#(temporary tag. will try to think of something better.) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

controld3vil · 29 days ago

Text

letting them pick your weapon

pairings: yelena belova, bucky barnes, john walker, robert reynolds/sentry, ava starr/ghost, taskmaster (comic ver.), alexei shostakov/red guardian x gn!thunderbolts!reader

synopsis: The fact that you value their opinion catches them off guard.

notes -> working on requests rn, but inbox’s still open !! I WANNA WRITE MORE tags/cw: inaccurate characterization/have not seen the film, minor scene mention (it’s in the trailer!), descriptions of weapons (flash bombs, bucky’s grappling hook, retractable shield, emergency teleporter, static boots, weapon gauntlet, combat enhanced gloves) headcanons can be read as platonic/romantic

YELENA BELOVA

-> believed you were joking at first. her? you have lost your mind if you thought she would be a good idea to offer advice to. but because it’s you, she’s willing to consider your preferences and style of combat. most of the team already use guns, tactical knives for hand-to-hand combat. you’re a great candidate for any challenge, so she’s not going to pick something easy. if you wanted easy, you would’ve asked someone else.

“Well, I’m flattered you think so highly of me,” The former Black Widow turned to you with a delighted grin slowly spreading across her face. It’s obvious how smitten she is after your suggestion regarding the weaponry. Valentina had experts for those kinds of things: weapons, gear, and training. Yet, you sought her out for her opinion. Yelena rarely swoons at compliments, but you make her feel lighter on her feet on rare occasions.

“Is it so wrong not to?” you jest with a smirk. You continued down the hallway of the Tower. The armory is built with a fingerprint pad at the end of the hall. Once you are allowed access, the bulletproof doors open.

“You’ve got quite the selection,” Yelena notes, her eyes scanning the close-combat display. A few new additions catch her eye – one’s she’s certain weren’t there last week. It’s obvious you favor hand-to-hand combat over long-range, but she has no intentions of making this easy for you. Yelena knows you enjoy pushing boundaries, not just with weapons, but with strategy, roles, anything that keeps you one step ahead. “You’re still positive you want my advice?”

“Of course!” You beam, scanning down the aisles of the collection Valentina has managed to grab for the team. This was something you wished you had, and not just a temporary use. Still, you’re unfazed by Yelena’s pondering. “You’re one of the best I know of.”

“That you know of,” She corrects, placing her hands on her hips. She’s thinking carefully now. What to give you. Would you like what she suggests? It shouldn’t matter as much, but Yelena now considers your combat style. The way you navigate around the battlefield, how you look both ways before crossing an alleyway. You’re very meticulous when it comes to closed operations, which is why she works so well with you.

You see her grab something from a barrel, close to the heavy weapons. She holds it in her hand, feeling the weight of it. Her palms bounce the spherical object up and down as if it were a baseball and not something to be messed with. Yelena seems satisfied, as you can tell by the glint in her eyes when she turns to you. Her grin is devilish as she picks up a few more and lays them out in her hands.

“Flash bombs, huh…” Your expression is neutral, studying them like an ancient artifact. You rarely use them, as it really depends on the mission. If it were a search and rescue, you wouldn’t think to use flash bombs. But then again, it’s slowly that you realize how typical your preferences are. “Never used them.”

“Exactly the point,” the ex-assassin beams with a lighthearted jab. “We rarely use flash bombs– makes it more fun when we do.”

“So you’re suggesting them because you think they’re fun?” You crossed your arms, a smug smile tugging at your lips. You knew better than to expect Yelena to take your request seriously. She was trying to make peace with a past she rarely spoke of. But still, she had a way of making her life a hell of a lot more interesting.

“Flash bombs are like party tricks–best when no one sees them coming,” she said with a pout, holding one up like it was a priceless treasure.

BUCKY BARNES

-> question your mental fortitude. are you serious? but then he listens to you spouting about his days as the Winter Soldier. he doesn’t think highly of those days but the way you boast about his expertise is almost bizarre. do you admire him? that makes him feel oddly appreciated and conflicted. however because of your persistent pleas (you said please once!), he complies and leads you to his room.

“Where did you think we were going?” The team leader grumbled, eyes fixed ahead as he passed Walker’s door without so much as a glance. There was a hint of playfulness in his voice–subtle, nearly invisible–but you caught it. You always did with him.

He didn’t look at you. He rarely did when he was in one of these moods. Still, you followed close behind, practically on his heels like a loyal, overly eager puppy. And you couldn’t have looked more pleased. Because the truth was, you never expected to be allowed into Bucky’s room.

“I mean no one’s allowed in your room,” you said, your voice light, stating the obvious.

That made him stop.

Bucky turned to look at you, his expression unreadable. To anyone else, he probably seemed annoyed–grim even. But you had spent enough time watching the subtle gestures to notice the truth. The slight droop in his eyes. That flicker of something softer.

“Well– you’re the leader,” you added quickly, voice quieter now, “and out of respect, I just… never thought I’d be invited.” Now he looks at you even more deeply. Great, now he looks like a kicked puppy.

“I mean, I appreciate the kind assumption, but really–” he pauses, eyes locking onto yours with surprising intensity. “You’re always welcome. If you need anything, that is.”

You nod, taking in the quiet sincerity in his words. For a moment, it felt like you two had cleared the air. The weight of the conversation felt lighter, more comfortable.

When he opens the door, he steps aside to let you enter first.

Bucky’s room is nothing out of the ordinary. It was plain and expected, maybe, but not without hints of the man who lives there. A few photos hang crookedly on the wall. Clothes are scattered on the floor, like they were left there in a hurry or maybe forgotten. He doesn’t spend much time here, but it’s undeniably his space.

“Sorry for the mess.” He passes by you and heads to his closet. You watch as he grabs a case, pulling it down with the kind of care that says it’s something important. You have no idea what’s inside, but you can guess. What screams Bucky Barnes? Probably a custom-modified handgun. Maybe a combat knife with a story behind it.

“Here it is,” he says, setting the case down on the bed. You stare at it, curiosity buzzing as he unlatches the safety lock. His gaze flicks to yours for a split second before he opens it. And when you finally see what’s inside, you can’t help it.

You laugh.

Bucky turns to you, almost abruptly. “What’s so funny?”

Your eyes cross his. “Is this the grappling hook you used to destroy that military vehicle when you were chasing us?” Recognition flickers in his face. The realization hits him–it is the same one. And for a moment, his expression is as unforgettable as the day you first saw him, tearing across the empty drylands on that motorcycle like something out of a war film.

“Oh… right,” Bucky says, rubbing the back of his neck, guilt creeping into his voice. “Sorry. I didn’t exactly plan that part out.”

“It’s alright…” You said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. The light streaming through the window catches the gleam of his metal arm, making it shine with an almost haunting beauty. “We're past that now.”

His eyes held a longing, a deep, mysterious intensity that you couldn’t quite figure out. He glances back at the grappling hook, it’s been since the beginning of your journey together as a team. He hasn’t used it since then, storing it as a keepsake, but now he’s looking at you.

“It’s yours now."

JOHN WALKER

-> gives you a skeptical look. you know yourself best, why would you go out of your way to ask him? doesn’t turn down the suggestion, but will constantly ask you why. He's been in the military, served two tours in Afghanistan. All he’s ever good for is punching things and shooting. And now, Valentina has given him a mediocre shield in place of Captain America’s. It’s safe to say he doesn’t choose his weapons, he earns them.

“I thought Yelena would be the one to ask, not you.” Walker doesn't seem just mildly annoyed; no, he’s genuinely in disbelief. No one’s ever asked him for a weapon before, and while his options were somewhat limited, he’s beginning to think that with the super serum coursing through him means he’s capable of more than he used to be. But his go-tos have always been the same: his shield and gun.

“You’re a strong guy,” you shrug casually, stripping off the protective gear you’d brought along. The two of you had just finished an operation, and the exhaustion was settling in, yet you couldn’t ignore the curiosity that spurred your suggestion. “I trust your instincts.”

Walker just stares at you, the look on his face speaking volumes. Seriously? He’s caught off guard. After everything that’s happened, now you’re asking him? But you can see he’s weighing your words, even if it’s only for a moment.

“You should trust your intuition,” he says, his tone softening just a little, though the faint skepticism still lingers. “Choose whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“Comfortable?” You raise an eyebrow, pretending to think it over. “Well, if comfortable means picking a weapon that might get me killed, then… sure, I’m all in.” You smile, as if this were no big deal, even though deep down, the weight of your decision isn’t lost on you. “I trust you enough to make it interesting.”

The former soldier exhales, clearly irritated, though mostly with himself. You weren’t going to give up, and he knew it. If he let this go now, you’d just come back tomorrow with the same question. You were rarely this persistent, but when you were, there’s no way of convincing you out of it. He could either make a decision now or risk you asking him again later.

“Fine,” he muttered, scanning the armory.

As you busied yourself, putting away gear and organizing supplies, Walker moved around the racks, his eyes flickering over the options. But the more he looked, the more he found himself caught in a mental loop.

The rifle? Too heavy. That pistol? Not enough range for someone with your skills. That polearm? Too awkward for you to wield efficiently.

Finding a weapon that matched your needs, something that fit your style, was proving to be harder than he anticipated. He muttered under his breath, his frustration slowly building. Then he stole a glance at you, assessing. His eyes narrowed, running through the possibilities. He paused. The mission… in that moment. He remembered how you struggled to dodge the bullets while also taking down some thugs. His gaze lingered for a moment longer before he sighed and reached for something on a high shelf.

Before he makes it down, you’re already by his side.

“Whatcha got there?” You look eager, excited by the fact that Walker was this tolerant of your persistent pestering, that he’s willing to go through with his promise.

“A retractable shield.” He removed the cover, and there it was. The shield was smaller compared to Walker’s, but confident in size to contract in and out like a gadget. It had a charred black matte finish, with dark silver lining across the edges. It had an adjustable cuff. It resembled similarly to a Wakandan shield, which Bucky saw during his time there. It was beautiful. “It was a prototype Valentina had ordered for me, but I never used it. I got this one already,” he gestured to his shield, clasped behind his back.

“If you like, you can keep this one.”

“Wait—really?!”

“I mean— I don’t use it, so it’s all yours,” he says delicately, placing it into your hands. “I can teach you a few tricks, too, if you like.”

ROBERT REYNOLDS/SENTRY

-> extra extra nervous. you asked the guy who doesn’t need weapons or any kind of gadget to fight. if any of the members were in the room, they would be looking at you like you were crazy. bob’s first answer is no, but after seeing you pout at his refusal, he’s quick to please you. but then again, he has no idea what he’s doing.

“Okay! Knives, guns—uh, what are you looking for?” You appreciate the effort of his trying to act like he knows what he’s doing. But he’s trying desperately to meet your expectations. Bob looks nervous, like a lamb to the slaughter in the weapons room, jumping from cabinet to cabinet, looking at all of the variety.

“Just something new to try out,” You grin, letting his nervous energy follow him around. You stand by the doorway and watch as Bob tries to analyze each piece of equipment.

“Uhm—are you looking for something practical or—“

“Bob,” that startles him, making him freeze momentarily before meekly turning to face you. He was expecting you in mad rage, yet you weren’t. You just had a cute, goofy smile on your face. “Pick something with your heart. I know whatever you choose will be fine.”

It’ll be fine. He thinks to himself, before nodding, allowing his nerves to slowly subside. Bob takes a deep breath, and in slow strides, he reaches out to something.

When he turns, your gaze follows, all innocent and cute.

“Ahh, an emergency teleporter!” You’re in awe because it was something you didn’t think Bob would pick as his first choice. There were plenty of gadgets you thought of— force fields, bulletproof vests, iron-plated brass knuckles.

“Thought it might come in handy,” he nervously laughs, fiddling with the device, not knowing what to do with his hands. “Uhm— you know, in case you have to go on missions with me— and I don’t know— if something were to happen—“

You could practically see his thoughts unraveling from where you stood, Bob always rambled when he was anxious. But the fact that he was worrying about your safety left a warm, fluttery feeling in your chest.

“Hey– I get it,” you say gently, taking the teleporter from his hand. Only then does he realize he’d been speaking out loud, not just thinking it. He freezes, suddenly stiff and wide-eyed, like a deer caught in headlights. Embarrassed and tense. You offer a reassuring smile, one that says you don’t mind if anything, you appreciate it.

“It’s smart to have a backup plan,” you add. “And hey, maybe once this mission’s over, we’ll use it to teleport straight to that pizza place.”

AVA STARR/GHOST

-> pokes fun at you. jokes about all the possibilities of how you’ll slip up with whatever item she picks. obviously you don’t take it to heart, but ava’s light-hearted nature is a breath of fresh air— after so many grueling missions, her jokes are something that keeps you motivated for the next. need advice on using the element of surprise? she’s your gal!

“I mean, come on–sneaking in with suppressed pistols but still blowing the whole operation?” Ava giggles, clearly enjoying herself while you look away, pretending to be interested in the horizon.

“It was one of my first missions, okay?” you snap, pouting as a hot mix of embarrassment and irritation bubbles up inside you.

“Yeah, yeah—amateur,” she teases, ducking her head and biting back another laugh.

“Oh, like you didn’t have any screw-ups when you started?”

“Don’t even get me started.”

You raise a brow. “Well? I’m listening.”

“I’m not telling you,” Ava says with a teasing hum as she strolls toward the armory, already scanning the gear selection menu. You trail after her, fuming.

“I just told you my most embarrassing story, and you won’t even share yours? That’s not fair!” Steam practically pours from your ears. You’d laid bare your humiliating failure, and Ava–cool, composed Ava, refuses to give even a scrap in return.

But instead of responding, she flashes a sly smile. “Because I got you something better.” She stops in front of a reinforced gear locker, a sleek metal container stacked with tactical essentials: vests, gloves, helmets. Everything you’d expect. But apparently, Ava has something different in mind. You pause, watching as she places her hand on the scanner. With a soft click and mechanical hiss, a hidden shelf slides out.

It gleams. Brand new. Sleek like fresh sneakers out of the box. Ava hums before she accesses the armory, heading to the gear selection.

“For when you’re trying not to sound like a herd of elephants,” she smirks, nodding to a pair of matte-black static boots. She leans casually against the frame, one eyebrow raised in silent amusement.

You blink at her, deadpan.

“Seriously?”

“I mean, I can hear you walk from your bedroom to the kitchen–from my room,” Ava says, casually shrugging like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You blink. That’s new information.

“Wait… I’m just a loud walker?” She gives you a pointed look, and suddenly it all clicks. “That explains why Walker’s always giving me weird looks,” you mutter, half to yourself. “Guess my feet have a mind of their own.”

Ava snorts. “No, love–you just have really bad shoes.”

