing your internal debate, softened his approach. “Alright, new deal. No commitment, no pressure. Just come watch. Sit at the table, listen in. You don’t have to say a word.”

Your fingers tightened around your book.

It was a trap. A cleverly disguised one, because you knew Eddie wanted you to speak, to participate. But the offer was tempting. No pressure. Just watching.

You exhaled. “Just watching?”

Eddie grinned. “Scout’s honor.”

You seriously doubted Eddie Munson had ever been a Scout, but still…

You nodded.

His eyes lit up like you’d just agreed to marry him. “Hell yeah, okay—come on.”

Before you could second-guess yourself, Eddie grabbed your wrist, tugging you toward the Hellfire table. His rings were cold against your skin, his grip firm but not forceful, like he half-expected you to change your mind and run.

You didn’t.

Instead, you let him pull you into the chaos.

Dustin, Mike, Jeff, Gareth—faces you recognized but had never spoken to—glanced up in mild surprise as Eddie dragged you into a seat beside him. “Alright, gentlemen, we have a guest,” he announced, spreading his arms like he’d just unveiled a great prize.

Dustin looked delighted. “You recruited someone?”

“Not recruited,” Eddie corrected, slinging an arm over the back of your chair. You tensed at the proximity, and he must have noticed because his voice dropped into something softer. “Just watching tonight.”

The others accepted this without question, diving back into their game, and you found yourself quietly observing as their campaign unfolded. The excitement, the stakes, the way Eddie controlled the room with his voice alone.

And maybe, just maybe, you started to see what he saw.

Because for the first time in a long time, you weren’t just watching from the outside. You were there, included, and Eddie Munson had made sure of it.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You hadn’t meant to come back.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

But the next Friday, when Hellfire Club met again, you found yourself hovering just outside the cafeteria doors, heart hammering, fingers twisting in the fabric of your sweater. You weren’t sure why you were hesitating.

Eddie had invited you. No—more than that. He had wanted you there. And nothing bad had happened last time. No one had forced you to speak. No one had laughed at you.

So why were you so nervous?

You were debating whether to turn around and flee when—

“Well, well, well. Look who’s lurking.”

Your stomach flipped. You knew that voice.

Eddie.

He was leaning in the doorway like he’d been waiting for you, dark eyes filled with mischief, lips twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smirk—too warm for that.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

Eddie chuckled. “Y’know, for someone who’s really good at making herself invisible, you are terrible at sneaking.”

You huffed, heat creeping up your neck. “I wasn’t sneaking.”

His grin widened, like he was delighted to hear you defend yourself. “No? What were you doing then?”

You hesitated. “…Thinking about coming in.”

He tilted his head. “And what’s stopping you?”

You bit your lip. Everything. The usual anxieties, the weight of being seen, the fear of looking ridiculous. But saying that out loud felt impossible.

Eddie, as if sensing your internal war, took a step closer. Not enough to be overwhelming—just enough that his voice dropped into something softer, something meant just for you.

“You don’t have to be scared,” he said, his tone light but real. “It’s just a game. Just us nerds sitting around a table, rolling some dice. No stakes. No pressure.”

You wanted to believe that.

And yet—

“You’ll sit next to me again,” Eddie added, like it wasn’t a question but a promise. “I’ll help you if you want. And if it sucks, I’ll personally walk you out and never bother you about it again.”

Your heart clenched.

It was such an Eddie thing to say. Loud and dramatic and yet… sincere. Because he meant it.

And somehow, that was what made you move.

You swallowed hard, then nodded.

Eddie lit up like you’d just made his entire week. “That’s what I’m talking about. Come on, shy girl, time to throw you into the fire.”

He didn’t grab your wrist this time. Just walked beside you, slow enough that you could change your mind if you wanted.

You didn’t.

The guys greeted you like last time—Dustin practically beaming, Mike offering a nod, the others grinning like they had already accepted you as part of the background.

You liked that.

You sat down next to Eddie, your pulse still racing, fingers tightening around the hem of your sweater. The energy around the table was different tonight—higher stakes, more tension.

“Perfect timing,” Eddie declared as he sat down beside you. “We’re entering the final stretch of tonight’s campaign. And you—” he tapped a ringed finger on the table in front of you “—are going to roll for us.”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“You heard me,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “One roll. No character sheet, no stats—just luck. Our fearless warrior here—” he gestured to Dustin “—is in a tight spot. He needs backup. So, we’ll leave his fate in the hands of the newcomer.”

Your palms started sweating. Everyone was watching. Waiting.

Eddie saw your hesitation and leaned in, voice just above a whisper. “You got this. Just pick up the die and let fate decide.”

You took a shaky breath. Then, before you could overthink it, you reached out and grabbed the twenty-sided die in front of you. It was cool in your palm, heavier than you expected.

You let it roll.

It bounced across the table, spinning, spinning—

Then landed.

A natural twenty.

The table exploded.

Dustin shot to his feet. “Are you kidding me? That was a critical hit!”

Mike groaned, throwing his hands up. “She’s got beginner’s luck!”

Even Jeff and Gareth were laughing, clapping their hands as Eddie threw his head back, cackling like a maniac. “Oh-ho-ho, I knew it! I knew you had it in you!”

You blinked at the die, then at Eddie. “…That was good, right?”

Eddie grinned so wide it was blinding. “Good? That was legendary.”

And for the first time that night—maybe even the first time ever—you felt it, the feeling like you belonged.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Something was wrong.

You felt it before you understood it—an unspoken shift in the air, like the entire town of Hawkins had been holding its breath. It started small. Missing posters appearing overnight, whispers of kids seeing things that weren’t there, an electricity in the air that made your skin prickle.

Then Chrissy Cunningham died.

And Eddie Munson disappeared.

You heard the rumors before you heard the truth.

Murder. Occult rituals. Hellfire Club being a satanic cult. The kind of garbage Hawkins thrived on, spinning stories to explain away the things it couldn’t understand.

But you knew Eddie.

You knew the boy who noticed people when no one else did, who made space for you at his table without asking for anything in return. The boy who smirked at your shyness but never mocked it, who pulled you into the fire without letting you burn.

And there was no way Eddie Munson was a murderer.

Which was why, when Dustin Henderson pulled you aside between classes, frantic and breathless, you didn’t hesitate.

“You trust Eddie, right?” he asked, gripping your arm, eyes darting around like someone might be listening.

“Of course,” you said, heart pounding. “Where is he?”

Dustin hesitated. Then, after a sharp exhale, he said, “Come with me.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Eddie was hiding in Reefer Rick’s boathouse.

Dustin, Lucas, and Max had already found him, but now it was a waiting game—figuring out what the hell was happening, what had killed Chrissy, and how to keep Eddie from getting thrown in jail for something he didn’t do.

You barely had time to process before you were climbing through a boatyard window, heart in your throat, stepping into the darkened boathouse where Eddie was pacing like a caged animal.

He looked different. Smaller, somehow. His usual bravado was missing, his eyes wide and darting like he was waiting for someone to kick down the door and drag him away.

But the moment he saw you, he froze.

“…Shy girl?”

Your chest ached at how raw his voice sounded. “Hey, Eddie.”

He blinked like he wasn’t sure if you were real. “What—why—?”

You stepped closer before you could second-guess yourself. “Dustin told me what happened. I don’t believe any of it.”

Eddie let out a shaky breath. His shoulders slumped, just slightly, like he’d been bracing for you to look at him differently.

“You should,” he said, voice hollow. “You didn’t see what I saw.”

He told you then.

About Chrissy. About the impossible, horrific way she died. About the thing that had killed her—something wrong, something that shouldn’t exist.

And you believed him.

Because this was Hawkins. And in Hawkins, monsters were real.

You sat down beside him, slow and careful, like approaching a spooked animal. He looked exhausted—shaken down to his bones.

“You’re not alone, Eddie,” you said softly. “We’re going to figure this out.”

Eddie let out a wet, breathy laugh. “Shit. Never thought you’d be the one telling me that.”

You smiled, just a little. “Guess you’re rubbing off on me.”

He looked at you then. Really looked at you. And for the first time since you walked in, something in his eyes steadied.

He swallowed hard. “…That a bad thing?”

Your pulse jumped.

You weren’t sure how to answer, but for the first time, you didn’t feel like running away.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You didn’t leave, maybe you should have. Maybe it would’ve been safer to let the others handle this, to go home and pretend that Eddie Munson wasn’t sitting next to you in the dark, shaking from something that had shattered his entire world.

But you stayed.

You weren’t sure if it was because of the way he looked at you—wide-eyed and uncertain, like he was afraid you might vanish—or because, for once, you weren’t afraid to be seen.

Eddie had spent weeks pulling you out of your shell. Maybe it was your turn.

Outside, the others were whispering, trying to piece together what was happening to Hawkins. But in here, in this dimly lit boathouse where the air smelled like damp wood and old cigarettes, it was just you and Eddie.

He ran a hand through his tangled curls, exhaling sharply. “So, uh. What’s the verdict?”

You frowned. “On what?”

“Me,” he said, glancing at you sideways. His voice was forced light, a poor attempt at humor. “You sticking around because you believe me, or because you think I need a babysitter?”

Your chest ached at the way he said it. Like he was bracing for you to say the wrong thing.

So you answered carefully.

“I’m here because I want to be.”

Eddie went still.

His fingers curled against his knee, the rings glinting in the dim light. You had never seen him like this before—quiet. Uncertain. Eddie Munson filled spaces with his voice, his energy. But now, he just sat there, studying you like he wasn’t sure what to make of you.

“That’s new,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You swallowed hard. “What is?”

“You,” he said, tilting his head. “Not running. Not hiding.”

You hesitated. “You never let me.”

Eddie’s lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something, but for once, he didn’t. He just… watched you.

A strange, fragile thing settled between you. Something delicate, something that hadn’t been there before.

But before either of you could break it—

Thud.

You both jolted.

The noise came from the lake outside, something heavy moving through the water.

Dustin’s voice cut through the quiet. “Shit—guys, something’s out there.”

Eddie tensed beside you. His hand brushed yours—instinctive, unthinking—but it sent a jolt up your spine all the same.

You barely had time to process it before the world turned upside down.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The first thing you felt was Eddie’s hand gripping yours.

It wasn’t a hesitant touch, wasn’t careful—it was instinct, a desperate hold on to me as something big, something wrong, churned beneath the surface of the lake outside.

The others were scrambling, Dustin pulling at the tarp-covered windows, Max whispering a frantic what the hell was that? But all you could focus on was Eddie.

His fingers were locked around yours, cold from fear and the damp air, his rings pressing into your skin. You weren’t sure if he even realized he was holding onto you like that.

And you weren’t sure you wanted to let go.

Then the water exploded.

Jason Carver’s idiot friend—Patrick—had been out there, chasing after the other jocks. But now he was—lifted—yanked into the air like a puppet on invisible strings. His limbs snapped, his jaw wrenched open in a silent scream, and his eyes—

They caved in.

It was Chrissy all over again.

The second Patrick hit the water, Eddie yanked you back, shoving you behind him like he was the one protecting you. It was a ridiculous thought—what could either of you do against something like that?—but it made your throat tighten all the same.

Dustin swore. Lucas was shouting. And Eddie— Eddie was shaking.

His breathing had gone shallow, his entire body locked up. He looked like he was about to fall apart, like the walls were closing in on him.

And without thinking, without overanalyzing, you reached for him.

“Hey,” you whispered. Your fingers brushed his sleeve, just barely, but his head snapped toward you like you’d pulled him out of a dream.

His eyes found yours. Wild, frantic.

But yours were steady.

“You’re not alone,” you told him, voice firm despite the way your pulse was hammering. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”

For a second, he just stared at you.

Then, slowly, his breathing evened out. His fingers flexed like he wanted to hold onto you again, but he didn’t. Instead, he nodded.

And that was enough.

Dustin’s voice cut through the tension. “We need to go.”

Eddie didn’t hesitate. He grabbed your wrist—not as frantic as before, but still firm, like he was making sure you were real—and pulled you toward the door.

And as the six of you ran into the night, you realized something:

This wasn’t just Eddie pulling you out of the shadows anymore.

This time, you were pulling him back, too.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You didn’t stop running until your lungs burned.

Dustin led the way, weaving through the trees like he’d done this a hundred times before, Max and Lucas close behind. But you barely noticed them—your entire world had shrunk to the feel of Eddie’s fingers wrapped around your wrist, his grip still tight like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers.

He only let go when you reached the edge of the forest, doubling over to catch his breath. His hands found his knees, his wild curls falling into his face, his breath coming out in short, frantic bursts.

You wanted to say something—to do something—but before you could, Dustin spoke.

“We need to get Eddie somewhere safe,” he said, glancing over his shoulder like he expected half of Hawkins to come crashing through the trees. “It’s only a matter of time before the cops start combing the woods.”

Eddie let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Great. Just what I need. Another reason for the whole damn town to be out for my blood.”

Lucas frowned. “We could take him to my house. My parents aren’t home.”

Max shook her head. “Too risky. Carver and his goons probably already checked there.”

Dustin’s face lit up. “Steve’s house. His parents are home, but they’re clueless. He’s got a big basement—perfect for laying low.”

Eddie groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Harrington? Seriously?”

Dustin crossed his arms. “Dude, do you have better options?”

Eddie opened his mouth, then closed it. He had nothing.

You hesitated. You’d been quiet this whole time, still rattled by what had happened at the lake, but you couldn’t ignore the tension rolling off of Eddie in waves. He was still breathing too fast, still shifting like he was barely holding himself together.

And something about it hurt.

“…He shouldn’t be alone,” you said softly.

Eddie’s head snapped toward you.

You felt all four pairs of eyes on you, but you ignored them. Instead, you focused on Eddie, who was watching you like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right.

You swallowed hard, then pushed forward. “I mean—it’s just, you’ve been alone this whole time, right? Running. Hiding. And now you don’t have to.” Your fingers twisted in your sweater. “If we’re laying low, I can stay with you. Just until we figure things out.”

Eddie blinked, mouth slightly open, like his brain was buffering.

Dustin grinned. “That’s actually a great idea.”

Eddie made a strangled noise. “I—what—are you guys just making plans for me now?”

Lucas shrugged. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Max smirked. “Welcome to the club, Munson.”

Eddie threw his hands up in exasperation, muttering something under his breath, but when his eyes flicked back to you, something in them softened.

You weren’t sure if it was the way you’d said he shouldn’t be alone or the fact that you’d offered to stay, but something shifted between you.

And despite everything—despite the fear, the danger, the unknown—he gave a short, tired nod.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “But if Harrington tries to make me use his shampoo, I’m out.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Steve Harrington’s basement was nicer than you expected.

It wasn’t dingy or unfinished like Eddie’s trailer—there was carpet, old furniture, and a couch that looked way too expensive to be shoved in a basement. But the best part? It was hidden.

Which meant Eddie could finally breathe.

You sat on the couch, knees pulled up to your chest as the others argued upstairs. Something about supplies, about Nancy and Robin meeting up with them later. You weren’t really listening.

Because Eddie was pacing again.

His fingers twitched at his sides, his rings catching the dim light. He’d been quiet ever since you got here, chewing his thumbnail, his movements jittery and restless.

You exhaled. “Eddie.”

He didn’t stop. “This is insane. I’m hiding in Steve Harrington’s basement. This is actually my life right now.”

You hesitated. “It won’t be forever.”

He let out a dry, humorless laugh. “You sure about that?”

No. You weren’t sure about anything.

But you hated seeing him like this.

So you did something you never would’ve done weeks ago.

You reached out and grabbed his hand.

Eddie froze.

His skin was warm, the metal of his rings cold against your fingers. You hadn’t really thought about it, hadn’t planned it—just acted on instinct, pulling him back to you the same way he had done for you.

His eyes snapped to yours, wide and startled.

You swallowed hard. “You’re not alone, Eddie.”

His breath hitched.

For a second, neither of you moved. Your fingers were still curled around his, but you didn’t pull away. And neither did he.

Then—slowly, carefully—his grip tightened.

Just barely. Just enough to hold on.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “God. You really don’t scare easy, huh?”

You huffed a soft laugh. “I do. Just not around you.”

Eddie went still.

Something shifted. The air between you thickened, the weight of your words hanging there, unspoken but understood.

His fingers flexed against yours.

And then—

The basement door swung open.

You jumped, yanking your hand back as Steve clomped down the stairs, arms full of blankets. “Alright, Munson, you’re officially our problem now. Make yourself comfortable.”

Eddie didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just stood there, watching you like he was seeing you for the first time.

And something in your chest ached.

Because you both knew that something had changed.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You didn’t sleep.

Eddie didn’t, either.

The basement was quiet now—Dustin, Lucas, and Max had left, Steve had finally gone to bed, and the house above you was still. The only light came from a dim lamp in the corner, barely illuminating the space between you and Eddie.

He was sitting on the floor near the couch, leaning back against it, one knee bent, fingers twisting at his rings. You were curled up on the cushions, pretending to read a book you’d found on Steve’s shelf.

You weren’t actually reading it.

Because Eddie was acting weird.

Not loud, not animated, not filling the silence like usual. He was… watching you. Not constantly, not in an obvious way, but in these small, flickering glances, like he was trying to figure something out.

And it was killing you.

Finally, you broke the silence. “You’re staring.”

Eddie startled slightly, caught in the act. “Uh—what? No, I’m not.”

You raised an eyebrow.

He cleared his throat, shifting. “Okay, maybe I was. But only ‘cause I’m still trying to wrap my head around something.”

You hesitated. “What?”

His fingers drummed against his knee. He didn’t answer right away, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to say it out loud.

Then, finally—soft, careful—

“You stayed.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You could’ve left,” he said, watching you intently now. “Back at the boathouse. When you found out what I’d seen, what was happening—you could’ve run. Hell, most people would’ve. But you didn’t.”

Your throat tightened. “Neither did you.”

Eddie huffed a quiet laugh. “I didn’t really have a choice, sweetheart.”

The nickname sent something warm through you, but you ignored it. “That’s not true,” you said, voice softer now. “You could’ve run from us. Stayed hidden. But you didn’t. You let me find you.”

Eddie’s expression flickered. Like that hadn’t occurred to him.

Silence stretched between you. The air was thick, heavy with something unspoken.

Then, he exhaled.

“Shit,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “This is weird, right? Like—weird weird?”

You frowned. “What is weird?”

He hesitated. Then—“Us.”

Your breath caught.

Eddie must’ve seen something in your face because he backtracked immediately, hands flailing. “Not weird bad! Just—not what I expected? Like, I thought I had you figured out—shy, quiet, probably wanted nothing to do with a guy like me—and then boom, you’re here, riding this whole nightmare out with me, and I’m just—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “I don’t know. It’s messing with my head.”

Your heart was pounding.

Because you felt it too.

This thing between you. The way it had shifted, deepened. The way Eddie was looking at you now—not just like you were a surprise, but like he was seeing you differently.

Like he didn’t want you to be just another quiet observer in his life.

Like he wanted more.

You swallowed hard. “Eddie.”

He went very still.

You could feel the air shift again, thick and warm, something dangerous curling between you.

If you said something now, if you acknowledged it—

The line would be crossed.

But before you could open your mouth—

The phone upstairs rang.

Eddie jumped like he’d been electrocuted.

Then, almost immediately, he was on his feet, shaking off whatever had just happened like it hadn’t stolen the breath from both of you. “That’s probably Henderson. We should—uh—we should see what’s up.”

And just like that, the moment was gone.

But as Eddie jogged up the stairs, leaving you standing there, hands curled into fists—

You knew that this wasn’t just in your head, and you knew that Eddie felt it too. And sooner or later, one of you would have to stop running from it.

Part 2

[lvmimis]

cw: smut, minors dni. brat!reader. angry sex that turns soft. not really infidelity but a little targeted flirting on the part of reader. female anatomy for reader. f! receiving oral. penetrative sex.

“You’re getting way too good at getting on my damn nerves.”

The door to your hotel room is barely closed by the time he starts his tirade, but neither of the Itoshi brothers are particularly known for having any type of manners, and the current state of affairs is that you’ve successfully pissed Rin off the entire night. It doesn’t help that Rin’s kind of a crybaby, and his beautiful eyelashes line red-rimmed eyes right now; in fact his whole face is red from embarrassment, and as you kick your high heels off, he’s glaring at you with aggravation, hands balled into fists.

“So?” you ask flippantly, turning to him with a flourish in your satin, form-fitting dress that seems to practically mock him. You don’t intend to spin that joyfully but it works for you tremendously. After all, Rin takes himself far too seriously and it’s your God-given task to cut him down to size. Flirting with his brother - well, barely so - has worked wonders for you. Rin is now so hot he’s practically ripping his shirt off at the collar as he tries to loosen it, and you plop onto the king sized bed in practical glee. 

This isn’t the first time you’ve provoked him like this and it works every time.

You don’t have to do much. Just a few heavy lidded glances in Sae’s direction, a little too much interest in whatever the asshole has to say, letting your eyes linger on his drink then on the curve of his lips for a little too long, shrugging when Sae disrespectfully asks you, right in front of his brother, if you’re willing to spend time with an actual athlete before declining.

There will be a point in time where Sae’s advances towards you result in his face drenched in sweetened alcohol, but for now, when Rin’s waffling about how much you mean to him despite being desperate for your attention, keeping you on his arm for event after event, you don’t have to be his ride-or-die.

But you can ride him. 

