#Some else to call short stack

[judesmoonbeauty]

Short King Energy:

[aleksatia]

10 Ways You Ruin His Day (and 10 Ways You Ruin His Self-Control)

I originally made this list as character notes for future stories — I love digging deep into their dynamics and really breaking them down. But honestly? I couldn’t not share. Would love to hear your thoughts too: what do you think drives them absolutely mad, and what turns them into helpless fluff puddles? 🖤

🍎 Top 10 Things That Make Caleb Absolutely, Irrevocably Mad

1 He doesn’t know where you are Even when it makes sense. Even when you’re safe. Even when he’s on the far side of a tunnel with no signal and too much time to think. The silence eats at him, turns every breath into a countdown. By the time he’s back, no one on the base dares talk to him until you’re in his line of sight again.

2 You come home with a bouquet of flowers from another man It’s not jealousy, really. It’s… fury dressed in olive green. You’re standing there, smiling, saying some poor man gave you flowers because you saved his life. Great. Fantastic. Caleb’s thrilled that his girlfriend is both competent and accidentally irresistible. But now he has to pretend this isn’t bothering him while mentally comparing the man's face to strategic punching surfaces.

3 You climb on unstable furniture to reach something You know, nothing fancy—just a stack of books on top of a chair that’s on top of a bench. And you? Balancing like a gremlin in fuzzy socks. He walks in and suddenly the war flashbacks begin. You think it’s funny. He thinks it’s a workplace hazard, and you are the HR violation.

4 You rearrange his model planes He adores you. Worships the ground you walk on. Would throw himself in front of an oncoming dropship for you. But if you dust his shelf and dare to reorder his starfighters and aircrafts by vibes instead of model number? He's already rewriting his will. In blood.

5 You do something reckless and then smile about it You say “relax, I had a plan.” He hears: “I almost died, and I’d do it again, because I’m cute and unstoppable.” That smile? That grin you give when you know exactly what you did and you’re proud of it? That’s why he needs stress meds. And maybe a punching bag with your face on it. (Lovingly.)

6 You casually mention the girl he used to date You say it with a smirk, like it’s just some harmless teenage memory. But he doesn’t see her—he sees you. You, standing in the doorway that day. You, catching him with her, both of them half-undressed. And you looking at him like something cracked between you. Back then, you were off-limits. You were the girl he wasn’t allowed to want. So he wanted someone else. Easier. Safer. And now, years later, you bring it up like it’s nothing—while he’s still trying not to remember how badly he wished it had been you.

7 You weren’t his first kiss—but worse, he wasn’t yours It never comes up. Not out loud. But he remembers. Vividly. The hallway. The way your face lit up. The boy leaning in. You smiling. And Caleb—watching from across the room, fists clenched, jaw tight, playing the role of older brother when his whole body screamed mine. You never talk about it. But he never forgot. Never will. Because that moment should’ve been his—and someone else took it first.

8 You walk away during a fight, or shut down emotionally You call it “space.” He calls it “psychological warfare.” You shut down. He short-circuits. Nothing drives him more insane than trying to fix something while you’re actively ghosting him across the living room. He’d rather you screamed. Threw something. Anything. But this quiet? This distance? That’s the one thing he doesn’t know how to fight.

9 You cry—especially if it’s because of him And then he’s done. Game over. His spine straightens like he’s under military command and his entire soul just went through the paper shredder. You cry, and suddenly he’s the villain. You say “it’s not your fault,” but that doesn’t matter. He’s already rewriting the past and taking full responsibility. And yes, he’ll suffer in complete silence. Like a man.

10 You secretly try to uncover what he’s hiding from you You call it curiosity. He calls it a breach of protocol punishable by full emotional lockdown. You think you’re clever. He thinks you just walked into classified territory barefoot, blindfolded, and with a target on your back. You were never supposed to see that side of his world. And now that you have? He doesn’t know whether to yell, hold you, or lock you in a room with military-grade firewalls and a blanket.

🍎 Top 10 Things That Turn Caleb Into a Complete Fluff-Mess

You wearing his dog tags / uniform shirt / flight jacket Instant puddle. No chance. He sees you in his gear and his brain just... shuts off. All he can think is mine mine mine, and he gets this dumb, soft little smirk like he’s trying so hard not to combust.

You falling asleep on him—especially mid-conversation You’re curled into his side, mumbling something about dinner plans, and then: silence. He looks down, sees you asleep on his chest, and that’s it. Whole day ruined. Cancel all missions. He’s not moving.

You bringing him coffee exactly the way he likes it—without asking That quiet, thoughtful act? Hits him right in the soldier-shaped heart. He doesn’t even know how to process being taken care of, so he stares at the cup like it just proposed to him.

You absentmindedly touching him—fiddling with his fingers, tracing scars, playing with his hair He pretends he doesn’t care. He does. He cares so much he forgets how to breathe. Just turns into a warm, red-eared statue trying not to whimper.

You whispering “I trust you” or “I feel safe with you” in a soft moment Core memory unlocked. He stores that one like sacred intel. Will literally whisper it back to himself at 3 AM when he’s lying awake, missing you. It breaks him in the best way.

You clinging to him in your sleep / pulling him closer without waking up Caleb.exe has stopped functioning. He will lie perfectly still for HOURS if it means not disturbing that moment. Bonus points if you mumble his name while doing it.

You defending him when someone questions his methods or past He’s used to being the shield—not having someone stand in front of him. The second you raise your voice on his behalf? He falls in love with you all over again. Might even cry. Secretly.

You gently helping him out of his gear after a long day Soft hands on his buckles. A kiss to his shoulder. A low “You’re home now.” That’s how you make a Colonel melt. His fingers twitch like he wants to worship the ground you walk on.

You surprising him with something dumb and heartfelt, like a handmade gift or bad sketch of him He acts gruff—says “the hell is this, Pips?”—but then puts it in his locker or keeps it in his chest pocket for missions like it’s sacred treasure. Because it is.

You calling him “baby” / “handsome” / “sweetheart” when he least expects it He acts like it’s annoying. It is not annoying. It turns him into actual butter. If you do it with a teasing smile? He short-circuits. Might drop something. Might combust. Definitely blushes.

🩺 Top 10 Things That Make Zayne’s Calm Snap Like a Microsurgical Thread

You ignore his instructions when you're sick You had a fever of 102°F. He left explicit care instructions—bed rest, fluids, minimal movement. You, sweating and glassy-eyed, decided this was the perfect time to rearrange the furniture. When he came home and found you dragging a bookshelf across the room “because the light felt wrong,” he genuinely considered sedating you. Not as punishment. As damage control. For both of you.

You order greasy fast food instead of going somewhere “nutritionally viable” He offered to cook. You said no. Twenty minutes later, you’re eating fries from a paper bag while half of it spills on his clean table. You grin. He stares. Not angry at the food. Angry because you rejected his precision, then settled for processed chaos.

You leave wet towels on the floor after every shower He’s not sure when it started. Day three? Day five? But every time he walks into the bathroom and steps into cold, soggy cotton, something in him fractures. You claim you “forget.” He suspects a psychological experiment.

You casually mention spending time with male friends You think it’s harmless. Lunch with Caleb. Training advice from Xavier. You light up when you talk about them—and that’s the problem. Zayne doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t raise a brow. But the sudden over-fixation on his email inbox says everything.

You receive a speeding ticket. Forty miles over the limit. You wave it off like it’s a funny little anecdote. He sits in absolute silence, calculating the stopping distance of your car vs. standard reaction time at that speed. You think he’s judging. He’s actually trying not to scream.

You poke his ass. Specifically, between the cheeks. You call it “affection.” He calls it “emotional terrorism.” He flinches like he’s been electrocuted, whips around with murder in his eyes—and you’re giggling like a gremlin. Later, you regret nothing, but your thighs may beg to differ.

When you diagnose him with internet psychology You’ve read one book on attachment styles and watched three reels about emotional unavailability. Now you’ve decided he has "clinical avoidant tendencies with a hint of fear-based control fixation." He stares at you, deadpan, like he's about to perform your autopsy.

You keep spoiled food in the fridge and expired meds in the cabinet You say “it doesn’t smell that bad” or “maybe it still works.” His eye twitches. His gloves are already on. He’s not even mad at you—he’s mad at entropy. You’ve become its agent.

You watch reality shows. About infidelity. Willingly. You claim it’s “just background noise.” But he walks in and hears someone scream “that’s not even your baby, Kyle!” and your eyes are glued to the screen. His soul briefly leaves his body.

You washed his white lab coat. With your pink unicorn pajamas. It’s not just the color. It’s the betrayal. The symbol of his clinical neutrality now smells like bubblegum and looks like cotton candy. You say it’s cute. He looks personally violated by the washing machine.

🩺 Top 10 Things That Make Zayne Soft Against His Will

You bring him lunch at the hospital He never asks. You just appear—arms full of neatly packed containers, face lit up like this isn’t the third double shift he’s worked this week. He complains about the timing. The smell. The disruption. And then eats every bite with frightening focus. You leave. He stares at the empty container like it’s proof someone still believes he’s human.

You quote him back to himself like a philosopher You remember something he said weeks ago—some throwaway line about time or structure or entropy—and you drop it casually in conversation, like it’s wisdom from an ancient text. He doesn’t know how to react. You turned his logic into poetry, and he’ll never recover from that.

You wear the little seal keychain he made He didn’t think you’d keep it. Let alone turn it into your everyday keychain. But there it is—always with you, worn smooth from touch. You twirl it absentmindedly while talking to him, never noticing the way his gaze lingers. Never realizing how something so small can hit him so hard.

You put a photo of the two of you on his desk It appears one day. No fanfare. Just… there. A moment frozen in light, sitting quietly beside his surgical reports and diagnostic schematics. At first, he moves it to the edge. Then back to center. Now it lives next to his pen. He doesn’t talk about it. But it’s the only object on that desk he wipes clean with his bare hand.

His work shirt smells like you You borrowed it that morning, wore it while dancing around the apartment with wet hair and no real purpose. Hours later, when he pulls it on between rounds, the scent hits him like a loaded memory. He short-circuits mid-button. Everything feels warmer than it should.

You leave your phone with him while you shower No password. No hesitation. You toss it into his lap with a breezy “can you clear out whatever’s making it lag?” and vanish behind steam. He sits there, phone in hand, suddenly trusted with everything. He opens nothing. But the fact that you’d let him? That’s the part that shakes him.

You ask for his opinion on minor discomforts A papercut. A weird freckle. A suspicious sneeze. You hold out your hand, utterly serious, asking what he thinks. It’s laughable. Ridiculous. And it absolutely wrecks him. You could ask a dozen others—but you ask him. Like he’s the one who makes things better.