TONY MASTERS/TASKMASTER

-> looks your way in deep silence. for how long you’ve known each other, you’re starting to believe tony chooses not to talk. he expresses much more with his actions, such as offering you extra bullets, or medical tape if things go south. tony is an experienced man with many talents, he’s able to copy and replicate his opponent’s moves. he’s done the same with teammates, with you when training, allowing you to point out the mistakes you hadn’t seen there before. sometimes you think he knows you better than yourself.

“A weaponized gauntlet, huh?” you say, not even pretending to be surprised when Tony hands it to you, seemingly out of thin air. No trip to the armory, no formal request. Apparently, Tony knew you were going to ask him about this and waited for you to ask.

You study the gauntlet closely, fingers tracing its sleek design. Every button, switch, and panel feels deliberate. Precise. You press one. Click! A retractable blade slides out with satisfying ease. Another press–a grappling line. Then a short-range stun charge. Then a blinding flash ejector. You can’t help it. A grin creeps across your face.

This was so him.

Tony embodied versatility in his work. He didn’t rely on brute force–he struck with speed, precision, and timing. This gauntlet? This gauntlet was just like him: tactical, efficient, and sharp.

“Thank you,” you say softly, still a bit in awe as you reset the device to its default mode. Your eyes are locked on the gauntlet, taking in every detail. But Tony’s? His eyes haven’t let you once.

If the circumstances were different, you might’ve mistaken this moment for something romantic.

“It’s pretty neat, has everything I need,” you say, trying to fill the silence with something, anything. You don’t mind the quiet, not really, but sometimes the stillness between you feels too heavy not to break. Tony doesn’t reply. Not verbally, at least. But you can tell his focus has shifted, drawn in closer. He’s leaning slightly toward you now, just enough for you to notice the space closing.

You feel compelled to try the gauntlet on. As you unfasten the straps and slide it onto your wrist, it clamps down, not tightly, threatening. More like a perfectly fitted bracelet. Secure and purposeful. There’s a subtle hum as the device calibrates, adjusting to the shape of your hand. The pressure eases, and it begins to feel more like a part of you than an accessory. Almost like a second skin.

Tiny scanners flicker along your fingertips, mapping them precisely–each digit now linked to a specific function, a silent promise of the power you had. You lift your pointer finger, and almost instantly, a blade slides out with fluid precision.

“This feels like straight-up nanotech…” You murmur, raising your wrist toward the ceiling light, eyes wide with wonder. You probably look like a kid on Christmas morning. If a civilian saw you now, they might assume you’d completely lost it.

“Where did you even get this?” you ask, unable to hide your curiosity. Tony tilts his head, deliberate and unreadable. You already know he won’t answer, but that never stopped you from asking him pointless questions anyway. It’s become a quiet repetition between you.

You lower your arm, bring the gauntlet down to chest level–just enough to create a sort of invisible line between you and him. A barrier, but a playful one.

“If you ever need it,” you say, mimicking his earlier head tilt with a smile, “just ask.”

ALEXEI SHOSTAKOV/RED GUARDIAN

-> very excited. so excited you asked him! alexei is really a lovable guy— even though he often doesn’t use any weapons or gadgets, he thinks of his teammates whenever he goes out window shopping. he sees a new brand Glock 19 by the window? yelena would love it! an energy stabilizer on the dark web? bob’s gonna flip! but you? good old you get special treatment because he’ll personally get you whatever you want.

“When I heard you needed a new weapon, I was so happy!” Alexei beams as the two of you make your way into the living room. His accent thickens with excitement as he waves a hand. “Not in a bad way, of course, but it’s good, da? Trying something new!”

“You get me, Alexei,” you say, arms crossing instinctively. Apparently, you weren’t the only one picking up on your growing restlessness. Same weapons, same tactics, and same rhythm, it all started to feel stale. You figured switching things up might help you see things differently.

Everyone on the team had their niche. Alexei, with his brute strength. Bucky, his guns, and that metal arm. Ava could phase through about anything. Everyone had their thing. And you? You’d been stuck in the same position for far too long.

“That is why I was so excited when I found this,” he says, crouching to pull a box from under the couch with a mischievous grin.

Your brows lift, your curiosity piques. “What’ve you got?”

“Close your eyes!” he orders, and you obey, hands outstretched like a kid waiting for a surprise. Behind your closed lids, you hear the ripple of tape, the crinkle of bubble wrap, and then clank... a solid metallic sound, followed by the stretch of fabric. Then something is gently placed into your palms.

It’s lighter than you expect. Smooth and flexible, but as your fingers trace further, you find the contrast, the cold, hard metal beneath the fabric.

“Open your eyes!” he announces, barely able to contain his excitement.

You do. And you’re impressed.

Combat-enhanced gloves, sleek Kevlar-weave across the surface, making your hands feel impossibly light and agile. Carbon-titanium plates reinforce the knuckles and strike zones, and the inside? A smart gecko-grip polymer, designed to boost grip on any surface.

You stared, stunned. Not just by the gloves, but by the fact that Alexei went through the trouble to find them. Valentina might have gotten you something, if she wasn’t constantly ranting about budget cuts. But this? This came from someone who genuinely wanted to help.

“You really are the best,” you say, laughing softly as you wrap your arms around his neck, the gloves still clutched in your hands. He lets out a big, satisfied huff of a laugh, and when you pull back, his smile nearly outshines the room.

Who could hate him? You hadn’t known Alexei that long, but somehow he already understood you better than most.

“I know you like your shooting and whatnot,” he says, mock innocent. You roll your eyes and give him a playful jab to the shoulder.

“But I also know,” he grins, “you really like punching things. So I thought–'Hey, you know who’d love combat gloves?’”

You can’t stop smiling. It actually hurts a little, but you don’t care.

“Then I saw them, just sitting there in the market! I couldn’t believe it. Like the universe wanted me to buy them for you!”

“Universe said received,” you say, voice bubbling with gratitude and affection. You look down at the gloves, then back at Alexei. You’ll get him something too. Not because you owe him, but because it’s rare to be known like this. And his gift?

It’s perfect.

413 notes · View notes

fear-is-truth · 5 months ago

Text

𝜗𝜚 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐀𝐄-𝐇𝐎, 𝐇𝐀𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐍𝐀𝐌-𝐆𝐘𝐔

tags ꒱ ˎˊ— ex bf!nam-gyu ‧ dae-ho x reader ‧ angsty ‧ pining ‧ emotional cheating + drabble ᡣ𐭩｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅. synopsis ꒱ ˎˊ— after breaking up with nam-gyu, you move on… or try to.

a/n : requested by the lovely @renjunsbabygirl <𝟑

at first, nam-gyu doesn’t take the breakup seriously. when you left, he convinces himself it’s just a temporary thing—you’re pissed, your pride was wounded, but you’ll come back like you always do. when you move out, he doesn’t bat an eye. he throws himself into his work, partying harder, experimenting with more drugs that keep his mind from thinking too much about you.

he doesn’t text you. doesn’t reach out. it’s not his style to chase—he’s not that desperate. but when he’s alone at night, nam-gyu thinks about you. you’re still there, in the back of his mind. maybe you were the one person who ever made him feel something. and now? you’ve slipped through his fingers. anger is easier to mask than frustration. he hates that he doesn’t know where you are or who you’re with.

at first, he maintains the same cocky, detached front. but in truth, it fucks with him. you letting go? that’s something new. something he didn’t expect. he thought, even after everything, there’d always be a part of you that came back to him. maybe he didn’t deserve it, but he always counted on it.

part of him knew you’d leave eventually. he just didn’t think it would stick. but you’re gone—actually gone. no calls. no texts.

it shouldn’t matter. he works at club pentagon—he’s got girls to distract him, drugs to numb him. at least, that’s what he tells himself.

dae-ho is sweet. hes the epitome of a gentleman; he’s exactly what you need. he listens, he’s patient, and there’s none of the unpredictability that used to make your heart race in fear and lust. he’s everything you wanted in a partner—kind, gentle, and dependable. in a lot of ways, he’s perfect for you.

dae-ho is good to you. better than you ever expected. he’s steady, caring, patient. he listens when you talk, holds you like you’re fragile, because he never wants to be the reason you break. he never makes you earn his affection the way nam-gyu did. there’s no if attached to his love—no tests, no games. it’s so easy.

but sometimes, in fleeting moments, you miss the fire.

it’s not that you want nam-gyu back. you left for a reason. he was never going to change, and you were tired of waiting. but the absence of him is like an itch you can’t reach, a phantom limb. you’ll be lying in bed with dae-ho, his palm warm against your stomach, his breaths even, an indication that he’s halfway to slumber. your mind will drift. you’ll think about the way nam-gyu used to press his nose into the crook of your neck when he was half-asleep and clingy. you’ll remember how his fingers felt wrapped around your wrist, how he’d pull you back in when you tried to leave.

and for a split second, you miss it. but you push it down. you turn over, press your face into dae-ho’s chest, and let him hold you like he always does.

but then there are those moments when you’re lying next to him, and your mind drifts. sometimes, when you’re with dae-ho, you catch yourself thinking about nam-gyu. you never wanted to, but it happens. it’s not that dae-ho isn’t enough—it’s just that there’s something nam-gyu left behind that doesn’t go away, no matter how hard you try.

the way nam-gyu used to touch you, rough edges and fire—when he kissed you, god, it was like he couldn’t get enough, like he wanted to devour you. he used to make you feel alive in a way that was chaotic, messy, and not always good for you, but it was real. he was real. even when you fought, even when it hurt. when you’re with dae-ho, he’s secure, comforting in a way you’ve always craved.

you catch yourself comparing. dae-ho’s kisses are gentle, but nam-gyu’s… they felt like surrender. you think about how he used to pull you close after a fight, pinning you against him as if to say, “i love you, i’m sorry.” you remember how he could ignite something in you with just a look, a teasing touch. and now, with dae-ho, you feel—safe. but not alive in the same way.

there are moments, especially when you’re lying in bed with dae-ho, his arms wrapped around you, where you let yourself forget. you remind yourself this is what love is supposed to feel like, without the pain.

but then, late at night when he’s asleep, you find yourself reaching for your phone. you want to know what nam-gyu’s doing. you want to hear his voice, just to see if it still affects you the way it used to. you feel guilty, but you don’t know how to stop yourself. it’s not that you want to be with him again—it’s just that something inside of you isn’t quite finished with him, and that part of you still holds on.

you don’t miss him. not really.

DAE-HO is everything you could ask for. more, even. he’s steady. thoughtful in ways that you never dreamed in a partner. he calls when he says he will. he actively listens—not just waits for his turn to talk. he’s never made you beg for his attention or prove you deserve it. never made you feel small just so he could feel bigger.

when he touches you, it’s careful. reverent. hands splayed over your back when you straddle his lap, fingers curling at the base of your neck like he wants to hold you there forever. when he kisses you, he takes his time. he makes you feel safe.

so no, you don’t miss NAM-GYU. but sometimes, late at night, with dae-ho’s arm draped over your waist, heat seeping into your skin, you remember.

you remember the weight of nam-gyu’s thigh slotted between yours, the way he’d breathe you in, slow and deep. you remember the way he used to drag his teeth along your jaw before kissing you, half-lazy, half-starving.

you don’t miss him. but there’s a difference between missing someone and missing the way they made you feel. and nam-gyu made you feel like a fucking wildfire.

…

he tells himself he doesn’t care.

you left. your loss.

but then someone tells him you’re with dae-ho. that you look happy.

you’re someone else’s now.

he just laughs, drags a hand over his face, shrugs like it doesn’t mean anything. later, he takes something stronger than usual, lets some girl pull him into a private room of the club.

she’s pretty. probably. he doesn’t look at her face. he doesn’t remember shit. the drugs make everything blurred, edges smudged like a bad painting. he barely sees her face, barely registers her voice. just warm skin, a body that isn’t yours.

he fucks like he’s trying to forget, like he can drive you out of his system if he just ruins himself enough. because you made him feel alive—more than the drugs ever did. and now, he just feels nothing.

when his lips part in a weak orgasm, your name slips out instead.

he doesn’t even realise it at first. not until she stiffens underneath him. not until she mutters something about him being a piece of shit and shoves at his chest. he barely hears her over the ringing in his ears.

when she leaves, nam-gyu sits at the edge of the bed, staring at the floor, hands trembling.

he thought he could burn you out. he was wrong.

559 notes · View notes

xoxorory · 27 days ago

Text

You Should've Just Told Him !

POV:Wally West Pairing: Wally West x GN!Reader (with a fem!reader in mind tho) Tags: secret relationship, best friend’s sister, oblivious Dick Grayson, chaos upon discovery, fluff, established relationship Word count: ~1.2k Requested by: @simpingmyassoff Taglist🏷️: @simpingmyassoff , @shootingstargirl2001 (if you want to be added,comment down below!) A/N: English isn't my first lenguage,enjoy! ! ! A/N 2: This is my frist time writing for Wally. . . Hope y'all like it (don't crucify me pls)

To be fair, it wasn’t Wally’s fault.

Things with you had just… happened. One night he stayed too long at the manor, the two of you talking into the early hours of the morning, laughing over mutual secondhand Bat Trauma™. Then another night. Then lunch. Then coffee. Then somehow you were in his hoodie and in his arms and he couldn’t imagine going a day without you.

It was supposed to be temporary. Quiet. Harmless.

But you were Dick Grayson’s sibling. And if Wally knew anything, it was that Dick would absolutely lose his mind if he found out.

So he kept it to himself.

Too bad Wally sucked at secrets.

“Dude, you’ve been smiling at your phone like an idiot for ten minutes,” Dick said, tossing a batarang into the air while they waited for burgers. “Who is she?”

Wally froze mid-scroll, then slowly locked his phone.

“No one.”

Dick raised a brow. “No one makes you text back that fast and grin like that.”

“She’s just…” Wally scratched his neck, avoiding eye contact. “She’s cool. Super smart. Funny. Gorgeous. I like her.”

Dick leaned in, suspicious. “You’re dating someone?”

“Maybe.”

“WHO?”

“Okay but like, you’re gonna freak out.”

“Why would I freak out?”

“Because... it’s... complicated.”

“Wally. You say that like I’m gonna find out it’s Harley Quinn or something.”

Wally snorted. “Definitely not Harley.”

Still, Wally refused to name you. And that drove Dick insane.

The next few days were a blur of detective-level obsession. Dick had names, theories, red string. He watched Wally’s every move, hacked into the Titans’ camera logs, tried to trace who he was texting so much. But your phone was under an alias and Wally had clearly learned something from hanging around the Bat-Family: no traces.

You, of course, were delighted.

“I’m just saying,” you said casually while painting your nails, “if this mystery girl is real, I think she deserves the world.”

“Don’t take his side,” Dick grumbled. “He’s hiding her. He’s hiding her from me.”

You just smiled into your cup.

A few days later, Wally and Dick were back at the manor, lounging on the couch mid-video game battle. Dick was winning. Wally was complaining.

“Your character’s rigged.”

“You chose him.”

“I thought he had lightning powers! This guy just throws knives.”