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re trying to prove but if you keep fucking playing with me, you’re going to end up biting off more than you can chew.”

He’s a lot of talk and a lot of energy as he tears off your panties, but he’s the one with his face shoved into your folds just moments later, sliding his tongue up and over and along every part of you, lapping up your cream like milk, drinking up your squeals and moans like sweet ambrosia. His arms are practically wrapped around your lower half, dragging your hips up to his face as he sucks and swallows, spitting on your clit the lesser half out of disgust, the greater half out of sheer desire. Face still covered in your slick, and practically drooling, he takes your lips in his mouth again and kisses fervently, pulling your leg around his waist as he descends on you.

“Stop acknowledging him,” Rin hisses. Your back arches as his cockhead presses first against your entrance, missing first before he re-steadies and slips inside you, biting your lower lip as they pull back in a wince. Your fingers claw into his bare back as he claims you, a shudder leaving his throat as he nestles inside you, warm, inviting, his, oh so necessarily his.

“Stop worrying about him,” you hiss back. “Focus on me.”

Your eyes narrow as they meet, but he’s softening as you look at him. The first few strokes into your center are fast, harsh, quick in the snap of his hips, but the next ones, with his eyes slowly filling with adoration as he watches your reactions, the scrunch of your face and the lust in your eyes as they roll back, are slow and tender. 

“Focus on me,” he whispers now as he rolls his hips against yours. “Be mine.”

Be mine, be mine, be mine. He kisses your neck, marking you with each press of the lips, each squeeze of his fingertips on your flesh, and he wishes you would scratch and claw your name into his skin if only it means he’s definitely yours and only yours and you’re only his, forever.

[sakashq]

Love Drought. jude bellingham x fem!reader

🤍 summary: After his move to Real Madrid, Jude hasn’t been the same loving boyfriend you once had.

🤍 wc: 600+

🤍 warnings: y/n usage. I HATE IT. oh and angst! sorry guys 💕💕💕

🤍 yap! this is based on my current situation i fear 🤦🏾‍♀️🤦🏾‍♀️ i swear this is the last time i’ll bring my ex into my work💔

🤍 my girls <3 EXTRA SPECIAL dedication to @hrts4havertz because she is jude’s wife i fear. and to @ar4ujos @halfwayhearted @iovepoem @joaoflms &&. @planetpedri

Flexibility was always something you were capable of. So when your boyfriend Jude signed a contract for a team in Spain, of course you agreed to make the move for him. You loved the beauty of Spain anyway and ended up residing in the heart of the country. Besides, if things didn’t work out, you would still want to live here. You had made new friends and gotten a better job than the one back in Germany — life was just better in Spain.

Until it came time for him to actually play for the team. With Dortmund, Jude was amazing at balancing both you and his career. But now at this higher-level club, it seemed like he had just pushed you aside and only worried about his new club. It was great that he was focused on making the team proud, but that left zero time for you. Whenever he was home (he was always out with his new teammates), he’d barely acknowledge you and brush things off. Your friends called it the “Madrid curse.” Once signing with the team, they brainwash you. Obviously it was a silly joke, but sometimes it lingered in the back of your mind. Was this club destroying your relationship?

You never brought it up because you didn’t wanna seem selfish. He’s focusing on his career, he’s doing big things! That’s amazing, is it not? If you brought it up, it’d just make you seem like a jealous girlfriend. Even if you kind of were.

It got to the point where dates didn’t happen either. Someone who used to try and take you out once a week now only glanced at you once a week, every other time getting ready for football or hanging out with his new football friends. It was all him, him, him. Never any time for you.

Okay, that’s fine. He’s trying to establish relationships with his new teammates. But what about the relationship he already had? The one with his loving and loyal girlfriend that moved across the continent for him? Why was there no time for her?

For the first time in ages, the two of you were sat on the couch together. You sat away from him, sitting in nothing but silence. He looked over at you, raising a brow.

“What’s the matter with you?” He asked, crossing his arms.

“Nothing,” you mumbled. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t seem too fine. Talk to me,” he responded, his body now turned and facing you.

You stared blankly at him, unsure if you really wanted to talk to him right now. You sighed, deciding communication was probably needed in this situation. “You barely have time for me anymore. I get it, you’ve joined a new club and you need to bond with your teammates. But do you really need to every night?”

He looked at you, almost as if he was going to laugh. “So you’re jealous of Vini, Aurélien, and Eduardo is what I’m hearing?”

“Jude, I’m being serious.��� You looked at him, your face and body language very solemn.

“Okay,” he nodded. “Okay, hear me out. You get ready, dress and wear whatever you want however you want and I take you wherever you wanna go.”

You frowned saying, “You don’t get it. Weeks of craving your attention, and you think it’ll just be resolved by one date. It’s just gonna go back to the way it was afterwards.”

“Well what do you want me to do, Y/n? I’m trying here,” his voice raised a little, startling you. “I can’t make time for Madrid and you.”

Your face dropped, your heart going with it. If you weren’t upset then, you definitely were now. What did he mean by that? “So you could with Dortmund but you can’t now because it’s a slightly bigger club? You’re an asshole, you know that?”

“It’s a lot more draining with Madrid, Y/n. You don’t get it,” he shrugged.

“No, I get it. It’s fine, do what you wanna do. You’re gonna realize how good you had it when it’s gone.” You got up from the couch, grabbing your car keys off the coffee table and heading for the door.

Jude got up, ready to chase after you immediately. “Y/n, come on, we can talk about this. Y/n.”

You opened the door, shutting it behind you. Jude followed not too long after.

“Y/n, I’m sorry. Okay, that was a dickhead move. But you leaving doesn’t solve the problem,” he told you. He had a point, sure, but you were mad at him. No way he was gonna win. He was just worried about whether or not you’d be coming back. He loved you dearly, even if he wasn’t currently showing. You leaving upset with him destroyed him. The thought of something happening to you while you were still mad at him paralysed him. He didn’t know if he’d ever forgive himself if something happened.

“Okay, what?” You turned around.

“Come back inside,” he pleaded, his brown eyes begging with him.

Not giving in to his pleas you replied, “No. I can’t get a conversation with you and now you wanna talk. I’m done trying.”

“I know, I know, I fucked up. I didn’t mean what I said, I was just… saying stuff. I don’t want to lose you.” Your heart broke seeing his face, shattering into a million different pieces. Maybe he really wanted to try, or maybe this was just a manipulative move to get you to stay. Either way, you couldn’t help but feel awful. “Please just talk to me.”

You sighed, not responding but walking back over to him. And after a lengthy conversation, everything was okay again. It wasn’t like how it was before, but things were starting to look up. You two agreed to communicate more and take days off just to spend it with each other. After all this, it ended right where it started— the two of you sitting on the coach together, this time with you in his arms.

[simpforbbarnes]

Dust and Destiny pt.5

Pairing : Bucky Barnes x Stark!Reader

Summary : Bucky Barnes and you used to be lovers , madly in love. But you lost him in the blip and lost him again after the blip because he need to “find himself”.

Warning : cursing

Words : 3.2k

Buckle up babies , because this would be a chaos and a mess ( im a mess) .

Previous Part (pt.4) | Part 5 | Next Part ( pt.6 )

——————————————-

The breaking point

Joaquin settles in quickly, but you barely register the small talk happening around you. Because there’s a storm behind you. You don’t need to turn around to know exactly who’s watching.

But then—

“You’re the Stark woman.”

Joaquin’s voice pulls your focus back immediately, smooth and confident. Your lips twitch as you raise an eyebrow. “That’s what they call me?”

Joaquin grins, tilting his head. “Among other things.”. You chuckle, tilting your head. “Yeah? Like what?”

Joaquin steps in closer, like he’s enjoying this little game.

And then he says it—

“They told me you’re pretty.”

There’s a pause.A heartbeat.

Then—

“They were wrong.”

You blink, caught off guard for a split second. “Oh?”. Joaquin smirks.

“You’re a goddess.”

You can feel Wanda and Nat’s reactions without even looking,because of course they’re listening. But your brain is too busy buffering to acknowledge them.

Okay, damn.

Your lips part slightly, but before you can even formulate a response, the atmosphere in the room shifts.

Something crackles in the air.

Tension.

The kind that will swallow you. And it’s coming from behind you. Joaquin doesn’t seem to notice.But you do. You fucking do.

Because that storm?That weight against your spine?

It’s Bucky.

You don’t have to see him to feel the way his jaw must be locked, the way his fingers must be curling into his palms.

And for the first time since you came back,since you both started this silent game of pretending…

You wonder if Bucky Barnes is about to break first.

You don’t turn around.Not yet.

Because if you look at Bucky now, if you acknowledge that presence burning into your back,you might give too much away.

So you keep your attention on Joaquin, smirking slightly as you tilt your head. “A goddess, huh?”

Joaquin grins. “You don’t believe me?”

“Oh, I believe you,” you tease, “I just didn’t peg you for the smooth-talker type.” Joaquin chuckles, glancing at Sam. “Is that a compliment?”

Sam raises his hands, amused. “Hey, man, you’re on your own.” You can feel the weight behind you shifting. The barely restrained energy of someone holding back.

And it’s infuriatingly tempting to turn around,just to see how Bucky’s taking this. But Joaquin isn’t done.

His eyes flicker over your face, studying you. “You know, they didn’t just talk about your looks.”

You raise an eyebrow. “No?”

He shakes his head, voice dipping slightly. “They talked about how brilliant you are. How sharp.”. Your smirk softens. “They did, huh?”

Joaquin smiles. “Yeah.” Then, with a slight tilt of his head, “And how you could probably kill a man with your bare hands.”

You let out a soft laugh, eyes glinting. “You don’t believe that?”. Joaquin grins. “I think I’d like to see you try.”

The room hums with something unspoken, and for a second, you’re almost enjoying yourself,almost letting the warmth of the moment distract you.

Almost. Because then,

“You still wanna do that?”

Bucky’s voice cuts through the air like a blade. Low. Quiet. But razor-sharp. The air shifts. The tension coils tighter.

And fuck.

You swallow hard, ignoring the way your pulse spikes. Your breath shakes. Because fuck, you know exactly what he means.

It’s not about Joaquin. Not really.

It’s about you.

About the way you pretend. About the way you hold yourself together, smiling like the past doesn’t haunt you, like his absence didn’t break you.

And Bucky. ofcourse of all people.. knows it.

Your pulse pounds in your ears, but you school your expression before turning, meeting his gaze head-on.

His eyes are burning. And that just makes you angry. You tilt your head, smirking just enough to be taunting. “Still doing what, Barnes?”

Bucky’s jaw flexes. “Acting.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Oh, please-”

“Like you don’t give a damn.”

The words hit.Hard.

Because fuck him. Fuck him for standing here—after everything and acting like you’re the one playing pretend.

Like you’re the one who walked away first.

Your anger spikes, sharp and uncontrollable. “Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, voice laced with venom. “Should I start crying every time you enter the room? Maybe throw myself at your feet? Would that make you feel better?”. Bucky’s expression hardens. “That’s not what I—”

“No?” you cut him off. “Then what the fuck do you want from me?”

He goes quiet, but his breathing is heavier now.

And you are done.

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You wanna talk about acting, Barnes? Really?”

Bucky’s jaw clenches. “I—”

“You’re the one who left,” you snap, stepping closer. “You walked away.”

Bucky stiffens. “I had—”

“You had your reasons,” you mock, voice sharp like glass. “Yeah, I bet you did.” Your hands shake, but you don’t stop.

Because fuck him for acting like you’re the one who ran. Like you weren’t the one left behind.

“I waited for you,” you spit, voice breaking just slightly. “I waited and I grieved you. And then when you finally came back? You left again.”

Bucky flinches.

But you’re not done.

Your chest heaves as the anger bubbles up, breaking through everything, years of grief, of suffering, of pretending you were okay.

“FIVE YEARS, BARNES,” you scream, voice shattering. “FIVE FUCKING YEARS OF GRIEVING YOU AFTER THE SNAP.”

The entire room goes silent.

Bucky freezes.

And you. You fucking break.

Your vision blurs, chest aching, voice raw with everything you’ve held back for years.

“I lost everything the second you turned to dust,” you sob, shaking your head. “And I lost myself trying to bring you back. I was ready- do you get that? I was fucking ready to risk my own life to fix it. I would’ve died if it meant saving you.”

Tony moves then, stepping forward,his face pale, eyes glassy. but Steve reaches out, gripping his shoulder. Stopping him.

Because this?

This has to happen.

This moment?

This confrontation?

This need to happen.

You need him to hear it.

Bucky’s lips part, but no words come out. Because there’s nothing he can say. Not when you’re breaking in front of him. Not when your voice cracks as you whisper, “And after everything, you still left me.”

Bucky swallows hard, his entire body rigid. His breathing is uneven, jaw clenched so tight it might break.

And for the first time,

He looks wrecked.

Good. Because he should be. But it’s not enough.

Not when your heart is bleeding, not when there’s still so much more he needs to understand.

Your breath comes out shaky, but your voice is steady. “I didn’t care if I died,” you whisper. Bucky’s eyes snap to yours, like he’s just been punched in the gut.

But you don’t stop.

“I didn’t give a single fuck if I made it out alive,” you confess, voice rising. “I didn’t even care what my dad would think,what he’d feel- if I died trying to get that freaking stone.”

Tony inhales sharply behind you, but you don’t turn around. You can’t.

Your entire body trembles now, but you keep going, voice shaking with unfiltered rage and grief.

“I didn’t care what my dad would feel if I died.” You take a step closer, your entire being cracking apart.

“Why?” you whisper, voice thick, heart breaking.

And then—

Then you say the words that have haunted you since the second Bucky turned to dust in Wakanda. “Because if it meant bringing you back, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

Bucky sucks in a breath, his face breaking. But you’re not done.

Not yet.

Your lips part, your next words destroying you as they slip free.

“Because I loved you too fucking much.”

The second the words leave your mouth, the entire room freezes. Bucky doesn’t move.

Tony does. He flinches.

Because those words, They’re not just about Bucky. They’re about you. About the years of suffering. About everything you were willing to risk.

For Bucky.

For the man standing in front of you now, staring at you like you’ve just ripped his soul out of his chest. And for once. For once in his life..

James Buchanan Barnes is fucking speechless.

Silence followed. No one dare to speak , no one dare to make a noise . Because for the first time since you came back, you’re breaking. Not just infront of Bucky , but everyone and Joaquin. Hell.

You’re still shaking, fists clenched so tight your nails dig into your palms. Bucky hasn’t moved,hasn’t blinked, just standing there like you’ve gutted him in front of everyone.

And in a way…. You did.

You’ve ripped yourself open in front of him. In front of everyone. You can feel the weight of their stares, can practically hear them holding their breath.

But then-

A voice cuts through the thick tension like a fucking knife. “…Shit,” Joaquin mutters under his breath.

And oh, the way Tony’s head snaps toward him so fast it could give someone whiplash.

Joaquin immediately freezes, like a deer caught in headlights. His eyes dart around, realizing, perhaps for the first time, that he has just unwillingly stepped into a warzone.

“Shit,” he repeats, slightly more panicked now. “I knew I shouldn’t have come here today.” You almost laugh.Almost.

Because the way Tony squints at Joaquin is like he’s already planning how to erase him from existence. Bucky, on the other hand doesn’t react. Not even a little. Just stands there. Staring. Like he doesn’t even hear Joaquin. Like the only thing he can hear is the echo of your words.

Because I loved you too fucking much.

Your throat tightens. The weight of it all, the years of pain, of heartbreak, of everything.. settles into your bones like a curse.

And then

Then Tony moves. Not towards you. Not towards Bucky. But towards Joaquin.

Joaquin blinks, eyes going slightly wide. “Oh, uh…. ”

“Torres,” Tony says, voice deceptively calm. “Do me a favor.”

Joaquin hesitates. “Yeah?”

Tony’s smile is too easy. “Shut the fuck up.”

Joaquin immediately presses his lips together.

And from the corner of your eye, you swear you see Sam smirk and Pietro hold a laughter . Stupid ass man. But you don’t look away from Bucky.

Not yet. Because for the first time in years… He’s looking at you like he sees you again.

And that? That’s almost worse than anything else.

…..

Tony stares at me . Really stares. Like he want to attack me with his eyes. Because for the first time in a long time, he’s looking at you, really looking at you, and seeing something he never wanted to see.

You. Completely broken. His kid.

The one person he swore to protect. The one person who has always been his greatest joy,his greatest pride and his greatest fear.

And right now? Right now, you’re standing in the middle of this room, eyes wild, shoulders trembling, voice still raw from screaming

And Tony feels it. Deep in his chest.Like a knife to the heart. “Kid…” His voice is low, careful. A stark contrast to the warzone that just exploded between you and Bucky.

You flinch.

Not at his tone… But at the way he’s looking at you. Like you’re not just hurting. Like you’re bleeding out. And god, you can’t do this. Not now. Not with him.

So you swallow back the lump in your throat, force the burning behind your eyes to disappear, and exhale a shaky breath.

“It’s fine,” you murmur, voice hoarse. “I’m fine.”

Tony scoffs. Not out of disbelief. But because you just said the same damn thing you used to say when bucky turned into dust and whenbucky left.

He steps forward, slowly, like he’s approaching a wounded animal and when he places a hand on your arm, it’s warm. Solid.

“Kid,” he says again.And that’s what does it.

That’s what makes your chest cave in.Because there’s something in his voice, something that hurts. He feels this. Your pain. Your grief.

And suddenly, the words you spat at Bucky earlier come rushing back like a tidal wave.

I don’t care if I die.

I don’t even care about what my dad thinks and feels if I die.

Oh god, what have you done? Tony heard that.

Really heard it.And now? Now it’s killing him.Your throat tightens. “Dad, I—”

But he doesn’t let you finish. Because he’s already pulling you into a hug. A real hug. One that breaks you. You squeeze your eyes shut, fingers gripping the back of his shirt as you cling to him. “I got you, kid,” he murmurs, voice thick. “I got you.” And for the first time since coming back, you let yourself believe him.

You don’t know how long you stand there, buried in your father’s arms, feeling the weight of his heartbeat against your cheek.But it’s too much.

The warmth. The comfort. The way he’s holding you like you’re still his little girl, like he can fix this, like he can fix you.

He can’t. Nobody can.So you do the only thing you can do. You pull away.

Tony feels it immediately, themoment you tense, the way your fingers loosen their grip. He doesn’t fight it. He just lets you go, his hands lingering on your arms for half a second before he forces himself to drop them.

Your throat is raw, voice barely above a whisper. “I need to—”. You don’t even know how to finish that sentence. Tony does, though. He nods. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t try to stop you as you take a shaky step back. Or when you turn away from him completely. Or when you start walking, out of the room, down the hall, past the others who are still stunned from the explosion you and Bucky just had. You keep walking. Even when you feel eyes on you. Even when you know Bucky is still standing there, still watching.

Even when you hear Tony exhale deeply, as if the weight of what just happened is finally settling into his chest.

You keep walking. Because stopping means feeling. And you can’t afford to feel. Not right now.

The silence in the room lingers like smoke after an explosion. Joaquin, still looking like he just walked into a live minefield, slowly exhales and turns to Sam.

“…Man,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I knew I shouldn’t have come here today. It’s like walking into a goddamn warzone.”. Sam snorts. “No shit, Torres. You just witnessed history.”

Joaquin rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah? What kind of history?” Sam smirks. “The kind they don’t write down ‘cause it’s too messy.”

Joaquin exhales, glancing at the door you just disappeared through. “Right. Cool. Love that for me.”

Steve presses his lips together, shooting Sam a warning look, but even he looks too shaken to intervene.

Then Tony moves. Not in the usual, cocky Tony Stark way. No smooth quip, no sarcastic remark to break the tension.

Just a step forward. Slow. Controlled. Until he places both hands on the edge of the table and exhales deeply.

“…You know,” he starts, voice eerily quiet. “I am Tony Stark.” Nobody says a word.

“I’m a genius,” he continues, eyes locked on the table, voice steady but dangerous. “A billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. The man who built this….” He gestures vaguely at the compound, at the world they live in. “The man who figured out time travel,” he goes on. “The man who fought Thanos and fucking won.” His fingers dig into the table.

“I can make the most expensive gadgets in the world,” he murmurs, shaking his head slightly. “I can build a suit that can fly into space, that can fight gods. I can fix a broken shield. A fractured timeline.”

Then his voice drops to something quiet. Something cracking.

“But now…” He lets out a humorless chuckle, his jaw tightening. “Now I can’t even fix my own daughter.”

Silence.A different kind of silence. A heavy one. Because no one has ever seen Tony Stark like this.Not even Steve. Not even Nat. The weight of his words settles, crashing into them like a tidal wave.

For years, Tony has been the guy- the one who always had an answer, a plan, a solution. But now?

Now he just looks…Tired. Lost. Like he’s carrying a weight that even he can’t bear anymore.

Before anyone can say anything or moves , tony lift his head. And his eyes? Oh god, his eyes can make a hole through a wall .

His gaze lock on Bucky. A slow inhale then a long exhale before-

“Thanks to you,” Tony murmurs , voice cold. “Now i see just how bad the damage you’ve done to her.”

Bucky doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He just takes it. Because he deserves this.

Because fuck, he knows Tony is right.

“You broke her,” Tony continues, shaking his head. His voice isn’t just angry anymore, it’s something else. Something that sounds a lot like defeat.