You’re on top He likes control. Precision. Strategy. But when you climb into his lap, all instinct and fire, hands braced on his chest and lips already parted—his brain stops cooperating. There’s something about you taking the lead that makes him unravel. Quietly. Violently. Completely.

You argue with him about complex theories—and mean it You don’t just nod. You push back. You challenge. You quote sources he hasn’t thought about in years. You spark. You flare. And he watches, fascinated, lips twitching with something dangerously close to pride. No one does this. No one dares. But you? You never flinch.

You whisper “I love you” in your sleep It’s not loud. It’s not even clear. Just a faint breath in the dark, like a dream half-remembered. But he hears it. Every time. And though he never says a word in return—not while you're sleeping—his fingers tighten around your waist like he's anchoring himself to the only thing that matters.

🎨 Top 10 Things That Make Rafayel Absolutely, Irrevocably Annoyed at You

You told him his painting was “nice” You stood in front of a piece that cost him three sleepless nights, a minor existential crisis, and two broken brushes—and said “Nice.” Just like that. No gasp, no poetry, no tears. He aged five years on the spot. Somewhere in the distance, a violin cried for him.

You dragged him to a cat exhibit You thought it would be cute. Enrichment. A bonding experience. Instead, he spent the entire time perched on edge, eyes darting like prey. You said “they’re just kittens.” He said nothing. He was too busy making sure none of them came closer than ten feet.

You cleaned his studio You thought you were being helpful. But you moved The Pile. The sacred, unholy, perfectly calibrated mess. Now he can’t find his favorite brush, and also he’s deeply offended by how cheerful you looked doing it.

You didn’t reply to his messages for over an hour He sent three texts, one meme, and a “thinking of you 💭” voice note. You replied 67 minutes later with “sry was showering.” By then, he’d already decided you were breaking up with him, joining a cult, or possibly dead. He had a whole monologue planned. And now you’ve ruined it.

You cut your hair He loved your long hair. Adored it. Worshipped it. You showed up with a sharp little bob and said “it’s just hair.” It is not just hair. It is the collapse of a visual era. He’s still adjusting. And by adjusting, he means mourning with wine.

You made fun of his driving You muttered “technically, you were meant to let the tram go first” He muttered “technically, silence is golden.” His driving is instinct. Vibe. Energy. If you didn’t want drama, you shouldn’t have sat in the passenger seat of a man who parallel parks like he’s in a ballet.

You woke him up too early He went to bed at 4 a.m. because inspiration struck. You woke him at 7:12 like it was nothing, and said “you have that interview, remember?” He does remember. He also remembers specifically telling you that if he ever falls asleep before sunrise, you are to let him die peacefully, cancel all earthly obligations, and throw his alarm clock into the ocean where it belongs.

You hid your phone screen when a message came in You were probably teasing. Just being playful. But now he’s spiraling. Who was it? Why the secrecy? What do you have to hide? Congratulations—you’ve just activated his inner opera villain.

You got jealous Which is absurd. He’s the one who invented possessive affection. But you being jealous? That makes him unreasonably indignant. What do you mean you “didn’t like the way that gallery girl looked at him”? Of course she looked. But he didn’t see her. He saw you.

You burned the bacon You say “it’s fine.” He says it’s charcoal. The entire kitchen smells like culinary war crimes. And now he’ll have to burn incense and replant three garden beds to recover emotionally. Who even let you near the stove? Who hurt you? Was it… the bacon?

🎨 Top 10 Ways You Accidentally Turned Rafayel Into a Purring, Love-Drunk Work of Art

You massage his head He’s mid-rant. Arms crossed. Absolutely furious about the lighting in that gallery. And then your fingers slip into his hair—and just like that, the war is over. His entire body melts like he’s been tranquilized. He’ll deny it later, of course. But the way he leans into your hand? Case closed.

You claim him in public It’s an art gala. He’s dressed to ruin people. And then you slip your arm through his, fingers just tight enough to say mine. You smile like a goddess. He pretends he’s unaffected. Inside, he’s writing vows in ten languages and considering printing matching business cards.

You actually listen to his advice He knows he can be dramatic. Unfiltered. Emotionally volatile. But when you sit there, really listening, nodding like his words matter—you destroy him. Suddenly he’s not the chaos. He’s the compass. And that? That’s love.

You share every detail of your day over dinner You talk about everything—the lady at the store, the funny email, the awful latte. You give him your day like a story, like he’s the only one you wanted to tell. He leans in, listens too closely, files away each emotion like a collector of rare art.

You’re always down for his wildest ideas It’s 3 a.m. He wants to hike 2.5 miles along the beach, take a boat to a tiny island, and watch the sunrise with wine. You say “give me five minutes.” And just like that, you become the only person worthy of his wildest, most beautiful chaos.

You let him photograph you Nothing compares. Not awards. Not praise. Nothing rivals the moment you look into his lens—bare, unfiltered, unashamed. Especially when you’re nude, glowing, and laughing like the world doesn’t exist. That’s when he falls in love with you all over again. And again. And again.

You let him choose your dress You come out in the one he picked. Elegant. Perfect. You spin for him. And the way he watches you? Like he made you. Like you’re the gallery and he’s the only one with the key. It’s not fashion. It’s trust. And he adores you for it.

You sing when you don’t know he’s home Wearing socks and earbuds, dancing with a broom, serenading your way through burnt pancakes. You’re off-key. Glorious. Real. And he stands in the doorway, silent, just watching. Because in that moment—you’re not posing. And he’s never loved you more.

You take care of him when he’s sick He has a fever of 99°F and insists he’s fading. You bring tea, stroke his hair, whisper that he’s “very brave.” You don’t mock him. You take his dramatics seriously. He will never forget it. He may also write you into his will.

You join him in the bathtub without asking He’s already halfway submerged, music playing, steam curling in the air—and then you slip in behind him, no warning. You nudge your legs around his hips, hand him your shampoo, and let him wash your hair while you giggle. He tries to act unimpressed. But when he starts kissing your toes? Yeah. You win.

✨ Top 10 Behavioral Anomalies That Triggered Xavier’s Internal Alert System

You break an agreement—even if it's “just a small one” It’s not about control. It’s about structure. You promised. And when you bend the rules—just slightly—he doesn’t react outwardly. No visible shift, no sharp breath. But something behind his eyes goes cold. Because for him, even small deviations mean recalculating everything. And that means risk. To you.

You create drama “just to get a reaction” You push. You poke. You escalate. And he gives you… nothing. No outburst, no flinch. Just that flat, unreadable stare while he mentally exits the room. He doesn’t get angry—he just shuts off the part of himself that wants to stay.

You refuse his protection—on principle You call it independence. He calls it a strategic vulnerability wrapped in pride. He won’t argue. He’ll just be one step farther back the next time, quietly cataloging how to stop caring just enough that it won’t kill him if something happens.

You call him cold—especially when he’s holding himself together for you You see stillness. He feels restraint. You accuse. He remembers what it takes to not become the darker version of himself. If only you knew how much energy it took to stay composed. If only you knew it was for you.

You’re late Five minutes. Ten. No message. No explanation. And his pulse ticks upward—not with impatience, but with pure, trained alertness. He starts looking for signs. Traffic reports. Emergency alerts. By the time you arrive, he’s smiling. But it’s the tight kind. The kind that says never again.

You skip training You’re tired. You had a long day. You say you’ll make it up later. He doesn’t argue. He just recalculates survival probabilities and mentally adds you to the list of people who might die because they were unprepared. And he will blame himself for letting you get soft.

You pull away from his touch when you're angry It’s not the rejection. It’s the meaning behind it. He reaches out—small, careful, calculated—and you shut the door in his face with a single backward step. He doesn’t try again. He doesn’t ask why. But the space you leave behind? It echoes.

You use a photo of Lumiere as a bookmark You think it’s cute. Maybe even sweet. He sees it—and freezes. He’s not jealous. Not exactly. But the idea that you might admire that version more—the legend, the mask, the sharpness—it unsettles something deep. Something he can’t name.

You secretly believe you’re not good enough for him You never say it out loud. But he sees it—in your deflections, your nervous jokes, the way you doubt his love like it’s a glitch. It doesn’t anger him in the usual sense. It just…hurts. Because you’re the only one who never had to earn it.

You throw yourself in front of him during a mission It’s instinct, you say. Split-second decision. You didn’t even think. And that’s the problem. He does. Always. Every variable, every movement, every risk is accounted for—except you breaking formation to protect him. You think it’s brave. He sees it as catastrophic miscalculation. Not because you acted without logic. But because you decided his life was worth more than yours. And that? That’s the one conclusion he refuses to accept.

✨Top 10 Things That Quietly Break Xavier’s Walls and Leave Him Unreasonably Soft About You

When you start reading the same book he’s readingYou don’t announce it. You just show up with the same title, a few chapters behind, and start casually asking questions. He plays it off. But inside? He’s spiraling. Because this—this—is how you speak his language. Silently. Precisely. Together.

When you knock on his door like you’re trying to break it downIt’s loud. Impatient. Inappropriate for the hour. But he knows that knock. That rhythm. That you. You need him. Not his solutions. Him. And somehow, that chaos pounding on his door feels more like home than anything else.

When you hug him from behindYou wrap your arms around his torso mid-task, face pressed between his shoulder blades, palms splayed across his chest like you’re anchoring yourself to something ancient and steady. He stills. Every time. Like someone just whispered a secret to his bones. He never asks why. Never moves away. He just tilts his head slightly—listening, as if your silence said everything he needed to hear.

When you touch his sword (the actual weapon, calm down)He never lets anyone handle it. Not even for cleaning. But your fingers skim the hilt, gentle, curious, reverent. And somehow… it’s okay. You’re not just touching steel. You’re touching him. And he lets you.

When you act like a little girlYou scrunch your nose. Say something ridiculous. Blush like you didn’t mean to. And he watches—utterly disarmed. Because he knows exactly what you want. You want him to carry you. Wrap you up. Keep you safe. And he will—without hesitation.

When you join him on a morning runYou complain. You lag. You swear this is “not your vibe.” But you still show up. Same hour. Same route. And when you match his pace for those few precious minutes? He doesn’t say it—but he’s proud. Painfully proud.

When you share your dreams—and say “we”You’re rambling. Light spilling from your words. Talking about the future, the maybes, the next steps. But you don’t say I. You say we. And that sound? That tiny shift in grammar? It settles deep. Irrevocable. Permanent.