“You’re literally The Flash—”

Wally’s phone buzzed on the coffee table. Dick only glanced down by accident. But what he saw made his brain stall.

The lock screen lit up with:

✨My Perfect Problem💋 miss your face. also i stole your star wars shirt again. . . 💕

Dick blinked. Recognized the contact photo instantly. The name. The nickname.

That was you.

“...Wally.”

“Hmm?” Wally didn’t look up, busy button-mashing.

“WALLY.”

“WHAT?!”

Dick snatched the phone and held it up like it burned. “My sister?!”

Wally froze. The game was forgotten.

“I can explain—”

“YOU’RE DATING MY SISTER?”

“Technically—okay yes—but also, we were gonna tell you!”

“WHEN? ON YOUR WEDDING DAY?!”

You chose that moment to casually stroll into the room, eating a cookie.

“Oh,” you said with zero shame, “did he find out?”

“YOU KNEW?!”

“I’m in the relationship, Dick.”

Wally stood up, hands raised like he was dealing with a hostage negotiation. “Look, man, I wasn’t trying to hurt you! It just… happened. And she’s amazing, and it’s real, and I didn’t want to mess up our friendship—”

“By dating my sister?!”

“Dude! She’s your cool sister!”

“I only have one!!”

You sat on the arm of the couch, entirely unbothered.

“I mean, if it makes you feel better, I’m the one who kissed him first.”

“That makes it worse!”

“I also kicked his ass at Mario Kart on our first date.”

Wally pointed, proud. “She really did. Blue shelled me at the finish line. It was kind of hot.”

“WALLY.”

Dick looked between the two of you—Wally, flushed and trying to appear calm, and you, smugly sipping your drink like you hadn’t just detonated a bomb in his world.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“This is... so much worse than when Damian found a girlfriend.”

Wally tried again, gently. “Dick. Look. I love her. I really do.”

Dick narrowed his eyes.

“You’d better.”

A beat.

“Also if you hurt her I will break both your kneecaps.”

“That’s fair.”

“And if I hear you’ve done anything weird in my house—”

“We haven’t! Except for that one time—”

“WALLY.”

“Right! Shutting up now.”

Later that night, after Dick stormed off to “go train until I forget this conversation ever happened,” Wally turned to you, exhausted but grinning.

“Well,” he said, pulling you into his lap, “that went... about as well as expected.”

You laughed into his neck. “Told you he’d scream.”

“I thought I’d get more than five words in before he threatened to maim me.”

“To be fair, that was restraint. For Dick.”

Wally pressed a kiss to your temple and sighed. “So… you still think we should’ve soft-launched?”

You snorted. “Wally, we hid this for three months. At this point, that was the soft launch.”

He smiled, holding you close.

“Guess we’re hard launched now.”

#— rory ! 🐚#— rory’s request ! 🐚#— Rory’s fics! 🐚#— rory's fics 🐚!#— requested ! 🐚#MY SWEET BOYFRIEND WALLACE RUDOLPH WEST #w. west #wally west x reader #Wally west smut #wally west x you #wally west x y/n #Wally west x fem!reader

178 notes · View notes

ruesol · 3 months ago

Text

ex-convict-Sukuna silently suffers as he watches you sleep.

tags and cw: reader has depression, unhealthy coping mechanisms, Sukuna is probably in love, avoidant-attachment style relationship

ex-convict Sukuna masterlist // context behind this drabble

It was an odd sight, but he liked it.

Your hair was messily splayed over Sukuna’s chest as he lightly patted your head. Your legs were tangled with his, he couldn’t tell where you began and where he ended. Naked body practically glued to his. Thank goodness, you were asleep or you would’ve bolted the moment you felt his fingers on your scalp for something other than pulling your hair.

He loved the warmth you provided. He would breath you in like air if he could. You were everywhere—his, life, his mind, his conscience. He often found himself thinking in your voice rather than his.

He’d always end up throwing away his cigarettes or giving them away to his brothers when he’d think of you grimacing over the smell.

You never said you hated it but it still killed him to disappoint you. Words unsaid but plenty felt.

He often thinks about how the world could hurt you so much that you’d have to resort to look for temporary fixes in his body. But he was more than happy to oblige as long as he got to see you.

Every time his eyes weren’t on your slouched figure, he’d wonder what you were up to, if you were eating well, if you had slept enough.

Worrying about you like this was stupid. A waste of time even, he knew you never thought of him like this but he didn’t care. You unconsciously kept him tethered to the world.

You were saving him. Albeit in your own fucked up way.

And even though you don’t want him to, he sees you for who you really are.

The girl who sacrifices her own jacket for a feral kitten shivering in the cold. The girl who doesn’t let her jealousy get in the way of meaningful relationships, rather focusing on trying your best to better yourself.

He sees you trying and wants to scream out at you that he appreciates what you’re doing for yourself. That he’ll be there, standing behind you at every step you take, so that in case you fall, he’ll be right there to hold you.

But he can’t do any of that and it kills him. Eats him up and spits him out like rotten fruit.

His chest aches as he watches your mind torture you, pain not only evident behind your eyes but in your body. Shoulders too stiff, arms too sore, and mouth barely capable of drawing up a simple smile.

Sukuna thought that going to jail was the worst experience of his life. His years behind the bar made him feel like he lost his autonomy, freedom, and will to live.

But watching you suffer almost paralleled that (and dare he ever admit, equated. But that fact was shut in a drawer locked by his subconscious.)

You stir, eyebrows furrowing as you dig your face deeper into Sukuna’s chest, your lips lightly brush against his hardened nipple and he deeply inhales, hoping that his growing hardness doesn’t ruin the rare moment of intimacy between you two.

Though, that doesn’t stop him from kissing the crown of your head before holding you tighter and falling asleep.

ーー

Edit: I forgot to add the taglist for this part 😭

taglist: @scorpiosugar@gradmacoco @sirenpearldust @bozos-r-us @onnikaedia @fangirlingbookworm1

#wrote this months ago and I forgot to post it 🧍‍♀️#jjk x you #sukuna x reader #sukuna fluff #jjk x reader #jjk sukuna #jjk x y/n #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x reader angst #sukuna x reader fluff #sukuna x reader comfort #sukuna angst #sukuna comfort

293 notes · View notes

grudgecollector · 4 months ago

Note

hii dear, you think you could write something with daryl and reader who has a really curly and volumous hair and one day daryl get home and see her straightening a few parts of her hair and he gets sad cause he really likes her curly hair and thinks that she is gonna straighten all of it, but in reality she is just doing that for a hairstyle that wanted to try, sorry if its sound silly but i never see something for curly haired girlies😔

Curled Around You | Daryl Dixon x Reader

Words: 2k

Tags: Season 2 Daryl, not proofread before uploading (sorry), slight angst but not really, fluff.

A/N: Hai nonny, thank you so much for your request. I had a lot of fun writing this, and honestly I'm surprised I was able to crank it out as quickly as I did.

And it doesn't sound silly at all! Everyone deserves to be able to read stories where you can immerse yourself, and that's what I'm here to do as a writer. I hope this story lives up to your expectations 💖

I decided to do season 2 Daryl because I'm still on my rewatch after almost eight years of not picking the show back up (it's Negan's fault). Hence why this won't take place in Alexandria, cause I don't remember any of the people from that place etc etc.

This went a little bit off from the initial requests path in order to pad it with a small plot, but still has the idea in mind.

Also I was not expecting this to be as long as it turned out to be. Post apocalyptic settings really get my gears turning, I guess.

The inside of Hershel’s bathroom was a little stuffy, even with the door open. You were so used to open spaces after all these months on the road, so used to it that now the closed off room made you feel claustrophobic. But you knew there was a sense of safety you couldn’t take for granted.

Hershel had been kind enough to take in your group. Permitting a temporary stay on his beautiful farm while Carl recovered from his gunshot wound. It was a tragedy blanketed by a miracle. Plus it gave everyone more time to scout the surrounding areas for Carol’s lost daughter, Sophia.

The Greene family was kind, humble, a man taking care of his family. You felt drawn to them, especially after a particularly nice conversation you had with Maggie. She had asked you about your relationship with the group, more particularly Daryl Dixon.

The man you had stuck beside ever since he found you inside that convenient store. You were surrounded by dozens of biters. You didn’t think you would make it out alive. This was just a few weeks after everything fell. And not long after Daryl, Merle, and you found a group of survivors camped out around an RV.

The both of you were practically stuck together ever since, your tent always next to his, then when your tent got badly damaged during a storm you had moved into his. He tried to keep his distance at first, practically pressing his body up against the flimsy fabric wall. You didn’t push him, not wanting to breach some unspoken boundary he had set up.

“Aren’t you scared?” Maggie had asked during your conversation, “Of losing him?”

“I’d be lyin’ if I said no.” You said quietly, head bowed down as the mere thought of him being bit graced your mind.

It sickened you in all honesty, even if you had only known him for just a few months, you cared for him deeply. That much was obvious with how you had freaked out on Andrea for almost killing him. You still felt ashamed of your outburst, but you were terrified. If she had just been a better shot at that moment, Daryl would be dead.

The hair straightener in your hand sizzled quietly as you slowly brought it down another small chunk of your usually curly hair. You looked at your hair with a small huff, hoping that it would stay straight for at least a few hours. With this humidity, though, you knew that wasn’t likely, but you still wanted to try.

You were so busy fiddling with your hair that you almost missed the sound of footsteps coming up to the door. Dazzling blue eyes met yours in the mirror, Daryl raised an eyebrow as he watched you. He leaned against the doorway with his arms crossed, watching your movements carefully as you went to pick up the straightener again.

"You ain't doing that to your whole head, are you?" He asked gruffly.

“Would it make you sad if I did?” You teased, smirking a little as he let out a scoff.

He shook his head and looked down at his boots for just a second, “Just like the curls is all. It’s pretty on you.” He cleared his throat suddenly.

He looked at the back of your head instead of meeting your eyes in the mirror again, nervously chewing on the inside of his lip. Daryl always had a funny way of carrying himself around you, at some points he almost seemed timid.

You suspected the thought of intimacy scared him, and you couldn’t blame him. Seeing how his brother and him interacted, you assumed he probably didn’t have much time in his life for romance. He already had enough to deal with when it came to blood, why throw another thing into that messed up mixing pot?

“You don’t gotta worry about it, I’m just testing somethin’ out.” You smiled at him sweetly.

“A’right.” He nodded, pushing himself off of the door frame.

You turned towards the man a little more, “Did you need somethin’, Daryl?” Your voice was soft as you spoke, hand coming down to rest on your hip.

“Rick just told me you’d be here. Thought I’d come check on you.” He swayed a little, “And I found somethin’ for you on my run.”

That perked you up a little, intrigued at what he could have possibly found. It could be anything when it came to him, he always had a knack for surprising you. Gifting you things that reminded him of you. The last time it was a small porcelain cat, impractical in the world you lived in now, but cherished by you nonetheless.

Daryl didn’t give you time to reply before he started walking back towards the living room. His boots echoing through the empty house, followed by the creaking of the screen door that leads to the porch.

You were quick to finish with your hair, tying it up to match the picture in a magazine you found inside an abandoned salon. You glanced down at the picture sitting on the counter, then back up to the mirror with a shrug.

“Close enough.” You muttered before unplugging the straightener.

During the end of the world you figured it wouldn’t hurt to at least try and experiment. There were no bystanders to be insecure about anymore, and you doubt the group would so much as try and put you down for doing something so harmless.

“Well, look at you.” Shane said as you walked past him in the hallway, “Got a hot date or somethin’? What’chu all spiffied up for?”

“Just wanted to try somethin’ new, Shane.” You were short with your answer, his lingering gaze making your skin crawl as the days went on.

While you knew it wasn’t you he was truly after, that didn’t stop you from being uncomfortable around him. He was losing his grip, being irrational, that trip he went on with Otis really messed with his head. It stirred him more than any other death in your group, you wanted to be suspicious, but you chalked it up as just being pessimistic.

“You seen Daryl?” You asked after a beat of silence.

“He was out by the RV last time I saw him.” Shane glanced over your shoulder towards the front door, “Was talking about going out to look for the girl tomorrow morning.”

You sighed softly, heading towards the front door. It didn’t surprise you one bit, Daryl has really stepped up over the past few months, truly making his place amongst the group. He didn’t want to lose anyone else, especially someone as vulnerable as a child.

The wind brushed through your curls gently, making them tickle against your exposed shoulders. You glanced down at the torn fabric on your blue tank top, you’d have to sew it up sooner or later.

“So what’d you find for me?” You asked while walking up behind Daryl, he was crouched down next to the RV, carefully examining the squirrels he caught to make sure they were good enough to eat.

“It’s in my tent.” He replied before standing back up.

Daryl stopped once he turned around to see you, his eyes scanning over your face and hair. He was quiet, swallowing and nodding towards his tent. You took that as a sign to lead the way. Your shared tent wasn’t far from the rest of the group, but far enough to where Daryl didn’t feel smothered. He liked his space, and apparently he only liked when you were in it.

“Close your eyes.” Daryl said over his shoulder, unzipping his tent.

Your eyes narrowed suspiciously, “Seriously?” You questioned, unable to resist the urge to laugh a little. But you obeyed anyway, your eyelids sliding closed.

The man moved the flimsy flaps aside and fished through his backpack for a few seconds before standing up with his hands behind his back.

“Figured you’d like something like this.” Daryl said, watching as you opened your eyes, “Can you guess what it is?” There was a smirk ghosting his lips, oh how you hated when he did this.

“Come on, Daryl.” You groaned, “How the hell am I supposed to guess?”

This was a usual game Daryl liked to play with you. A guessing game for your gift, even though he usually always gave it to you whether or not you got it right.

You started to strain your mind for any possible thing it could be, small enough to hold behind his back, maybe another porcelain cat? No, he wouldn’t be that predictable. Possibly a new hair brush? If it was that he would have just given it to you. It must have some sort of sentimental value for him to-

“You wanna hint?” Daryl chuckled quietly, shifting from one foot to the other subtly.

“Please.”

“Remember that conversation we had back in Atlanta?” He asked, softer this time, reminiscing on that late night discussion by the fire, just the two of you brushed against each other while sharing meat from a successful hunt.

The warmth soaked into your skin, willing away the late night chill that had settled over you inside your tent. The wood inside the makeshift fire pit cracked and popped loudly, embers rising haphazardly into the night sky before fading.

“What d’you miss? About your life before all this.” Daryl asked quietly, trying not to disturb the peace that had settled over the both of you.

You thought about it for a second. Of course you missed your family, your friends, hell you even missed your job a little. That sense of normalcy that your day to day life brought. A routine. There was a hell of a lot to miss about life before shit hit the fan.

“Hmm…” You pondered the question, mulling it over in your mind, “I used to take photos with my aunt. Nature scenes all over Georgia. Used to be the family photographer right after my aunt passed, weddings, birthday parties, all that mess.” You recalled those memories fondly, with a tinge of sadness coating your throat as you resisted the urge to cry. “There was this one place in Helen I went to once, god it was so beautiful. Some of the best pictures I ever took.”