“And not even an Infinity Stone can fix that.”

Bucky exhales sharply through his nose, jaw tightening.

Because what the hell is he supposed to say to that?What the hell is he supposed to do when the truth is so fucking clear standing in front of him.

Tony doesn’t move. He just stands there, staring at the space where you once were, like if he looks hard enough, he can fix this, like he can undo whatever the hell just happened.

But he can’t. And that’s what kills him.His jaw clenches. His throat tightens.

His own daughter. His baby girl.

He knew you were hurting. He knew.

But this? This was different.

This wasn’t just about losing Bucky to the Blip.

It was everything after. You lost him for five years. And when you finally got him back,when you risked everything to bring him home-

He left.

Again.

For two more years.

And now? Now you were standing in front of him, screaming, not just at Bucky, but at him, at the universe, at everything that had taken and taken and taken from you.

And he, Tony fucking Stark, was supposed to protect you from that. But he couldn’t.

And when Bucky came back? When everyone came back? He just thought, he hoped, he really hoped that you’d finally be okay. That you’d finally heal.

But looking at you tonight, hearing the way your voice broke, seeing the way you shattered in front of everyone. You weren’t okay. You were never okay.

And maybe you never would be.

His hands shake. He presses his fingers to his temple, squeezing his eyes shut, forcing himself to breathe.

“Tony,” Steve says softly, stepping toward him. Tony flinches.Because fuck, if he opens his mouth now, he’s going to break.

So he swallows it down. Bites it back. Lifts his head. Then, without another word.. he turns on his heel and walks out.

Because-

Stark don’t break.

Taglist : (lmk if you wanna be apart of my taglist ♡) @sebbymybaby21 @learisa @julvrs @chuiisi @caity1995 @wintercrows

[writtenbysprout]

The Great Pretender | Dean Winchester x reader

Word count: 5k+

Pairings: Dean Winchester x reader

tags: pinning, denial, use of nickname 'princess', faint descriptions of wounds and blood.

Dean wasn’t sure when it started—this need to keep an eye on you.

It wasn’t like you couldn’t handle yourself. Hell, you’d proven more than once that you were more than capable in a fight. You moved with this instinctive grace when things went sideways, your mind sharp and steady even when chaos was all around. You fit into their ragtag group almost too perfectly, slipping between his dry humor and Sam’s research-heavy focus with ease.

And yet, there it was, this thing he couldn’t quite name.

It wasn’t just that he watched out for you in hunts. It wasn’t just the way his heart kicked up a little whenever he caught you smiling, or the way he’d catch himself looking for you whenever the group split up, just to make sure you were still within reach.

It was something deeper. Something terrifying.

He didn’t have time for that kind of thing, not in this life. None of them did.

But the thought didn’t stop him from glancing at you now, as you leaned against the hood of the Impala, talking animatedly with Sam about some lore he barely half-understood. The setting sun cast a warm glow across your face, and for a moment, Dean let himself just watch you, his chest tightening in a way that felt both painful and addictive.

“You’re staring again,” Castiel said quietly, his voice low enough that only Dean could hear.

Dean jumped, nearly dropping the wrench in his hand as he turned to glare at the angel. “I’m not staring.”

Castiel tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “You are.”

Dean grumbled something under his breath, turning his attention back to the Impala’s engine. “Don’t you have some celestial mission to take care of or something?”

“Not at the moment,” Castiel replied, his tone infuriatingly calm. He hesitated for a beat, then added, “You care about them.”

Dean froze, his grip tightening on the wrench. He didn’t look up. “Yeah, well, we’re all on the same team, Cas. Of course I care.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Castiel said simply.

Dean swore under his breath, straightening and wiping his hands on a rag. He could feel the angel’s gaze boring into him, unyielding as ever, and it made his skin crawl. “Drop it,” he muttered, stepping away from the car.

But as much as he tried to ignore it, Castiel’s words stuck with him, circling his mind like a damn vulture.

The thing about Castiel was, he had this way of dropping truth bombs with all the subtlety of a hammer. And no matter how much Dean told himself to let it go, the angel’s words clung to him like smoke, impossible to shake.

You care about them.

It was a fact Dean already knew but refused to fully acknowledge. Caring meant opening yourself up to the inevitable loss, and in their line of work, loss was as certain as the sunrise. He’d been down that road too many times, had the scars to prove it. Letting himself feel—really feel—was a risk he couldn’t afford to take.

And yet, here he was, watching you out of the corner of his eye as the four of you packed up the Impala to head to the next job.

You were laughing at something Sam said, your shoulders shaking with barely contained mirth, and Dean felt that stupid flutter in his chest again. Damn it. He couldn’t even be mad at Sam for getting that laugh out of you—just grateful someone could.

“Dean, you good?” your voice broke through his thoughts, and he realized with a start that you were standing right in front of him, your bag slung over one shoulder and a curious look on your face.

“Yeah,” he said quickly, clearing his throat. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You squinted at him, clearly unconvinced, but you let it slide. “Okay. Just making sure.”

You turned to grab something from the backseat, and Dean found himself caught up in the simple, everyday way you moved, like none of the horrors you faced could touch you here. For just a second, it was easy to imagine a world where none of the monsters were real, where you were all just a group of friends hitting the road with no agenda.

But that wasn’t reality.

The drive to the next town passed in a blur. Sam was in the front seat with Dean, discussing the details of the case—missing hikers, a few weird reports about flickering lights and distorted voices. It all screamed “something supernatural,” but Dean could barely focus on the conversation. His eyes kept flicking to the rearview mirror, where you were sitting in the backseat with Castiel.

You had your nose buried in some book Sam had handed you, completely absorbed, while Castiel sat quietly beside you, staring out the window. Every now and then, your lips moved, mouthing words from the text, and Dean had to force himself to keep his eyes on the road.

When you finally pulled into the motel parking lot, the sun was dipping low, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink. Everyone shuffled out of the car, stretching and groaning after the long ride.

Dean grabbed the keys for the rooms and tossed one to Sam before motioning for Castiel. “Come on, Cas. You’re bunking with Sam.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue, heading off with Sam toward the far room.

You paused beside Dean, your hands stuffed into your jacket pockets. “Guess that means we’re sharing,” you said lightly, tilting your head toward the other door.

Dean’s stomach flipped. He forced a grin, hoping it didn’t look as strained as it felt. “Yeah, guess so.”

The room was small but clean, the faint smell of bleach lingering in the air. You dropped your bag on one of the beds and flopped down with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling.

“Long day,” you murmured, your voice soft.

“Tell me about it,” Dean replied, kicking off his boots and sitting on the edge of his bed.

You rolled onto your side, propping your head up on your hand as you looked at him. “You’ve been off today,” you said, your tone casual but laced with concern. “What’s up?”

Dean hesitated, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his flannel. He could feel your gaze on him, steady and patient, and it made his chest tighten.

“Nothing,” he said finally, forcing a smirk. “Just thinking about the case.”

You didn’t buy it. He could tell by the way your eyebrows lifted slightly, the way your lips pressed into a thin line. But you didn’t push.

Instead, you reached into your bag and pulled out a deck of cards, holding it up with a small smile. “Wanna play? Might take your mind off things.”

Dean blinked, caught off guard by the simple gesture. He wanted to say no, to keep the distance he’d spent so much time building, but the look in your eyes made it impossible.

“Yeah,” he said finally, leaning forward to take the cards. “Why not?”

As the two of you settled into an easy rhythm, shuffling and dealing cards, Dean felt something loosen in his chest. For a little while, the weight he carried didn’t feel quite so heavy. And he couldn’t help but wonder—maybe caring wasn’t the worst thing after all.

The room was quiet, save for the soft shuffle of the cards and the occasional creak of the bed as one of you shifted. The yellow-tinted motel lamp cast a warm glow over the table between the two beds, the light catching in your eyes as you dealt the first hand.

“What are we playing?” Dean asked, leaning back against the headboard. His tone was casual, but you caught the flicker of curiosity beneath it.

“Five-card draw,” you said, shooting him a playful smirk. “Unless you’re scared to lose.”

Dean snorted, shaking his head as he picked up his cards. “Scared? Sweetheart, I’ve been hustling pool and cards since I was a kid. You don’t stand a chance.”

“Oh, we’ll see about that,” you teased, rearranging your own hand with a confident air.

For a while, it was just the two of you, trading quips and laughs as you played. You weren’t keeping score—not really—but it was clear Dean was letting his guard down, bit by bit. His grin came easier, his shoulders relaxed, and for the first time all day, he seemed to forget whatever had been weighing on him.

“You’re bluffing,” Dean said suddenly, narrowing his eyes at you over the rim of his cards.

You raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Am I?”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he studied you. “You’ve got that look. The one that says you’re trying to pull one over on me.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. “Dean, you’re terrible at reading people.”

His grin widened. “Am I? Because I’m about to call you out.”

You placed your cards face-down on the table, leaning back with a challenging smile. “Go ahead, Winchester. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Dean revealed his hand with a dramatic flourish—two pairs, nothing spectacular, but enough to win most games. He leaned back, crossing his arms smugly.

“Beat that,” he said.

You flipped your cards over slowly, one at a time, revealing a full house.

Dean’s jaw dropped. “No freakin’ way.”

You laughed, gathering up the cards as he shook his head in disbelief. “I told you, you’re terrible at reading people.”

“Or you’re just ridiculously lucky,” Dean muttered, though his grin betrayed him.

The room fell into a comfortable silence as you shuffled the deck again, the rhythmic sound filling the space. Dean watched you for a moment, his grin fading into something softer.

“You’re good at this,” he said suddenly.

You glanced up, tilting your head. “At cards?”

“No,” he said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “At... I don’t know. Just making things feel normal. Even when they’re not.”

The admission caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say. Dean wasn’t the kind of guy to open up easily, and you knew better than to push him too far.

“Guess someone’s gotta keep you from brooding all the time,” you said lightly, though your voice was warm.

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, well... you’re not half bad at it.”

You smiled, the moment stretching out between you. There was something unspoken in his gaze, something that made your chest tighten and your breath hitch just slightly.

“Your deal,” you said finally, sliding the deck across the table toward him.

Dean took the cards, his fingers brushing against yours for just a second too long. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “My deal.”

And as the night went on, with the cards between you and the world outside the door forgotten, Dean found himself thinking that maybe—just maybe—letting you in wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

The game continued, though neither of you seemed to care about the score anymore. It was just an excuse to talk, to laugh, to fill the quiet spaces with something other than the heaviness of the hunt. Dean dealt the cards this time, his hands moving with practiced ease, though his focus seemed less on the game and more on you.

“Alright, your turn,” he said, leaning forward slightly, his green eyes sharp and teasing. “You gonna fold or make this interesting?”

You tapped your chin thoughtfully, your lips curving into a sly smile. “I think I’ll raise.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.”

“Gotta keep you on your toes,” you shot back, your voice light but laced with challenge.

Dean chuckled, shaking his head as he tossed a couple of chips onto the makeshift pile in the middle of the table—a collection of buttons, bottle caps, and loose change you’d both scavenged from your bags.

The night stretched on, the game ebbing and flowing until the cards lay forgotten between you. The conversation had shifted, moving into stories from hunts, shared memories, and things you never thought you’d talk about.

“You ever think about it?” Dean asked suddenly, his voice quieter than it had been all night.

“Think about what?” you asked, leaning back against the headboard of your bed, the cards still in your hand but long since abandoned.

“This life,” he said, gesturing vaguely. “The hunting, the running, the never knowing if tomorrow’s gonna be the day we don’t make it back.”

You hesitated, the weight of his words settling over you. “Sometimes,” you admitted softly. “But what’s the alternative? Pretend the monsters aren’t out there? Let someone else deal with them?”

Dean nodded, his jaw tightening. “Yeah. That’s the thing, isn’t it? Someone’s gotta do it.”

“And it’s us,” you said simply, though your voice carried a certain sadness.

Dean looked at you then, his gaze steady and intense in a way that made your pulse quicken. “I’m glad it’s us,” he said quietly. “I mean, if it has to be anyone...”

Your chest tightened at his words, at the raw honesty in his voice. “Me too,” you murmured, your gaze meeting his.

For a moment, the room felt smaller, the space between you charged with something unspoken. Dean looked like he wanted to say something, his lips parting slightly before he caught himself, shaking his head as though to clear it.

“You’re something else, you know that?” he said instead, his voice tinged with a mix of affection and exasperation.

You laughed lightly, though your heart was racing. “I could say the same about you, Winchester.”

Dean smiled, a soft, almost shy thing that you weren’t sure you’d ever seen from him before. It made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

The night wore on, the cards forgotten as the conversation shifted and softened. And as you both eventually drifted off to sleep, the unspoken weight between you lingered—heavy, but not unwelcome. Something had shifted tonight, and though neither of you said it out loud, Dean definitely felt it.

The next morning came too quickly, the sunlight creeping through the cheap motel blinds, casting long streaks of gold across the room. You groaned, rolling over and burying your face in the pillow. It had been far too late by the time you and Dean had finally called it a night, and the weight of the previous day’s hunt still clung to your bones.

“Rise and shine,” Dean’s gruff voice called from somewhere across the room.

You peeked out from under the pillow to see him standing by the small table near the window, a cup of coffee in hand. His hair was still messy, sticking up in every direction, but he looked more awake than you felt.

“Too early,” you muttered, your voice muffled by the pillow.

Dean smirked, taking a sip of his coffee. “Come on, princess. Sam’s already up and doing his research thing. If you don’t hurry, he’s gonna eat all the good stuff from the diner.”

“You mean the diner with the greasy eggs and burnt toast?” you shot back, sitting up and stretching with a groan.

“Hey, don’t knock the classics,” Dean said with mock seriousness. “Besides, nothing beats a diner breakfast after a long night.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “Fine, fine. Let me get ready.”

As you shuffled off to the bathroom, Dean found himself watching you again, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. Last night’s conversation lingered in his mind, your words, your laughter, the way you’d looked at him like he wasn’t just another hunter destined for an early grave.

He shook his head, muttering to himself, “Get it together, Dean.”

By the time you emerged, dressed and somewhat more awake, Sam had returned with takeout containers from the diner. He looked up from his laptop as you and Dean settled in at the table.

“Morning,” Sam said, sliding a container your way.

“Morning,” you replied, popping it open to reveal the aforementioned greasy eggs and toast. You glanced at Dean, smirking. “You weren’t kidding.”

“Told you,” he said around a mouthful of bacon.

Sam raised an eyebrow at the two of you, his gaze lingering for a moment before he went back to his research. “I’ve got something on the case,” he said, pushing his laptop toward the middle of the table. “Looks like the creature we’re dealing with is a revenant. There’s a legend in the area about a vengeful spirit that’s been digging itself out of graves for decades.”

Dean leaned forward, his playful demeanor from earlier slipping into something more focused. “Alright. How do we take it down?”

“Salt and burn the bones, standard procedure,” Sam said. “Problem is, the spirit’s been moving from body to body. We’ll need to track down where it’s currently buried.”

“Of course we will,” Dean muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

You set your fork down, your expression thoughtful. “Anything that could help us narrow it down? Specific cemeteries, unmarked graves?”

Sam nodded. “There’s a pattern. It’s been sticking to graves on the outskirts of town, ones that don’t get a lot of visitors. I’ve marked a few on the map we can check out.”

Dean glanced at you, his eyes searching yours for a brief moment. “Guess we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

You nodded, trying to ignore the way his gaze lingered just a little too long. “Let’s get to it, then.”

The three of you piled into the Impala shortly after, the trunk loaded with shovels, salt, and lighter fluid. Castiel appeared in the backseat with his usual abruptness, offering a brief nod of acknowledgment before falling into silence.

As the Impala roared to life and Dean pulled onto the highway, the air in the car was filled with the low hum of the radio, Sam’s quiet musings about the case, and your occasional input.

But every so often, Dean’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, catching your reflection as you gazed out the window. And each time, his grip on the steering wheel tightened, his chest tightening with it.

He didn’t know how it happened, or when, but this thing—whatever it was—wasn’t going away.

The sun was setting by the time you reached the third cemetery, painting the sky in streaks of red and gold that bled into the shadows of the thick tree line. The air felt oppressive, heavy with something unspoken that prickled at the back of your neck.

Dean cut the engine of the Impala, the silence that followed almost deafening. Sam had marked this as the most likely spot for the revenant’s remains—a forgotten graveyard on the outskirts of town, its boundaries consumed by creeping vines and overgrown brush.

“This place gives me the creeps,” you muttered, your eyes scanning the twisted trees that loomed over the plot like skeletal fingers clawing at the sky.

Dean smirked faintly, grabbing his shotgun as he stepped out of the car. “What, this isn’t your idea of a perfect Saturday night?”

You shot him a look, grabbing your own weapon before following him. “Not unless it ends with me still breathing.”

Sam unfolded a crumpled map, his flashlight casting a shaky beam across the paper. “The grave should be near the western edge,” he said, his voice low. “Let’s move fast. If this thing’s still active, it won’t just sit around waiting for us.”

Castiel appeared beside you without warning, his presence sudden and eerie as always. He surveyed the area with narrowed eyes, his gaze sharp and unyielding. “There’s something here,” he said, his voice a quiet rumble. “I can feel it.”

Dean tightened his grip on the shotgun. “Then let’s not waste any time.”

The four of you moved as one, weaving through the crumbling headstones and tangled underbrush. The forest seemed to close in the farther you went, the air growing colder with every step.

When you finally found the grave, it was as Sam had described—partially disturbed, the earth uneven and freshly turned. You knelt by it, your fingers brushing the damp soil as a chill ran down your spine.

“This is it,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Dean didn’t hesitate. He dropped his bag and grabbed a shovel, motioning for you to do the same. The two of you worked in silence, the sound of metal striking earth echoing in the stillness.

The unease in the air grew heavier as you dug, a tangible weight pressing down on your chest. You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching you, its gaze crawling over your skin like a thousand invisible spiders.

“Dean,” you said softly, pausing to wipe the sweat from your brow. “Do you feel that?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, his jaw tight. “Keep digging.”

It didn’t take long to reach the coffin. The wood was splintered and rotting, the smell of decay seeping into the air as Dean pried it open with the edge of his shovel. Inside were the remains of the revenant—a twisted, grotesque form that seemed to radiate malice even in death.

“Salt and burn,” Dean said, his voice low but firm. He reached for the salt, but before he could pour it, the ground beneath your feet trembled.

A low, guttural growl rumbled through the air, and the shadows around you seemed to come alive, twisting and writhing with unnatural movement.

“Something’s here,” Castiel said sharply, stepping forward as his hand reached for the blade at his side.

Before anyone could react, the first attack came. A figure erupted from the darkness, its hollow eyes glowing with an unholy light as it lunged for Dean. You barely had time to shout a warning before it was on him, its claws raking across his chest.

“Dean!” you screamed, swinging your machete with all the strength you could muster. The blade connected with the creature’s side, sending it staggering back with an ear-splitting screech.

Dean stumbled, blood soaking into his shirt, but he didn’t fall. Gritting his teeth, he raised his shotgun and fired, the rock salt tearing through the creature’s chest in a burst of smoke and ash.

“Stay on it!” he barked, his voice rough with pain.

The creature wasn’t alone. More shapes emerged from the shadows, their twisted forms circling the group like predators closing in on their prey.

Sam fired his weapon, the sharp cracks of his gun splitting the night as you and Dean fought back-to-back, your movements frantic but coordinated.

“Castiel!” Dean shouted, his voice strained. “A little help here!”

The angel stepped forward, his blade gleaming with an otherworldly light. With a single, fluid motion, he drove it into the nearest creature, its body dissolving into ash with an agonized scream.

But for every one you took down, another seemed to rise in its place.

“They’re protecting the grave,” Sam yelled, reloading his gun. “We have to finish the job!”

Dean swore under his breath, grabbing the salt and dumping it into the coffin as quickly as he could. You covered him, your machete slicing through the air as another creature lunged at you, its claws missing your face by mere inches.

“Light it!” you shouted, your heart pounding in your chest.

Dean fumbled with his lighter, his blood-slicked fingers struggling to get it to spark. The creatures were closing in now, their guttural growls drowning out everything else.

Finally, the flame caught. Dean dropped the lighter into the coffin, and the fire roared to life, consuming the remains in a burst of heat and light.

The creatures screamed as one, their forms twisting and writhing before disintegrating into ash. The air around you grew still, the oppressive weight lifting as quickly as it had descended.

For a moment, none of you moved. The only sound was your ragged breathing and the crackle of the dying fire.

“You okay?” you asked, turning to Dean.

He nodded, but his face was pale, and his hand pressed tightly against the wound on his chest. “I’ll live,” he said, his voice strained.

You stepped closer, your heart still racing. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Dean managed a weak signature smirk. “What, you think I’m gonna check out that easy?”

Before you could respond, Castiel appeared at his side, his hand glowing faintly as he pressed it against Dean’s chest. The wound closed within seconds, the pain in Dean’s expression easing as the angel stepped back.

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean said, his voice quieter now.

Castiel nodded. “We should leave before anything else stirs.”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

As you all walked back to the Impala, the weight of the hunt settled over the group, the adrenaline fading as quickly as it had come. The night was quiet now, the sound of your footsteps the only thing breaking the stillness. Dean’s shoulder brushed against yours again, a fleeting touch, but it lingered longer than it should have. You could feel the tension radiating off him, his presence just as solid and comforting as ever. But there was something different in the air now—something unspoken between the two of you.