When you make matching braceletsYou say it’s silly. Handmade. Slightly uneven. There’s a charm shaped like a rabbit. He never takes it off. Not in combat. Not in sleep. It rests against his wrist like a pressure point—and grounds him better than anything else.

When you remember his habitsYour shopping list always includes his cinnamon. His brand of shampoo. The exact instant noodles he pretends not to love. You don’t make a show of it. You just know. And that knowing? It destroys him in the softest possible way.

When you trust him completely in bed—even when his darker side surfacesThere’s a moment—quiet, charged—when the softness shifts. He waits. Watches. Braces for resistance. But you don’t pull back. You open your hands. Arch into him. Let him take control without fear. That? That’s what breaks him. Not the pleasure. The trust.

🖤Top 10 Things That Push Sylus Into Maximum Sarcasm and Mildly Homicidal Disapproval

Your outdated, unreliable weapon Yes, he gets it. It’s vintage. It’s “standard issue.” It’s approved by the Hunters Association. Congratulations. That won’t matter when it jams and gets you killed. Every time you return one of the sleek, upgraded firearms he hand-delivers like he’s your personal armory concierge, he has to resist asking if you've already made a draft of your death wish. Alphabetically sorted. With floral headers.

You chew gum—and pop it It’s not the gum. It’s the snap. The sudden, violent pop of sugary air bubbles that hits his trauma response like a trigger. He knows it’s just a noise. His shoulder still twitches. He’s this close to reaching into your mouth and extracting the gum like a gentleman. A very sarcastic, deeply annoyed, half-feral gentleman.

You try to shake your tail (him) You use stealth tech. You block your signal. You go dark. Adorable. You’re forgetting that the very system you’re relying on was developed by his own syndicate. The only person who ever really evades Sylus is Sylus. And maybe the cat that lives under his car. But not you. Never you.

You don’t introduce him as your boyfriend to your old classmates You panicked. He gets that. You called him “a friend.” And now he’s deeply committed to the bit. For the next seven days, every time you said anything, he replied with “Of course, as your friend…” in front of waiters, dealers, and one extremely confused ambassador. You only managed to shut it down by hastily posting a photo of you two with the caption “my boyfriend and the love of my life.” Acceptable recovery. Barely.

You refuse to use his resources His private jet? Untouched. His cars? Collecting dust. His black card? Sitting unused like some kind of insult in your purse. You say you’re “independent.” He says you’re actively offending his entire lifestyle philosophy. Do you have any idea how disrespectful it is to ignore an entire walk-in wardrobe prepared for you in his estate? Honestly, it’s almost admirable. Almost.

You once smoked a cigarette, and he saw it He didn’t say anything. At the time. Just looked at you. Silently. Like someone had drop-kicked a kitten in front of him. He’s not judging. He’s just picturing your lungs in an ashtray. And adding another page to your death wish list.

You speak in riddles and expect him to “get it” You want something—time away, a trip, his attention—but instead of asking, you sigh dramatically and murmur, “It’s fine. I guess some people just don’t want to escape the city with their girlfriends…” He blinks. Slow. Dangerous. “Was that a request, a riddle, or an emotional booby trap?” If you want something from him, Kitten, try using nouns and verbs. Not cryptic guilt puzzles.

You suggest another woman would be “perfect for him” It’s a joke. Offhand. Barely a breath. But your voice wavers—just slightly—and that ruins it. He doesn’t want her. He doesn’t want options. He wants you. And now, thanks to your charming lapse in self-worth, he has to waste the rest of the evening reminding you that this face, this power, this entire empire already belongs to someone. Guess who.

You sneak up on him You never mean to. But somehow, you're always the one person who slips past every alarm, every trained instinct, and ends up whispering behind him when his brain is still in kill mode. It takes everything in him to not react on pure reflex. You think it’s cute. He thinks it’s potentially catastrophic.

You don’t believe him when he says he’s fine Yes, he’s bleeding. Yes, his shirt is soaked. But he said “it’s a scratch,” and when he says that—he means it. His body heals like a myth. Your worried face? It makes something in him ache. Because the real wound isn’t on him—it’s in you, for thinking he’s anything less than unbreakable.

🖤 Top 10 Things That Make Sylus Dangerously Soft for You (And Yes, He’s Keeping Score)

When you finally spend his money It started with coffee. Small. Harmless. But the alert hit his phone and, for a moment, he genuinely wondered if his card had been stolen—until he saw your name. And something in him shifted. Not because of the cost. Please. He could buy the city it was brewed in. No, it was the fact you used it. You. Willingly. Now? You’re bolder—little dresses, shoes, jewelry you don’t need. And every time you do, he rewards it like you just proved you understand the assignment: what's his, is already yours.

When you give orders to his men like you're the boss You don’t ask. You instruct. Calm, certain, completely in charge. One of his men hesitates—just once—while you’re directing them to rescue a terrified kitten stuck in a tree. Sylus doesn’t interfere. He just watches, arms crossed, a grin tugging at his mouth as armed professionals scramble to obey you like you're the patron saint of lost animals. Somewhere in his mind, he’s already fitted you for a crown. With tiny cat ears.

When you secretly pet Mephisto The mechanical raven used to drive you insane. Now? You’re sneaking him treats and absentminded scratches under the jaw. Sylus sees it. Says nothing. But deep down, he knows: if you’ve accepted the bird—you’ve accepted all of him. And that’s lethal. To him.

When you make him a playlist You never explain them. Just send a link and say nothing. But he listens—every time. Alone. In his car. In the bath. Eyes closed, calculating your every choice like it’s encrypted intel. Each track? A hint. A mood. A coded message from you to him. He doesn’t ask for them. He just waits for the next one. And when it arrives, he treats it like gospel.

When you leave a trail of chaos in his car Your hair on the seat. Your gum wrappers in the cup holder. The seat so close to the wheel he practically has to fold in half. And the music? A full-volume love ballad ready to ambush his eardrums at ignition. It's obnoxious. It’s inconvenient. It’s perfect. His life, now featuring you.

When you eat from his plate You swore you weren’t hungry. You said “no carbs this week.” And now? You’re stealing fries from his hand and dipping into his steak sauce like it’s your birthright. He doesn’t stop you. He just watches you chew with that look that says: mine. forever.

When you talk and talk and talk Something happens. You spiral. Words spill. Thoughts tangle. You’re not even aware you’re rambling—but he is. He listens to everything. Stores it all. Because there’s something magical about your voice when it’s unfiltered. You don’t realize it, but he falls a little harder every time you forget to censor yourself.

When you crawl into his lap while he’s working He’s in the middle of paperwork. Calculating things. Dangerous things. And suddenly—you. Right there. Knees on either side, arms around his neck, like the world’s most beautiful interruption. He tells himself he needs to finish. But his hands are already on your hips.

When you call and ask for help A jar. A stuck zipper. A ride. It doesn’t matter. You’re a trained hunter—you’ve faced things with claws, fangs, and no name. But you still call him. Because you want him. And that? That wrecks him in ways he’ll never admit. He’s already on his way before you hang up.

When you scream his name right before you come There’s a lot he’s proud of. His empire. His power. His record. But nothing—nothing—satisfies him more than the moment your voice breaks open with his name. Like prayer. Like surrender. Like he’s the only thing in your world. Which, of course… he is.

[beloveds-embrace]

(p2 of john price x reader who basically manifests him into her life)

It turns out that Captain John Price is, unfortunately, not a fever dream conjured by stress and blackberry pie. He is very real, very present, and very much making himself at home in your cottage.

The next morning, you wake to the unmistakable sound of your mother cooing like a particularly smitten dove. Your heart sinks as you stumble out of your room, still trying to rub sleep from your eyes.

There, at your kitchen table, sits John- completely at ease, like he’s been your husband for years. He’s drinking your favorite tea blend, bulky frame almost dwarfing the chair, and he’s listening attentively as your mother babbles on about your so-called “devotion.”

“Oh, she was absolutely heartbroken when she thought you wouldn’t come back,” your mother gushes, practically swooning, and your father nods his sagely alongside her tale. “You should have seen her, sitting by the window with her knitting, sighing over those letters. I’ve never seen a girl more in love. My poor daughter!”

John hums appreciatively, lips twitching into that insufferably smug smirk as he glances over at you beneath his equally insufferable beard and mutton chops. “Could tell from the letters,” he says, eyes practically sparkling. “All those sweet words. Such a lucky man I am.”

You grit your teeth, feeling the vein in your temple throb. “I was trying to avoid Thomas.” You mutter, but your mother (thankfully) doesn’t hear you over the sound of her own gleeful rambling.

“Oh, and when she baked those little honey cakes just because you said you liked them! I told her it was too much, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”

You freeze. You most definitely did not bake any little honey cakes. Your mother, bless her meddling heart, is getting so caught up in the fantasy she’s started making things up. You shoot her a glare, but John is already giving you that half-lidded, knowing look.

“Honey cakes, eh?” he rumbles, sounding far too interested. “Didn’t know you were so sweet on me, lovey.”

You snatch the teapot from his hands and pour yourself a cup, resisting the urge to pour it over his head instead. “Don’t get used to it.”

Your mother beams, entirely oblivious to your silent war. “Well, I’ll leave you two to catch up. So happy to see you’re finally together!” She bustles out the door, humming cheerfully, and drags your sagely smiling father along with her.

The moment she’s gone, you whirl on John, a fierce glare on your face. “What are you doing?”

He leans back, stretching leisurely, his grin nothing short of wicked. “Having breakfast with my wife. Not how I pictured it, but it’ll do.”

You scoff. “I’m not your wife.”

Price shrugs. “Your letters say otherwise. And your mum’s convinced enough. Can’t exactly leave you now, can I? Wouldn’t be right.”

Your mouth opens, then snaps shut. It’s as if your own trap has snapped back at you, jaws clamped tight around your life. You cross your arms, glowering, and think of something else to say. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, barging in here like you own the place- drinking my favorite tea blend, too!”

He just looks at you, eyes twinkling. “Funny. That’s not what you wrote. Said you missed me. Said you’d make me the sweetest of teas. Said you just couldn’t wait for me to come home.”

“That was fiction, you horrible man!” You hiss, but he just chuckles, entirely unbothered.

Otjer than John, though, you also had another problem that was also caused by him; wedding preparations, the bane of your existence as you’ve come to realize.

Some people look forward to their wedding day- the flowers, the vows, the promise of a life shared. You, however, never pictured it like this, and never expected your “fiancé” to be a man who waltzed into your cottage like he owned it, dropped a stack of letters on the table, and declared himself your soon-to-be-husband. You certainly never imagined he’d take to it so naturally, like he was born to sit at your breakfast table and make himself comfortable with your family.