“You still got your album?” He asked after a second of silence.

“I lost it when my house burned up.” You bit the inside of your wobbling lip, “So many memories lost.”

Your eyes widened once you fully processed what he said. That conversation was ever present in the back of your mind, the first time you ever opened up to Daryl emotionally, it was a meaningful memory to you. A brief moment like that was meant to be cherished.

“You didn’t…”

“I might have.” Daryl smirked, finally revealing a polaroid camera that was hidden behind his back.

The tears were pooling in your eyes quickly, “Oh Daryl…” A quiet hiccup came from your mouth, your hands coming up to grab the camera from him.

“That’s not it, also got this too.” He revealed the second item hidden behind his back, a small photo album.

If you had any doubts about loving the man in front of you before, this moment right here solidified your feelings.

You loved him. You loved how he cared. How he listened. Clung onto your words and remembered the small details. But you figured it must not have been small to him if he went out of his way to grab it for you.

Gently, you sat the two gifts down on a turned over log before throwing your arms around Daryl’s shoulders. He wound his arms around you instinctively, not entirely used to the touch, but accepting it anyway.

“You have no idea… No idea how much this means to me.” Your voice was muffled against his flannel shirt, tears soaking into the fabric.

He guided you back a little and softly brushed his thumb against your wettened cheek, a smile found its way to Daryl’s handsome features. His eyes looking over you tenderly. His fingers found their way to your curls, softly weaving through the coils.

“You did good with your hair, sweetheart.” He complimented, making your stomach flip, the close proximity between the two of you could almost be perceived as two lovers holding each other. And you guessed that in a world like this, you practically were.

#daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon reader insert #twd x reader #twd x you #twd reader insert #twd fanfiction #the walking dead x reader #the walking dead x you #the walking dead reader insert #daryl dixon #the walking dead #violet writes

165 notes · View notes

the-kr8tor · 2 months ago

Note

EEEEEEEEP GET ME SOME DILF! HOBIE TO MUNCH ON!!

Elder berries for my Beloved Bobart Brown with ❣️!! (I had a temporary war w myself trying to choose between ❣️ or ⭐) where R is chasing BBB (beloved Bobart Brown) cuz she has a big fat crush on him while he's like, "uhhh, you're cute but you do know that I'm way to old for you?" but R is a little hard headed y'know.

Hope I'm not asking for too much🥲

Watch me pull a "Too Sweet + Guys my age + Older + Favorite" combo for the next whole hour or so:3

AAHHHHHHH OLDER HOBIE! Thank you for requesting, rozey!

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader

Word count: 1.4k

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, older! Hobie, cw alcohol mention, awkward flirting, fluff!

A/N: Special thanks to @yumeaoka-chan bc their comment abt aaron single-handedly inspired this one 🤭

One year celebration 🎉

The giggling and the chatter of your friends are muffled in your ears as you watch him pass the doors of the pub. It's as if cupid himself struck an arrow right at your heart. He looks fit, like he just strutted out of a runway and into the dim pub. He wears leather well, jacket practically sculpted to his form. His hair is in long braids, all tied together in a ponytail that has the small silver charms clicking against each other. Then you spot the grey hairs weaved around the pretty braids, white hair running from the sides, earning him the title of a silver fox in your heart. Then there's his eyes, amber, soft and kind against the yellow lights of the pub. He has crow’s feet around those golden eyes, a testament that he has smiled a lot in his life.

As he strides towards the bar, his posture casual, hands tucked inside his pockets and with the nonchalance of someone who owns the place. Judging by how he paid for the single pint he ordered, that's not the case. But the curt nod exchanged by the handsome stranger and the bartender says that he's a regular. He just has that air around him that turns heads, admiration or something more as you see some patrons glance his way— all having the same shining eyes you probably have right now.

You purse your lips when he wraps his lithe ringed fingers around the glass, but before he sips, he blinks, head craning to look in your direction.

Caught in the act, you almost squeak, hands gripping at the glass of your forgotten drink as the handsome older stranger tilts his head, a smile curling on the corner of his lips. His eyes seem to gaze at you for hours, but with a parting chuckle from him, he turns back towards his lone drink.

“Shit.” You curse under your breath, palms clammy as you swallow thickly just from how you remembered his eyes meeting your own.

Your friends seem to notice your obvious gawking, and Betty, your best friend, taps your shoulder with a raise of her neat brow. “If you don't talk to him now, I will.”

“Don’t you dare.” Glaring, she giggles, pushing you off the booth until you're tethering off the edge of the rough leather seat. “Betty!” You whisper yell, gripping the end of the table.

“Go,” she continues to urge you, pinching your sides as you hop off the seat with a wince. “Go use your pretty girl charm and get your old man!”

“What charm?” Trying to sit back down, she quickly slides over to your seat, blocking you. “Betty!” Your friends stifle a laugh.

“How about a bet, to encourage you to put your pretty ass out there, hm?” She pokes your stomach, still sitting in your seat. You roll your eyes, pushing her away with your knee to no avail. “If you get his number, then we'll buy you that book you've been raving about.”

“Really?” You perk up, staring at your friends as they nod with a chuckle. “You better not be fucking with me, Betty, that's a really expensive book, it's limited edition.”

Betty almost falters. “Well, if we split it then it won't be, right?” She gets a few reluctant nods. “Besides, do you think you'll get his number?”

“For the book? Yes, bonus I get myself a boyfriend that would go to the store to buy me pads— and yes, I'm looking at you Anna and your Chad, who thinks wings are actually chicken wings.” A round of guffaws echoes out as Anna nods and sends you off with a pat on your behind.

As you start crossing the distance towards the mysterious hot stranger, you start to feel the nerves ebbing through you. Your hands are like waterfalls, and your legs feel like jelly once you get near enough to smell his cologne. Not overpowering that would give you the ick, it's citrus with a hint of fresh linen and mint.

You slide on the stool beside him, not knowing what to do with your hands as you put it on the counter then immediately change your mind and put it over your lap.

He raises a pierced brow, side eyeing you over the rim of his glass. “You’re punchin’ above your age range, love.”

Fuck, even his voice sends shivers down your arms. A good kind of shiver, not the type that you get when there's a scary movie playing.

“Really? I thought you were my age.” That's a shit reply, you thought to yourself, cringing. You close your eyes then swallow down your nerves before exhaling and craning your neck to finally look at him. “So, what's your poison?”

A smile slowly spreads on his pierced lips, eyes roaming around the curve of your jaw before meeting your own. “A girl after my own heart.”

“I'm not a girl, I'm a woman.” That sounded better in your head. You bite your lip to suppress a pained groan as you try to flag down the bartender.

He looks you up and down before flicking his eyes to yours once again. “Clearly.”

Your cheeks are on fire. Not getting a word out, the bartender ignores you.

He swallows the last of his drink, placing the glass down before flicking his wrist, index and middle raised as he calls the bartender effortlessly. You're in awe as the bartender walks over to him.

“A whiskey, neat for me and a cherry daiquiri for the…” he smirks, eyes glancing at you for a moment. “...Woman.”

You huff in your seat, cheeks still aflame. “How'd you know that's my drink?”

“Saw you cradlin’ it while you were oglin’ me.” The drinks slide on the counter, and he catches them before handing you your own. “A cherry daiquiri for the woman.” He teases with a glint in his eyes.

“Fine, I get it, I'm not your type.” Your shoulders slump, inhaling deeply and accepting defeat. “At least let me pay for the drinks.”

“Now, I didn't say anythin' ‘bout that.” His eyes grow softer, head tilting as he smiles, a genuine one, not a playful one. “Who said you're not my type?”

“Y–You, wait– no, I did. Yeah I did.” You stutter, almost fumbling off your seat as he grins at you.

“That right?” He rolls his shoulders, finger tapping the glass of his amber drink. “I figured I owe you a conversation with you payin’ and the book on the line.”

Chuckling nervously, you play with the hem of your dress. He keeps gazing at you like you're the only person in the whole pub, like all of his attention is on you. “W–What book?” You're caught red handed.

“The book that you'll get if you manage to get my number. What kind of book is it then?” He takes a sip, and you find yourself ogling at his bobbing Adam's apple.

You shake your thoughts away, taking your own drink and sipping at it, all the while trying not to choke from the pretty sight in front of you. “It's a new edition of my favourite book. It has a new cover, and they only made like a hundred of them.”

“Shit, is it the one from S. Collins?”

Your eyes widen, expression lighting up from the mention. “Yes! It's by her! Have you read it?”

“Read it? Love, I read all of ‘em.”

Grinning, the two of you fall into a smooth and casual conversation. From talking about books to everything under the sun. He's easy to talk to, smart and not just easy on the eyes. It's as if you've known him your whole life, and based on his easy smile, he feels the same. You don't realize it's been an hour until Betty tosses a straw at you and taps her watch.

“Shit,” you turn back towards him and his shoulders slouch with slight disappointment. “I have to go, thank you by the way. It's—” your heart already aches. “It was nice.” As you toss some bills on the counter, he stops you with his hand bracelet around your wrist gently.

“You forgot somethin', love.”

“What's that?”

“My name, it's Hobie, Hobie Brown.”

Your shyness peeks out as you tell him your name. Hobie smiles back, nodding and hiding his face by taking a napkin on the counter and writing something on it. Wait, was he flustered?

“And my number, call me when you get your book.”

141 notes · View notes

miraclemuncher · 1 month ago

Text

Fred Weasley trying to work out his crush on Slytherin!Reader

summary. Fred tries to narrow down why he has a crush on you of all people.

tags/warnings. fem!reader, no y/n used, hogwarts setting, starts in 7th year, suggestive in 7th year, not beta read

wordcount. 1265

Fred Weasley doesn’t know how he allowed this to happen.

Did the unruly attraction begin at the start of term?

The seventh years had a sort of tradition for their last year at Hogwarts. All the Houses set aside their prejudices for one night and got together for a bonfire by the coast of Hogwarts.

It was the last hot summer night. Boys brought cold beers, girls showed up in their bathing suits.

So what if Fred thought you looked good in one? So did every one of the beautiful girls there. Fred’s just a boy, he couldn’t help the attraction.

He’d been sneaking looks of you playing in the water with some friends the whole night.

“Hey, Weasley!” You unexpectedly shouted from the low tide. Fred pretended not to hear you over the sounds of waves crashing. He was not particularly in the mood for being called out as a staring pervert.

“Oh, you too Angelina! Get over here!” You shouted instead.

Why did Fred get his family name while Angelina was Angelina?

The two of them walked over to you with amused confusion. It was clear you were buzzed off something. There were enough drinks and other substances being passed around.

“Chicken!” You announced once they arrived. “You and Angelina versus Adrian and I!”

Before the Gryffindors can deny the game, you’v already swam to the deeper end and have Pucey’s head between your legs.

That should be him, Fred bitterly thought— nope. Fred is just tipsy. He’ll get in the cold water, sober up, and get those stupid thoughts out of his head.

He took off his shirt so he’s down to swimming trunks. Fred tried not to shudder as the cold water washed over his feet. “What does the winner get?” He cooly asked, trying to determine if the freezing water will be worth it.

“Her and I were thinking the losers go skinny dipping,” Pucey said. How is he so casual with you?

“I’m game,” Angelina shrugged with dangerous amusement.

Fred was the only one not in the high tide at this point. He’s already coming off as a pussy. If he’s the only one to reject the idea of skinny dipping, there’s no telling how much teasing he’ll be victim to. There’s no backing out now.

“Yeah, sounds fair,” he nonchalantly said and joined the others in the water.

Well, if they won it wouldn’t hurt seeing you skinny dip.

Due to the competitive natures of both Slytherins and Gryffindors, the game of chicken was left to a disappointing draw. There’s only so many times you and Angelina can stand getting dunked in the water before it gets tiring.

Spent and exhausted, the four returned to the shore to warm up by the bonfire.

Fred had expected they’d go their separate ways. Even though the Houses had a temporary truce, everyone was still split into their cliques.

But then it didn’t. Angelina and Pucey were walking ahead. Together. The saltwater got to their heads and they cuddled up at the bonfire.

That left you and Fred alone.

“It’s a shame neither of us got to strip down,” you bluntly joked.

Ironically enough, Fred had the same thought.

No it couldn’t have just been because of a raunchy game of chicken. It might’ve been way before that.

The competitive quidditch season in year five for instance.

The Gryffindor rosters were announced first. Obviously Fred and George had made the team for the fourth consecutive year.

They were celebrating it all morning. Over breakfast, the pair flicked peas to the Slytherin quidditch captain at the time, who just so happened to be one of your many friends.

“Get used to this cause you’re gonna have to be dodging my bludgers all season,” Fred teased, flinging more peas.

“Oh, really, Weasley?” You snapped. Your captain friend tried to tug you back into your seat, but you shook her off. “I’d make a hell of a better beater than both of you combined.”

“You? A beater?” Fred laughed in disbelief. “I’ve never even seen you on a broom.”

“Watch me,” You said it like a promise. You gathered up all your quidditch friends and made them cut their breakfast short. “You’re making me the best beater you’ve ever seen by tryouts,” Fred heard you ambitiously mutter to them as you dragged them out of the Great Hall.

It was— you were insane. Slytherin tryouts were two weeks away. There’s no way you could become a better beater than any of Slytherin’s existing ones by then.

But throughout the next 14 days, Fred began to see you less and less. It didn’t take him long to figure out you were at the quidditch pitch. At every given moment.

Skipped lunch? Quidditch. Missed dinner? Quidditch. Had a free period? Quidditch. Study hall? Quidditch.

Had Fred accidentally created his next demise?

As the days crept closer to Slytherins tryouts, the more frequently you vanished. You even blew off the raging parties to practice quidditch!

You were Fred's source of anxiety for two weeks straight. It was the only reason you were on his mind at all times.

For very good reason too because you ended up making the Slytherins quidditch team as, he guessed it, beater.

Slytherin went on to win the Quidditch cup with not a singular defeat.

It was your first and last year playing on the Slytherin quidditch team. To this day they’re still asking you to come back.

Why would Fred’s crush have started then? It could’ve also happened in third year.

You’d been assigned to a group with both Fred and George. Lucky you. Or not, depending on how you looked at it.

It quickly got confusing for all three of you.

“Weasley, bring the cauldron to a boil,” you ordered. They had enough sense to unofficially elect you as group leader.

“Which one?” Fred teased.

“Ugh, either. I don’t care, just get it done.”

Now that he’s thinking back on it, Fred realized you were so uptight back then. You’ve seriously loosened up over the years.

Moments later you said, “Weasley,” again, ready to give out another task.

Both of them replied in perfect sync, “At your service.”

You visibly winced. They could see your headache growing in real time.

“Make this easier for all of us,” you said, exhausted with their antics before they even truly begin. “How do I tell you two apart?”