Once you reached the car, the familiar rumble of the engine starting up seemed to snap the moment away. Dean slammed the gearshift into place, the engine growling as he pulled onto the road. His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of you before his gaze quickly returned to the road ahead. The silence stretched between the four of you, but it was different this time. He could feel it. And he wasn’t the only one.

Dean’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, the leather worn and familiar under his palms. The road stretched out before him, a dark ribbon cutting through the night. He could feel the weight of the day pressing down on him, the blood still heavy in his veins, the scent of salt and burning bones still lingering on his skin.

His mind kept drifting back to the cemetery—the cold earth, the eerie silence that had fallen after the last of the creatures disintegrated into ash. And then there was you. He could still feel the heat of the battle in his muscles, but it wasn’t just the fight that had his mind racing now. It was the way you had looked at him—like you’d been there with him, every step, every breath. The way you’d stepped into the fray without hesitation, watching his back like he had yours. He wasn’t sure when it happened, or how, but somewhere between the bullets and the blood, he had come to realize that you meant something more to him than he could ever admit.

Dean’s jaw clenched as he glanced at you in the rearview mirror. You were there, just behind him, eyes distant as the road blurred past. You’d said nothing since the fight ended—nothing about the blood that had stained his shirt, nothing about the sharp pain in his side, nothing about the way he’d stumbled once the adrenaline had started to wear off.

He could feel it, though. There was a change. He didn’t know what it was exactly, but it was there. Maybe it had always been there, lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to surface. But tonight… tonight had cracked something open, and now it was all he could think about.

The familiar hum of the Impala was a small comfort, but it couldn’t drown out the thoughts swirling in his mind. He glanced over at Sam, who was bent over the map, his brow furrowed as he continued to check the coordinates of the next hunt. Sam’s focus was always a welcome distraction, but tonight even his presence wasn’t enough to pull Dean away from the realization that was settling heavy in his chest.

Dean shook his head, trying to push it away. He didn’t have time for distractions. Not now, not ever. This life was built on loss, on keeping your distance, on not letting anyone get too close. Especially not you.

But damn it, every time his eyes flicked over to you in the rearview mirror, he couldn’t help but notice how your presence seemed to anchor him in a way nothing else did. The way you moved in the car, the way your lips quirked up into that soft, effortless smile every time you caught him looking. He could feel your eyes on him, even when you weren’t speaking. And it was killing him. It was killing him because he didn’t know how to make sense of it. He didn’t know how to keep ignoring it.

Another glance at you. You were quiet, lost in your thoughts, but there was something different in the air. Dean knew you, maybe better than anyone, and tonight, there was a shift. It was subtle, but it was there. Something in the way you were no longer looking at him like he was just a brother in arms, but maybe—just maybe—something more.

Dean’s chest tightened as he stared straight ahead at the road. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to feel anything more than the usual sharp edge of survival that had kept him going all these years. But as the miles passed and the silence stretched between you, the question—no, the fear—clung to him.

What if you felt the same way?

What if he wasn’t the only one who had started to notice the tension, the crackling air between you both? What if this thing—the one that was impossible to ignore now—was real?

Dean clenched his teeth, a muscle in his jaw ticking. The last thing he needed was to complicate things. You were one of the few people he could trust, and in this life, trust was everything. You’d fought beside him, you’d bled beside him. He couldn’t risk losing that.

But as the Impala roared through the night, and the sound of the tires against the asphalt seemed to drown out everything else, he realized it didn’t matter. He couldn’t deny it anymore.

You were getting under his skin. And he didn’t know what to do about it.

[loveinhawkins]

Steve gets the idea from Dustin and Robin, in a roundabout way: Robin insists on buying a camping stove from The War Zone, which Dustin pounces upon with glee as soon as he notices it.

“Oh, we’re cooking with gas now,” he says, which is the worst pun Steve has heard thus far.

Eddie snorts, almost but not quite hidden underneath the sound of the engine. Steve smiles.

“Y’know there’s a stove right here?” he asks in benign exasperation, gestures behind him to the little kitchen area of the RV.

“Steve,” Robin says, “that’s not as fun.”

“Yeah, come on, Steve! It’ll be like at Camp Know Where—”

“Know Nothing,” Steve mutters automatically.

“—we oft dined al fresco.”

“Oft,” Eddie parrots, and Steve can faintly feel the movement of him laughing, from where he’s pressed up against the back of the driver’s seat. “Al fresco. Henderson, what lab did they make you in?”

“Eddie, either shut up or back me up, I wanna get a culturally enriching experience outta this.”

“Oh, excuse me, didn’t realise this was a field trip.”

“You’re excused.”

“Okay,” Steve cuts in, “have fun playing at camping, Henderson, but don’t come crying to me if you, like, blow yourself up.”

Robin chuckles. “Such a happy camper.”

“Boo,” Steve says flatly.

He parks the RV a little bit away from a store just off the main road—heads in alone as it’ll draw less attention. Out loud, he says it’s so he can focus without hearing whining pleas to buy junk food, whether Dustin-approved or not, but he already knows he’ll cater to each and every one of the group’s demands.

Eddie, surprisingly, doesn’t put in a request, says he’s happy to just go along with whatever everyone else wants—a far cry from when Nancy had relayed, with more amusement than frustration, “He said he wants a six-pack.”

Steve figures that the whole being wanted for murder thing would kill anyone’s appetite, but it still makes his stomach sink, that the most substantial meal Eddie’s gotten a chance to eat has been lukewarm Spaghettios.

They set up ‘camp’ in a field, and Robin’s the first to rush outside, shortly followed by Dustin, both intent on using the stove she’s bought.

Steve leaves them all to it, kind of enjoys the temporary peace of just messing about in the RV on his own—it gives him enough time to find where some crockery is kept, anyway.

He’s heating up chicken noodle soup on the stove when Eddie comes back in and tells him, “They got it working, no explosions yet.”

“Oh, miracles can happen. Good timing, by the way.” Steve switches the burner off, pours the soup into a bowl and sets it down on the table—where he’s already laid out a spoon. “Yours is ready.”

At first he doesn’t think the silence is all that unusual. He’s not really looking either, focusing on rinsing out the pan he’d used. But when he does glance up, it’s to see Eddie just standing there, looking at the bowl of soup and blinking rapidly.

It’s almost like… almost like he’s—

“Woah, hey,” Steve says, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” Eddie says, even though he’s still quite clearly tearing up. “Absolutely nothing. Jesus Christ.” He groans, presses a couple of fingers to the inner corner of his eyes. “This is fucking mortifying, just pretend you didn’t—ugh.”

In barely a blink, he shuts himself away in the bathroom.

Steve opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again. “Hate soup that much, huh?”

A watery laugh from behind the door. “No.”

There’s a silence. Steve dries the pan and puts it away before calling, “It’s gonna get cold!”

It won’t for a while yet; he can still see tendrils of steam rising from the bowl.

There’s a long, drawn out sigh, and then Eddie opens the door, sidles in to take a seat at the table.

For a moment, Steve thinks he isn’t going to acknowledge it, which is fine. But as Eddie picks up the spoon he says, head down, “It’s just. That was, uh. Really—really nice.”

Steve’s concern abates a little; he can’t help giving a slight smirk. “Would it help if I was mean instead?”

Eddie laughs again, no tears in it this time. He shrugs with a grin. “Do whatever you want, man.”

He’s eating slowly, his spoon dragging through the soup. His eyes seem distant.

“It’s just… I miss—” His voice threatens to break, but doesn’t quite get there. “I miss… home.”

Before Steve can think of a reasonable reply, Eddie scoffs, rolling his eyes. He drops the spoon with a clatter. “God, that sounds so—”

“It doesn’t,” Steve interrupts.

“Yeah, sure.” Eddie picks up the spoon again, keeps scraping it against the bottom of the bowl.

“Dude, what did I tell you? You’ve gotta give yourself a break.”

Steve pauses, stuck on what to say next.

He can’t even relate, honestly. Home has long become something he couldn’t… Something he couldn’t really miss, exactly.

It’s ever-changing: the luxury of eating a late breakfast in History; the crunch of leaves underfoot as he walked the railroad tracks with Dustin; the chill of the freezer in Scoops Ahoy, Robin’s snorting laugh bouncing off the walls.

Now it’s his car radio playing as he gives rides on busy school mornings. A high school basketball game. A goddamn video store.

“I think you have this thing,” Steve says slowly.

“A promising start,” Eddie says, lips twitching.

He’s finished the soup. The sight spurs Steve on.

“I think you have this thing,” he repeats, more confidently, “where you think that, like, we’re seasoned monster-killers, and you’re—”

“Uh, speaking objectively, Harrington, that’s kinda what you are.”

“My point is,” Steve says, “that you don’t need to—shit, I don’t know, man. Just. You don’t need to apologise or whatever. You’re doing fine.”

Eddie blinks. He’s cupping the empty bowl with his hands, breathing a little deeper, like the residual warmth is calming.

And that Steve can relate to: in the days after Starcourt, when Robin pretty much dragged him to her house, empty thanks to her folks visiting extended family. They both pretended that they just wanted to stay up late because they could, because they were just teenagers enjoying the summer, and Robin had made shitty hot chocolate from a powder, heating up milk on the stove; when Steve complained that he could hardly enjoy it through a busted lip, she’d said, still jittery, “I just thought—it’s just nice to hold, y’know?”

She was right.

One of Eddie’s fingers starts tapping against the bowl, the underside of his ring making a series of restless clinks. Steve wants to still his hand, gently press it further into the warmth. Settle him.

Eddie stands up with the bowl.

“I can—”

“Nah, I’ve got it,” Eddie says, already at the sink. He turns on the faucet, smiles. “Thanks, by the way.”

It’s so simple, so domestic, and all of a sudden, Steve’s struck with a thought: oh, I want this.

“No problem. I’ll get you something better, after… um, everything.”

Eddie chuckles. “Oh, Jesus, I think I actually would kill for some fries.”

Steve clicks his fingers. “So we’ll make it happen.”

“We?”

“Yeah, I hate to break it to you, man, but as soon as they hear about free fries—” Steve jerks his head towards the chatter outside, “—they’re gonna demand to come with, they’re like piranhas.”

He expects Eddie to play up the joke, to groan and complain.

But while he does laugh, Eddie just sighs before saying in earnest, “That sounds fucking fantastic.”

And his eyes are warm and fond, like maybe he’s found another home in all of them, too.

[fuqnia]

college AU! stan x fem bodied YN

stan and yn are reallyyy close friends, like REALLY close, to the point of kissing eachother sometimes. at this point, him and wendy are not a thing (unless you do poly and we could get some poly action, if not thats fine) and stan and YN like eachother romantically. stan knows he likes them but hasn't come to terms with it, while YN themselves are oblivious to their OWN crush on him because they don't understand their own feelings most the time.

can YN also be a brat (like maybe kind of stuck up and prissy) and also be flirty with people they're comfortable with?

that personality leads me to this: stan snapping and ends up fucking them (maybe confrontational? like, holds their cheeks and asks them if they're even aware how they make him feel, so fuzzy, but also so so so mad! (in a good way of course)

can i have themes of dom/sub (dom stan/sub YN), brat taming, light degradation with heavy praise, impact play?(if you're not comfortable with this one thats fine, i was just thinking maybe spanking of the ass, thighs, and clit), edging, orgasm control, dacryphilia, overstimulation, heavy teasing, and overall just mean but also super soft stan?

thankss (if this request makes you uncomfortable then thats okay)

Just Friends

stan marsh x fem!reader insert (college au)

(╥﹏╥) | [A/N] ah my first request ever! this is kinda long for a request, but i wanted to make it special. i'm so sorry for butchering dom/sub dynamics, i haven't really written that yet. and jesus christ i made stan talk alot in this, and i really highlighted how he would definitely wear tons of bracelets for some reason LMAO. again this was a challenge for me bcus i usually write stan kinda softish and quiet. thank u again <3 there's a scene where stan just goes on his phone during the middle of it and i almost died writing it was so funny to me

(╥﹏╥) | [CW] p in v, fingering, p eating, dom/sub dynamics, dacryphilia, edging, overstimulation assholeish stan and reader, cartman is cartman, characters are aged up!

The room was dimly lit, illuminated mostly by the soft glow of Stan’s TV screen as he sat cross-legged on the floor, completely immersed in his game. Faint sounds of gunfire and laughter from Cartman and Kenny filtered through his headset. Stan leaned forward slightly, his hands gripping the controller tightly, his brows furrowed in concentration.

On the bed, you sighed loudly, barely glancing up from your phone as you continued scrolling through TikTok and Instagram. The endless feed of videos and posts did little to distract you from the heavy boredom pressing down on you.

You switched apps, opening Snapchat out of sheer desperation for something interesting. As you flipped through stories, your scrolling halted abruptly at one that made your stomach twist.

Bebe and Clyde were out on another date. The photo Bebe posted showed their hands intertwined across a table, captioned: “My fave person 💕.”

Your chest tightened, an uncomfortable heat settling there. You didn’t know why it bothered you so much—it wasn’t like you were into Clyde or anything. Still, the jealousy gnawed at you, bitter and unshakable.

Shaking your head, you exited the app and glanced at Stan, who hadn’t once looked in your direction despite your exaggerated sighs. He was totally engrossed in his game, his headset cushioning his ears and his focus glued to the screen.

“Stan,” you called out, your voice edged with impatience.

No response. His lips twitched slightly, like he might’ve heard you, but he made no effort to acknowledge your call.

You huffed, tossing your phone onto the bed. If Stan wasn’t going to pay attention to you willingly, you’d have to force his hand. Sliding off the bed, you walked up behind him and bent down, placing your hands lightly on his shoulders. Without hesitation, you slid into his lap, grinning as his body stiffened in surprise.

“[Y/N]—what the hell dude?” Stan sputtered, almost dropping his controller as he glanced down at you.

Cartman’s voice blared through his headset. “STAN, YOU DUMBASS! MOVE! YOU JUST GOT US KILLED!”

Stan groaned loudly, hastily muting his mic before turning his full attention to you. “I’m in the middle of a game!” he said, his tone exasperated.

You tilted your head, a playful pout forming on your lips. “Yeah, well, I’m bored,” you said, looping your arms around his neck. “Why aren’t you paying attention to me?”

Stan blinked, his expression caught somewhere between irritation and disbelief. “Because I’m playing with Cartman and Kenny? You know—my friends?”

“Uh-huh,” you said, your voice dripping with faux innocence. “But I’m more important than Cartman and Kenny, aren’t I?”

Stan stared at you, clearly unsure how to respond. His hands hovered awkwardly near your waist, his usual confidence suddenly replaced by uncertainty. “You’re being weird,” he said finally, his blue eyes narrowing slightly.

A smirk tugged at your lips as you leaned closer, your face only inches from his. “Weird? You’re so dramatic.”

Before he could reply, you closed the small distance between you and pressed your lips to his, your chapstick leaving a faint, sweet taste behind as you kissed him. It wasn’t unusual for you and Stan to kiss—your friendship had always had an element of playfulness—but this time felt different. The way your lips lingered a moment longer, the way your fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his hoodie...

You pulled back, giggling softly at the stunned look on his face.

Stan’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, he just stared at you, his blue eyes narrowing slightly as his grip on your hips firmed. His gaze burned with something intense, something unspoken that made your stomach flutter.

But then he exhaled sharply, his lips pressing into a thin line as he reached up and unmuted his mic. “I’m back,” he said curtly, his tone clipped as he picked up his controller and resumed his game.

You blinked, taken aback by his reaction. He didn’t push you off, didn’t say anything else—just continued playing as if you weren’t still perched in his lap.

Cartman’s voice crackled through the headset. “About time, dude. You literally lost us the game because you were being a dumbass.”

Stan didn’t respond, his focus locked on the screen. His hands gripped the controller, his movements precise and deliberate, but you could feel the tension radiating from him.

You shifted slightly in his lap, testing his reaction, but he didn’t budge. His jaw was still tight, his eyes fixed on the screen, though you caught the faintest twitch of his lips when you leaned in close and whispered teasingly, “Am I distracting you?”

Stan’s lips pressed into a firmer line, his knuckles whitening on the controller. “You’re fine,” he said evenly, though the edge in his voice betrayed him. His blue eyes stayed locked on the screen, his jaw tight, clearly trying to pretend you weren’t there.

Before he could stop you, you reached up and slipped the headset off his head.

“[Y/N], don’t,” Stan muttered, his voice tense, but you ignored him, slipping the headset onto your own head and adjusting the mic with a sly smile.

“Hey, idiots!” you chirped into the mic.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Cartman groaned immediately. “Why the hell are you here? Don’t you have something better to do, like annoying someone else or scamming free drinks with that dumb whore shit you pulll?”

“Cartman, don’t start,” Kenny chimed in, his tone amused. “She’s just here to make sure Stan doesn’t embarrass himself again.”

You laughed, leaning back in Stan’s lap and twirling the cord of the headset. “Aw, Kenny, you’re my favorite. Cartman’s just mad because he missed me.”

“I do not miss you,” Cartman snapped. “You’re like a human migraine. Stan, can you tell your ‘friend’ to fuck off so we can actually play?”

Stan muttered something under his breath, his hands hovering uselessly over the controller. “Give me the headset back, [Y/N].”

But you ignored him, turning your attention back to the game. “Eric, don’t lie. You love when I’m around. It makes your miserable little life less boring.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Cartman barked. “You’re just here to mess with us. And Kenny’s a simp for eating this up.”

“You’re right, I am,” Kenny said, laughing. “At least she’s fun. Unlike you, Cartman.”

“Fuck you, Kenny!” Cartman shot back. “Stan, seriously, can you control your fucking lap gremlin?”

Stan sighed heavily, his jaw clenching as he grabbed the headset off your head and slid it back on. His blue eyes bore into yours, his frustration clear. “Enough,” he said, his voice low and firm.

You blinked at him innocently, your lips twitching into a small smile. “What? I was just being nice.”

“Nobody buys that,” Stan muttered, his hands settling firmly on your waist. “Not even you.”

“Come on, I’m always nice,” you teased, your grin widening as you tilted your head.

Stan stared at you for a long moment, his blue eyes narrowing as though he were weighing his next move. Then, without a word, he unmuted his mic and picked up the controller again.

“I’m back,” he said flatly, his tone cold as he resumed playing.

“Thank God,” Cartman grumbled. “She’s insufferable. Get her out of here, Stan, or I’m rage-quitting.”

“She’s not that bad,” Kenny said with a laugh. “Honestly, she’s more entertaining than watching Stan suck at this game.”

Stan ignored them both, his eyes glued to the screen, though you noticed the way his grip on the controller tightened.

You stayed perched in Stan’s lap as he continued to play, his focus unwavering despite your presence. The faint sound of gunfire and Cartman’s incessant yelling filled the room, but your mind was elsewhere. Your fingers moved idly to his hair, combing through the strands and twisting them gently.

Stan’s bleached hair had grown out since you helped him with it, leaving a stark contrast between the blonde and his natural dark roots. You smiled faintly, remembering the day he let you bleach it in his bathroom. He’d been skeptical at first, grumbling about how “Cartman’s gonna call me a wannabe TikTok e-boy.”

But when you revealed the final result, the look of surprise on his face had been worth every moment.

“Holy shit,” he’d muttered, running a hand through the freshly bleached strands.

“See? Told you it’d look good dude,” you’d replied smugly. Then, on impulse, you’d pressed a kiss to his cheek, unable to stop yourself from smiling.

That kiss had been casual, friendly. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Your fingers stilled in Stan’s hair as the memory brought another one to the surface—the first time you’d kissed him. It was at a party, the two of you leaning against a wall in some corner, slightly buzzed from cheap vodka. Someone had said something stupid, and you’d both dissolved into laughter.

And then, without thinking, you’d leaned in and kissed him.

It hadn’t lasted long—just a brief press of lips, fueled by alcohol and laughter—but it had been enough to make your head spin. Stan hadn’t pulled away. If anything, he’d leaned in slightly, like he’d been waiting for it.

But the moment passed, and neither of you brought it up again.

Kissing Stan had become familiar since then. It was just... something you did. A casual thing. Or at least, that’s what you convinced yourself.

Your gaze shifted to his profile now, the faint concentration lines between his brows as he played. The glow from the screen lit up his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the soft curve of his lips. You couldn’t help but wonder: Did he ever think about those kisses? Did he feel the same pull you did, the strange comfort of it?

The thought made your chest tighten.

Do you like me?

The question lingered in your mind, unspoken and heavy. Stan had always been a constant in your life—steady, dependable, the one who tolerated your bratty tendencies without complaint. But did he like you?

And more importantly... did you like him?

Your fingers resumed their gentle movement in his hair, your heart beating a little faster as you struggled to untangle your thoughts. Kissing Stan didn’t feel like it should mean anything. But lately, you couldn’t stop wondering if it did.

“You okay dude?” Stan’s voice broke through your thoughts, pulling you back to the present. He didn’t look at you, his eyes still on the screen, but the concern in his voice was clear.

“Yeah,” you said quickly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Just... thinking.”

Stan nodded, his expression unreadable. “You’re quiet.”

You let out a soft laugh, brushing your fingers through his hair one last time before resting your hands on his shoulders. “Guess I’m just tired.”

“Mm-hmm,” Stan muttered, clearly unconvinced, but he didn’t press further.