Your mother, thrilled to bits and practically floating on a cloud of matrimonial bliss, has begun planning the “official” ceremony. Blissfully ignoring your protests (and your thinly veiled threat to elope with the next traveling bard) because she assumes her sweet, beloved daughter is just nervous, she’s already halfway through arranging the entire affair. John, meanwhile, seems to find the whole ordeal oh so terribly amusing.

You find him at the kitchen table one afternoon, carving a piece of wood into something vaguely useful. He’s taken over the end seat- like he’s the head of the household now, of all things, and your father merely laughs sagely- and seems perfectly content to whittle away while you stew in frustration. His coat hangs on the back of the chair, sleeves rolled up, revealing the strong forearms that seem permanently smudged with wood dust and effort.

The door bursts open, and your mother flutters in like an overly enthusiastic magpie, clutching swatches of lace and muttering about floral arrangements as if the fate of the world depends on which flower goes where.

You can practically feel your sanity slipping through your fingers like the flour dust you use in your baking.

“Oh, I’ve spoken to Mrs. Beech about the flowers- she says lilacs would be perfect for the bouquet. Don’t you think so, John?”

Fuck you, Mrs. Bitch-

John doesn’t even look up, his knife still scraping curls of wood from his project. “Lilacs. Sounds nice.” He says with that slow, sure nod of his, like he’s contemplating the tactical advantages of the flower choice even though you just know he has no fucking idea what flowers lilacs are and just knows them by name, not shape.

You glare at him as if sheer force of will could make him combust. “You’re not helping.”

He finally lifts his gaze, an eyebrow raised, amusement curling along his lips, while your mother now frets and flutters around your father. “Don’t think your mum would take ‘no’ from either of us, love.”

You slump back in your chair, arms crossed tight against your chest, trying to will away the traitorous warmth blooming in your stomach. Curse him and his voice. “… I was hoping to at least have a say in my fake wedding.” You mutter in the end.

“Now, now,” he drawls, leaning closer, his voice dropping to that familiar rumble that makes your stomach do a little somersault- so much worse (better) than his usual voice. “A proper husband lets his wife plan the details. I’ll just stand there lookin’ pretty for you.”

Your jaw clenches. You open your mouth to retort, but your mother interrupts with another idea- apparently, she’s already been thinking about colors for John’s suit. “John, you’re so thoughtful! And I’ve been looking at suits- do you prefer navy or charcoal? I do think charcoal brings out the blue in your eyes.”

John glances at you, his lips twitching in a barely suppressed grin. “Whichever makes her happy, ma’am.”

You’re torn between strangling him lightly and strangling him harshly. The worst part is that he doesn’t even sound insincere; he just leans back, all relaxed confidence, like he was born for this domestic chaos just as much as he was built for fighting in ward. You try to glare again, but your resolve falters when he shoots you a quick, soft wink.

Your mother, oblivious to your internal crisis, claps her hands together, now planning the guest list. You sink lower in your chair, wondering if you’d survive being exiled to the woods. John, ever the menace, just gives you a look that promises he’d happily follow you even there and maybe build you a cottage so he can show off those arms of his.

A few days later, you’re back in the kitchen, trying to reclaim some semblance of peace by kneading dough with a vengeance. You don’t even know what you’re baking anymore- scones, maybe? Bread? At this point, it’s less about the final product and more about taking out your frustrations on something pliable and innocent that won’t screech for its life.

John wanders in like he owns the place (again), smelling like the outdoors and freshly chopped wood. He leans against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, and watches you with an amused glint in his eyes.

“Another batch of sweets?” he drawls, leaning against the doorframe. “Didn’t know you were so dedicated. Those famous honey cakes of yours?”

You shoot him a glare. “They’re not for you.”

He raises a brow. “Oh? Someone else in line to be sweet on you?”

You huff, too tired to argue. “They’re for your men.” You snap, your hands practically mauling the dough now. Almost strangling it, to be honest.

A little smile spreads across his face, almost fond. “Didn’t know you were so sweet on them too, love.”

You huff, flour smudging your cheek as you try to actually shape the dough. “They’ve had to put up with your grumpy ass, haven’t they? Thought they deserved a treat… and mum said to, anyways- so don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Before you can blink, his hands slip around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. His chin settles on your shoulder, scruffy beard tickling your skin. “You keep spoilin’ them like that, they’ll think you fancy ’em.”

You squirm, but his grip tightens, his breath warm against your neck. “Can’t have that, can we?” His voice is a growl, low and deep. “Better make sure they know who you belong to.”

Forget somersaults, your stomach actually flips. “They know,” You mutter. “Doubt they’d go against their own Captain.”

He hums, nuzzling your temple. “Good. Only one man gets to come home to your bakin’.”

You manage an eyeroll despite your heart pounding like a trapped bird. “You’re ridiculous.”

His lips brush the shell of your ear. “You like me that way.”

When he finally releases you, it’s only to snatch a fresh scone off the tray, biting into it with that satisfied grin of his. “Perfect,” he murmurs around the mouthful, nodding his approval. “But I’ll make sure to tell the lads you made ’em for me.”

You narrow your eyes, unimpressed. “What are you, five?”

“Nah. Just a man who likes showin’ off what’s his.”

When he reaches to take another scone, you smack his hand away and he just laughs, the sound rumbling low and warm. He stays with you after that, bothering and pestering you like a stubborn pustule, until all of the scones have been baked and cooled.

And when he kisses your cheek before heading out the door, tipping his boonie hat with a teasing, “Be good, love.” You realize that maybe- just maybe- you should have strangled him when you had the chance.

As revenge for upsetting your stomach, of course.

[nochepsicodelica]

Toji who got really drunk after a misunderstanding you left him to ponder upon one morning when you left for work. You missed a part of your routinely goodbye to him and at first it didn't bother him. He understood that you were running late, but once he started chugging the cold drinks and he sat with the sentiment, he realized it did strike him.

He hated the entire process of getting drunk, hated that drinking was unbearable unless it was chased with sweet kisses from you, but there he was, downing bottle after bottle. He was starting to feel liquid full but even in this intoxicated state he didn't want to put down the bottles. At some point he starting feeling uncomfortable being by himself and didn't want to feel that way anymore, so he called and texted you. Multiple times. You finally picked up after the eighth call.

-Hi, baby! Sorry, I missed your calls. I just left work and i'm heading home.-

-Baby? Who are you calling baby?- He scoffs, a roll of his eyes following.

-You... Toji. It's you. Who else would I be calling baby?-

-Honestly, I...- He laughs, the sound not coming off as one of joy with the next words he speaks. -I didn't think you even loved me enough to give me stupid pet names. I feel very unloved by you and... mhm, just want you to know that.-

Now, that's just entirely untrue and it hurts to hear. You prove your love for him every day. What is this sudden false claim against you?

-Toji, love, what are you saying? I'm coming home, already. Maybe we should talk in person. This is hard to discuss over the phone.-

-Uh-huh, you do that.- He sighs, heavily, his eyes lidding with sluggishness. -Can't win a verbal argument, s-so you're gonna come over here and try to seduce me with your pretty face. I'm just gonna say no when you try to touch me. Just no.-

-I'll see you in a bit, Toji.- you say, before abruptly hanging up.

He sounded off. You knew something was up the second you saw his eight missed calls and a stack of messages just saying 'hey'.

Your keys jingled as you pulled them out of your bag to unlock the front door. The house was steady, no sign of Toji watching TV in the living room or of the shower running. You walked further in, calling his name. It was kind of eery walking through your silent house. You also knew of Toji's tendency of scaring you, so you were on guard for that as you paced around the house. You had one more room to check and it was the bedroom. You dragged your feet over to the room, knocking when you noticed the door was closed. There was no answer after two more knocks so you just opened the door.

The sound startled Toji who was lying against the headboard of the bed, almost falling asleep. The second he saw you his demeanor changed. He perked up like a dog when their owner comes home, before melting back to the stoic state he had been sitting in.

"Hey," you say, almost tentatively, as you walk towards your shared bed, sitting down on the edge. You're met with an acknowledging hum of a response. "What's wrong, baby?"

"There you go calling me baby again. Baby is for people who love each other, so stop it."

You look over the bed, spotting the evidence that led to the bite in his attitude towards you— those bottles that spill the remaining drops of their content and Toji's backwash onto the bed, making the sheets reek of alcohol.

"Well, I love you, so no, i'm not gonna stop calling you baby."

He crosses his arms over his chest, huffing like a child. "That so? It didn't seem that way this morning. I've never felt so forgotten about by you."

"I told you I was gonna be late for work, but you insisted on keeping me trapped beneath you. Bring that part to light, handsome." You can see the corners of his lips twitching. He's holding back the most wicked smirk at the short burst of memories from the morning. "Plus, I still gave you your goodbye kiss, so what are you on about?"

"You didn't say 'I love you'. That's part of goodbye with you, so you can't blame me for feeling this way." His eyes express something of hurt. Maybe it's enhanced by the drinks he had, but you can't leave him that way.

"You're loved, baby. Very much so. Me not saying it this one time doesn't diminish the actual feeling." He's been reduced to a cub over this, so as his lover, you step in to mend the feelings that were grazed.

"Can you..." he rasps, patting his thigh, signaling for you to sit. You drag yourself towards him, and plop yourself onto his lap. You can smell the alcohol on his breath as he rambles on about how you can't forget to say 'I love you' to him ever again, even if it's a blurted, rushed one that he doesn't get a chance to respond to as you rush out the door.

The look he reserves for you is entirely soft, his hands are hot against your clothed back as they feel the warm body he's missed for hours. "I still..." he pauses to sigh, tiredness imbued into the sound. "Still want you to call me baby," he starts again. "I was just bummed. Don't stop calling me baby. Don't ever do that." He's letting his hands roam all over you. Your back, your waist, your hips—everything.

"Are you gonna let me touch you or are you gonna say 'no'?" You grin, remembering his words, verbatim, just incase he tries to tell you he never said them.

"Why aren't you touching me? Why would I not want you to touch me?" He looks insulted by the question and you have half a mind to remind him of what he said to you on the phone, but the heat in his eyes dies out as quickly as it appeared. "Really need a hug, mama. Please, hug," he says, the last part muffled by your chest as he keeps his face buried into it.

You held him tight and murmured 'I love you' countless times, while he hummed in response and groaned quietly as you ran your fingers through his hair.