“Well it’s not that easy…” Fred leaned on the desk.

“…We’re identical,” George finished.

You puffed out a sigh. “Just tell me who’s who. I’ll figure it out myself.

Fred raised his hand. “George,” he claimed.

George introduced himself as Fred.

You squinted at them. “Right, okay,” you sighed, unconvinced.

For the rest of class you only addressed them by One of you.

The following day, something changed. You entered the potions dungeon with your nose higher than usual. You stood in front of the shared table and slammed your pile of books down. That sure got their attention.

“Fred, prepare the extra set of ingredients for the presentation. George, record all the data and observations as I brew the potion.”

Fred and George exchanged a look. Did you just…?

“Hurry up, Fred,” you snapped after seeing him frozen in his seat. “We’re due to present by the end of the week and the dragon warts need to marinate for two days before use.”

It took you one day to tell Fred apart from his twin. No one else could say that.

Fred never forgot that moment.

From then on, Fred has been hopelessly doomed.

bonus scene for the seventh year bonfire coming soon

#fred weasley x yn #fred weasley x y/n #fred weasley x you #fred weasly x reader #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley #harry potter fanfiction #slytherin #slytherin reader #fred weasley imagine

104 notes · View notes

niallerspayno · 2 months ago

Text

Gates Of Hell

Masterlist

When a hotel mix-up forces you to share a bed with the one member of the band you can’t stand, years of bickering with Zayn explode into something far rougher—and far more intimate—than either of you ever planned.

Tags: Zayn x reader, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, smut (unprotected p in v, fem receiving oral, light choking)

…

You’ve been part of One Direction for almost two years now—long enough that the fans have finally stopped calling you “the new one.”

It was meant to be temporary. A label experiment. A single feature on a single track that turned into a last-minute tour spot, and then somehow, a permanent place onstage beside them.

The boys took you in like family. Louis is your chaos partner. Niall brings you coffee every morning without fail. Harry hugs you just because he can. Liam makes sure you actually sleep. They’re your brothers in every way that matters.

All of them—except Zayn.

Zayn has always been… difficult.

He’s never liked you, not from the start. You don’t know why, and you stopped asking a long time ago. Every word between you two is short, sharp, and delivered through clenched teeth. The others call it “banter.” You know better. You’ve tried civility, silence, sarcasm—nothing works.

And now you’re in a hotel lobby somewhere in Germany, staring at Paul like he’s just announced the end of the world.

“Only three rooms?” you repeat, your voice flat.

Paul sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “There was a mix-up with the booking system. They’re completely full. I’ve tried calling around, but everything nearby’s the same story. It’s one night. You’ll survive.”

You open your mouth to argue, to suggest maybe you could share with literally anyone else—

“I’m with Liam,” Niall says quickly, tossing his bag over his shoulder like it’s already settled. “He doesn’t snore. Much.”

“Oi,” Liam mutters, but he doesn’t argue.

“I call Harry,” Louis chimes in, spinning his room key between his fingers. “He lets me use his conditioner.”

Harry gasps. “You use it? I thought it just vanished! You little thief.”

You whirl on them. “Wait, seriously? You’re all just—”

“It’s one night, love,” Louis says sweetly, far too sweetly, already backing toward the lift. “Think of it as… trust-building.”

“Or a social experiment,” Niall offers, eyes twinkling. “Can the two mortal enemies survive a king-sized bed?”

Harry leans in behind Louis, stage-whispers, “Spoiler: they can’t.”

“I’m not sharing with him,” you hiss, jabbing a finger in Zayn’s direction.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Zayn mutters, dragging his suitcase behind him with the enthusiasm of a man heading to the gallows.

Paul groans, rubbing at his temples like the headache just kicked in. “Can we please not do this here? It’s two in the morning, I haven’t eaten since Berlin, and I swear to God, if anyone else makes a joke about ‘enemies to lovers’ I’m putting you all in bunk beds.”

“You hear that?” Louis gasps dramatically. “That’s a trope threat. We’re this close to a ‘there was only one sleeping bag’ situation.”

“Or—” Niall leans toward you with a grin “—we lean into it. Really lean in. Sparks fly. One bed. The tension. The rage. The—”

“The restraining order,” you cut in.

Paul claps his hands once. Loud. “Enough. You’re all acting like children. Room keys have been handed out. No switching, no whining. I don’t care if you build a pillow wall or sleep in the tub, just don’t cause a scene.”

He looks at you, then at Zayn. “And you two—try not to end up on the news.”

Then he walks off muttering something about needing a raise.

You glance over at Zayn. He’s silent, jaw tight, gaze fixed on the elevator.

You grip the key in your fist. “I hate this.”

Zayn shrugs. “Good. We’re off to a great start.”

And with that, he turns and walks toward the lift without waiting for you.

You stomp after him, wheeling your suitcase behind you with all the grace of a hungover rhino. Zayn doesn’t even hold the lift. He just steps inside and hits the button like you’re not two feet behind him.

The doors are nearly closed when Harry wedges his boot in and squeezes in beside you, Louis, Niall, and Liam following like a pack of gossip-hungry hyenas.

“Cozy,” Louis chirps, practically bouncing on his heels.

Zayn leans against the wall, arms folded, hood still up, eyes closed like he’s trying to pretend the rest of you don’t exist.

Unfortunately for him, you do. Very loudly.

“Don’t fall asleep,” you mutter. “I’m not carrying your sulking corpse upstairs.”

His eyes flick open. “As if you could.”

“Oh, I could. I’d just drop you halfway up the stairs.”

“I’d rather that than listen to you talk all night.”

“You wish I’d talk to you at all.”

Louis lets out a dramatic gasp. “Enemies to lovers speed run, lads, we are witnessing history.”

“I give it till midnight before one of them gets handsy,” Niall says, elbowing Liam. “Ten bucks says it’s her.”

You scowl. “I will shove you all down this elevator shaft.”

Harry snorts. “Please don’t. I’m too pretty to die.”

Zayn doesn’t say anything else, just mutters something under his breath in Urdu that you’re pretty sure is not complimentary.

The elevator dings.

Mercifully.

The doors slide open and you barrel out, not bothering to wait for him this time. Your room is at the end of the hall—of course it is—and you lead the way with a huff, ignoring the snickers echoing behind you.

“You two have fun,” Louis calls after you, sing-song and evil. “Remember—cuddle therapy! It’s real!”

“Sweet dreams,” Harry adds. “Try not to kill each other. Or do. It’d be interesting either way.”

You slam the door shut behind you as Zayn steps in.

The room isn’t small, but it sure as hell feels like it. Neutral-toned walls, one low lamp casting a soft yellow glow, and a bed that is definitely not made for two people who hate each other.

You drop your suitcase at the foot of it and cross your arms.

Zayn doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t say a word. He just shrugs off his hoodie and tosses it onto the nearest chair.

And underneath it?

Black tank top.

Tattooed arms on full display.

Of course.

You try not to look, which means you absolutely do look, and then regret it instantly.

Because Zayn’s hot. Infuriatingly, unfairly hot. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? If he were just a dick with no jawline or tattoos or that voice like molasses and smoke, you could hate him easily.

But no. He has to smirk at you when he catches you staring.

“See something you like?” he says, all low and smug.

You scoff. “Please. I’ve seen more impressive shoulders on coat hangers.”

He chuckles under his breath, slow and deep. “That why you’re still staring?”

“I’m not—” you start, then clamp your mouth shut when you realize you are.

Zayn moves toward the bed like he owns it, dragging his suitcase closer and unzipping it with one hand. “Let me guess. You’re the type to steal all the blankets, yeah?”

“You’re the type to hog them.”

“Not if you stay on your side.”

You glare. “I’m going to build a pillow wall.”

He shrugs. “Good. Maybe it’ll muffle the sound of your whining.”

You throw a pillow at him.

He catches it one-handed, grinning now—sharp and wicked—and tosses it onto the bed before peeling off his tank top in one smooth motion.

Your brain stalls.

Every inch of his torso is light olive skin and ink and lean, defined muscle. Tattoos swirl across his chest, down his arms, over his ribs. He stretches just a little as he tosses the shirt aside, like he knows what he’s doing.

And then he crawls into bed.

Not slides.

Not climbs.

Crawls.

Slow. Casual. Effortless.

Like he’s done it a thousand times. Like this is his bed. His room.

You’re still standing there blinking when he flops back against the pillow, one arm tucked behind his head, sheets riding low on his hips.

He doesn’t even look at you.

Just mutters, “Turn the light off when you’re done staring.”

Your jaw drops.

You grab your pyjamas from your suitcase with a snap, fists clenched tight around the fabric, and storm toward the bathroom before you do something insane.

Like look again.

Or punch him.

Or both.

Inside, you slam the door and lock it, breathing hard.

Your skin is flushed. Your heart’s racing.

And you hate—hate—how warm your face feels.

Because no matter how much you loathe him, no matter how much he grates on every last nerve you have…

You’re still flustered.

You change slowly, trying not to overthink it—but of course you do.

The red satin set wasn’t chosen for this. It’s just what was clean. A camisole that dips a little too low, shorts that cling a little too well. Silky, soft, and completely inappropriate for sharing a bed with the one person you swore you’d never even nap near.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, mutter a quiet “fuck it,” and open the door.

He’s still in bed.

But now he’s looking at you.

Lying there on his side, head propped on his hand, sheets tangled around his hips. His eyes trail over you—slow, deliberate, unbothered. Heat simmers behind them, dark and unreadable.

You freeze in the doorway. “What?”

Zayn doesn’t blink. “Didn’t realize we were dressing for seduction.”

You narrow your eyes. “Didn’t realize you were such a perv.”

He hums like he’s amused. “You’re the one wearing lingerie.”

“It’s pyjamas, you dick.”

“Sure.”

“You were shirtless first,” you snap, stomping toward the bed.

“Not my fault you’re easily flustered.”

“Not flustered,” you lie, yanking the covers back and sliding in with sharp, irritated movements. “Just repulsed.”

Zayn’s voice is close when he murmurs, “That why your cheeks are still red?”

You nearly launch a pillow at him again, but instead, you turn your back to him with a dramatic huff and yank the covers up to your chin.

The bed shifts beside you.

You feel it—his body moving just enough to make the mattress dip. His leg brushes yours under the covers, a light, irritating graze that makes you jolt.

You snap your leg away like it burns. “Try that again and I’ll break your fucking knee.”

Zayn exhales a quiet laugh. “Didn’t realize breathing was an act of war.”

“You didn’t breathe. You drifted. There’s a difference.”

He shifts again—deliberately this time—and his foot presses against yours, slow and unapologetic.

Your pulse spikes.

“Zayn,” you warn.

“What?” he murmurs, voice low, almost amused. “Worried you’ll like it?”

You roll toward him with a glare. “Touch me again, and I swear to God, I’ll stab you in your sleep.”

He raises a brow, eyes flicking lazily over your face—and then lower. “That a threat?”

You lean in, your voice sharp enough to cut. “It’s a fucking guarantee.”

He smirks, something wicked curling at the corner of his mouth. “Mm. Might be worth it.”

Your blood boils. From rage. From heat. From him.

You should turn away. You should shut your eyes, roll over, and pretend none of this ever happened.

Instead—your knee brushes his thigh.

Slow. Deliberate.

His smirk falters.

Then he snaps.

In one fluid, furious motion, Zayn rolls on top of you—body pinning yours to the mattress, hands grabbing your wrists and slamming them into the pillows above your head.

You gasp, startled.

“You started this,” he growls, voice rough and right at your ear. “And now you’re gonna pretend you didn’t want me to do something about it?”

You writhe beneath him, your anger tangling with something hotter, deeper—your body betraying you, reacting to the weight of him, the scent of him, the way his chest presses to yours, bare skin sliding against satin.

“I hate you,” you spit, but your voice breaks around it. Your hips lift, trying to find friction, your breath already quickening.

Zayn looks down at you like he’s ready to ruin you.

“You hate me?” he repeats, grinding his hips into yours—slow, punishing. “Then why are you so fucking wet for me?”

Your eyes snap shut as a desperate noise escapes your throat, and you curse yourself for the heat pooling between your legs, for the way your body arches into his touch without permission.

Zayn doesn’t wait for a reply.

His mouth crashes down on yours—hot, rough, furious. It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s teeth and tongue and years of unsaid words poured into a single, punishing kiss.

You fight him.

Your hands twist in his grip, your mouth trying to pull away, but it’s all for show—and you both know it. Because the moment his tongue sweeps past your lips, the moment he groans into your mouth like he’s starving for it, your body melts beneath him.

He growls against your lips, releasing your wrists only to slide his hands down your body, gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. “Keep struggling,” he mutters darkly. “See how long I hold back.”

“I’m not.” You gasp as he grinds down harder, cock pressed thick and hot against your core.

“Bullshit,” he hisses, dragging his mouth down your neck. “You’ve wanted this for months. You just didn’t want to say it first.”

His teeth sink into your throat, sharp and possessive, and you cry out—not in pain, not really. It’s too hot, too intense. It sends a shiver straight through you.

You slap at his shoulder, but it’s weak, half-hearted. “You’re such a prick.”

“Keep talking,” he growls. “Say something else I can bite you for.”

And he does—right at the base of your throat. Then lower, dragging the strap of your camisole down with his teeth until your breast spills free, flushed and aching.

“You look better like this,” he mutters. “Messy. Needy. Mine.”

You hiss at the claim. “I’m not—”

But he cuts you off with another kiss, this one even rougher. His hands are everywhere—palming your breast, tugging your hips higher, pressing you exactly where he wants you. You can feel how hard he is, how ready.

“You are,” he growls against your mouth, biting your lower lip before kissing you breathless again. “You fucking are.”

Zayn’s mouth is everywhere—biting, licking, tasting. Down your neck, across your collarbone, then lower, lips wrapping around your nipple as he sucks hard, hand splayed across your stomach to keep you still.

You squirm, hips shifting against him, but he growls and pins you down harder.

“Stop moving,” he snaps, voice dark and frayed. “Or I’ll make you beg.”

You glare, chest heaving, every inch of your skin prickling under his touch. “I’m not begging for anything.”

He smirks against your skin. “You will.”

Then he slides down your body, dragging the satin shorts with him. The fabric clings to your thighs, soaked through, and he hums low in his throat when he sees it. “Look at that,” he murmurs. “So wet. All that attitude, and you’re already fucking dripping.”

You move to kick him, but he grabs your thighs and shoves them apart, spreading you wide and lowering his face between them.

You barely have time to snap another threat before his mouth is on you.

Hot. Wet. Unrelenting.

Zayn licks you like he’s trying to punish you with pleasure—long, deep strokes of his tongue that make your hips jerk and your thighs clamp around his head, only for him to shove them apart again with a growl.

“Stay still,” he snaps against your pussy, voice muffled and rough.

You try.

God, you try.

But his tongue is ruthless, circling your clit just right, dipping lower, fucking into you with practiced precision. He moans against you like he loves the taste of your surrender, and the sound goes straight to your spine.