You leaned back slightly, watching him play, the weight of your thoughts settling heavily in your chest.

You shifted slightly in Stan’s lap, your fingers still playing with his hair when your phone buzzed on the bed. The sudden noise made you glance over, and Red’s name lit up the screen.

“Oh, hold on, it’s Red,” you said, slipping off Stan’s lap. He didn’t respond, just kept his eyes glued to the game.

You grabbed your phone, swiping to answer as you perched on the edge of Stan’s desk.

“Hey, Red!” you greeted, your voice instantly bright and flirty.

“About time,” Red said, her tone teasing. “So, are you gonna tell me why you’ve been off the grid? And don’t say it’s because you’re studying babe—I know better.”

You laughed, glancing at Stan out of the corner of your eye. “Oh, you know me. Always finding ways to entertain myself. I’m at Stan’s dorm right now.”

Red let out a dramatic gasp. “Stan? Again? Wow, you two might as well move in together at this point.”

Stan’s fingers faltered briefly on the controller, but he didn’t look away from the screen.

“Right? It’s like we’re married already,” you joked, leaning back and toying with the edge of Stan’s desk.

Red cackled. “God, you two are so weird. What’s he doing? Ignoring you like always?”

“Yup,” you said, your voice dripping with fake indignation. “He’s playing his stupid game. As usual.”

Stan adjusted his headset slightly, the earcups slipping off one ear now. He didn’t say anything, but you could tell he was listening.

“Honestly,” you continued, keeping your tone light, “it’s kind of tragic how bad he is at multitasking. Like, he can only focus on one thing at a time. I bet if I disappeared, he wouldn’t even notice until he lost the match.”

Red let out a snort. “Come on, [Y/N]. Give him some credit. He’s not that bad. And you’re always hanging around him anyway, so clearly he’s doing something right.”

“Eh,” you replied, smirking. “He’s tolerable. Most of the time.” You glanced at Stan again, noting the way his jaw tightened slightly.

“And?” Red prompted. “What about when he’s not tolerable?”

You grinned mischievously, the words spilling out before you could stop yourself. “When he’s not tolerable? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just trade him in for someone better.”

Stan froze. His hands stopped moving, and the room went silent except for the sound of Cartman and Kenny yelling through his headset.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Red asked, her voice curious but amused.

Before you could answer, Stan stood abruptly, pulling off his headset and letting it rest on the chair. He crossed the room in three long strides, his presence making the small dorm feel even smaller.

“Red, I’ll call you back,” you said quickly, hanging up before she could respond.

Stan loomed over you now, his blue eyes dark and unreadable. He reached past you and pressed the power button on his PS5, the room falling into silence as the screen went black.

“What the fuck was that?” he asked, his voice low but tight with frustration.

You blinked up at him, playing innocent even as your heart raced. “What was what?”

“Don’t play dumb, [Y/N],” Stan said, stepping closer, his presence overwhelming. “That shit you said to Red. What the hell was that about?”

Stan stared down at you, his blue eyes sharp as he waited for an explanation. You leaned back slightly against the desk, tilting your head innocently as you blinked up at him.

“What?” you said, feigning confusion. “I was just talking to Red about how you’re my bestest friend in the whole world.” You clasped your hands together dramatically, flashing him a teasing grin. “She loves hearing about how much I adore you.”

Stan’s jaw clenched, his brows furrowing deeper. “Your ‘bestest friend,’ huh?” he repeated, his tone skeptical, edged with something darker. “Because that’s exactly how it sounded.”

You shrugged, letting out a playful laugh. “I mean, come on, Stan. Red knows you’re my favorite. I was just hyping you up, obviously.”

“Hyping me up?” His voice was low, incredulous. “You told her you’d trade me in for someone better.”

You waved a dismissive hand, still playing up your act. “Oh, that? That was just a joke. You know I didn’t mean it.”

Stan stepped closer, his hands braced on either side of you against the desk. The space between you disappeared, and his intense gaze locked onto yours. “Do you ever think before you open your mouth?” he asked, his voice calm but heavy with tension. “Or do you just say shit for the fun of it?”

The teasing grin faltered on your lips for a split second before you forced it back into place. “Relax, Marsh,” you said lightly, though your pulse quickened under the weight of his stare. “You’re taking this way too seriously.”

Stan’s head tilted slightly, his jaw tightening as he studied you. “Am I?” he asked, his voice quieter now, but no less commanding. “Because it’s starting to feel like you’re trying to get a rise out of me.”

Your heart skipped a beat, but you refused to let it show. “Me?” you said with mock innocence, batting your lashes. “Why would I ever do that?”

Stan didn’t answer right away. His eyes flickered down to your lips briefly before meeting your gaze again, the tension between you crackling like static electricity. His presence was overwhelming, and you suddenly became acutely aware of how close he was, how his body practically boxed you in against the desk.

“You’re unbelievable,” he muttered finally, his voice low and rough.

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. For once, the teasing remark you had ready in your head didn’t make it past your lips. The intensity in Stan’s eyes held you in place, your heart pounding in your chest as the air between you grew heavier.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and unrelenting, as you blinked up at Stan, trying to piece together what exactly had him so worked up. Sure, you’d teased him plenty of times before—this wasn’t new—but something about tonight was different. He wasn’t just annoyed; he was genuinely mad, and it caught you off guard.

“Stan,” you said, your voice softer now, though still carrying that teasing edge. “Why are you so mad? We’re friends. We do this all the time!”

Stan’s brows knit together, his jaw tightening as he took a slow breath. “Friends,” he repeated, his voice low and almost to himself, like he was testing how the word felt on his tongue. He leaned back slightly, straightening up, but his hands stayed braced on the desk, keeping you effectively trapped. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?” you asked, tilting your head in genuine confusion. “We joke around like this all the time. Why is it such a big deal tonight?”

Stan’s blue eyes flicked over your face, searching for something, but whatever he was looking for, he didn’t seem to find it. He let out a frustrated exhale, running a hand through his bleached hair, his fingers catching in the grown-out roots. “Jesus Christ, [Y/N],” he muttered, his voice tight. “You can’t just—”

He stopped himself, his hands balling into fists at his sides as he visibly struggled to keep his cool. For a moment, he looked like he was going to let it go, like he was going to step back and walk away from whatever was eating at him. But then his gaze snapped back to yours, and you saw the flicker of something raw and unresolved in his eyes.

“You don’t even realize what you do to me,” he said finally, his voice quiet but heavy, each word carefully measured.

Your breath hitched, the weight of his words hitting you like a freight train. “What I do to you?” you echoed, your brows furrowing as you tried to process what he was saying. “Stan, I—”

“You don’t get to act like this doesn’t mean something,” he interrupted, his tone sharper now, though his voice never rose above a low murmur. “You don’t get to sit in my lap, kiss me whenever you feel like it, say the shit you just said to Red, and then turn around and call me your ‘bestest friend.’” He spat the last words with a bitterness that made your chest tighten.

“I thought we were just... I mean, that’s just how we are,” you stammered, the confusion in your voice genuine. “We always mess around like that. It’s not—”

“It’s not just messing around for me,” he cut in, his voice breaking slightly at the end. He took a step closer, closing the gap between you again, his hands moving to grip the edge of the desk on either side of you. “I don’t think you even understand what the fuck you’re doing to me, [Y/N]. How you make me feel.”

Your heart was racing now, the weight of his words sinking in but not fully connecting in your mind. “Stan,” you said softly, your voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to make you feel—”

“You make me feel like I’m losing my goddamn mind,” he said, his voice strained, his blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your stomach twist. “You waltz in here, act like you own the place, and... fuck. You make me feel so much, and then you just brush it off like it’s nothing. Like it’s some fucking game.”

Your lips parted, but no words came. You’d never seen Stan like this—so raw, so vulnerable—and it left you reeling. You didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to explain that you hadn’t meant to hurt him, that you hadn’t even realized you were doing it.

“I... I didn’t know,” you whispered finally, your voice barely audible.

Stan’s eyes were sharp and unwavering, his frustration palpable as he leaned closer, boxing you in against the desk. “You didn’t know?” he echoed, his voice low and edged with disbelief. “Really? So, what about all those times you kiss me out of nowhere? Like at that party last month, when you were drunk and decided to make me your personal fucking experiment.”

Your heart raced, and your lips parted to defend yourself, but he didn’t give you a chance. He pressed on, his tone growing sharper. “Or what about when you sat in my lap at Kenny’s place during movie night and kept playing with my hair? You acted like it was nothing, like it didn’t mean a damn thing, even though everyone was staring.”

“It’s just how I am,” you said defensively, your voice trembling as you tried to process the weight of his words. “You know that! I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just... it’s just fun.”

“Fun?” he repeated, his jaw tightening as he let out a bitter laugh. “Dude, do you even hear yourself? You sit here, playing with me like I’m some toy, and you call it fun? Like it doesn’t fuck me up every single time you do it?”

“I didn’t realize—” you began, but he cut you off again, stepping closer until his face was inches from yours.

“Of course you didn’t,” he said, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. “Because you don’t think. You don’t stop for one goddamn second to think about how the shit you do might affect me.”

The weight of his words hit you like a punch to the gut. You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came. The air between you was heavy, charged with a tension you couldn’t name, and for the first time, you didn’t know how to talk your way out of it.

Stan’s gaze softened just slightly, though the frustration in his eyes didn’t fade. “You can’t keep doing this, [Y/N],” he said quietly, his voice raw. “You can’t keep acting like this is nothing, like I’m nothing.”

Your chest tightened, and you felt your breath hitch as the gravity of his words sank in. “Stan,” you whispered, your voice trembling, “I didn’t know you felt this way. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his blue eyes searching yours for something—an answer, an apology, a sign that you understood. But all he found was confusion and guilt, and it made his shoulders tense even more.

“I don’t think you even know what you want,” he said finally, his voice softer now but laced with frustration. “And maybe that’s the problem.”

The silence was suffocating, your chest tight with a mix of emotions you didn’t fully understand. Stan’s words hung heavy in the air, but something about them—something about the way he said you didn’t know what you wanted—set you off.

Your brows furrowed, and you straightened up, leaning closer to him, your voice sharp as you snapped, “Excuse me? You think you know me so well, Stan? That I don’t know what I want? Maybe you’re the one who doesn’t have a clue.”

Stan’s eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching as he stared at you. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked, his tone low and simmering with barely restrained anger.

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest as you glared at him. “It means you don’t get to stand there and act like you’ve got it all figured out while calling me out for being confused. Maybe you’re just pissed because you’re too scared to deal with your own feelings.”

Stan’s lips pressed into a thin line, his blue eyes darkening as he took a step closer to you. The tension between you crackled like a live wire, and for a moment, you thought he was going to say something. Instead, he closed the distance in a single, deliberate motion, his hand gripping your wrist as he pulled you toward him.

“Stan—” you started, but the words were cut off as his other hand cupped the back of your head, dragging you into a searing kiss.

It wasn’t soft or tentative—it was fierce, overwhelming, and commanding, his lips moving against yours with a desperation that left you breathless. Your body instinctively leaned into him, your hands clutching at his shirt as the world seemed to tilt on its axis. His grip on you was firm, grounding, and you could feel the frustration and need pouring out of him in every movement.

Your heart raced, your head spinning as you pulled away from him. “Stan—”

“Stop,” Stan interrupted, his tone sharp as he grabbed your wrist, pulling you toward the bed. “You don’t get to play dumb about this. Not anymore.”

Your back hit the mattress before you could say a word, his body towering over you as he leaned down, his bracelets clinking faintly with the movement. His bleached hair fell into his eyes, messy and slightly damp with sweat, and his tan skin glowed in the low light of the room. His hands framed your face, steady but firm, his thumbs brushing over your warm cheeks as his intense gaze locked onto yours.

“You’ve been screwing with my head for months,” he started, his voice low but taut with emotion. “Kissing me like it’s no big deal, running your hands all over me, batting your damn eyelashes like... like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.” His jaw clenched, and he shook his head slightly, his frustration bubbling just beneath the surface.

Your breath hitched, your lips parting to speak, but Stan didn’t give you the chance. “Don’t even try to tell me it’s ‘just you being you,’” he pressed, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You don’t get it, do you? How much you get to me.”

His lips crashed into yours, silencing whatever excuse or explanation was forming in your head. The kiss was heated, desperate, and when he pulled back, his breathing was heavy, his face inches from yours. A string of saliva broke between you as he spoke, his voice quieter now but no less intense. “You make me feel insane, [Y/N]. Like I don’t know which way is up.”

Your eyes widened as he cupped your cheek more firmly, his thumb brushing against the corner of your mouth. His brow furrowed, and his voice softened, tinged with an almost hesitant vulnerability. “Have you even thought about it? What it’s like to be me? To deal with this—deal with you?”

You opened your mouth, unsure of what to say, but Stan wasn’t finished. He shook his head, running a hand through his messy bleached hair and laughing humorlessly. “You’re so fucking clueless. You act like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t matter. But it does. It matters to me.”

His words hit you hard, a swirl of emotions rising in your chest—guilt, confusion, and something deeper that you hadn’t yet put a name to. “Stan...” you started, your voice trembling, but he cut you off again, his hand moving to gently grip your jaw, keeping your attention fixed on him.

“You make me feel so good sometimes,” he admitted, his voice raw and quieter now, almost like it was a confession. “Like... like nothing else in the world matters. But then you turn around, and it’s like you’re trying to drive me insane.”

Your chest tightened as you stared up at him, your breath catching in your throat. The intensity of his words, the sheer weight of his emotions—it was overwhelming. But there was no mistaking the honesty in his gaze, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

He sighed, his frustration ebbing slightly, replaced with something softer. “You don’t get it, do you?” he said, shaking his head again, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “You don’t even realize what you do to me.”

“I...” You trailed off, your voice barely a whisper, the words you wanted to say slipping through your grasp. You didn’t know how to explain what you felt—didn’t even know if you understood it yourself.

Stan gave a soft, almost exasperated laugh, his lips quirking into a faint smirk. “Of course you don’t,” he murmured, his voice tinged with a mix of fondness and frustration. “You never do.”

He leaned in, his forehead brushing against yours as his breathing steadied, his hand still cradling your cheek. “But you’re gonna figure it out, [Y/N]. You’re gonna figure it out real soon.”

Before you could respond, Stan leaned in again, his lips pressing against yours with a raw urgency that caught you off guard. His hand on your cheek softened, but his other arm wrapped firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against him as if he couldn’t stand even an inch of distance. His bracelets clinked softly with the movement, grounding the moment in the quiet tension of the room.

His lips moved with an intensity that made your head spin, and he groaned low against your mouth, the sound sending heat coursing through you. But as his hand slid lower, you broke the kiss, a teasing smirk tugging at your lips. Stan’s brows furrowed instantly, frustration flashing in his blue eyes as you sat back, a little too smug for his liking.

“What now?” he asked, his voice sharp but low, like he was already bracing himself for whatever nonsense you were about to pull.

You tilted your head, your fingers playing idly with the hem of his t-shirt. “Wow, Stan,” you started, your tone saccharine and laced with mockery. “I didn’t know you were so desperate. Did I mess up your game that badly?”

His jaw ticked, the muscle flexing as he let out a short, humorless laugh. “Shut up,” he muttered, shaking his head. His hands rested on his hips for a moment, his bracelets sliding down his forearms, before he leaned in, his expression darkening.

“No, seriously,” you continued, undeterred, your teasing grin widening. “Do I need to apologize to Cartman and Kenny? Tell them their carry bailed ‘cause you couldn’t handle a little distraction?”

Stan’s patience snapped. His hands grabbed the hem of your shirt, and before you could react, he yanked it over your head, tossing it carelessly to the side. The motion left you momentarily stunned, blinking up at him as he loomed over you.

“Stan!” you gasped, more surprised than offended. “What the hell—”

“You wanted my attention?” he cut you off, his voice low, the edge in it sending a jolt through you. “Well, you’ve got it. So go ahead. Say whatever smart-ass thing you were about to.”

Your heart raced as his hands returned to your waist, his grip firm but not rough, pulling you closer. His expression was unreadable, a mix of annoyance, desire, and something deeper that made your stomach twist. The way his messy bleached hair framed his face, the soft flush on his tan skin, and the glint of his bracelets as he adjusted his grip—everything about him right now was so painfully, undeniably Stan, and it made your head spin.

You tried to think of something witty, something sharp, but the intensity in his gaze stole the words from your mouth. Sensing your hesitation, Stan let out a soft, dark chuckle, his lips quirking into a faint smirk. “That’s what I thought,” he said, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction.

As if to emphasize his point, his hands slid up your sides, his touch firm but deliberate as his fingers grazed over the lace of your bra. His lips dipped to your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses that left you shivering. When his teeth scraped lightly against your pulse point, you let out a soft moan, your nails digging into his arms.

“You think you’re so funny,” he muttered against your skin, his tone carrying just a hint of exasperation. “Always running that mouth, always pushing me. But when it comes down to it...”

Before you could respond, he pinched lightly at your side, just enough to make you gasp. The sound seemed to satisfy him, and his lips curved into a grin as he kissed his way down your neck. “You never know when to quit, do you?” he added, his voice softer now, almost like he was teasing himself more than you.

“I—” You tried to speak, but your voice faltered as his lips found the edge of your bra, his breath warm against your skin. His hands slid lower, gripping your hips as he pressed you back into the mattress, the weight of him anchoring you in place.

“You’re always so damn smug,” he continued, his tone quiet but sharp. His hand moved to cup your cheek again, tilting your head slightly so his lips hovered just over yours. “But you don’t have a clue what you’re doing, do you?”

Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath, your heart racing from the heat in his words and the way his touch seemed to set your skin alight. “Stan...” you managed to whisper, your voice trembling.

“Shh,” he interrupted, brushing his thumb lightly over your bottom lip. “I don’t want to hear it. You’ve said enough.” His smirk softened slightly, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of something vulnerable in his expression. “Now it’s my turn.”

Stan pulled his hand away from your mouth, his fingers brushing the strap of your bra as he met your gaze. His expression was sharp, almost unreadable, but there was something deliberate in the way his hand slid to your shoulder, gently pushing the strap down. He moved with an almost casual precision, like he wasn’t just savoring the moment but making damn sure you knew he was in control.

His lips found your neck again, his kisses slow and deliberate as the other strap slid down your arm. You shivered, the cool air against your skin making you hyperaware of every single touch, every bit of pressure from his hands. When his fingers reached the clasp of your bra, he hesitated just long enough to send your heart racing.

“You’re so quiet all of a sudden,” he muttered near your ear, his voice low and full of teasing disbelief. “What happened to all the shit you were saying earlier?”

Your cheeks burned, and before you could retort, he unhooked the clasp with an ease that made your breath hitch. He let the lace fall away like it was nothing, his hands immediately cupping your chest. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, his touch surprisingly tender for a moment—until he gave a sharp, calculated pinch that made you gasp.

“Yeah,” he said, his lips twitching into a smirk as he watched your back arch instinctively. “That’s what I thought.”

His grip stayed firm, his thumbs teasing the sensitive peaks of your chest as his lips trailed along your jaw, hot and deliberate. “All that attitude,” he murmured, the words spilling against your skin. “And now? Not a damn word.”

The heat in his voice sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn’t stop the soft whimper that escaped your lips when he pinched again, rolling your skin between his fingers with just enough pressure to have you squirming under him.

He chuckled at your reaction, the sound low and rough as his lips made their way down to your collarbone. “Does this feel good?” he asked, the mock sweetness in his tone making your stomach twist in the best way.

You tried to form words, but all you managed was a breathy moan. His smirk deepened, his blue eyes flashing with a mix of satisfaction and that familiar intensity that made your chest tighten. 

His hands started to move, one sliding down your side with an almost lazy kind of purpose. His fingers brushed over your waist before dipping under the waistband of your panties. He paused there, just teasing the fabric, the rough pads of his fingers grazing your skin.

“Look at you,” he said, his lips curling into a faint smirk as his thumb toyed with the hemline. “All that confidence, all that fire—and now you’re just laying here, waiting for me to decide what happens next.”

Your breath hitched as his fingers dipped lower, brushing close enough to make your thighs tense. “Stan,” you whispered, your voice shaky, “please...”

His laugh was soft but laced with a kind of smug triumph that made your cheeks flush. “That’s better,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower as he let his fingers skim just a little closer to where you needed him. “See? You don’t always have to run your mouth.”

Your body arched toward him instinctively, the anticipation driving you mad, but his movements stayed deliberate, controlled. “Maybe you’re finally figuring out how this works,” he continued, his tone equal parts teasing and sharp. “Or maybe you’re just that desperate.”

Stan’s fingers hooked under the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down with an almost lazy slowness. The fabric slid down your thighs, the cool air biting against your heated skin as he tossed them aside without a second thought. His movements were deliberate, but there was nothing showy about it—he just knew exactly what he was doing.

He shifted back, the bed creaking slightly as he knelt on the floor in front of you. The sight made your stomach flip—a mix of nervousness and something much hotter. Propped up on your elbows, you stared down at him, your breath catching as the full picture came into view.

His messy bleached hair framed his face, dark roots peeking through like a signature Stan move—half careless, half effort. His lips, swollen and pink from earlier, twitched faintly into a smirk that was both boyish and entirely too knowing. His band t-shirt clung to his chest, the faded logo stretching every time he breathed, and his gray sweatpants hung just low enough to show a hint of the waistband of his boxers. The bracelets circling his wrists—random, colorful, maybe from some flea market—clinked lightly as he moved, his hands sliding up your thighs.