[dazevi]

outta my mind | vi x fem!reader, fluff, smut (18+ MDNI) wc: 20k

synopsis: you didn’t plan on falling for anyone, let alone the painfully attractive bartender at the underground bar your friends dragged you to. she’s trouble, but she’s the kind you don’t mind getting into. | masterlist

content warnings: bartender!vi x fem!reader — modern au, bartender!vi, college student!reader, strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn ish, drinking/alcohol, flirting, mutual pining, pet names; baby, princess, sweetheart, smut!!!; top!vi, bottom!reader, semi-public sex, making out, marking/hickeys, fingering (r receiving), pls let me know if i’m missing anything else!

note: lovely request by @balinor93 ! fanart by wickestd on twitter! ( title inspo from song called outta my mind by monsune )

YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO BE HERE.

It was an underground pub, called the Last Drop, tucked between an alley of a street near your campus. The air inside is heavy, thick with a haze of cigarette smoke and the low hum of chatter and laughter. The brick walls are decorated with bright paintings and band posters, chipped and scratched in places, and adorned with flickering neon signs advertising cheap liquor and beers on tap. It’s dimly lit, with most of the light spilling from the bar itself—a warm glow reflecting off rows of liquor bottles stacked neatly against the back wall. The scent of stale beer and faint traces of spilled whiskey linger in the air, mingling with the beat of a bass-heavy track pulsing through the speakers.

You didn’t really plan to be here tonight.

In fact, you pictured something far less chaotic—maybe sitting cross-legged on your tiny dorm bed, your laptop open to half-hearted notes, headphones in to drown out the incessant noise of your hallmates partying down the corridor.

Finals week was looming, but somehow you found yourself here instead, caught up by a friend you weren’t too close with, Maddie, who told you to wear something cute and live a little.

You glance down at yourself, suddenly self-conscious in the outfit you hastily threw together—something a little nicer than your usual, a pretty black dress you found in your closet a jacket to battle the cold, though, it was not nearly as flashy as what your classmates seem to have pulled off effortlessly.

The slight chill in the room makes you tug at the sleeves of your jacket as you follow your group further inside, weaving through the crowd that seems to grow louder and rowdier by the minute.

Your friend is already laughing, tossing her short hair over her shoulder as she chats with someone from another group, leaving you trailing behind. They surge toward the bar, a noisy clump of university students jostling for attention from the bartender. You linger at the edge of the crowd, unsure of whether to join in or keep your distance.

Your eyes wander across the room, taking in the mismatched furniture and the way the low-hanging lights cast strange shadows over the scuffed wooden floor. It feels gritty, raw—nothing like the polished campus lounges or cafes you’re used to. People are packed into every available space, some leaning close to shout over the music, others pressed together in corners.

When you finally look toward the bar, something—or other, someone—catches your attention.

She’s pretty tall, her toned, tattooed arms flexing subtly as she works, pouring drinks expertly without even looking at her hands sometimes. Short, pink hair glows faintly under the neon lights, messy and partly shaved on the side of her head, but it was like she rolled out of bed and still managed to look better than anyone else in the room. She’s wearing a fitted black tee, tattoos peeking out along her biceps as she slides a drink across the counter to a waiting customer.

She glances up for the briefest moment, her sharp blue eyes scanning the crowd—and they land on you. Just for a second, you think, but it’s enough to make your pulse quicken.

But you look away before you could give her a chance to the way your cheeks reddened slightly, thought it would’ve been hard to see anyway underneath the dimness of the light.

You ended up in a booth in one of the corners of the room, sitting with a couple of your classmates as they drank and ate their pizza. The booth creaks slightly as you lean back, your drink—something simple and unadventurous—sitting untouched in front of you.

The group you came with has scattered across the room now to various corners of the bar, their loud laughter and shouts blending into the rest of the noise.

You’re not sure why you agreed to come tonight. Finals around the corner were stressful enough without the added distraction of cheap liquor and the kind of music that vibrates in your chest.

Across from you, someone slides into the booth with a bit too much enthusiasm, too much confidence, their knee knocking against yours under the table.

You glance up to find a man from your group—one of those classmates whose name you barely remember—flashing you a wide grin. Jason? Jacob? He had short brown hair, a white button up under his coat and smells faintly of whiskey and strong cologne, his cheeks flushed in a way that suggests he’s had a drink too many.

“Hey,” he says, his voice pitched louder than it needs to be over the music. “You’re in Professor Medarda’s class, right? Postmodern lit?”

You blink at him, already regretting this conversation.

“Yeah,” you reply, tone flat, hoping he’ll get the hint and move on.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans in, propping his elbow on the sticky table like he’s settling in for a long chat.

“Aren’t you the one who absolutely wrecked her in that debate? Something about, what was it—‘deconstructing the deconstruction’ or whatever?” He waves a hand vaguely, his grin turning lopsided. “Man, that was brutal. Everyone was talking about it for days.”

You press your lips into a thin line, your gaze drifting toward the bar. The bartender with the pink hair is still there, moving effortlessly behind the bar underneath the warm glow of the lights. She laughs at something one of the regulars says, the sound faint but distinct over the din, and you find yourself wishing you were anywhere but here, maybe talking to her instead of… this guy.

“Yeah, well,” you say finally, dragging your attention back to him. “It wasn’t… really a debate. I just pointed out that her entire argument was contradictory.”

Jason-or-Jacob—whatever—laughs, a little too loudly, and takes a swig of his drink.

“See, that’s what I mean! It’s… it’s impressive… And not to mention… you’re… really pretty on the eyes.” He gestures vaguely in your direction, his eyes lingering a little too long.

You shift uncomfortably as you raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Uh… right, thanks.”

He chuckles again, clearly not picking up on your disinterest. “No, seriously. You’re, like, intimidating. Smart. And hot. In a good way.”

“Uh-huh.” You tap your fingers against the edge of your glass, your patience wearing thin. “Listen, if this is your way of hitting on me, you might want to workshop it… or something.”

That finally seems to trip him up, his grin faltering as he moves awkwardly in his seat. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just…”

“Right,” you cut him off, standing and grabbing your drink. “Thanks for the conversation, but I’m gonna go… anywhere else.”

You don’t bother waiting for his response as you stand and step away from the booth, weaving through the crowd.

The bar feels slightly less oppressive now that you’re moving, and as you approach the counter, you can’t help but glance toward the bartender again. She’s wiping down a glass, her movements precise, and for the second time tonight, her eyes meet yours. This time, there’s a flicker of something—curiosity, maybe—as her lips twitch into a subtle smirk.

You set your drink down on the counter, your heart skipping just a little. Maybe tonight isn’t a complete waste after all.

The stool creaks faintly as you settle onto it, the weight of the night pressing on your shoulders. You prop your elbow on the bar and glance down at your drink, still untouched. The condensation clings to the glass, cool against your fingertips as you absently trail them along its surface.

The music feels louder here, basslines thrumming through the wooden counter, but it fades into the background every time your gaze drifts upward—to her.

The bartender.

She’s been moving nonstop, hands deft and practiced as she pours drinks, slides glasses across the counter, and exchanges brief words with customers. She was confident and smooth without even trying, her short pink hair glowing faintly under the neon lights that flicker lazily behind her.

You tell yourself you’re not staring, but you are.

She’s impossibly attractive, the kind of person who seems entirely out of reach—too cool, too confident, too… everything. And yet, you catch yourself glancing her way more often than you should, trying to look away quickly enough that she doesn’t notice.

You sigh, shifting in your seat as you fiddle with your drink again, fingers tracing patterns on the glass. You haven’t taken a sip, and you’re not even sure why you ordered it. It was just something to hold, something to keep you occupied in this crowded room.

Just as you glance up again, hoping to catch another fleeting glimpse of her, a voice interrupts your thoughts.

“Hey there,” someone slurs, the words thick and clumsy.

You blink, turning to find a man standing far too close, his grin lopsided and his eyes glassy from too many drinks. His shirt is untucked, and he sways slightly as he leans an elbow on the bar, effectively blocking your view of anything else—including her.

“You’re way too pretty to be sitting here all alone,” he says, his words slurred. “Let me keep you company, yeah?”

“I’m not alone,” you say flatly, holding up your glass like it’s proof. “And, I’m not interested.”

He laughs, as if you’ve said something charming. “Nah, come on. You’re too gorgeous to be hiding away in the corner. You need someone to—”

“No,” you interrupt, your tone sharp. “I’m really not interested.”

But he doesn’t take the hint. Instead, he leans in closer, his breath reeking of alcohol. “Don’t be like that. Just one drink, huh? I promise I’m a good time.”

You grimace, leaning back and trying to create some distance. “And I promise I’m not.”

The man chuckles, as if he thinks you’re joking, and you feel your frustration rising. You glance around, hoping someone—anyone—might intervene, and that’s when you notice her again. The bartender.

She’s been watching, her sharp eyes narrowing as she assesses the situation. Her hands pause mid-motion as she sets down a freshly poured drink, and without missing a beat, she walks over to your side of the bar.

“Hey,” she says, her voice cutting through the noise like a blade.

The drunk man looks up, startled, as she plants both hands on the counter, leaning slightly forward. Her gaze is steely as she stares down the man next to you.

“You bothering her?” she asks, her tone deceptively casual, though there’s a warning laced in her words.

The man blinks, clearly caught off guard. “What? No, we were just talkin’.”

“Yeah, well, she doesn’t look like she’s enjoying the conversation,” she replies smoothly. Then she turns her attention to you, her expression softening just a fraction. “You good, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart. The word sends a small jolt through your chest, and for a moment, you can only shake your head, your voice caught in your throat.

The man mutters something under his breath, but the bartender doesn’t budge.

“You should go.” she says firmly. “Or I’ll have someone make you leave.”

He hesitates, but the weight of her stare is enough to make him backpedal. He stumbles away, disappearing into the crowd, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Thanks,” you murmur, glancing up at her.

You see her more clearly now. Light blue eyes. A strong nose. A small scar over her top lip. Another one over her eyebrow. Nose ring. And a small tattoo of the Roman numeral six on her cheek.

She straightens, brushing her hands off on a rag as a smirk tugs at the corner of her lips.

“Don’t mention it. A lot of people don’t know how to take a hint.”

You can’t help but smile faintly, your fingers still absently fiddling with your glass. “You seem good at dealing with them… They listen to you.”

“Well, there’s this rule around here that, uh, people shouldn’t really mess with the guy who pours the drinks, so… they either listen or I call Loris—our big scary bouncer.” she says with a smile, leaning against the bar now, her full attention on you.

“Do they always listen?”

The bartender smiles that charming smile of hers and simply says, “No.”

She clears her throat and looks down at your hands, then looks back up at you with an eyebrow raised.

“You gonna drink that, or is it just decoration?”