Your fingers twist in the sheets. Your body’s trembling. Your legs won’t stop shaking.

“Zayn—” you gasp, a warning, a plea.

He groans again, arms locking tighter around your thighs, holding you in place while his mouth devours you. Lips, tongue, teeth—every part of him claiming you, ruining you.

You’re so close.

The pressure coils low in your belly, hot and tight and overwhelming. Your hips twitch, your breath breaks, your whole body tenses—

And then he stops.

Pulls back completely.

You whine—loud and raw, shocked by the sudden loss. “What the fuck—”

Zayn wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes wild and glinting.

“You don’t get to come yet,” he says, voice wrecked. “Not until you beg.”

You stare at him, panting, furious, soaked and throbbing and trembling beneath him.

“You bastard,” you breathe.

He smirks, lips still glistening. “Keep talking like that,” he murmurs, crawling back up your body, “and I’ll edge you ‘til you’re crying.”

His mouth brushes your ear. “Say it.”

Your body aches—every nerve lit, every muscle trembling, your cunt clenching around nothing, desperate and empty and throbbing with need. You’re furious. Humiliated. Soaked.

And still—your hips roll against him again.

Zayn groans into your ear, his teeth grazing your skin. “Say it,” he breathes. “Say you want me to fuck you. Say it and I’ll give you everything.”

You bite back a moan, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

But then his hand slides between your legs again—fingers slipping through your slick folds, teasing, cruel.

He doesn’t push in.

He doesn’t touch your clit.

He just hovers there. Threatening. Promising.

“Beg,” he growls. “Come on, princess. I’ve got all night.”

You glare up at him, chest heaving, heart pounding.

And then��

“Please,” you rasp. It rips from you before you can stop it. “Please, Zayn.”

He stills.

Your pride cracks in your voice as you meet his eyes. “I need you to fuck me.”

His mouth crashes against yours before the sentence is finished—biting, claiming, starved. One hand grabs your thigh, pulling you open, and the other wraps around your throat, just enough pressure to keep you his.

“Good girl,” he growls against your lips. “Now don’t fucking hold back.”

He doesn’t waste a second.

Zayn shoves his briefs down just far enough, his cock thick and flushed, heavy against your thigh. You feel the heat of him, the weight, the sheer intent in the way he lines himself up and presses the head right where you need him most—slow and teasing at first, like he wants to savor your desperation.

But he’s not in the mood to be gentle.

Not tonight.

With a low, vicious growl, he thrusts in hard—deep and sudden, burying himself inside you in one unforgiving stroke.

You cry out, back arching, fingers clawing at his shoulders as the breath gets punched out of you. The stretch is intense, overwhelming, but it’s perfect. He feels too good, too deep, too much—and your body takes him anyway, clenching around him like it’s exactly what you’ve been starving for.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice rough and ruined. “You feel that? You were made for this. Made for me.”

His hand tightens at your throat—not choking, just holding. Just claiming.

“You begged for it,” he snarls, hips snapping forward again, the pace brutal from the start. “So take it.”

And you do.

You meet every thrust, your body greedy for more, your moans growing louder with every slap of skin against skin. He’s feral with it, fucking you like it’s the only way to shut you up—like it’s the only way he knows how to make you his.

“Look at you,” he pants, watching the way your face twists beneath him. “So cocky until you’re full of me. You love this, don’t you? Love being fucked like you’re mine.”

You nod, barely able to breathe, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes from the intensity. “Yes—fuck, Zayn—”

“That’s right,” he growls. “Say my name. Let the whole fucking hotel know who’s making you come.”

Your voice is hoarse, raw from moaning, crying out, begging. And he’s not slowing down.

Zayn’s hand slides from your throat to the back of your neck, forcing you to keep your eyes on him. “Keep looking at me,” he grits out. “I want to see your face when you come.”

You’re close. Too close.

Your thighs tremble, body arching into every brutal snap of his hips, the bed creaking beneath you as he fucks you hard enough to make the headboard slam against the wall. It should be embarrassing. Should make you shy, make you want to crawl into yourself.

But you don’t.

You meet his thrusts with all the fire still left in you, teeth bared, fingers digging into his shoulders as you growl, “Harder.”

Zayn snarls like an animal, shifting his grip to pin both your wrists above your head again, body slamming into yours with even more force.

“You don’t get to ask,” he spits. “Not anymore. You gave yourself to me when you begged.”

You can barely breathe, tears slipping down your temples now—not from pain, not really, just too much pleasure. Too much of him.

“I hate you,” you rasp, voice shaking.

“I know,” he pants, hips grinding deep. “Hate me while I make you come.”

His free hand slides between you, fingers rubbing your clit in tight, punishing circles. You cry out, body jerking under him.

“You’re shaking,” he growls. “You gonna come for me?”

You nod, frantic.

“Say it.”

“I’m gonna come—fuck, Zayn—please—”

That’s all it takes.

Your orgasm slams into you like a freight train—violent, overwhelming, all-consuming. You scream his name, back arching, legs locking around him as you pulse around his cock, every nerve lit on fire.

Zayn doesn’t last another second.

With a guttural growl, he thrusts once, twice, then buries himself deep and stays there, hips twitching as he spills into you, hot and thick and endless. His body shudders over yours, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin as he pants through the aftershock.

You both lie there, wrecked.

The room is thick with heat and sweat and the scent of sex. Your pulse echoes in your ears, your body trembling with the aftershocks of everything he just gave you—took from you. You don’t know where the hate ends and the need begins anymore. Maybe it never mattered.

Zayn stays buried inside you for a moment longer, breath warm against your shoulder, chest heaving against yours. His hand still rests at your throat—no pressure now, just a possessive hold that lingers like he’s reluctant to let go.

Neither of you speaks.

Because what is there to say?

Eventually, he shifts. Pulls back slowly, carefully, as if suddenly remembering you’re not just a body he can use to vent years of tension. You hiss at the sensitivity as he slips out of you, the loss of him making your legs twitch, the ache setting in deep and low.

You expect him to roll away.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he rises from the bed and disappears into the bathroom.

You lie there, blinking at the ceiling, dazed and sore and flooded with adrenaline. You don’t know if you should feel victorious or defeated. You don’t know if you won whatever twisted game the two of you have always played.

You don’t hear the tap run, but you hear the soft sound of the towel wrung out, the rustle of movement. You half-expect him to just toss it at you from across the room—some smug comment to match it.

But instead, he returns quietly. Stands at the edge of the bed, eyes sweeping over you with something unreadable in his expression.

Then he kneels between your legs.

“I’ve got it,” you mutter, trying to sit up, your voice still wrecked.

Zayn ignores you.

“I said—”

“Lie back,” he says, low and firm. “You’re making a mess.”

Heat rises to your face. “It’s your mess.”

“And I’ll fucking clean it up.”

You scowl, trying to shove his hand away when the towel touches your thigh. “I don’t need your help.”

“You can barely move,” he snaps, catching your wrist mid-swat. “Stop being difficult for five seconds.”

You freeze, eyes locked on his. The heat between you hasn’t vanished—it’s just simmering now, molten and quieter, tangled up in pride and tension and something you don’t have the strength to name.

He softens the pressure on your wrist, then lowers it back to the sheets.

“I’ll be quick,” he says, and this time it’s almost gentle.

You lie back with a huff, turning your head to the side, refusing to look at him while he moves the warm towel between your thighs. He’s careful. Irritatingly so. And despite yourself, the care in his touch makes your throat tight.

It’s not a grand gesture.

It’s not even tender, really.

But it’s real.

When he’s done, he tosses the towel toward the bathroom, not bothering to check if it lands, and climbs back into bed beside you. He doesn’t touch you—not yet. Just lies there, head tipped back against the pillows, chest rising with deep, steady breaths like he’s finally coming down too.

You stay facing the wall, jaw clenched, muscles tight, already rehearsing tomorrow’s regrets.

But the mattress shifts behind you.

And then—without warning—Zayn drags you back into him, one strong arm locking around your waist, chest pressing flush to your back like he owns the space between you.

You jerk in his grip. “Get off.”

“No.”

You squirm harder. “This isn’t a fucking sleepover.”

“Good,” he mutters. “I don’t do those. I just fuck girls who hate me and then hold them anyway.”

Your elbow shoots back, catching his ribs.

He grunts. Laughs.

“Still full of fight, huh?” His lips brush your ear. “Didn’t sound like that five minutes ago.”

“Touch me again and I’ll bite your fingers off.”

Zayn hums. “Tempting.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re warm,” he says simply, already settling in. His thigh slides between yours again, lazy and unapologetic. “Don’t act like you don’t like it.”

“I don’t.”

“Your heartbeat says otherwise.”

You open your mouth, ready to fire something back—but the words die in your throat.

Because you’re still not moving.

Because his arm feels too good around you, solid and steady, the heat of him wrapping around your frayed nerves like something dangerous you can’t quite bring yourself to escape.

“You’re not staying like this,” you whisper, one last stab at control.

Zayn’s voice is low. Confident. “Then push me off.”

You don’t.

And after a beat, he knows it.

You both do.

So you lie there, seething, tangled up in the boy you swore you couldn’t stand—his breathing slowing, his body melting against yours, and your pride burning hot behind your eyelids as sleep starts to pull you under.

…

Author’s note: I kind of want to write a part 2! What do you think?

#one direction fanfiction #zayn malik x you #zayn x y/n #zayn malik x reader #zayn x you #zayn x reader #zayn malik smut #zayn fanfiction #one direction smut

136 notes · View notes

lyrakanefanaticwriting · 1 month ago

Text

a temporary job, or something more?

—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•

pairings: lyra kane x grayson hawthorne tags: assistant x boss au authors note: okay i have never done an au before, BUT i really wanna try one!! basically the events of the brothers hawthorne still occured (the phone calls), but the grandest game doesn’t exist in this universe. also the whole “lyras father” thing is going to be REALLY played down because i dont want it to be a big problem in this universe. anywaysss thanks this is going to be a multiple part series and i hope u guys enjoy it 💖💖

—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•

GRAYSON:

“C’mon, Gray,” Nash drawled. “You’ve been overworking yourself for weeks. Just think about it.” Grayson sighed. He had been overworking himself for weeks.

His assistant, Sheila, was a kind, 42 year old woman. She had been working as Grayson’s assistant for 2 years, before quitting. Apparently she had gotten a job offering in Connecticut, closer to where her parents lived, and took it to be near them, and to help out her sick father. Grayson had been overrun with work, and simple tasks that Sheila used to take care of for him was weighing him down. And now there was finally time to open up the assistant job.

Taking a sip of his coffee, Grayson tried to ignore his 3 brother’s stares across from him. Their breakfast plates were empty, and yet they made no move to put them away. They simply stared, waiting for an answer. Grayson sighed.

“Fine.” he obliged, biting out that one word answer. Xander and Jameson both high-fived, glad that they had finally worn him down, while Nash just smiled at him.

“Good job, Gray. I’m glad you decided to finally get someone to help you out.” Nash said, his voice honest. Grayson gave him a slight smile.

“Honestly, I’m glad too.”

LYRA:

Lyra rubbed her temples, having gone over so many bank statements and tuition expenses that her head was starting to hurt. Not to mention it was currently way past midnight, and she had already drank 2 cups of coffee. She can’t stay at her out of state college if her brother wants a college fund, or if she wants to keep Mile’s End. And yet her father would kill her if she took a leave from school.

Lyra sighed, going over all her options one last time. The only reason she had continued to go to her out of state college was because she was already enrolled there. Otherwise, she would have dropped out and switched to a closer school. She didn’t have anything to run from anymore, anyway.

She remembered the day all too well. 1 year ago, Lyra was packing her bags for college. She didn’t know how it happened, but suddenly, she was arguing with her mother. And things got worse. Lyra was screaming, uncaring of what she was saying, when the words came out: “and it’s not like you care whether I go to an out of state college or not, or whether I quit ballet or not, because you never even bothered to ask me why!” She remembered pausing immediately, going silent, and her mother begging Lyra to tell her why. And she did.

Lyra told her mother every memory she had of that night, from beginning to end, and by the time she was done, she and her mother were kneeling on the floor. Lyra was crying, and her mother was rocking her in her arms.

That was when her mom decided she wasn’t going to continue to stand by and watch Lyra’s life continue to derail. She enrolled Lyra for therapy lessons at her college, and with a weekly outside of college therapist. Slowly but surely, Lyra began to work through her trauma, eventually getting better and better at controlling the narrative in her own life instead of her past doing that for her.

And the one thing that her mother did that really settled with Lyra was a year ago. Lyra’s mother sat her down, and showed her articles, older websites, anything she could find that showed that her father wasn’t the only person the Hawthorne’s screwed over. So many other patent owners experienced the same thing, losing everything typically at the hands of Tobias Hawthorne.

“Don’t get angry Lyra,” she told her in a kind voice. “But you have to accept this. Rich people do bad things. And your father is just another person Tobias Hawthorne screwed over. But you have to remember that Tobias is dead. That terrible generation of the Hawthorne family is gone. And that new heiress, she won’t do the things Tobias Hawthorne did. It’s not much consolation, and it’s not the justice I know you want. But knowing that nobody is going to go through what your father may have gone through by Tobias Hawthorne… that’s enough consolation for me.”

Her words resonated with Lyra. She can still feel the anger, the frustration when she thinks about what happened to her father. But now, instead of letting her anger and grief take control of her, Lyra remembers that both her father and Tobias are gone. And the only way for her to move forward in life is to accept that.

Lyra squeezed her eyes shut, her brain transporting her back to the present.

A job, her brain reminded her, you’re looking for a job. Lyra breathed in and out, the action something she was used to and calming, and continued to look through job applications. She didn’t need to look for ones close to her college, as she finally decided she was going back home on her leave. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission, she thought. Besides, once she made more money she could rent an apartment, and that would help her make her own choices with her life, ones that helped her keep Mile’s End while also helping her parents get a trust fund started for her brother.

Finally, after 20 more minutes of scrolling through possible job opportunities, her eyes landed on one job in particular that stood out to her the most: an assistant opening for the Hannah the Same Backward as Forward Foundation. Lyra’s eyes widened. That was Avery Grambs’ foundation, she thought, having to fight back memories of her father, the one she created to donate 98% of her money. Then she clicked the read more section, saw who she would be working under in this assistant position, and her eyes nearly bulged out of her head.

Grayson Hawthorne. The man she had called a mere 2 years ago, asking about her father. The man who told her to “stop calling”. Frustration rose in her chest, remembering how quickly she’d been tossed out by him.

She didn’t need his help anymore. She was finally accepting her past. But then? Him abandoning her, him giving her hope and then taking it away, him telling her to “stop calling”? That broke her.

Lyra didn’t know what she was doing then; it felt as if a spirit had taken over her body, because in seconds she had submitted her resume and had applied for the job.