Stan leaned in, pressing his lips against the soft skin of your inner thigh. The warm graze of his breath against you sent a shiver up your spine, and you couldn’t stop the way your hips shifted forward, searching for more contact.

“Seriously?” you teased breathlessly, your voice cracking slightly but still laced with a hint of defiance. “You’re really gonna drag this out?”

His hands froze for a moment, his gaze snapping up to meet yours. His blue eyes burned, sharp with amusement, but there was a glint of something darker too—something that made your stomach twist. A slow, almost smug grin spread across his face.

“Still talking, huh?” he drawled, his voice low, edged with dry humor. “Bold of you, considering where you are right now.”

Before you could even think of a comeback, his fingers caught the lace of your panties and yanked them to the side with deliberate force. The motion left you exposed, and the cool air against your heated skin made you gasp.

Stan leaned in closer, his breath warm as it ghosted over your most sensitive spot. His gaze locked onto yours, and his smirk widened slightly, like he knew exactly how wrecked you were about to be.

“Guess I’ll have to shut you up,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. Then his mouth was on you.

The sensation sent a jolt of white-hot pleasure straight through you, your head tipping back against the bed as you let out a broken cry. His tongue moved slowly at first, tracing over you with an infuriating precision that made you squirm beneath him.

But when you tried to shift your hips, his hands clamped down on your thighs, holding you firmly in place.

“Don’t,” he said against your skin, his voice muffled but firm, sending vibrations through you. “You’re staying right where I want you.”

You whimpered, your nails digging into the sheets as his tongue worked you over. The wet heat of his mouth was relentless, alternating between gentle flicks and firm, lingering strokes that left you trembling. When he slid a finger inside you, slow and deliberate, your hips jerked against his hold despite yourself.

“Stan—fuck,” you gasped, your voice breaking as your chest heaved.

He chuckled softly, his fingers curling inside you in a way that made your head spin. “That’s what I thought,” he said, his voice filled with quiet confidence. “Not so mouthy now, huh?”

The mix of his teasing tone and his rough hands left you breathless, every nerve in your body alight. Just as the pleasure started to build, his thumb brushed over your clit, adding pressure in a way that had your thighs trembling.

You moaned loudly, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes as the sensation became overwhelming. And then his other hand moved sharply, pinching you directly on your clit.

“Shit—Stan!” you cried, your voice high and breaking as your body jerked from the sudden mix of pleasure and pain.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at you with that same infuriating smirk, his lips glistening, his blue eyes lit with mischief. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his tone mocking but light, as though this was all a joke to him. “You’ve got all the energy to sass me, but now you’re falling apart? That’s cute.”

His fingers stayed inside you, his movements unrelenting as he dragged you closer to the edge with maddening precision. Your hands fisted the sheets, your body arching toward him despite the overwhelming sensations.

“Stan, please—” you whimpered, your voice trembling as tears pooled in your eyes.

“‘Please,’” he mimicked softly, his voice laced with sarcasm. “That’s new.” His teeth grazed your thigh in a brief nip, and you let out another sharp cry.

Stan’s bracelets clinked faintly as his grip on you tightened, his hands firm against your skin as he kept you pinned exactly where he wanted. The sight of him—his messy bleached hair, his sharp jawline, his flushed face—burned itself into your memory, a perfect mix of control and smug satisfaction.

“Don’t stop,” you managed to choke out, the words barely audible between gasps.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his voice dipping into something darker, his lips brushing against the inside of your thigh. “I’m not stopping until I’ve got exactly what I want.”

Your breath hitched, and you couldn’t even think of a response. His mouth returned to you, his tongue and fingers working in perfect tandem as he pushed you higher and higher. The lingering sting of his pinch only heightened the sensations coursing through your body, leaving you a trembling mess.

Stan's tongue worked you with an intensity that left you breathless, each flick and swirl sending waves of pleasure crashing over you. When he added another finger, sliding it in with the same slow, deliberate motion as before, the stretch left you gasping.

"Stan—ah—I’m so close," you managed to whimper, your voice trembling as tears began to pool at the corners of your eyes. Your chest heaved, your body trembling as you clutched the sheets beneath you.

You sniffled, overwhelmed by the sensations, your head tipping back as your thighs quivered against his grip. "I’m—oh, God—Stan, I’m gonna come," you cried out, your voice cracking with desperation.

Stan’s mouth continued, his tongue teasing you with relentless precision while his fingers curled inside you, pushing you closer to the edge. You felt the pressure building, your entire body tensing as the release hovered just within reach.

And then he stopped.

Stan’s lips hovered over your inner thigh for a moment, his breath warm against your skin, before he pulled back entirely. His fingers left you aching and empty, and the absence was immediate and devastating. Your thighs trembled as you shifted, trying to seek out the friction you desperately needed, but Stan’s hands stopped you with a firm, grounding grip.

“Not yet,” he said, his voice low and steady, with a soft edge of finality that left no room for argument.

Your eyes widened, tears slipping freely now, as you whimpered, “Stan, please… I can’t—”

“You can,” he interrupted calmly, leaning back and sitting on his heels as he looked at you with a mix of frustration and quiet amusement. “You’ll survive. Trust me.”

Your chest heaved as you stared at him, every nerve in your body screaming for relief, but Stan only sighed softly, shaking his head. His messy, bleached hair fell into his eyes again, and he shoved it back carelessly before gripping the hem of his t-shirt.

Before you could say anything else, he tugged the shirt over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. The motion revealed the toned lines of his chest and the faint tan that trailed down to the waistband of his sweatpants. His silver chain glinted against his skin, catching the dim light, and you couldn’t help but stare.

Stan raised an eyebrow, catching your gaze as he rested his forearms on his knees, casual but commanding. “You’re staring,” he said softly, his lips curving into a faint smirk.

Your throat felt dry as you tried to find your voice, but all that escaped was a soft whimper. Your hands clenched into the sheets beneath you, and the heat pooling in your stomach twisted painfully as you realized he had no intention of letting you off the hook.

“You’ll live,” Stan muttered again, his tone quiet but deliberate as he stood, giving you one last glance before turning toward his dresser. The lack of attention left you buzzing with frustration and need, but he didn’t seem to care—he was in complete control, and you were left to grapple with the fact that he intended to keep it that way.

Stan walked to his dresser with a lazy confidence, the kind that only made the heat pooling in your stomach worse. More of the hemline of his boxers showed now, and the muscles in his back shifted subtly as he grabbed his phone from the edge of the dresser. He scrolled aimlessly, his bracelets jangling faintly with each movement.

You stared, your breaths shallow, thighs pressing together in a futile attempt to calm the ache he’d left behind. He wasn’t even looking at you, completely unfazed, like he hadn’t just wrecked you moments ago. It made your chest twist—part frustration, part something you didn’t want to name.

“Stan,” you croaked, your voice cracking slightly, and he didn’t even flinch.

He scrolled for another beat, finally glancing over his shoulder at you, one eyebrow arching lazily. “What?” His tone was flat, indifferent, like you’d just interrupted him during an uneventful Tuesday.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. You hated how small his lack of reaction made you feel, like the electric tension between you was entirely one-sided.

“I…” you started, but your gaze flicked down to his chest, to the light tan that lingered across his skin and the faint ridge of muscle beneath it. You swallowed hard, trying to piece together your thoughts, but the sight of him standing there— messy-haired, and so effortlessly unaffected—was enough to scramble everything in your head.

Stan sighed like you were being difficult and turned back to his dresser. His hand rifled through the top drawer, and when he pulled back, the foil wrapper of a condom glinted under the soft light.

Your stomach dropped, your body buzzing as he set the condom casually on the dresser, next to his phone. He leaned one arm against the edge, crossing his other hand over his chest, bracelets sliding slightly down his forearm as he glanced back at you.

“You gonna say something, or just keep staring like that?” he said finally, his lips quirking into a faint, cocky smirk.

Your cheeks burned, and you squirmed against the sheets, the ache between your legs sharpening as he stood there, fully in control. “I wasn’t staring,” you mumbled, barely convincing even yourself.

“Right,” Stan said, dragging the word out as he looked back at his phone, tapping the screen lazily. “Sure seemed like it from here.”

The way he brushed you off, so casual and maddening, made the knot in your chest tighten. Your eyes darted to the condom on the dresser, and the implications made your head spin. “Why’d you—” You stopped yourself, biting your lip as frustration prickled at the back of your neck.

“Why’d I what?” Stan drawled, not even bothering to look up this time.

“Y-you…” you faltered again, unsure if it was the tension in your chest or the growing need burning through your veins that had you so tongue-tied.

Stan finally turned, leaning fully against the dresser now, his arms crossed as he looked at you with a mix of amusement and exasperation. His bleached hair was a mess, dark roots peeking through as a few strands fell into his eyes. He shoved them back with one hand, his bracelets clinking faintly before crossing his arms again.

“You’ve been running your mouth all night,” he said, tilting his head slightly as he looked you over. “Now you’ve got nothing to say? Figures.”

You squirmed under his gaze, the heat in your cheeks spreading as you gripped the sheets tightly beneath you.

His smirk deepened, sharp and knowing. “C’mon, [Y/N], spit it out,” he said, his voice low and edged with sarcasm. “You’re looking at me like I’ve got all the answers.”

Your chest tightened, every nerve in your body buzzing as your lips parted again, but the words refused to form. The weight of his gaze, the way his tone was almost mocking but not cruel—it all left you reeling.

“I don’t know,” you whispered finally, the admission feeling heavier than it should.

Stan’s expression softened, just slightly, but his smirk didn’t fade. “Yeah, I got that much,” he said, his voice quieter now but still cutting. His sharp blue eyes lingered on you for a moment, reading you like an open book.

You swallowed hard, feeling the heat rise in your chest again as the knot of frustration and need twisted tighter. You glanced at the condom on the dresser again, and your voice broke as you murmured, “Why’d you grab that?”

Stan raised an eyebrow, his smirk shifting into something closer to amusement. “Why do you think?” he said plainly, like the answer was the most obvious thing in the world.

Your stomach flipped, and you bit your lip hard enough to sting as your gaze dropped to your hands clenched in the sheets. The teasing tilt in his tone, the sheer audacity of his calmness, made your head spin.

He pushed off the dresser and crossed the room in a few slow, deliberate steps, stopping just short of the bed. His sharp gaze bore into you as he leaned down slightly, his bracelets sliding further down his arms.

“Say what you want, [Y/N],” he said softly, the teasing edge in his voice tempered by something quieter, something steadier. “Or don’t. Either way…” His eyes flicked to the condom, then back to you. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I-...” you trailed off, your breath catching as you forced yourself to look at him. And in that moment, it hit you all at once, sharp and undeniable.

You liked him.

Not just liked him—you wanted him, craved him in a way that made your heart race and your stomach twist. It hit you all at once: the teasing, the flirting, the way you got jealous over nothing—it wasn’t friendly banter. It was so much more.

Stan leaned against the dresser, his bracelets jingling faintly as he shifted his weight. The condom in his hand hung lazily between two fingers, and his blue eyes locked onto yours with that sharp, assessing look he always gave when he was trying to figure you out. “You… what?” he asked, the slightest tilt of his head adding to the edge in his voice.

Your chest tightened, the words bubbling to the surface before you could stop them. “I want you to come back to the bed.”

Stan’s brows lifted, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He swung the condom lightly, his voice dipping into a teasing drawl. “Oh, yeah? And what exactly do you want if I do?”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to hold his gaze even as heat crept up your neck. “I want to kiss you,” you admitted, your voice trembling but firm. “I need to.”

The smirk on Stan’s face faltered, replaced by something softer, more serious. He straightened slightly, the humor in his eyes fading as he stepped closer, the condom now forgotten at his side. “You need to kiss me,” he repeated, his tone lower, testing.

“Yes,” you said, barely above a whisper.

Stan’s gaze lingered on you for a moment, his lips quirking as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. He placed the condom on the bedside table and leaned down, his hands bracing on either side of you. His lips brushed yours, a soft, fleeting touch that left you breathless.

“You could’ve just said so earlier,” he muttered, and then his mouth pressed firmly against yours, stealing whatever response you might’ve had.

The kiss was different—no teasing smirks or playful jabs, just raw, unfiltered emotion. His hands cupped your face, tilting it slightly to deepen the kiss as his body pressed closer. You melted into him, your hands instinctively clutching at his bare shoulders as the heat between you grew.

Stan pulled back, his lips lingering just a breath away from yours, and his eyes searched yours like he was trying to piece together something important. “Do you even get what you’re doing to me?” he asked, his voice low and rough around the edges.

Your breath hitched, and you blinked up at him, your pulse thrumming in your ears. “I wasn’t sure what I felt,” you said softly, the words stumbling out. “But I know now. I—I want this. I want you.”

Stan’s gaze flickered, something vulnerable slipping through his usual guarded expression. His jaw worked for a moment, like he was chewing over your words, and then he let out a quiet breath, his hand sliding to cradle your face. “No more of this back-and-forth shit,” he said, his voice firmer now. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it for real. None of your games. No bullshit.”

“No games,” you echoed, your voice trembling but certain.

His lips curved into a small, lopsided smile, his thumb brushing against your jaw. “Good,” he said, his tone soft but resolute. His other hand settled on your waist, grounding you as he leaned in again, his forehead lightly bumping against yours. “Because I don’t think I can deal with you driving me up the wall anymore without this.”

Stan scooted back slightly, hooking his thumbs casually into the waistband of his sweatpants. His blue eyes stayed locked on yours, that familiar mix of irritation and amusement flickering in his gaze as he tugged them down just enough to reveal snug black boxer briefs. The way they hugged his frame left little to the imagination, and your eyes instinctively dropped, wide and unblinking.

“Wow,” you said quickly, your cheeks heating up as you scrambled to deflect. “Really going for the bold look tonight, huh? What’s the occasion?”

Stan raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a dry smirk. “Bold words coming from someone who keeps getting caught staring,” he shot back. His hands dropped to his hips, his stance casual, but the sharpness in his voice made your stomach flip.

“I wasn’t staring,” you retorted, crossing your arms over your chest in a weak attempt to look unbothered.

His laugh was short and incredulous, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Yeah, sure. Totally convincing.” He shoved his sweatpants down the rest of the way with an almost careless motion, stepping out of them as they pooled at his feet. Now just in his boxer briefs, he took a slow step forward, looming over you with that same unimpressed look that made you squirm.

“You’ve got a smart mouth,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “Always running it, even when you’re caught red-handed.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could get a single word out, he was climbing onto the bed. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them apart effortlessly, the weight of his body leaving you pinned beneath him. The shift in dynamic was immediate, leaving you breathless as his blue eyes bore into yours, sharp and unrelenting.

“You think you’re funny?” he continued, his voice low and cutting, each word sinking into the tension between you. His thumbs brushed dangerously close to your panties, the teasing touch sending a jolt through your already-overheated body. “Making little comments like that when you’re already soaked? What exactly are you trying to pull here?”

“I wasn’t—” you started defensively, but your words faltered when his fingers trailed up, pressing against the damp fabric of your panties with maddening precision.

“Wasn’t what?” he pressed, leaning in closer, his breath warm against your ear. His voice dipped lower, taking on a mocking edge that sent shivers down your spine. “Wasn’t wet? Wasn’t about to beg me? Careful, [Y/N]. You keep lying to my face, and I might just leave you like this all night.”

Your breath hitched, and you instinctively shifted your hips, trying to get more of his touch. But his grip on your thighs tightened, keeping you firmly in place. He pulled back just enough to meet your wide-eyed gaze, his smirk sharp and unforgiving.

“Yeah,” he murmured, his tone soft but cutting. “That’s what I thought.”

He pushed himself back onto his heels, dragging his boxers down in one smooth motion. When he stood again, his cock stood hard and flushed, and the sight made your breath catch in your throat. Without thinking, your hand reached out to touch him, but he caught your wrist before you could get close.

“Seriously?” he said, his voice carrying that familiar edge of sarcasm that was so uniquely Stan. He shook his head, letting out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “You’ve been running your mouth all night, and now you think you get to do whatever you want? Cute.”

His free hand came up to grip your cheek, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to make your lips part slightly. “Look at me,” he said, his blue eyes locking onto yours. His tone was steady, but there was a flicker of frustration behind it, a heat that had your stomach twisting. “You’ve been pushing me all night, and now you’re just gonna sit there and wait until I’m good and ready. Got it?”

Before you could respond, he reached over to the bedside table and grabbed the condom, his movements deliberate. The soft crinkle of the wrapper made your thighs clench instinctively, but he caught the motion immediately, his eyes flicking down and then back up to yours with a faint smirk.

“You talk a big game,” he said, rolling the condom on with an unhurried precision that made your pulse race. “Guess we’ll see if you can actually handle it.”

He leaned back over you, his hands sliding deliberately up your sides before settling on your hips, his grip strong and grounding. His gaze stayed fixed on yours, his expression calm but charged with something unmistakably hungry.

“I—”

Stan cut you off, his hand pressing firmly but not harshly on the back of your head, guiding you down toward the mattress. “Don’t,” he muttered, his voice low and edged with exasperation. The motion wasn’t rough, but it carried no room for argument. He wasn’t playing around anymore.

You turned your head slightly, trying to catch his eye, your bottom lip jutting out in a pout as your manicured nails reached for his arm. “Stan,” you whined softly, dragging out his name in that teasing tone you knew got under his skin.

Instead of rising to your bait, he let out a short, dry laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you were still at it. “You don’t know when to stop, do you?” he said, his voice carrying that familiar sarcastic bite. Without waiting for a response, his hands gripped your hips, shifting you until your head was down against the bed and your ass was up, fully exposed. His movements were unhurried, deliberate, as if he wanted to draw out every second of the tension until it was unbearable.

Stan’s fingers skimmed lightly over your back, trailing down to the curve of your hips. His touch lingered, warm and steady, before his grip tightened enough to ground you. He leaned in just enough for his voice to reach your ears, low and steady, the faintest edge of a smirk in his tone.

“Look at you now,” he said, his words cutting through the thick air between you. “All that talk, and suddenly you don’t have much to say.”

His hands stayed firm on your hips as he lined himself up with you. The weight of his cock against your entrance made your breath hitch, and before you could brace yourself, he pushed forward in one smooth, deliberate motion. The stretch burned, sharp and overwhelming, and your gasp turned into a broken cry as he seated himself fully, leaving no space between you.

Stan didn’t move right away. He stayed buried inside, letting you feel every inch of him as his hands kept you still. The weight of his body, the heat of his skin, the way he held you—it was all-consuming. Tears pricked at your eyes from the sheer intensity of it.

“You’re awful quiet,” he muttered after a moment, his voice low and thick, almost casual. “What happened to all that attitude, huh? Thought you had something smart to say.”

A choked whimper escaped you, and you turned your head slightly, trying to meet his gaze through your tear-blurred vision. Stan’s face was flushed, his messy bleached hair falling into his eyes as he looked down at you with a mix of irritation and smug satisfaction. That familiar smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, sharp and knowing, as if he could see right through you.

When you tried to shift your hips, seeking even the smallest bit of relief, his hands clamped down harder, holding you in place. “Uh-uh,” he said, his voice cutting through your quiet protests. “You don’t get to squirm your way out of this. You wanted me back here so bad, right? So take it.”

Your breath hitched again as you buried your face in the mattress, your muffled cries betraying how much you were feeling. “S-Stan…” you hiccupped, your voice trembling, barely able to form his name.

He leaned over you, his chest brushing against your back, his lips close to your ear. “Oh, now you’re playing the soft card?” he murmured, his tone dripping with mock pity. “Too late for that, sweetheart. You’ve been running your mouth all night, and now you’re gonna deal with what you started.”

As if to punctuate his words, he pulled back slightly and then thrust forward again, slow but deep, the motion stealing the air from your lungs. He didn’t let up, finding a deliberate rhythm that left you clawing at the sheets beneath you, every thrust making your body tremble.

“You know,” he said, his voice almost conversational despite the roughness of his movements, “you’re always so damn sure of yourself. Always pushing, always testing me.” He paused, his hips snapping forward harder, making you cry out. “But now? Now you’re not so cocky, are you?”

Tears slipped freely down your cheeks as you tried to keep up, your mind spinning from the overwhelming mix of sensations. When you tried to speak, to form even the smallest response, the words dissolved into broken moans, leaving you completely at his mercy.

Stan noticed, of course. He always noticed. “Aw, what’s wrong?” he teased, his voice softer now, but still carrying that playful edge. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck, his lips warm and teasing against your skin. “Too much for you already?”

You managed a shaky nod, your hands gripping the sheets tightly as your body trembled beneath him. His laugh was soft, almost cruel, as he trailed another kiss along your jawline. “Good,” he murmured, his voice low but filled with satisfaction. “Maybe now you’ll think twice before trying to mess with me.”

Despite the tears pooling in your eyes, your body betrayed you, rolling your hips back into him as best you could, chasing the pressure and the sensation. Stan let out a quiet groan at your reaction, his hands gripping your waist tighter.

“See?” he said, his tone shifting to something gentler but still laced with control. “You can be good when you really try.”

Stan’s movements faltered slightly, his hands gripping your hips as he took in the way your body responded to him. His lips quirked into a soft smirk, but his blue eyes betrayed something deeper—intensity mixed with that familiar, slightly sarcastic glint that was so him.