“Haven’t decided yet,” you say. Her teasing tone makes your cheeks warm. You glance down at your untouched drink, swirling the liquid idly in the glass before muttering, almost to yourself, “I don’t actually drink that often, to be honest…”

Her voice pulls you from your thoughts, warm and teasing. “A glass of water for the pretty lady, coming right up.”

Your head snaps up at the words, your cheeks instantly heating. She’s already reaching for a clean glass. But there’s something different now—something about the way she smirks just a little as she glances at you out of the corner of her eye.

“Pretty lady?” you echo, trying for casual, though you’re sure the slight waver in your voice gives you away.

She shrugs as she fills the glass with water, the ice clinking softly against the sides.

“Well, yeah,” she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “What else would I call you?”

Your stomach flips at the nonchalant confidence in her tone, and for a moment, you’re not sure how to respond. “I don’t know. Most people just go with my name.”

She places the water in front of you, her smile widening just enough to show off the faintest hint of dimples. “Fair enough. But I don’t know your name yet.”

You hesitate, caught between the urge to give her your name and the inexplicable nerves that come with her attention.

You tell her your name, your voice a bit quieter than you intended.

Her smirk softens into something more genuine, and she repeats your name back to you, slow and deliberate, like she’s trying it out.

“I’m Vi,” she says.

Vi. The name suits her—short, sharp, and just as bold as the woman herself.

“Thanks for the water,” you manage to say, your fingers brushing the cool glass.

“Anytime.” Vi leans her weight on her forearms, resting them on the counter as she tilts her head slightly, her eyes catching yours. “So, if you’re not much of a drinker, what brings you here?”

You can’t help but smile, a small laugh escaping you despite yourself. “My friend thought I needed a break from studying. Dragged me out here against my better judgment.”

“Ah… Those your friends over there?” She nods her head in a certain direction, and you follow it slowly.

You see the group you came with, some scattered by the bar spilling drinks and laughing loudly, others by booths making out and shouting over the music and the rest dancing on the dance floor. There are others, who are gathered by the jukebox, laughing and trying to figure out how to play something other than the heavy bass thundering through the speakers. One of them is gesturing wildly, clearly tipsy, while another leans against the wall, scrolling through their phone like they’re already over it.

You shake your head and smile, “Yeah…”

“Loud bunch.”

“Sorry ‘bout that… finals are coming up soon this month, so...”

She gives you a smile and says, “No need to apologize, princess. I serve you, remember?”

Another one. Princess. You were sure you probably as red as a tomato now.

“I barely know half of them...” you say, taking sip of your new glass of water.

“So, what’s your usual crowd then?” Vi asked, her eyes completely on you as she grabs a glass to wipe it down with a rag.

You shrugs, “Textbooks?”

“Well, that’s no good.”

“So I’ve heard,” you reply dryly, taking another small sip of the water she’d poured for you.

She chuckles again as if she finds your answer amusing in a way she doesn’t quite want to admit.

“I’m not exactly big on crowds either,” she says, leaning a little closer as if sharing a secret.

You raise an eyebrow, gesturing subtly to the packed room around you, where people are practically spilling over each other in their rush to the bar. “I’m not sure if I believe you.”

Vi follows your gaze, scanning the chaotic scene with a small smirk tugging at her lips.

“Fair point,” she concedes, looking back at you.

You glance at her again, curious despite yourself. She’s standing still now, leaning back against the counter with her arms crossed loosely over her chest. Her gaze is on you, not in the sharp, observant way she’s probably used to watching the bar, but softer—almost like she’s lost in thought.

Her smile is faint, but it’s there, tugging gently at her lips, and it’s different from the teasing smirks you’ve seen so far. This one feels more… personal, like she’s mulling something over and doesn’t quite realize she’s staring.

Your stomach twists, her attention making you acutely aware of every small movement you make—the way your fingers nervously trace the condensation on your glass, the way you’re trying not to shift under her gaze.

Finally, you can’t help but ask, your voice a touch quieter than you intend, “What?”

Vi blinks, like you’ve pulled her out of a daydream, and her soft smile turns into something a little sheepish.

“Sorry…” she says, before licking her lips. “Just, uh, a bit distracted.”

Her eyes linger on you for a moment longer, as if she’s debating saying something else. Absentmindedly, she tries to trace every feature of your face with your eyes, trying to remember it.

She wanted to say something else—anything… But, fuck. You were really pretty… and it was distracting her. She also decided that she really liked talking to you—even though it’s barely been ten minutes.

But then, from down the counter, someone shouts her name—a regular by the sound of it, slurring slightly as he waves an empty glass in the air.

“Vi! Another round over here!”

Vi doesn’t move right away. Her head turns slightly in the direction of the call, but her attention snaps back to you almost immediately. She hesitates, not wanting to go anywhere.

She shifts her weight, one hand resting on the counter, her body angled toward you even as she glances down the bar.

“Be right there!” she calls back. It’s almost begrudging.

Your lips twitch into a small smile, watching the tiny battle play out on her face.

“You don’t have to babysit me, you know,” you say lightly, though there’s something a little playful in your tone.

Her eyes dart back to yours, and she huffs out a soft laugh, her hand running through her short pink hair.

“Yeah, I know,” she smiles and mutters, almost to herself, before adding softly, almost like a plea, “Call me if you need anything?”

You nod and she smiles. You watch her go, the faint blush on your cheeks lingering as you sip at the water she poured, the ice cold and refreshing.

For the first time tonight, you’re glad your friend dragged you out.

You cant stop thinking about her.

The library is silent except for the soft rustling of pages and the faint clicking of keyboards. It’s a lot more crowded here now, especially during this time of the year, and you’ve grown not to like it. You’re hunched over a stack of textbooks, a highlighter in your hand, staring down at a paragraph you’ve already reread three times. The words swim on the page, refusing to stick, as if your brain has decided it’s reached its limit.

You let out a frustrated sigh and lean back in your chair, dragging a hand through your hair. The fluorescent lights overhead feel harsher than usual, and the quiet tension of finals week is suffocating.

But it’s not just the studying—or the endless pressure of upcoming exams—that’s been messing with your head.

It’s Vi.

You’ve tried to focus, tried to immerse yourself in everything you could but every time your mind starts to settle, her face slips back in. The way her smirk tugged at the corners of her lips. The way her pink hair caught the light behind the bar. The low, teasing lilt of her voice when she called you pretty.

You groan softly, rubbing your temples. This is ridiculous. You barely know her. You’ve spent what—maybe an hour total in her presence? And yet, she’s managed to lodge herself into your thoughts so completely that it’s becoming a problem.

The highlighter in your hand falls to the desk with a muted thud, and you drop your head into your hands, your elbows resting on the textbook in front of you. You can still see the way she looked at you—softly, like she saw something in you that others hadn’t bothered to notice.

It’s infuriating, really. You’ve got finals to prepare for, and instead, your mind is full of half-replayed conversations and fleeting glimpses of pink hair, strong arms and tattoos.

The worst part? You can’t shake the feeling that she’s thinking about you, too.

It’s irrational—you know that. She’s probably forgotten all about you by now, busy serving countless other customers, flashing that same smirk at someone else.

But a part of you, buried beneath the layers of reason and logic you cling to, whispers otherwise.

You snap out of your thoughts and glance at the open book in front of you. The words blur together again, mocking your lack of focus.

With a frustrated exhale, you push the textbook aside and pull out your phone, the screen lighting up in your hand. You scroll aimlessly for a moment, debating whether you’re actually considering what your restless thoughts are urging you to do.

Should you go back? Would she even remember you?

You shake your head, trying to will away the temptation.

Finals. Study. Focus.

You tap your pen against your notebook, each click bouncing off the walls of the crowded library. It’s packed to the brim, filled with students just as desperate as you to cram as much information into their heads as possible before finals. Yet, instead of feeling motivated, all you can focus on is the cacophony—the whispered conversations that aren’t really whispers, the shuffling of papers, the faint tapping of keyboards, the occasional obnoxious laugh breaking the tension.

Your head throbs.

With a sharp sigh, you drop the pen onto the desk and lean back in your chair again, staring blankly at the high ceiling. You’ve been sitting here for hours, yet the number of notes you’ve managed to take is embarrassingly low. Nothing is sticking. You can’t focus.

It doesn’t help that your thoughts keep drifting to her.

To Vi.

You shake your head as if it’ll clear the image, but it doesn’t.

The noise of the library swells again, louder this time—a group of students a few tables down bursts into laughter, drawing glares from everyone around them. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, but it doesn’t help.

The dorm wasn’t any better. Earlier, when you’d tried to study there, the walls practically vibrated with the bass of someone’s speaker. The hallway had been filled with voices, laughter, and the unmistakable sound of another dorm party kicking off despite the looming threat of finals.

You’d lasted maybe twenty minutes before storming out, bag slung over your shoulder, hoping the library would be better.

It wasn’t.

You sit there for a moment, staring down at your open textbook and the mess of half-finished notes in front of you. The sheer impossibility of getting anything done right now feels like a weight pressing down on your chest.

Screw this.

You grab your things in one swift motion, shoving your notebook and pens into your bag with more force than necessary. The chair scrapes loudly against the floor as you stand, drawing a few annoyed glances your way. You ignore them, slinging your bad over your shoulder and walking out of the library without so much as a glance back.

The cold evening air hits you the second you step outside, sharp and bracing, but you welcome it.

You pause at the edge of the path, staring out at the quiet campus bathed in the glow of dim streetlights. You should go back to your dorm, try again, push through the noise.

But the very thought of that makes your stomach twist.

Instead, your feet carry you forward, down the path and out toward the street. You don’t have a destination in mind, but you already know where you’ll end up.

It’s not a conscious decision—it never is, really. You tell yourself you just need a break, some fresh air to clear your head. But the truth hums beneath the surface, undeniable.

You want to see her.

When your feet finally stop, the bar looms in front of you, the soft glow of its neon sign illuminating the damp pavement below. The night air is cool against your skin, a faint breeze carrying the quiet hum of traffic and chatter.

Your hands are shoved deep into the pockets of your jacket, fingers curling into the fabric as you linger just outside the door. You glance at your reflection in the window—a hoodie that hangs a little loose on your frame, jeans you’ve had for years, and shoes slightly scuffed from the walk here.

You bite the inside of your cheek, wishing you’d thought to stop by your dorm first. Maybe throw on something a little prettier. But instead, your feet had brought you straight here, as if they knew something you didn’t.

It’s almost 9 p.m., and the bar looks alive even from the outside. You can always hear the faint hum of music seeping through the walls.