She stared at her laptop with shock at her own actions, and wondered then if she could reverse them. But then she remembered her brother’s college fund, and Mile’s End, and realized that no matter her past with Grayson Hawthorne, she needed this job. It must be high paying, considering there weren’t many positions in the foundation. And besides, Lyra was sure that he wouldn’t even remember her. Each call had been placed by a burner phone, all only a few minutes in length. Those calls wouldn’t deny her this job.

Shutting her laptop, Lyra placed it on her nightstand, and finally went to sleep.

Lyra didn’t know how to feel when she got the message that she had been accepted for the job. Her mind was stuck in a loop of worries, but somehow the idea that she would be working for Grayson Hawthorne didn’t quite hit her until she was standing outside of the foundation, her laptop bag in hand. Then she began to wonder about the state she was in when she applied for this job. They requested that she wear a “Hi, my name is” sticker on her blouse with her name scrawled on, so Lyra did exactly that, feeling wildly ridiculous.

After about 3 minutes of staring at the building, Lyra took a deep breath, and stepped in. She wasn’t quite sure where to go, so she walked up to the woman in the front desk, who looked just as elegant as that entire marble-coated building. Lyra’s heels clicked as she walked up towards her, and the woman looked up.

“Hello.” Lyra said, slightly awkward. The woman payed no mind to her hesitations, and smiled at Lyra with honesty and kindness in her expression.

“Hi there! What brings you to the Hannah the Same Backward as Forward Foundation building?” She chirped, surveying the sticker on her blouse with unfamiliarity in her eyes. Lyra couldn’t help but give her the slightest smile, even if it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I’m a new assistant. For Grayson Hawthorne?” Lyra said, trying to sound as unaffected as possible when she said his name. The woman looked surprised.

“I wasn’t aware that he had opened up the position. I mean, I knew that Mr. Hawthorne’s past assistant had quit, but he seemed pretty adamant on not needing a new one—“ the woman didn’t get to finish her sentence before somebody interrupted her.

“And yet here she is, a shining new assistant, all thanks to me!” Exploded a male voice. Immediately Lyra turned to give whoever interrupted this kind lady a mean look, when she realized who she was glaring at: Xander Hawthorne. Lyra didn’t have time to be shocked when she surveyed the two men behind Xander: Nash Hawthorne, and Jameson Hawthorne.

Lyra realized then that her glare from before was still sitting as clear as day on her face, and it looked as if she was judging all of them pretty fiercely.

Fixing her face, Lyra gave them a polite—and utterly fake—smile. “Do you think you could lead me to his office?”

They all shared the quickest look, before Jameson Hawthorne stepped forward. “Sure thing. Follow our lead…” he trailed off, reading the sticker on her shirt. “Lyra Catalina Kane.”

The walk there was mainly silent, as well as the elevator ride, but Xander Hawthorne still found a way to talk through it all, even when there weren’t any real conversations happening.

Finally they reached his office. The first thing she saw was an empty desk area in front of it, clearly meant for Lyra. The second thing she saw was the inscription on Grayson’s office door—Office 301 - G. D. Hawthorne.

Lyra swallowed, nervousness closing up her throat.

“Here it is,” Nash Hawthorne spoke abruptly, his Texan accent thick. “Don’t be nervous. You’ll be great at the job, I’m sure of it.” Lyra was surprised, her gaze flashing to Nash’s. She hadn’t expected him to be so kind.

“Thanks.” she said, politely yet surprisedly. Then she stepped forward, and opened up the door. There, sitting at the desk, was Grayson Hawthorne. She stepped forward, glancing behind her to see if the other 3 Hawthorne brothers were still there, but they were all starting for the elevator. Lyra turned back around, and saw that Grayson Hawthorne’s gaze was now on her. She opened her mouth to speak—and was immediately interrupted.

“You’re the new assistant?” he asked, his gaze formal yet calculating as he swept his eyes over her. Lyra nodded, slightly aggravated but not letting it take ahold of her, and opened her mouth to speak.

And wouldn’t you know what happened, yet again.

He interrupted.

“Good. I was just finishing up some paperwork. I have some more leftover documents, but I can look through those. Though I would appreciate you getting me a coffee.” he said, standing as he rearranged some papers. Lyra’s jaw went slack. First he interrupts her, twice, and now he assumes she can’t look over basic documents?

Asshole.

Lyra stayed silent, stewing in her anger, and Grayson Asshole Hawthorne looked up at her.

“Did you not hear me?” The question was entirely rude, but said with such formality that you would think you were going crazy for thinking it was. Lyra’s jaw tightened.

“I heard you perfectly fine. I just assumed that I’m supposed to be given leave to speak, considering I haven’t been able to get a word out up until now.” she gritted out, immediately regretting her words as soon as she said them. Great way to get fired 2 minutes into the job, Lyra thought.

But Grayson’s expression wasn’t annoyed, as she expected. No, he was utterly taken aback.

Lyra was beginning to feel scared, when Grayson spoke.

“What?” he breathed. Lyra made a face.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I—“

“No, not that.” Grayson cut her off again, waving a hand. He still looked shocked, staring at Lyra like she had grown a pair of horns mid conversation.

And then he spoke, and Lyra realized why he was so shocked.

“I know you.” he breathed. Lyra froze. The phone calls.

Each phone call was placed by a burner phone, all less than a few minutes in length and around 2 years ago. He shouldn’t have been able to recognize her voice. That was the one thing that soothed her nerves, knowing Grayson wouldn’t recognize her.

So much for that.

“2 years ago,” Grayson spoke, walking around his desk to come closer to her. “you called me, asking about your father. The one who killed himself, saying “a Hawthorne did this”.” Grayson was significantly closer now, his body only a few inches from hers.

“Am I correct?” Grayson asked, his pupils wide. Lyra gave him a look. He knew he was.

“Does it matter? It was 2 years ago. Those phone calls have nothing to do with this job.” she retorted, not being able to pry her gaze away from his. “I’m not here for some revenge plot. I need this job.” He came closer.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice cold—yet quiet, like he was grappling with himself. Lyra was about to defend herself, her eyes flashing, when the door to Grayson’s office suddenly opened.

“Mr. Hawthorne—“ Lyra heard a familiar voice behind her. She immediately stepped away from Grayson, turning around to see the same front desk lady who had greeted her a mere 5 minutes ago at the door. She seemed incredibly awkward after catching the two of them standing a mere few inches away.

“Ms. Grambs wanted me to drop these off. But now that Ms. Kane is here, she will be able to go through those for you, if it’s too much of a hassle.” she said, quickly shuffling into the room and dropping a small stack of papers onto Grayson’s desk, an air of hesitations around her.

“Thank you.” Grayson’s voice was deeper than previously, the rich and low sound of his voice distracting Lyra more than it should have.

More than it could have, now. Besides the fact that he was a Hawthorne, he was her boss.

Lyra went for the papers before he could.

“I can fill these out.” she said briskly, needing any excuse to turn and walk out the door. And she was about to when Grayson interrupted.

“Our conversation isn’t over, Lyra.” Lyra froze. Lie-ra.

“It’s Lyra.” Lee-ra. Her palms were getting sweatier as she had to fight back memories of her father.

“My apologies, Lyra.” he said, pronouncing her name right that time. Exactly right. He seemed like he was going to say something else, but Lyra didn’t give him the opportunity to. She turned and walked out the door before he could speak, closing it behind her and giving Grayson Hawthorne a taste of his own arrogant medicine.

GRAYSON:

Lyra Catalina Kane. Her voice immediately sent him back to two years ago, to phone calls and riddles, to that damn opal ring.

“What begins a bet? Not that”.

It became increasingly hard to focus on work when all Grayson could do was stare out the glass pane of his office, watching Lyra at her desk. His mind was occupied with questions, about why she needed the job, about her father, about what her being here meant for his family.

And for him.

He couldn’t say that he hadn’t thought about her after he had told her to stop calling. But he didn’t think he could pester he about the phone calls any longer, especially when she’d said that the job had nothing to do with them.

Still, to be safe, he sent out a text to Avery.

“Did you perform a background check on Lyra Catalina Kane?”, he texted, pressing send. There was a pause, before the text bubbles showed up indicating that Avery was texting back, and she finally wrote her reply.

“Yes, there was nothing concerning about her. Why?”, read the text. Grayson paused, before his fingers continued texting.

“Just curious.”, he sent back. Then he placed his phone down, his mind going back to the mystery girl who he had been thinking about for the past 2 years. The one who was now his assistant.

Then a brief knock sounded at the door, pulling Grayson from his thoughts.

“Come in,” Grayson spoke. Lyra Kane walked in, holding a document.

“Mr. Hawthorne,” she spoke, sounding as if she were talking to him for the first time, like their past phone calls were nothing. “I need you to sign your name on one of these papers.”

Grayson stared at her, watching her as she came closer. She put the paper on the desk neatly in front of him. Grayson stared at her for only a moment longer, before turning his attention to the document.

Grayson signed his name quickly and efficiently on two different spots, before handing the paper to Lyra. She turned around and was about to walk out, when Grayson spoke.

“Ms. Kane,” he called out. Lyra turned around. He stared at her, unsure of what to say, before improvising.

“Call me Grayson.” he said. Grayson was a bit surprised; after all, Sheila had always called him Mr. Hawthorne, but Lyra and Sheila were different on a multitude of fronts. She paused, before a look came on her face.

“Only if you call me Lyra.” she retorted. Grayson was surprised, not used to anyone talking back as much as the spark in front of him did.

In a moment, Grayson realized that Lyra wasn’t just a spark. She was a wildfire—fatal, stubborn, and more than a little dangerous. He smiled then.

“If you wish, Lyra.” he said. Lyra looked at him a moment longer, before giving him a slight nod and stepping out of his office. Grayson watched her walked away, intrigue clear in his face.

Who really are you, Lyra Catalina Kane?

And despite what he thought, the idea of finding that out was a mystery that Grayson considered his to solve.

—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•—•

hi guys!!! so that was the first part to my first au fanfic, i hope u guys enjoyed it and if u have any constructive criticism/recommendations for what you might want to see moving forward in the fanfic please lmk!!! <33

#fanfiction #alternate universe #lyra x grayson fic #grayson hawthorne #lyra catalina kane #lyra kane #lyra and grayson #lyrason #nash hawthorne #the grandest game #the inheritance games #avery kylie grambs #jameson hawthorne #the brothers hawthorne #xander hawthorne #lyra x grayson #libby grambs #maxine liu

89 notes · View notes

thefemmefatalexo · 5 months ago

Text

Gojo SMAU - The Art of Falling Fake

Chapter 1 - Invisible in the Spotlight

Summary: The campus buzzes with life, but you feel like a shadow slipping through the cracks—unnoticed, unimportant. At home, it’s no better. Your parents dote on your step-sister, the star tennis player, while you’re the afterthought they barely acknowledge. She’s here too, her perfect reputation casting an even bigger shadow over your existence. College was supposed to be your escape, but living at home and walking the same halls as her makes it impossible. Then he shows up—Satoru Gojo, the rich, arrogant engineering major everyone seems to worship. His smug grin and effortless charm are the kind of things you can’t stand, but when a ridiculous twist of fate forces your lives together, you find yourself fake dating the most insufferable man you’ve ever met. It’s just a deal, temporary and harmless—or so you try to convince yourself.

an: Welcome to chapter one guys! Feedback is appreciated as always hehe. Also, the taglists for all of my stories are still OPEN, so make sure to get tagged so you don’t miss out on any new chapters! SMOOCHES 💋💋💋

{introduction} ; {next}

taglist: @hanakotateyama @sleepykittyenergy

࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

Campus is chaos, as always. The sidewalks are packed with students rushing to their next class or chatting in tight little groups like they’ve known each other forever. It’s the first month of the semester, but it feels like everyone’s already found their place—everyone but you. You walk with your head down, weaving through the crowd as quietly and invisibly as possible. That’s been your strategy for years now. It works. Mostly.

You didn’t think living at home while attending college would feel so… stifling. At first, it seemed like the logical choice: save money, stay close to the familiar, and avoid the pressure of navigating both a new school and a new city. But now you’re not so sure. Sharing a roof with your parents and your step-sister, Mia, is starting to feel like you’re suffocating.

The comparisons never stop. Mia, the perfect daughter with her flawless tennis career and her endless achievements. She’s a campus celebrity in her own right—everyone knows her name, her face, her victories. And then there’s you. The one people glance at for a second before looking past you. The one who never quite measures up.

You pull your hoodie tighter around you as you pass a group of students standing by the fountain. One of them mentions Mia’s name, and you feel your stomach twist. Something about her latest tournament win, how she’s heading to the finals soon. It’s not surprising, but it still stings. She’s everywhere. Even here.

You shake the thoughts away and head toward the coffee shop near the engineering building. It’s your usual escape—a place to grab a moment of quiet before your next class. The line is long when you step in, but the familiar smell of coffee and the soft hum of indie music make it worth the wait. You tug your phone out of your pocket, scrolling mindlessly through messages you’re too tired to respond to.

That’s when it happens.

The force of someone slamming into you from behind nearly sends you tumbling forward. Your bag slips off your shoulder, and your coffee almost flies out of your hands.

“Whoa, careful there,” a smooth voice says, almost lazily, as though you were the one at fault.

You turn around, already annoyed, and find yourself face-to-face with him.

Satoru Gojo.

Of course, it’s him. Because who else would nearly knock you over and then smile at you like you owe him an apology? His snowy white hair practically glows under the fluorescent lights, and his blue eyes—hidden behind those ridiculous round sunglasses—glint with amusement. He’s tall, too tall, and he carries himself with the kind of confidence that only someone who’s never been told “no” can manage.

You’ve seen him around. Everyone has. Satoru Gojo is one of those people you can’t ignore even if you try. He’s an engineering major with top grades, an influential family name, and a reputation that precedes him. Girls throw themselves at him. Guys want to be him. He’s the king of campus—loud, obnoxious, and completely full of himself.

And now, unfortunately, he’s staring right at you.

“I think you dropped something,” he says, gesturing to your bag on the floor.

“No, really? Thanks for pointing that out,” you deadpan, bending down to pick it up.

When you straighten, his grin is still plastered on his face. It’s infuriatingly smug, like he’s thoroughly enjoying this interaction.

“You’re new,” he states, as if it’s a fact.

You glance around the room, hoping the line will move faster. “Why does it matter?”

“Because I know everyone here, and I definitely don’t know you,” he says, leaning casually against the counter like this is the most fascinating conversation he’s had all day.

“Congratulations. You’ve solved the mystery. I’m new.”

There’s a pause, and you can feel his eyes studying you, probably trying to figure out why you’re not falling all over yourself like the others do. “You don’t seem very impressed by me,” he finally says, and there’s a mock pout in his tone.

You can’t help but snort. “Why would I be?”

His grin widens, and for a split second, you see something flash in his eyes. Amusement? Curiosity? You don’t care enough to figure it out.