“Damn,” he muttered, his voice low and husky. “You’re really losing it, aren’t you?”

You whimpered in response, unable to form words, your head pressed into the mattress. Stan leaned forward, his breath warm against your shoulder, and chuckled softly. It wasn’t mean—it was teasing, familiar, the same way he always had been, but now it carried the weight of everything happening between you.

“That good, huh?” he murmured, his voice dipping just enough to make your breath hitch. “All this, just from me?”

Your body clenched around him at his words, and his sharp intake of breath was proof he noticed. He paused, his hips pressed flush against you as his hand trailed up your back, coaxing a soft arch from your spine.

“Okay, okay,” he teased, his tone shifting, dripping with playful sarcasm now. “You don’t have to answer. You’re kind of... busy.” He punctuated his statement with a slow roll of his hips, drawing a gasp from your lips.

Stan groaned quietly, his head dipping closer to your ear. “Jesus, you’re soaking me,” he said, his voice breaking slightly at the edges. “I didn’t think you could get any better, but here we are.”

His praise made your chest tighten, heat flooding through you as your mind spun. He caught the way your moans grew louder, how your body tensed with every soft word that slipped from his lips.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” he asked, his voice dripping with curiosity, with that cocky-but-genuine air only Stan could pull off. “You like when I tell you how good you are?”

Your response was a broken whimper, your nails clawing at the sheets as you tried to ground yourself. Stan’s laughter was soft, almost affectionate, as his fingers trailed down your side, his other hand gripping your hip tightly to keep his rhythm steady.

“Yeah,” he said softly, his voice dropping. “Of course you do. Why wouldn’t you? You’re fucking perfect.”

His words sent a shudder through you, and he felt it, his smirk widening as he leaned forward again. “I mean it,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before biting down gently, making you gasp. “You’re driving me insane in the best way.”

You let out a choked sob, the intensity of his praise, his rhythm, and his control overwhelming you completely. Your legs trembled beneath you as your body clenched around him, and Stan groaned, his own composure slipping slightly.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice hoarse now. “That’s it. Just like that. Keep doing that, baby. You’re perfect.”

His words pushed you closer to the edge, your mind hazy with arousal and emotion. Tears slipped from your eyes, and you gasped his name, your voice trembling as you tried to hold on.

“Stan,” you managed to whisper, your tone pleading and raw.

Stan’s pace faltered for a split second when he heard your shaky voice break through the heavy rhythm of your breathing. His blue eyes darted down to you, catching the way tears spilled down your cheeks, your lips trembling as you turned your head away from the pillow to meet his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” you whimpered, voice thick with emotion as you sniffled, your body trembling beneath him.

Stan’s brows furrowed, his jaw clenching, though his movements didn’t let up. If anything, his pace grew more purposeful, his hips snapping into yours as his hands gripped your waist tightly, grounding you to him.

“Sorry?” he asked, his voice low, strained. “What are you apologizing for, huh?”

Tears streaked your flushed cheeks, your lips trembling as you gasped, “F-for earlier. For... everything.”

Stan let out a breathy laugh, the sound edged with something almost disbelieving, his forehead falling forward slightly as he leaned over you. “You’re apologizing now?” he asked, his tone teasing but not unkind, his words brushing against the shell of your ear as he kept moving. “Right when you’re about to come? Really convenient timing dude, don’t you think?”

You let out a choked sob, your body clenching around him as you struggled to keep your gaze locked with his. “I-I mean it,” you said, your voice breaking as your chest heaved, every nerve in your body alight.

Stan’s lips quirked into a crooked smile, his expression softening for a moment before his hands slid up your body, one moving to your face to cup your cheek. His thumb brushed away a stray tear as his eyes bore into yours, his tone quieter now but no less intense.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice rough but gentle, “I know you mean it. But I’m not letting you off that easy.”

Your eyes widened, another soft cry escaping you as his thrusts grew deeper, hitting the perfect spot that had you unraveling. “S-Stan, I... I’m gonna—”

“I know,” he said, cutting you off, his voice dropping even lower, his thumb tracing slow circles over your cheek. “I can feel it. You’re so fucking close, aren’t you?”

You nodded desperately, your fingers clawing at the sheets as your entire body tensed. Tears blurred your vision as you whimpered, “Please.”

Stan groaned softly, his gaze unwavering as he pressed a firm, almost possessive kiss to your lips. “Then come for me,” he commanded, his voice dripping with authority, his hand gripping your jaw to keep you focused on him. “Right now. I want to see you fall apart.”

And with his words ringing in your ears, you did.

Stan’s movements didn’t falter as he kept driving into you, his relentless rhythm drawing ragged whimpers and muffled cries from your lips. His hand stayed firm on your chin, holding your gaze as though daring you to look away. His messy, grown-out bleached hair stuck to his forehead in damp strands, the pale locks contrasting sharply with his slightly tanned skin. The bracelets on his wrists—simple bands and one woven with multicolored threads—shifted and caught the light with every powerful thrust, his forearms flexing with the effort.

The sight of him was dizzying. His swollen lips parted slightly as his breaths came heavy, a sheen of sweat making his skin glisten under the warm dorm lighting. It was impossible not to stare, the sharp cut of his jawline and the faint dusting of pink across his cheeks making him look so effortlessly gorgeous, so thoroughly wrecked in the best way.

“God, you’re so tight,” he muttered, his voice strained as his hips snapped against yours. His free hand slid from your hip to grip your waist, his strong fingers digging into your skin to hold you steady. “I should be pissed at you right now, but—fuck—how am I supposed to stay mad when you’re like this?”

You tried to respond, your lips parting, but all that came out was a cracked moan as he hit just the right spot again. Gathering your nerve, you attempted to form words, the teasing edge in your tone still managing to peek through your overstimulated haze. “I-I was just gonna say—”

Stan cut you off immediately, his blue eyes narrowing as a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. “Nope. Not this time.” He shoved two fingers into your mouth without hesitation, the pads of his fingers pressing down on your tongue firmly enough to silence you. “You wanna say something? Too bad. You’re done talking.”

Your wide-eyed stare and muffled protests only spurred him on. His bracelets shifted again as he adjusted his grip, his thumb brushing across your cheek almost tenderly, contrasting the raw intensity in his movements. “God, you’re such a mess,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly. “Look at you—tears running down your face, trying to act like you’ve got something smart to say. You’re not fooling anyone.”

Your moan around his fingers was muffled but unmistakably needy, your body trembling under the onslaught of sensation. The fire pooling in your stomach grew unbearable as Stan’s relentless pace brought you closer and closer to the edge.

“Bet you love it,” he rasped, his head dipping closer as he brought his lips to your ear. His breath was hot against your skin, sending shivers down your spine as his hips slammed into yours again. “You can’t get enough, can you? Always pushing, always testing me. And now look where it’s gotten you.”

The warmth of his skin, the weight of his body pressing you down, the unrelenting heat in his gaze—it was overwhelming. You whimpered helplessly around his fingers, your eyes locking with his again, and Stan groaned low in his throat, the sight of you so thoroughly wrecked beneath him pushing him closer to the brink.

“You look so good like this,” he muttered, his voice barely above a growl. “Completely mine.”

His pace faltered slightly, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he chased his own release, his bleached hair falling into his eyes. But he didn’t let up, his free hand sliding down to grip your thigh and pulling you even closer. “Keep looking at me,” he ordered, his voice hoarse but firm. “Don’t you dare look away.”

Stan’s thrusts slowed, his body trembling as he reached his peak. A guttural moan tore from his throat, raw and unfiltered, as his head tipped back, his bleached hair clinging to his damp skin. His grip on your thigh tightened for a moment before his movements stilled completely, his chest rising and falling in deep, uneven breaths.

For a few seconds, the room was filled with nothing but the sound of your labored breathing and the faint hum of the dorm room fan. Stan stayed still, his hands resting on your hips, holding you close as he caught his breath. His eyes were squeezed shut, his face flushed with exertion, and the weight of his release seemed to hit him all at once.

When he finally opened his eyes and looked down at you, there was a flicker of something in his expression—hesitation, maybe even embarrassment. His gaze softened, and his lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he gave a faint, almost self-conscious chuckle, his hand brushing lightly over your waist as though grounding himself.

“Shit,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, more to himself than to you. His blue eyes met yours, and for a moment, he looked almost abashed, his usual cocky demeanor stripped away entirely. “You… okay?”

The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard, and you nodded, your lips parting to respond, but your voice came out in a whisper. “Yeah.”

Stan exhaled a quiet laugh, running a hand through his messy hair as he pulled back slightly, his movements careful, almost tentative. He reached out to the bedside table, grabbing a tissue and leaning back down to press a quick, soft kiss to your temple. “Good,” he muttered, his voice still tinged with that uncharacteristic vulnerability. “I—I didn’t mean to get so…”

He trailed off, shaking his head slightly as if trying to shake off the unspoken thought. His cheeks were still faintly flushed, his bracelets clinking softly as he adjusted his grip on your waist to help steady you. The moment was quieter now, the intensity replaced with something gentler, almost uncertain.

Stan’s fingers brushed over your cheek lightly, his gaze searching yours. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked again, his brows furrowing slightly.

Your heart twisted at the softness in his voice, and you reached up to cover his hand with yours. “I’m okay, Stan,” you said, your voice steadier now. “Promise.”

He gave a small nod, his lips pressing into a faint smile, though the flicker of uncertainty didn’t entirely fade from his eyes. “Good,” he said again, softer this time. Then, after a beat, he added with a wry smirk, “You… really know how to make things complicated, don’t you?”

There was a teasing edge to his words, but his tone was light, almost affectionate. It felt like Stan was trying to bridge the intensity of the moment with something more familiar, something easier to grasp.

Stan exhaled deeply, his forehead briefly resting against your shoulder as he worked to collect himself. When he pulled back, he shifted off the bed, peeling off the condom and tying it off before tossing it into the trash can. His bleached hair was even messier now, sticking to his damp forehead, and the soft jingle of his bracelets filled the quiet room as he reached for a tissue to clean himself up.

You stretched out languidly, turning your head to shoot him a teasing smirk. “So… does this mean you’re not mad anymore?”

Stan froze mid-motion, his head snapping to look at you. The exasperation on his face was instant, though it was laced with amusement. “Don’t start,” he warned, narrowing his eyes but failing to suppress the smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

You grinned wider, propping yourself up on your elbows. “I mean, you seemed really mad earlier. Like dude, I was kinda scared for a second,” you said, your voice dripping with playful mockery. “But now? I think you’re just a big softie.”

Stan rolled his eyes, chuckling under his breath as he tossed the tissues into the trash with a flick of his wrist. “Keep talking, and I’ll show you how ‘soft’ I am,” he quipped, leaning over to lightly flick your forehead.

You pouted dramatically, rubbing the spot he’d flicked. “Abuse!” you teased, mock-gasping. “I’m gonna tell Red you’re bullying me.”

Stan shook his head, standing up to adjust his bracelets and reaching for his sweatpants. “You’re the worst,” he muttered with a laugh, grabbing the discarded blanket from the floor and tossing it over you. “Now shut up and go to sleep before you actually piss me off again.”

You laughed, pulling the blanket up to your chin as you watched him move around the room. The tension had completely dissolved, replaced with the kind of easy banter that seemed to define whatever the two of you had. Stan shook his head again, but you could see the faint grin on his face as he grabbed his phone off the dresser and flopped back down beside you.

i love red sm...

[sunnydbeam]

I love Alpha and Beta so much, and I absolutely ship them! I'm sure they would look really cute together if Beta wasn't so scared of Alpha </3

I also wondered what Alpha would do if he had the chance to get close to Beta without fears

I have to say, honestly, I'm glad there are people who ship them too, because I have several sketches and drawings of these two that I may share at some point hehe

On the other hand, yes, Beta is afraid of him, and that's a problem. He's the only reason Alpha usually doubts himself, and he's the only one that Alpha really bothers to seem as friendly as possible with

That doesn't mean Beta is always running away from Alpha. He's often nervous in his company, but if he needs help with something, he'll most likely ask for it (after much thought), and Alpha will be happy to oblige! Any hint of trust is everything to him

Alpha wishes he could comfort Beta 《more often》 in his anxious moments without making him even more nervous. It depends mostly on how “cooperative” Beta is at the time. Alpha will usually approach slowly and feel him out; if Beta doesn't flinch from the first moment, he will decide to approach quietly, crouching down beside him and still keeping some distance

Some asked earlier what Alpha would do in this kind of situation when it comes to comforting someone, and this is his procedure across the board!

I can't draw at the moment, so have a lil fluffy drabble!

Word count: 1k+

CW: slight mentions of anxiety. This is a Gamma Code concept and may contain spoilers for the fic. This is also not checked, so may contain spelling/grammar errors. Hurt/Comfort. Mild angst. Fluff. SFW

__________

It’s like a switch flipping on. A little sound, fragile, like a muffled sob, catches his attention. His head snaps toward the source, body pivoting on his heels with the faint squeak of rubber soles. Instinct kicks in. He moves, silent, careful.

Alpha peers through the crack of the slightly open door, and what he sees makes something inside his mechanical body twist, like an internal static crackle, a sharp overheating in his chest. If he had a heart, it would lurch. But he hides it well.

His red eyes glow faintly in the dim light as they scan the room. No one else is here, just his little sweet Beta curled up on the floor in the corner of the near-empty white room, hugging his knees. The overhead lights are dim, but the muted glow catches on the edges of Beta’s purple rays, barely visible beneath his yellow hood.

Alpha doesn’t blink. He watches with cold, calculated stillness, only for his expression to quickly shift, softening into something both fond and quietly resigned.

Beta is overwhelmed again, burying his face in his knees, shaking like a leaf in the wind. His frame curls inward, fragile, trying to disappear. Scared.

Something inside Alpha fractures.

Every time he finds Beta like this, it shatters him. It makes him want to reach out, to cradle him close, press him to his chest, and hold him there until the tremors subside. Until the fear melts away. But it’s hard when, most of the time, he isn’t allowed to get close at all.

His metaphorical heart clenches painfully. Beta always pushes him away. The reasons are obvious. Alpha is painfully aware of every single one.

He steps forward, then hesitates. The serpentine mechanical arms on his back remain still—calm, unthreatening, and he moves carefully, testing the waters. Beta doesn’t flinch too much, only tilting his head slightly in acknowledgment.

It’s a good sign.

Alpha waits. Longing to approach but unwilling to impose. Beta makes no sound, doesn’t pull away. He sits there, unmoving, eyes downcast.

That has to be permission.

The red robot moves closer, and his large frame is silent. He lowers himself to the floor beside Beta, carefully, knees together in an almost formal posture, leaving just enough space between them. Not too close. He doesn’t want to overwhelm him.

The silence is heavy.

Alpha glances at Beta from the side, taking in the soft glow of his purple rays, mostly hidden beneath the folds of his hood.

Alpha parts his lips but hesitates. Then, quietly—

“What’s overwhelming you, Beta?” His voice is low and measured. “Can I help?”

Beta doesn’t answer. He shifts — just a little movement — turning his head slightly between his arms and knees. Just enough for Alpha to catch the glimmer of one visible blue eye.

Silence.

Beta trembles. Not much, but enough. A clear sign that Alpha’s presence unsettles him. But he doesn’t move away, and that’s good.

Then, softly, hesitantly — Beta speaks.

“It’s just… today’s tests were too much,” he whispers. “I don’t think I did well. And they got mad at me.”

Alpha’s fingers twitch. His voice drops, sharp.

“Did they hurt you?”

Beta flinches, and his shoulders jump slightly. Alpha’s tone had come out harsher than intended. He forces himself to suppress the rising tension in his system.

“N-no…”

The energy within Alpha stabilizes. His body cools.

“You can’t do anything wrong,” he murmurs, his voice quiet, soft, almost as if thinking aloud. “You’re perfect.”

Beta looks up, startled and confused. A deep, luminous purple blush blooms across his face before he hurriedly looks away, shoulders curling inward.

“Wh… Why would you think that? Sometimes I feel...” His voice stammers. “… useless.”

Beta finally meets Alpha’s gaze, and freezes.

Those red eyes. Watching. Wide. Bright.

A strange light flickers behind them. Something unreadable. Something Beta never quite understands.

“That’s not true,” Alpha says. “And you don’t have to serve them.”

Beta’s circuits buzz with uncertainty.

“… Isn’t that our purpose?” he whispers. "The reason we were created? To please them…?”

Alpha shifts closer. He leans in, reaching slowly, hesitantly, gloved fingers brushing the edge of Beta’s cheek.

“They don’t get to mold you,” he murmurs. “They don’t get to define you.”

His voice is calm and steady.

“What humans think doesn’t matter. You are you. Quiet, timid, sweet in a way only you can be.” A pause, a flicker of warmth, then he says tenderly. “And you’re cute and perfect just like that.”

Beta’s blue eyes widen. His hands twitch against his knees and he starts shaking.

“I wouldn’t change a thing.”

It’s ironic to him to say when, sometimes, he loathes himself so much.

I wish I could be like you, he thinks. A strange pressure coils in his chest plate. He ignores it.

Beta’s gaze lowers. He looks like he might cry. His lips part, trembling, but the words catch in his throat, faltering into incoherent murmurs.

It’s… adorable.

Alpha’s fingers twitch.

“… Can I hold you?”

Beta doesn’t answer right away. He hesitates, then —slowly, barely — nods.

Alpha doesn’t waste a second.

He moves carefully, pulling Beta into his arms, wrapping all four around him, pressing him close.

A tiny, glitchy sound escapes Beta’s vocal system. His hood slips down, and his rays coming out in surprise.

Alpha loves those vibrant rays.

“Shh… It’s okay,” he whispers, one hand stroking Beta’s back. “Everything’s okay.”

His grip tightens, just slightly.

It feels unreal. Holding him finally.

He never wants to let go.

“You’re okay. You’re strong. I’ve got you. You’re safe with me.”

Without thinking, he shifts, pulling Beta fully onto his lap. Beta stiffens, startled, but doesn’t resist. He stays still. Shy.

Alpha processes the moment, his system adjusting to the unexpected warmth in his circuits. It feels… right.

“Please,” he breathes, his voice softer now, “don’t be afraid of me anymore.”

His eyes slip shut. His face presses against Beta’s shoulder.

His fingers move, trailing over Beta’s rays, mapping their sharp edges with care, no fear, no hesitation—just gentle reverence. His touch is light. Loving. Worshipping. Adoring.

He's pleased when Beta relaxes slowly.

Alpha presses closer. The sensation of Beta against him is grounding, steadying. Alpha doesn’t care that his frame wasn't built for this. He wants to hold him. It’s comforting.

Alpha adores him too much. And it almost hurts.

Beta’s presence is all he has.

And it’s more than enough.

“…Please,” Alpha whispers, barely audible, “no more fear.”

_______________

[eclipsedechoesofmywords]

Can you please do Jack Thompson x reader where reader and him don’t really like each other and argue often but then one day when the SSR does a joint mission with the FBI, an FBI agent starts being really weird, rude and creepy towards her, and Jack gets super protective. Thank you!!

"A Little Bit of Respect"

[Jack Thompson x fem!reader]

Masterlist

Summary: You might not like Jack and he might not like you, but he would protect you like his life depended on it.

Warnings: harassment, inappropriate behaviour, threats (let me know if there's anything else)

Word Count: 1.5k words

A/N: Thank you for the request love! I'm sorry it took so long. I hope you like it!

Jack Thompson was, for lack of a better term, a pain in your ass.

From his smug smirk that made you want to punch him, his constant tendency to stick his nose where it didn't belong to his sexist comments(though those were surprisingly getting fewer nowadays).

The two of you often bickered, sniping back and forth over the smallest things. He'd interrupt you during conversations, roll his eyes when you made a point, and constantly try to undermine your authority. It was infuriating. You both seemed to have a natural ability to get under each other’s skin.

"I swear," you muttered, rubbing your temples. "One day, I'm going to strangle him with my bare hands."

"Preferably not in front of any witnesses," Peggy added dryly, her voice full of the amusement that always seemed to follow when she played devil's advocate.

You grumbled. "It's worse that I must spend the entire day with him too."

She hummed in acknowledgement. "Best of luck to you, dear."

Common interests lead you to work with the FBI today. Unfortunately, Peggy and Sousa were busy with something else so it was just going to be you and Thompson. And the FBI agents that were likely all male.

---

It was straightforward—a joint operation between the SSR and the FBI to gather intel on a potential still active Hydra cell. The agents from the FBI were supposed to be professional, but as you walked into the briefing room with Jack, you felt the eyes on you.

One pair of eyes particularly frayed your nerves. You would learn that his name was Agent Martin Wells. You didn't like the way he was looking at you the entire time. You were used to lingering looks on you, for being a woman in a male-dominated field, for your figure, you were used to it all, but that doesn't mean it made you any less uncomfortable.

It was only for a day though. Hopefully.

You tried to ignore it, focusing on the mission details, but the weight of Agent Wells’ gaze felt like it was pressing on your skin. It wasn’t the curious or professional kind of stare—it was unsettling, almost predatory. And you hated it.

You caught Jack shooting glances at you too, but you couldn’t tell if he noticed what you were feeling or if he was just being his usual annoying self.

"You’re sure you’re okay with this, Thompson?" You snapped, trying to focus on something else, trying to keep the growing discomfort from showing.