You hesitate. What are you even doing here? It’s not like you have a good excuse—no friends dragging you along this time, no group to blend into. You’re alone, standing in front of a bar where you might not even be remembered.

But the thought of her pulls at you, stronger than the nerves keeping your feet planted. You’d tried to shake her from your thoughts all week, telling yourself she was just a random bartender, someone you’d probably never see again. But it hadn’t worked. Every time you sat down to study, her face would slip into your mind.

Your chest tightens as you reach for the door, your hand hovering over the handle. What if she doesn’t remember you? Or worse—what if she does, and she thinks it’s weird that you’ve come back?

You shake your head, trying to push the doubts aside. You’re here now. You might as well step inside.

With a deep breath, you pull the door open and step into the warm, dimly lit space. The scent of alcohol and faint traces of perfume hit you first.

The bar is slightly less crowded than it had been the last time, but it still carries the same energy—low lights, muted colors, and a buzz of life that makes the air feel heavier than the world outside.

You glance toward the bar, your stomach twisting when you see her. Vi is behind the counter, her pink hair catching the soft light as she leans over to pass a drink to a customer. She straightens, her expression neutral as she scans the room, and then her eyes land on you.

For a split second, her face doesn’t change, and panic spikes in your chest. Maybe she doesn’t—

Then she smiles.

It’s subtle, but it’s there—a small, warm quirk of her lips that sends your nerves scattering in a hundred directions. She holds your gaze for just a moment before returning to what she’s doing, her hands moving fluidly to pour another drink.

You let out a shaky breath, your feet carrying you closer to the bar. You slide into one of the empty stools, trying to shake off the nervous energy buzzing under your skin. The cool wood of the counter feels solid beneath your palms as you rest your elbows on it, trying to make yourself look casual.

But it’s hard to relax with your pulse pounding so loudly in your ears. You glance around the room, looking for anything to distract you from the fact that she’s here.

You’re trying not to fidget with your fingers, not to bite the inside of your lip, not to seem like you’ve been thinking about this moment for days now—trying to shake the nerves that have settled into your bones. But it’s hard when you feel her presence just behind the bar.

It doesn’t take long before you feel her eyes on you.

You glance up just in time to see Vi, mid-conversation with another customer, glance over the counter at you. And in a split second, she’s finished what she’s saying to the customer, brushing past them with an ease.

She doesn’t even seem bothered by the fact that she’s walking away mid-conversation. It’s as if she’s already decided where she needs to be.

Your pulse quickens.

You watch her approach, the way she moves is confident, the soft hum of the music surrounding her as she gets closer. Her smile is almost shy this time, like she’s not entirely sure what to say after the last time you were here. But she doesn’t hesitate.

“I was wondering when I’d see you again,” she says as soon as she reaches you, her voice low, almost teasing, with just a hint of something more.

Her words catch you off guard for a second. You shift slightly on your stool, trying to keep your cool, but you can feel the heat creeping up your neck. Her gaze is steady, not flirtatious exactly, but certainly interested, like she’s been waiting for this moment as much as you have.

You clear your throat, and even though you try to sound casual, your voice betrays you.

“I didn’t really expect to be back so soon.” The words feel like a weak excuse even as you say them.

Vi chuckles softly, leaning just a little closer as she rests her hands on the counter, her gaze never leaving you. “Not really the type to stay away for long, huh?”

There’s that spark in her eyes again, that teasing warmth that makes you wonder if she’s deliberately making you squirm.

You roll your eyes, trying to hide the nervous flutter in your chest.

“I needed a break,” you explain quickly, looking away for a moment. “Studying was driving me crazy.”

You pull your bag closer to the bar, pretending to straighten it out, but your thoughts keep slipping back to her.

Vi’s smile softens a little as she studies you, her eyes tracing your face for a moment longer than necessary. She doesn’t seem in a rush, doesn’t try to fill the space with empty words or awkward small talk.

You swallow, suddenly aware of how much closer she’s gotten, how much she’s drawn you in. There’s an easy chemistry between you, something unspoken but undeniable.

“Well,” she adds, a teasing glint in her eye as she straightens back up, “What’s your drink of choice, princess?”

You almost forget how to breathe for a second at the sudden shift in the atmosphere, your heart racing again. You take a moment to collect yourself before replying, your voice just a little quieter than usual.

“Surprise me,” you say, the words coming out with a confidence you don’t entirely feel.

Vi’s smile deepens, her eyes flashing with something a little mischievous, “Think I can manage that.”

She decides on making something light and sweet—remembering that you didn’t drink that often.

You watch her as she begins to gather the ingredients for your drink, her hands moving expertly behind the bar. The soft clink of glass bottles and the gentle hiss of the tap. You barely even realize you’re fidgeting until you catch sight of her looking back at you, that familiar smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Finals week started?” She asks.

You blink, momentarily caught off guard by the question. The thought of finals feels like a weight you’ve been trying to avoid all week. The textbooks, the endless hours of studying, the fact that you’re still not feeling ready for any of it—it all hits you again in that instant. But Vi’s gaze makes it hard to focus on anything else.

For a split second, you can feel it too—the awkwardness, the nerves, the slight flutter in your chest that feels completely out of place. It’s not just her usual flirtation. This feels different somehow. She’s not the smooth bartender effortlessly working the crowd, she’s… her. And it makes your heart skip in a way you’re trying to ignore.

“Yeah, it did,” you answer, your voice quieter than you intended. You rub the back of your neck, feeling a little out of place yourself. “It’s… been a nightmare. The library’s packed, the dorm’s loud—honestly, it’s like no one even remembers that we have to actually study for this stuff.”

She raises an eyebrow, her smile never quite fading but now tinged with something a little more… uncertain. Her gaze flits between you and the drinks in front of her, and for a moment, you wonder if she’s just waiting for something to happen.

“Seems like you’re trying to avoid it,” she says softly, her tone lighter but still holding that underlying curiosity. Her voice is almost shy now, like she’s letting down the tough-girl act just a little, and it feels natural. She looks at you again, this time a little less playful and more vulnerable.

You feel something stir inside of you at her words—maybe relief, maybe the sense that she’s giving you a little window into her own world.

“Yeah, kind of,” you admit, your gaze dropping to the counter as you fiddle with the edge of your glass. You take a breath, glancing back up at her, your tone playful but also a little softer than you meant.

She’s leaning slightly over the counter, her eyes scanning the room for a moment, as though looking for your friends. When she doesn’t find them, her gaze returns to you, a small quirk of her lips tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Here alone tonight?” she asks, her tone light and soft.

You feel a small flutter in your chest, a hint of nervousness bubbling up—was she genuinely interested?

“Yeah,” you say, a little unsure, your fingers tracing the rim of your glass. “My friends are… off somewhere else.”

Vi nods slowly, that small smile still playing on her lips, and for a second, you almost feel like she’s understanding you without needing you to say much at all. She’s always been so good at reading people, it seems.

“Well, lucky for you,” she says with a wink, her tone playful but sincere, “I’m here to keep you company, then. No need to be alone if you don’t want to be.”

She leans a little closer, her voice dropping just low enough that only you can hear.

“Not that I mind the company, either.”

Her words settle in your chest, warm and easy, and for a brief moment, it feels like everything else—the noise, the people, the pressure of exams—falls away. All that’s left is the gentle pull of her attention, the way she makes you feel like you’re the only one she wants to talk to tonight.

You can’t help but smile, your nerves starting to ease.

“I like that you’re here,” you say, a little quieter now, the honesty behind your words surprising even you.

Oh.

Vi swallows the tiny lump in her throat, ears reddening at your words.

“Me too,” she says softly, her eyes meeting yours.

And then the night stretches on, the sound of clinking glasses and lively chatter filling the air, but somehow, the noise feels distant.

Vi moves between you and the rest of the bar, always managing to return to you just as you start to think she’s too busy to notice. She steps away occasionally to serve drinks, her smile never fading even when the pressure of the crowd pulls her in different directions.

Every time she returns, though, she looks at you with that same look in her eye, making you feel like you’re the only person in the room who matters. You can tell that she’s working, but there’s an ease in the way she glances over at you, as though she’s intentionally carving out space to keep you company, to make sure you’re not left alone in the bustle of the bar.

As the crowd grows louder and the night wears on, Vi seems to sense that things are getting a little out of hand. The rush of orders starts picking up, and she glances over at Mylo, a colleague of hers you’ve seen around. With a quick wave, she calls him over.

You watch as Vi leans against the bar, her body language shifting just slightly.

“Hey, Mylo, could you cover the drinks for a bit?” she asked, her tone casual, but there’s something unspoken in the way she does it. Mylo gives her a knowing glance, then nods and steps in to take over, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

Vi doesn’t waste any time.

For the rest of the night, she stays close, always coming back to check on you between serving drinks, leaning against the bar whenever she has a spare moment. Mylo helps manage the crowd, but Vi is there, always making sure you’re okay, always drawing you back into the conversation.

There’s no rush, no pressure—just an easy flow between you two, and the more time you spend with her, the next time her eyes meet yours, the way she smiled, the more you realize that this is something you’ve been craving without even knowing it.

The night slips away quietly, and when you glance at the clock on the wall behind the bar, a wave of disappointment hits you.

It’s later than you thought. You hesitate for a moment, your fingers brushing the edge of your empty glass, and then you finally say it, though it’s not what you want to say at all.

“I should, uh… get going,” you murmur, your voice quieter than you intended. You already know you’ll regret it—regret leaving this place, leaving her.

Vi’s smile falters just a little, her eyes quickly flicking to the clock too, and you see the shift on her face, like she’s come to the same realization. There’s a brief, almost imperceptible pause between the two of you as the world around you continues on, but time seems to slow as she takes a breath.

“I… didn’t realize it was that late either,” she says, her tone softer now. And for a brief second, you can almost feel the space between you close in, like neither of you really wants to say goodbye.

Then, without skipping a beat, Vi’s voice pulls you back into the present.

“Hey,” she starts firmly, like she’s made up her mind about something. “Let me walk you back.”

You blink at her, the suggestion catching you off guard. You hadn’t expected her to offer—hadn’t thought she’d even consider it. And though a little part of you wants to say yes immediately, another part of you, the shyer, more self-conscious part, hesitates.

“I don’t want to put you out,” you say quickly, though you’re not entirely sure why you feel so shy all of a sudden. “Besides, you’re working.”

It’s a simple thing, after all, a walk.

But you’d be even more alone. With her. And although that made you excited, it made you even more nervous.

Vi doesn’t give you the chance to second-guess yourself. Her smile returns, and there’s a spark of something playful in her eyes.

“It’s no trouble,” she says, her tone light but insistent. “I’m not going to let you walk back alone at this time. I don’t think I’d be able to focus without knowing you got home safe, so...”