You step forward as the line moves, eager to order and leave before he decides to keep talking. But, of course, he follows.

“New girl, huh? So, what’s your name?”

“None of your business,” you reply, still not looking at him.

“Ouch,” he says, clutching his chest dramatically. “Cold and mysterious. I like it.”

You roll your eyes and finally make it to the counter, ordering the cheapest coffee on the menu. As you fumble with your wallet, you hear him behind you, ordering something unnecessarily complicated and way too expensive.

When you turn to leave, you catch his gaze one last time. His grin hasn’t wavered. “See you around, mystery girl,” he calls after you.

You don’t bother responding, walking out the door as quickly as you can.

But as you step back into the crowd, you can’t shake the feeling that he’s right.

Because as much as you want to stay invisible, something tells you Satoru Gojo isn’t about to let that happen.

147 notes · View notes

moldychefboyardeecan · 4 months ago

Text

Too Close!

A Sanji one shot I thought was cute.

WC: 1.17k

Parings: youxsanji

tags: cooking?, comfort, cute,injury,might be ooc

a/n: i get injured/weak..a lot. I often feel like a burden since so many people have to re-accommodate me. So..I guess take it from my perspective, this is how I feel. Last real post before Japan yahoo.!

When it came to Vinsmoke Sanji, you didn’t know how much of a fragile man he is. After finding out, it drew you closer to him. For so long, he kept you stable, a reminder that there’s a window to open, and he would be the sun. Always pampering you and the crew, but always kept his gaze lingering, and you seemed to have matched that too; because every time you meet his eyes, you give him a small smile, while he turns red, his eyes practically becoming hearts.

After a while, you both were more adventurous than before when it came with each other. A giggle here, a laugh there, a brush of hair away from your face and his. It was starting to become more common between the two of you to stay close together. You started washing the dishes after him, and he tried to teach you how to cook. In which you burned your fingers by placing them too close to the torch when you were trying to flambé something.

“Fuck! Im sorry..” you muttered, placing the finger which was most in pain by your mouth, basically sucking the burn, as if the irritation would go away, but at most, all it did was give you a sense of temporary relief. Sanji took your hand and kissed your finger. “Mon Soleil, it happens. I’ll finish up here. Go to Chopper and I’ll meet you in your quarters to check on you.” Your face turned red and you were giggling— until you realized where you were and this wasn’t a daydream. Then your face, fully red in embarrassment now, gave him a hesitant ‘thank you’ before dashing out of the kitchen, trying to catch your breath from that moment.

Too Close..! Too close! Too-

..Close. A hand holds your shoulder, and by the sleeve, you recognize who it is: Sanji. Too close. But not in a way to not be friends..

..right?

“You okay? You seemed a bit..off in there. I told you to go to Chopper damnit! Not just stand outside the kitchen doors!” He gritted his teeth between his phrases, trying to hold himself back from shaking you back and forth to remind you to get a grip on yourself.

You give off a soft chuckle, in awe of his care and concern for you.

Maybe we can be this close, as friends.

After a good scolding from Sanji reminding you to be careful in the kitchen, Chopper's initial shock from your injury, you were in your quarters, your hand feeling a bit better, your fingers throbbing still. Chopper bandaged your middle and ring finger together, making it a bit harder to move the two fingers on your left hand. You sit on the edge of your bed, and lay your back against the mattress, your legs still hanging on the edge. You were a good wildcard for the Straw Hats, having helped Nami draw a map, and Franky with some repairs. But this injury would have you out of service for a few days, since most of your handiwork on the ship required both hands.

If only I didn’t fuck up that flambé, maybe I wouldn’t be so useless right now.

You sighed and stared at your ceiling, thinking about how you could still stay valuable to these pirates, who allowed you to be here, to be free. Maybe you could practice your switchblade? After all, you fight with that small thing, and you’re often well off just with that.

No, I’d just hurt my hands more..

Cooking?

I can’t hold the pan right now, I burnt myself today.

Drawing?

My left hand can’t handle the pressure of holding something down.

Reading?

I can’t hold the book.

You groan in frustration, feeling tears form.

Why am I so damn useless right now?!

You get up and place your hand on your counter to carry you up. Your left hand. The sensitive skin behind the bandages react to the sudden pressure and in return you feel the pain burning your fingers again. You hate sitting on your ass, watching everyone work hard while you couldn’t do anything but just that. Watch. Watch how they carry their weight while you have to be put on rest. Watch them sweat while you rest. Watch them laugh. It hurt, knowing that you were on the sides for now. Those thoughts finally broke you, sending tears to your eyes. Trying to hold back a sob, you bite your lip and take deep breath through your nose. You give in to the sadness and start crying, letting it all out, whimpering and sounding like a small child. You move into your bed, away from your table, curling yourself in, leaving your injured arm out, while your other arm wraps around you.

“Am..I, really..that..useless?..” You whisper to yourself, in between sniffles. You felt your other arm wrap around yo— Wait. Your injured arm is still out. You look up and see a blonde man, hair covering one side of his face, only showing one of his big beautiful blue eyes and his curly eyebrows. Sanji.

“No, you aren’t.” He said, rubbing your side while he sat on the edge of your bed. “Trust me, you’re amazing. More than anyone would know. More than we let on, actually.” He ended with a chuckle, feeling his genuine heart echoing from him. He laid his back on the bed, his legs on the edge, as if he were still sitting. “I think I’m probably the biggest burden here, if we’re being honest.” He added.

You try to recuperate your voice back , but all that comes out are hesitant, shaking words. “What makes you say that? You’ve benefited me in many ways.”

He smiles softly, before slowly turning his demeanor to a solemn one. “I'm glad. At least you think I can help.”

Your face stiffens up, and forms a concerned look. “I'm serious. You mean..a lot to me.” You gulp down the anxiety and tension, preparing yourself for anything that would come after that. “A lot more than I thought.”

He looks up at you, his face melting slowly once again, his eyes already swollen with a quivering lip. “You..mean it?.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

With that, he crashed into your shoulder, pulling you into a hug tight and close.

“Then we can mean a lot to each other.” He cupped your face, and pressed your forehead against his, before pulling your lips into his. It wasn’t rough, it wasn’t careless, but a promise. A promise to both of you, to be enough not for everyone, but for the only other people that mattered in the world at that moment: eachother.

You were right. This isn’t too close. This is perfect.

#fanfic #one piece #x reader #sanji #one piece sanji #black leg sanji #sanji x reader

115 notes · View notes

boofeine · 3 months ago

Text

seventeen members current energy (dated: march 28th, 2025)

warnings: tarot is not one fixed truth, you're in charge of your life decisions. / this reading was made with the major arcanes only.

tags: @huen1ngk4i @aaniag @svteensworld @kooqitas @unlikelysublimekryptonite @bewoyewo

seungcheol: the tower — he is in a really thoughtful time, where he knows he has a solid career, so he's contemplating what are going to be his next steps. he's thinking of a beginning.

jeonghan: the sun — he is not happy or sad, just stable. he's very racional and comforting himself, knowing better days always come and everything is temporary.

joshua: the emperor — he is in a really closed up energy. he seems pretty confident and a bit more aware of himself. he is really listening to his wants and prioritizing himself, and that for some people might be coming out as being cold.

junhui: strength — he's just going with the flow. he's not thinking too much or overthinking the future, he's just living right now. thinking next steps might get him anxious currently, so he just decided to let it be and let time says.

hoshi: the hanged man — he feels pushed back, like he wants to do things he can't or is being stopped to do. he could make a decision that could ease this feeling, but he doesn't.

wonwoo: death — he's needing a new beginning. he might be having a bit of a hard time right now, his energy is looking very dark. considering he's enlisting, i think that's big part of it. he's really in a bad mood and ends up acting like he doesn't want to because he's too sensitive and on his feelings. he might have hurt some people on this process, but he's also trying to cope.

woozi: the moon — he always needs something new. he's been thinking a lot and understanding everything has pros and cons in his life right now, he's trying to make the right decisions.

seokmin: the world — he's closing a cicle right now or finishing a project or this moment in his life. he feels mature and grateful, he feels quite relieved actually, something like "i can't believe i made it, it's finally over" but he's also proud.

mingyu: the magician — he's trying and looking different things, he has a lot of tools but doesn't know yet what he wants to come up with it. he's having opportunities but lacking taking action.

minghao: the charriot — he might travel soon, he's also trying and looking for different things but not like mingyu, hao knows the moves he wants to make and is doing so.

seungkwan: the empress — the man is just overflowing. he's taking care of himself, being a lot with his family. i honestly don't see any work here or looking for new work since svt is preparing a comeback so technically there's work. (there's just raw sex energy in this reading, i can't explain it, idk if this man is trying to have a baby, but honestly, it feels like it.......)

vernon: wheel of furtune — well... he's having ups and downs financially and trying not to let it impact his work. he feels lucky on work (with his idol/public figure life) but lost in his personal life.

chan: judment — he feels left or looked down on work, for the superiors more specifically. maybe he's feeling left out for future projects and doesn't have any expectations to it to change, but he's staying silent about it... here's advice from the cards, speak up, communicate, it might make a huge difference.

i wasn't planning that but just ended up doing a reading..... i won't wait for saturday, here's your gift :) !!

#taroteen saturday #seventeen #seventeen scenarios #svt headcanons #seventeen tarot #seventeen smut #svt scenarios #svt tarot #tarot reading #tarot #kpop tarot

66 notes · View notes

thezombieprostitute · 2 months ago

Text

Tech Tuesday: Walter Marshall

Summary: Walter takes you shopping for a new bed.

Warnings: Size discrimination. Please let me know if I missed any!

A/N: Reader is short, female. No other physical descriptors used.

Tech Tuesdays Masterlist

"Do we have to do this Walter?" you whine as you get out of the truck.

"If you want me to stay overnight at your place again, yes," Walter replies. "That thing you call a bed can barely support the two of us when we're just resting, let alone when we're getting frisky. And I'm too old for the floor."

"Well why can't I just get you a really big dog bed, then?" You smirk at Walter's fake glare as you scritch his chin. "Fine," you concede. "But I reserve the right to complain the whole time."

"Of course," he nods as puts his arm behind you, gently pushing you into the furniture store. "And I'm okay with you getting a couch instead, just so long as it's got better support."

"Thank you for respecting the limitations of my space," you nod.

It didn't hurt he'd also agreed to pay for half the thing since he was the main reason you were buying it. Or so you let him think. In truth, you knew you'd needed to upgrade your tiny little bed couch for a while now. It definitely wasn't doing your back any favors. You'd added pillows to try to make it cushier, but that was a temporary fix.

But going out to a store and actually buying a better option was its own kind of torture. Salespeople bugged everyone, of course, but they often took your shorter stature as reason to invade your personal space. At least when you were at work your uniform gave you a modicum of respect, a bit of a bubble for your safety. Without it, you were just another short person they could smile about looking down on. You were a target they could push into buying something you really didn't want. You weren't a shrinking violet, and happily bit back at them if they pushed too hard, but it was exhausting and shouldn't have to happen in the first place.

Walter could tell you were on edge but wasn't sure why. He chalks it up to your hesitancy surrounding change and big purchases. He's learned his lesson on trying to speak for you but he's happy to accompany you.

Once inside, you both go directly to the couches. They're more familiar for you and your sleeping habits. The fold out ones are also more sturdy for Walter's sake. There are some things you'd love to do to really test out which couch would be best for both of you, but you don't feel like getting arrested for indecency. He volunteers to scout out other areas but you hold onto his hand to keep him near.

"You're my guard dog right now," you whisper to him. He's not entirely sure what to make of it, but he nods in agreement, if not understanding.

It isn't long until you're approached by a salesman. His name tag says "Pete" and his smile is just shy of sleazy. His focus is clearly on Walter and he greets him with a smile and a handshake, barely looking at you.

"So what can I help the two of you?" Pete offers.

Walter doesn't say anything, just points to you. You smile a little at the double take Pete does but drop it immediately when he gets a little too close.

"So what are you looking for, little lady?" he asks, changing tactics.

"Some personal space," you say flatly as you glare up at him.

For a moment it looks like Pete's smelled something awful but he fixes his composure and takes a step back, almost bumping into Walter. "That's fair," he nods. "Anything else I can get for you?"

You tell Pete the dimensions and requirements you're looking for and he starts walking you towards the pricier options. When you realize what he's doing you immediately turn and start walking towards other, more reasonably priced options. It might be rude, but you've got a budget and he's going to have to respect that.

Walter sees a momentary scowl on Pete's face but keeps his own mouth shut. You're in charge here, and he's happy to see you throwing the guy off. He's definitely understanding more of your request that he be your guard dog. Especially when Pete looks at Walter like, can you help me out here? Walter gives him an unfriendly smile and gestures for Pete to follow you. You're in charge. The sooner Pete respects that, the sooner he can get a sale.

The only time Walter says anything is when you have him try out the couches with you. He gives you honest opinions as he flops down onto them, testing how they handle his weight and rough treatment. He happily steps between you and Pete whenever you need to think. Making sure Pete can't add pressure to the decision.

When you're ready to make a decision you tell Pete which one you want and in what color. He tries to upsell you on a few things and you agree to the one that actually does sound like a good idea. He retains his customer service smile as he gets the paperwork and tallies everything up but the rest of his body language indicates he's not happy. He really should be happy he got anything from you.

The paperwork gets signed and the couch will be delivered to your little apartment in a couple of weeks. You shake Pete's hand and turn to head out. Walter also shakes his hand and Pete grumbles, "I don't understand how you can be so completely whipped for a chihuahua like her."

Walter squeezes Pete's hand extra hard, making the man wince. "Not my fault you can't handle a strong, intelligent, woman with an independent streak. Though now it makes sense why you're still single."

In the cab of Walter's truck you let yourself decompress. He climbs in soon after you do and starts the engine.

"I think I'm understanding a bit more of why you didn't want to do this," he starts. "So I want to thank you, again, for being willing to do so."

"Well, you weren't wrong about the couch needing to be replaced," you confess. "I was just being really stubborn."

"Understandably stubborn," he consoles. "Lost track of how many times I wanted to smack him."

"I'm really glad you didn't. That you let me actually be in charge and didn't step in unless I asked you to. You're a good guard dog."

"Ruff," Walter playfully barks, making you smile. "So, as a thank you, I was wondering if you'd let me treat you to some Dairy Queen?"

"That depends," you tease. "How much of a bill can I run up?"

"Hmm...just don't order everything from the menu?"

"I can work with that," you smile.

Tech Tuesdays Masterlist

Tagging: @alicedopey; @changenameno; @delicatebarness; @ellethespaceunicorn; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @irishhappiness; @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory; @kingliam2019; @kmc1989; @late-to-the-party-81; @lokislady82; @ronearoundblindly

#tech tuesday #tech tuesday: walter marshall #walter marshall x short!reader #walter marshall x female!reader #it!walter marshall x reader #walter marshall x you #walter marshall x f!reader

63 notes · View notes