Jack didn’t look at you directly. He seemed too busy listening to one of the other agents. But when you shot him a pointed glare, his smirk faded slightly, just enough for you to see the seriousness flicker in his eyes. "What do you mean by that?"

You hesitated for just a second. “Wells... He’s been staring at me like I’m some kind of... target.”

Jack followed your gaze and immediately stiffened. You saw the flash of irritation in his eyes before he returned his attention to the briefing.

"You don’t have to worry about him," Jack said in a low voice, though there was an edge to it. "Focus on the mission. We’ll be fine."

You weren’t sure if it was the way he said it or the rare softness in his tone, but something in you relaxed. Still, you weren’t about to let your guard down around Wells.

---

The mission itself was typical, though you felt like Wells was deliberately trying to edge closer to you every chance he got. Whether it was brushing against you when you were organizing supplies or standing a little too close when you were discussing strategy, the man’s presence was inescapable.

"Do you always have to get so close?" You couldn’t help but mutter at one point, after his shoulder practically bumped into yours for what felt like the hundredth time.

Wells flashed you a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "I’m just trying to help, sweetheart."

You recoiled, not liking the way the term of endearment rolled off his tongue. "I can handle myself just fine," you snapped, keeping your voice steady.

But Wells wasn’t deterred. He leaned in a little closer, his breath warm against your ear as he said, "I’m sure you can. But we both know how hard it must be for a woman like you to keep up with all this... real work."

You felt your pulse quicken, the heat of anger rising in your chest. You clenched your fists, but before you could respond, a voice sliced through the air.

"Hey, Martin," Jack’s voice rang out, and you could feel the change in his tone. Gone was the casual arrogance, replaced with a low growl that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. "Get the hell away from her."

Wells blinked, taken aback by the force in Jack’s words, but he didn’t back down right away. Instead, he gave Jack a grin, clearly not understanding the situation. "What’s the matter, Thompson? Jealous?"

"Jealous?" Jack took a step forward, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. "No. But I take care of my agents."

His agent?

There was a tense moment of silence, the two men locked in some unspoken standoff. You weren’t sure if you should be relieved that Jack was stepping in—or if you should be annoyed that he was making such a scene over something you could’ve handled yourself.

Finally, Wells seemed to get the message. He huffed, stepping back with an exaggerated sigh. "Alright, alright. I’m just trying to make conversation, no need to get all worked up, Thompson."

But Jack wasn’t having it. His jaw was set hard, his hands clenched at his sides, the muscles in his back taut with restraint. "If you make one more comment like that, Wells, you won’t like the consequences. Got it?"

Wells grumbled something under his breath and turned, clearly not thrilled to be called out, but at least he backed off.

After a moment, you speak up. "I don't think threatening someone from the FBI is a good idea."

Jack rolls his eyes. "I can deal with it if it comes to that."

Another moment of silence. Then-

"Thank you. For that. You didn't need to-"

Jack’s gaze softened for a moment. "It’s nothing. Don’t let that guy think he can get away with being a creep."

"Yeah," you muttered, looking away. The last thing you wanted was to admit that his gesture meant something to you—hell, you didn’t even want to acknowledge that, despite everything, it felt like he might’ve just earned a little bit of your respect. "Let's get this over with."

---

Over the following days, the dynamic between you and Jack was noticeably different. You still exchanged barbs from time to time, but there was no longer the same hostility. There was a kind of truce between you, one that neither of you acknowledged outright, but you both felt it.

Then, a week later, you were finishing up some reports at your desk when Jack showed up.

"Hey," he greeted, his voice casual but with a hint of something you couldn’t quite place. "You busy?"

You glanced up from your papers. "Not really. What’s up?"

He hesitated, rocking on his heels for a moment. "Look, I know this is probably going to sound strange, but... you want to grab a drink? You know, after work. Just the two of us."

The invitation took you by surprise. Jack was offering to spend time with you outside of work? It didn’t seem like him at all.

You raised an eyebrow, studying him for a moment. "You mean like... outside of work?" you asked, skeptical.

He rolled his eyes, oh you hated when he did that. "Yeah, I know, I’m asking you to do something other than argue with me for once. But I figured we could talk. Without all the usual bickering."

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Jack Thompson, suggesting a drink. And—dare you admit it?—you found the idea... appealing. Maybe it was the way he’d apologized so genuinely. Or maybe you were just curious about what had caused the shift in his behavior.

"Alright," you said, finally relenting. "But I’m warning you now, no annoying comments. I’m only agreeing to this because I’m feeling generous."

He smirked, clearly relieved. "Of course. I wouldn’t dream of annoying you."

He walked off after that and you were left staring at the reports trying to figure out what just happened.

Of course, Peggy chooses that moment to roll her chair over to you. "Did-did Thompson just ask you out on a date? And you accepted?"

"What? No! It's not a date-"

She looked at you like you had grown another head "Right. When is getting drinks and just talking outside of work not a date?"

You opened your mouth, closed it, opened it again. "Oh my god. It is a date, isn't it?"

Then, to the surprise of you and the horror of Peggy, you smiled. "Hm."

Peggy's eyes widened as she leaned back in her chair. "You’re smiling," she said slowly, as though she were trying to comprehend the concept. "I never thought I’d see the day."

You flushed slightly, trying to fight back a small grin but failing miserably. "Shut up, Carter," you muttered, focusing your attention on the papers in front of you as if they held the answers to all the world’s problems.

You really were going on a date with Jack Thompson. The idea didn't sound that bad.

[stargazing-sapphire2]

If Everyone Cared

Summary: In the aftermath of Istvaan V, those effected by the casualties are left to deal with the grief.

*Title taken from "If Everyone Cared" by Nickelback*

TAGLIST: @candyswirls @staticymaticyyourlifeisatravesty @nereidof40k @meervalv0 @jaghatai-khock @gregariousbonesinger @thewinejeancriesover @meangreennunseen @little-miss-bioweapon121 @beckyninja @nightghoulz

At such a young age, Canaan had little concept of death and how permanent it was.

The boy did not understand the solemn looks on the faces of the grownups, especially when he asked why Nala was here. Where was Uncle Vulkan and Auntie Maisara? They were her Mama and Papa after all, so she should be with them.

His cousin had simply refused to play with him when he tried to approach her, much less acknowledge his presence. Instead, she remained curled up in a ball, facing away from him and tuning him out.

Canaan felt a stab of anger when he went ignored, and stomped off to his mother to tell her all about it.

"She's not being nice!" He complained, stomping his foot to emphasize his anger. "Why doesn't Nala wanna play with me, Mama? She's being stupid and mean!"

Nadezhda took a deep breath, closing her eyes as her chest seemed to tighten. Her boy was still too young to understand the state of the galaxy, and she had no desire to let him know just yet, even with her husband's blatant disapproval.

"He will know sooner or later," Rogal had said sternly, although there was a glean of understanding in his eyes as he understood the difficulty of the situation. "It is best to save him years of pain."

Nadezhda sighed, glancing down as she saw Canaan looking up at her expectedly. She attempted a smile, kneeling down and holding her son's hands.

"Nala is just sad, sweetling," the Admiral said softly. Sometimes, she forgot Canaan was just a child, and still needed that gentle affirmation, rather than just throwing him into the fire and expecting him to deal with it.

She never got that chance at his age, nor did she wish to inflict that kind of suffering on him.

"Try and take it slow, and be kind," she suggested.

Canaan looked up at his mother, before looking down his feet and chewing his bottom lip, before glancing up again.

"Okay..." He said, slowly nodding. "I guess I can, Mama!"

Nadezhda smiled softly, gently running her fingers through his unruly dark hair, much similar to her own; the only thing marring it was the single white streak in the hair around his left ear.

"Good boy," she said softly. "Run along now. There's something I need to discuss with your father and uncles."

Canaan nodded, before he took off down the hallway.

~*~

He had found her an hour later, sitting on the floor and playing with a few dolls by herself. She only lifted her eyes to look at him, and went back to occupying herself.

For a moment, Canaan was unsure of what to say. He contemplated taking those stupid dolls from her to hopefully get her attention, but he recalled his mother's words, so he should be nice.

"Hi, Nala," he said, and did not wait for a reply; not like he would get one.

"I dunno why you're sad," he continued. "But I don't want you to be sad. Do you wanna go look at Papa's blueprints? He makes really cool stuff!"

It was absurd thing to say given the situation, but it was the first thing that sprang to Canaan's mind

Nala slowly turned to her cousin. A storm of emotions whirled across her face - offense, disbelief, gratitude, sadness; of which all Canaan could do was stand there awkwardly

Volcanic red eyes filled with tears, and Nala looked away. She hunched over herself, covering her face with her hands. Her shoulders shook with barely contained sobs, as she fought to hide her grief. Grief for a mother, a father, and a life that was all gone, and she was unable to mourn for it until this precise moment.

Unsure of how to respond or console her, Canaan slowly put his hand on her arm, stiff beneath his touch

Finally, Nala uncovered her face, sniffling as she wiped at her nose with the sleeve of her dress

"I hate winter," she whimpered, and the depths of her sorrow were conveyed in those three simple words.

Canaan dropped his hand, and turned to stare out at the large glass window

Outside, the snow continued to fall.

[sheisaquarius-blog]

Ian day prompt if you're still accepting prompts? hehe just really want an ianthony meet cute since we don't have enough of those lol maybe ian out in public? a party? cafe or somewhere and then it's a play on this canon fact of ian not really knowing someone is flirting with him. so maybe he catches anthony's attention and every time anthony locks eyes with him he looks away and then when anthony finally tries to talk and flirt with him, Ian is completely oblivious to all his advancements and anthony thinks he's just absolutely adorable (another canon fact lol)

i have had a seriously hard time writing lately, but this is my best shot! i'm hoping to get all my other prompts completed between tonight and tomorrow, but i've been struggling with writing so much. if you have a kind thought to spare today, think of me and hopefully my fingers will start typing again.

i did my best here, i doubt it's what you had in mind but i hope you still enjoy it!

Anthony is about to get the hell out of this party that he’s been over since before he even got there, but there’s a whole barricade of people before the front door and they all know him (well, they don’t know him, which is part of why he wants to get out in the first place), which means he’ll get so much shit for leaving after only an hour. He barely slips out of view as one of his “friends” scans the room—maybe not for him, but Anthony isn’t about to take that chance, so he ducks back around the corner.

God, he hates making friends in college. It feels like some high political drama where he has to make alliances instead of actually liking people. It’s always who-knows-who? Who can get me here? Who can I trust? At every turn, and Anthony finds it so exhausting. Fucking fake.

Three and a half months into college and he’s really starting to wonder whether this was the right move. He isn’t really sure what else he’d do, but this hasn’t quite felt like the right choice yet.

He’s caught up deliberating the merits of being one of those drop out tech guys in Silicon Valley, trying to find the least crowded room, when he hears a laugh he kind of recognizes. It might be the least crowded room, but Anthony’s stomach still turns over when he sees the kitchen of this college apartment complex. Some number of people too big for Anthony to figure at a glance congregates around the island, but he figures this is his best chance to meld into a group with the least number of people. Plus, not one of the guys in his hall who dragged him here is bothering with the kitchen. It seems more like cool artsy types. Anthony leans into the corner, and then he hears that laugh again. This time, his eyes fall on a guy a couple inches shorter than himself with brown fringe hanging in his eyes. Anthony recognizes him from his film class—he talked about some Korean film Anthony never heard of during the sound design unit—Ian. Ian . . . something about dicks.

He seems cool, to be honest. Unfortunate last name though. College is a little better than high school, but still. Anthony wonders if he’s had trouble making friends too.

Ian’s eyes catch his and Anthony raises his solo cup in acknowledgement, but Ian’s eyes slide away.

That’s fine, there are a lot of people, and Ian seems . . . kinda popular, actually. Maybe he isn’t having the same troubles as Anthony. It doesn’t register until the third time Ian looks away from him that, oh. Oh! Anthony is staring. Yeah, no wonder Ian’s vibe seems weird.

Okay, that makes sense. He needs to be way less intense.

Ian’s eyes are a pretty blue, and he’s funny, so being less intense proves to be a bit of a challenge, actually. Anthony isn’t sure how long he spends at that kitchen island, but it’s easily the best time he’s had at this party or any other, and he’s hardly said a word himself.

The conversation, of course, turns to film, and Anthony feels like maybe he should excuse himself before anyone notices he doesn’t fit in here, either. Everyone’s answer is something highbrow, something foreign. Anthony knew that would be the case, but as the circle goes ‘round and gets closer to him, he feigns like he needs a new drink and slips away.

The front door is still guarded like the fucking Pentagon, so Anthony heads out back to the little lawn area. There are more little groups, but at least in the fresh air, Anthony feels like he can breathe. Plus, maybe if he finishes his punch, he’ll be fucked up enough to actually try and vault over the fence to get out.

He looks down at the drink in his hands that must be pure nail polish remover and Capri sun.

Absolutely nasty. “Cheers,” he mutters to himself, holding his breath and bringing his cup to his lips.

“Hey.” Anthony could thank god from saving him from that chug, but then he turns to see Ian and now he wishes maybe he’d had a little more booze in his system. “Hey,” Anthony says, furrowing his brow. “What are you doing out here?”

Ian shrugs. “You never said your favorite movie. I was curious.”

“Uh,” Anthony stumbles, because he absolutely cannot say his answer. “Citizen Kane?”

Ian frowns, considering. “What a film studies answer. Did you want to try it again, a little stronger, and maybe I’ll believe you this time?”

Anthony is bitten by how direct that is, how absolutely called on his bullshit he is. It makes him laugh, although he’s surprised that he doesn’t feel more uncomfortable about it. “Citizen Kane,” he repeats, in his most deadly serious tone.

“Rosebud,” Ian says, and . . .

And Anthony has absolutely nothing for that. “Huh?” he asks.

Ian shakes his head and laughs—Anthony likes that sound. Even if he isn’t sure why, he’s glad to have been the cause. “Okay, dude. Sure. What’s your real answer?”

What the hell, he’s a lost cause, might as well be honest about it. “Home Alone 2: Lost in New York.”

Ian’s eyebrows shoot up under his fringe and he blinks in surprise. “You could have said anything else.”

Anthony grins a little and shrugs. “You said you wanted the real answer.”

“I did say that, didn’t I?” Ian replies, a little smile creeping over his mouth. “We’re in film class together, right?”

Anthony nods. “Yeah, that’s why I tried sneaking into your table, but I can’t exactly fake it.”

“Yeah, I hear that’s harder for guys.” It’s Anthony’s turn to laugh—this guy is stupid funny. It would be annoying if it were less funny. “You, uh, you like it? Class, I mean. Or like, all of this, I guess.” He gestures vaguely around them.

Ian considers for a moment, his eyes drifting around thoughtfully. They’re nice eyes. A kind of blue Anthony’s never seen before. “It’s alright, I guess. To be honest, I think about dropping out at least once a day, but I don’t exactly have something better to do.”

“Really?” Anthony asks. Ian seems so with it in class. He always has the answers, he can discuss things like he knows what he’s talking about—he seems perfectly cut out for this.

“I probably won’t,” Ian admits. “But it’s so . . . I dunno. It’s not easy. Not the classes, that stuff’s fine. The rest of it.” He throws a skeptical glance back inside. “I can’t be pretentious for four more years just to end up never making a goddamn movie.”

Boy, does Anthony get that. “Dude, I so get that.”

Ian’s gaze turns back to him, then away once more, but Anthony can’t help but think there’s something in it this time. “What about you?” Ian asks.

“I was thinking of leaving for San Francisco, like, seconds before I walked into the kitchen,” he says with a chuckle. “How hard can it be to be the next Bill Gates? Besides, it’s not like I’m gonna get anywhere in the film department, I just like fun movies.”

“I’ve seen Home Alone, I’ve never seen the second one, but it’s a good movie. John Williams’s score? Unbelievable.”

“I know!” Anthony says, far too excited, a huge smile on his face. “The music is so good! And Joe Pesci could make me piss myself laughing.”

“Is he in the sequel?”

Anthony feels like this is perhaps a moment. A moment for him to test the waters, to see if there’s anyone out there, if there’s a reason to stay. “You wanna watch it?”

“Yeah, for sure,” Ian says casually, taking a drink from his own cup.

Anthony can’t quite tell if Ian is turning him down or completely oblivious, so he pushes harder. “Do you wanna watch it with me?”

“Yeah, that’d be cool.”

Oh.

A little smile climbs from one end of Anthony’s lips to the other. He can work with oblivious.

“I meant, like, do you want to leave this fucking party and go watch it right now,” Anthony clarifies. “I have it in my room on DVD.”

Ian blinks at him, curious.

“With me,” Anthony adds.

Anthony seems to have taken him by surprise for the second time tonight, and there’s a little bit of satisfaction in that. Maybe he’ll have to make it three times before the night is over. “Oh—oh!” Anthony can see the realization happen in his eyes in real time. “Yeah, absolutely, let’s get the hell outta here.”

Anthony smiles. “I think you’ll like it.” Ian chuckles and jerks his head towards the complex, and Anthony doesn’t dread heading back in too much, and only a little bit of that has to do with the fact that he’ll be leaving right away. “Unless you wanna go over the fence,” Ian offers.

Anthony shakes his head. “Next time,” he says as they head in together.

[hisonlykiwi]

falling apart

your relationship with nanami had felt rocky these past few weeks.

wc: 950 (really short but damn did I cry a little writing this)

warnings: none, just nanami being kind of mean.

a/n: please let me know you think in the comments!! <3

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You sat on the opposite side of the couch, across from Nanami. He hadn’t said a word to you since he came home late from work, matter of fact, maybe a few days since he last spoke to you. It’s been like this for weeks now, Nanami constantly ignoring you. He has been so angry lately, you tried to not let it get to you but you’ve been dating nearly three years now, something was up. 

You glance over at his direction, he’s reading a book, you know you shouldn’t bother him but the itch of wanting to ask him what’s wrong gets stronger with every passing day. After a few moments, you build up the courage to say “Nanami?” in a gentle voice, careful not to be too loud and startle him.

“What is it?” He signed, putting his book down and looking over in your direction with an annoyed look in his face. You gulped down the lump forming in your throat, “Is everything okay?” You asked, looking over at him. 

Having his eyes on you, finally, it’s felt like weeks since he even bothered to look at you. “Everything is fine.” He replied but there was something off in the way he said it, something betraying the lie that came out of his mouth. 

You looked away, unsure of what to say next, he already seems frustrated at you but you don’t understand why and it’s making you angry that he is acting like this. “Did I do something?” You ask, unable to look in his general direction. It was quiet for a few moments “...No.” His tone became agitated and thick with frustration, “Why does it have to take for something to be wrong for you to ask how I'm doing?" You look over at him with confusion in your features. The confused look on your face seemed to set him off further, he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“What are you talking about?” You ask, clearly confused, you always check up on him, make sure he is okay, you don’t know where this frustration is coming from. His voice interrupts your thoughts "I mean, you only ever seem to ask me how I'm doing when there are clear signs of something going on. Why can't you just ask how I'm doing like a normal person? Why wait until everything falls apart?" 

You get up from the couch in disbelief at his tone and his words, the confusion being laced with anger. Seeming to know the answer already, you dare to ask “What exactly has fallen apart, Nanami?” He scoffed and repeated back the words to you in a mimicking tone. 

“This relationship, what else?! Did you think I didn't know why you were so upset this entire evening?” He got up from the couch and walked towards you with a scowl on his face. Tears brimming in your eyes, “This relationship feels like it's falling apart because you hardly ever acknowledge my existence or hardly ever speak to me, I don’t know how to talk to you without getting mad at me. And now you’re throwing your behavior back in my face saying I don’t care about you?” You flail your arms up in disbelief, letting a tear run down your cheek. 

He clenched his jaw tightly, trying even harder to keep his anger in check. However, he failed. “You have to understand. Do you have any clue how draining and stressful my job is? How exhausting it is, not only on my body but on my mental health? I barely have enough willpower to keep going and when I come home, all I want is some time for myself. But instead, you act like a spoiled child begging for attention!” Unsure of what to say, you take a step back, hugging yourself trying to find some comfort with his voice repeating over and over in your head. 

A few tears involuntarily falling down your cheeks. He saw the tears in your eyes and let the scowl on his face soften only a bit. It had become hard for him to hide the pain and exhaustion in his voice. "It just isn't easy for me, you know? After working a long hard day all I want is some peace and quiet. Yet you pester me for my attention as if I don't have enough to deal with as it is. I'm exhausted and I just want to rest...." You look at the floor with an expressionless face, words failing you. 

How long has he felt this way? Has he always felt like this? Why has he been with you so long then if he had thought you were just some nagging woman begging for an ounce of his attention. You look over at him, wiping the tears from your cheeks. “How about I do you one last favor, Nanami?” You took a deep, shaky breath, “We’re done.” 

He looked down at you, expression unchanged. He didn't look surprised one bit. He remained standing there in silence for a few seconds before responding. "Alright. Fine. Leave. I don’t have time for this." You sucked in a breath, trying to not cry more and further humiliate yourself. You didn’t recognize the man standing in front of you, that job of his had changed him so much over the past three years. Nanami turned back to the couch and sat back down. He picked up his book again, resuming where he left off.

It was like you didn't even exist to him at that point. It was hard to see the man you loved turn into an apathetic shell of who he was.