Before you can protest again, she turns to Mylo, who’s tending to the growing crowd at the far end of the bar.

“Hey, Mylo!” she calls out, her voice carrying just enough over the noise to catch his attention. “I’m taking my break now. Be back in a bit.”

Mylo doesn’t even look up from his work, just nods in acknowledgment. “Alright, Vi,” he calls back, and you catch the playful undertone in his voice. It’s clear he knows exactly what’s going on.

Not wasting any more time, Vi grabs her jacket from behind the bar. She slips it on ace doesn’t look back at you to see if you’re ready; she just turns, giving you that soft, inviting smile.

“C’mon,” she says, her voice low and gentle, like she’s pulling you into something that feels a little outside of the ordinary, but in the best way possible.

Her words make you pause, but only for a moment. You look at her—really look at her—and something about the way she’s standing there, waiting, makes your hesitation dissolve. The warmth in her smile settles in your chest, and for the first time in a while, you realize you don’t mind the idea of the night stretching out just a little longer.

You nod, a soft smile curling at your lips.

“Okay,” you say, your voice more confident than it was a second ago.

Vi grins.

Without another word, she starts walking toward the door, holding it open for you, and you follow her out into the cold night air. The city seems quieter now, the streets not as busy, and as the two of you step into the night, the world feels a little smaller, a little more intimate—just the two of you, alone together for the walk.

You can’t help but feel your heart race just a little, but in the best possible way.

The walk to your dorm is slower than you expect, almost as if neither of you wants to rush through it. The night air is cold, the streetlights casting soft pools of light on the sidewalk. The hum of distant traffic fades into the background as you walk side by side, your pace matching each other’s, no one in a hurry.

You’re not sure what it is, but something about the silence between you feels comfortable—like there’s no pressure, just two people walking together. Vi’s steps are easy, casual, but every so often, she glances at you from the corner of her eye, as though she’s watching you without even realizing it. It’s subtle, but you catch her gaze a few times, and each time, she looks away just a fraction too late, as if she was lost in thought.

You can’t help but notice it, how her eyes linger on you, how her attention feels a little more intense than you’re used to, but it’s not uncomfortable. No, it’s the opposite, actually—it feels like she’s admiring something in you, and the idea makes your stomach flutter in a way you can’t quite explain.

Vi keeps most of the conversation light at first, teasing you about how you managed to get through the day without completely falling apart under the weight of finals. But soon enough, the banter turns into something more genuine, more personal, and you find yourself sharing little details about your life.

Vi, on the other hand, seems to enjoy telling you bits and pieces about herself. She talks about the things she’s passionate about—how bartending isn’t just a job for her, but something that gives her a connection to people and to her dad especially, how she loves the way a good drink can change someone’s mood, make them feel more at ease. She tells you about her favorite spots in the city, the places she goes when she wants to unwind or just take a break from the noise.

She mentions that she has a little sister—one that she’s so proud of with how smart she is. She has a scholarship at some other university a pretty far from here, and you can tell Vi misses her dearly.

For the entire way, Vi doesn’t stop glancing at you.

It’s soft and subtle, but you can see it, feel it—the way her eyes linger on you, tracing the lines of your face in a way that makes you feel warm from the inside out.

And for the first time in a while, you don’t mind being the center of someone’s attention. You can’t help but wonder if, in some small way, she feels the same as you.

“So, your dorm’s just up ahead, right?” Vi says, snapping you out of your thoughts. Her voice is low, and there’s a hint of something soft in it. You realize, in that moment, that this walk has felt… different.

“Yeah, just a couple more blocks,” you reply, your voice a little quieter now, feeling like the night has already given you more than you expected.

Eventually, the two of you reach the entrance of your building. It was an apartment style dorm, sitting just a few miles away from campus.

You stop for a moment, your feet lingering on the sidewalk as you take a small breath, suddenly feeling reluctant.

You don’t want it to end—not just yet.

But before you can say anything, the loud thump of music reaches your ears, coming from one of the floors above. Vi’s eyes flick up toward the building, and her brow furrows slightly as she notices the source of the noise.

“Guess the party’s already in full swing,” she murmurs, a bit of a wry smile tugging at her lips, but there’s something in her tone that’s a little amused.

“Yeah. The usual,” you say, your voice tinged with mild exasperation. You chuckle softly, rubbing the back of your neck, feeling a little embarrassed. “They don’t really care if it’s late… It can be quiet sometimes… but on rare occasions.”

Vi glances up at the building, the loud music still spilling out from one of the floors. She hesitates for a moment, then looks back at you.

“You know, uh, the bar doesn’t… open until six… I mean, the lounge opens at ten, but… no one really comes around that time,” she says, her voice quieter now, as if the suggestion she’s about to make is somehow more personal.

She glances at you again, her eyes flickering with tiny hint of nervousness.

“You could, uh, come earlier if you want some quiet… I’ll be there.”

You hadn’t expected that—hadn’t expected her to offer her own space at all. The bar, of all places.

You feel a warmth spread through you at the thought, a pull you hadn’t expected. Something about it makes your heart race a little faster, and you find yourself hesitating, uncertain if you should take the leap.

It was kind of a lousy excuse, Vi thought, but at least she’d get to see you again, instead of waiting all week to see if you’d stop by.

Though she knew she probably should’ve just asked you out on a date like a normal person, but… maybe she’d be able to see more of you this way.

“Vi, I—” you start, but you don’t really know what to say.

“You don’t have to,” she adds quickly, her voice gentle, as if she’s afraid to push too hard. “But if you’re looking for a place to study, it’s quiet in the mornings. And I promise not to be in your way. You don’t have to stay long or anything—just… if you want to, I’m there. And we could talk more, or just… not.”

The sincerity in her voice catches you off guard, and you feel a small tug at your chest.

You glance at her, meeting her eyes for just a moment, and that’s all it takes. Despite the swirl of thoughts in your head, you find yourself nodding.

“Okay,” you say, your voice steady now, though there’s a trace of something soft beneath it. “I’d really like that.”

You watch as her smile brightens, a little relieved and a little pleased, and for a moment, she doesn’t say anything, she just nods.

Vi pauses just as she’s about to turn away, a hesitant look crossing her face. For a moment, she seems to be second-guessing herself, like she’s trying to figure out the best way to say something without overstepping. Then, with a slight sheepishness that’s almost endearing, she glances back at you, her cheeks coloring ever so slightly.

“Oh, shit, I-I should probably give you my number… you know, in case I’m not there or anything,” she says, her voice a little softer, a little more self-conscious than usual. Her fingers nervously tug at the hem of her jacket, and her eyes flicker away briefly.

You can’t help but smile at the way she’s acting—this confident, capable bartender who, just moments ago, had been so cool and smooth, now hesitating as if she’s unsure whether she’s overstepping by asking for your number.

You reach for your phone, feeling a small rush of warmth in your chest.

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea,” you say, your voice light but warm, trying to make her feel at ease.

You quickly unlock your phone and pass it to her, offering a small, reassuring smile.

Vi’s fingers brush against yours as she takes your phone, and for a second, the touch lingers. She types in her number quickly, and you catch the faintest flicker of a smile playing at the corner of her lips. She hands the phone back to you after saving her contact information and you glance down at the screen.

violet :)

“Done,” she says, her voice light again. “Just… in case you need to reach me or anything…”

Vi pulls out her phone, her fingers slightly fumbling as she unlocks it. Her eyes flick up to meet yours, and she gives you a small, almost nervous smile. You type your number into her phone in return, and when you hand it back, you make sure your fingers brush against hers just a little longer than necessary. She smiles softly when she gets her phone back, seeing the small heart you put next to your name.

“Thank you, Vi,” you say softly, feeling a little bolder now.

She grins, the playful glint in her eyes back now, “Text me… whenever.”

She lingers, her hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket, the edges of her smile bright but just a little tight, like she’s holding something back. Her eyes meet yours, warm and soft, and for a moment, neither of you says anything.

You notice the way her gaze flickers, almost imperceptibly, down to your lips. It’s quick, barely a second, but it’s enough to make your breath hitch. Your heart thuds in your chest, and you wonder if she realizes how obvious she is—or maybe she doesn’t care. Either way, her attention makes your stomach flip in a way you’re not entirely prepared for.

“I should…” she begins, her voice quiet and almost reluctant. She shifts on her feet, looking down for a moment before glancing back up at you. She hesitates, like she’s searching for a reason to stay, even though she knows she can’t. “…get back to work.”

Her words are practical, but the way she says them—soft and almost regretful—makes it clear she doesn’t really want to leave.

She’s stalling, and you can tell.

For once, Vi doesn’t have that confidence she carries behind the bar. Right now, she just looks… a little unsure. A little vulnerable.

“Goodnight,” you say softly, the words gentle but carrying more weight than you intended.

Her smile widens, though it’s still tight-lipped, and she nods, her hands still buried in her jacket pockets.

“Yeah… goodnight, princess,” she echoes, her voice just above a whisper. She lingers for another second, her gaze sweeping over your face before she finally steps back.

The sound of her boots on the pavement fades as she turns and walks away, heading back down the street toward the bar.

As she disappears into the distance, you catch yourself glancing at your phone, her number now saved there, and you wonder how long you’ll be able to resist texting her. The night air feels colder without her, but the warmth she left behind lingers all the same.

Truth be told, Vi isn’t usually the one to open the bar.

That’s Mylo’s job, and it’s been that way for as long as she can remember. Surprisingly, he’s the early bird, arriving just maybe thirty before ten—always grumbling about it but showing up on time regardless, keys jangling as he flips on the lights and starts the long process of getting the place ready. It’s quiet in the morning, and it’s practically empty until the sun starts to set.

Vi’s shift doesn’t typically start until later in the evening, right when the crowd begins to build, when the air gets thick with chatter and the clink of glass. That’s her time, where she thrives: loud music, fast drinks, and tiny bit of chaos.

But as soon as Vi gets back to work that night after walking you to you back, something shifts. She heads straight behind the bar, sets her jacket down with a quickly, and finds Mylo leaning against the counter, lazily wiping down the counter like he always does. He glances up at her, one brow quirked, clearly ready to make some smart comment about her lateness and tease her about that little crush she has on you.

But before he can get a word out, she cuts him off.

“I’m opening from now on,” she says flatly, her voice leaving no room for argument.

Mylo freezes mid-motion, the rag in his hand hovering over the counter. He stares at her for a moment, like he’s not sure he heard her right.

“What?” he says finally, his tone incredulous. “Since when do you wanna deal with the morning grind? You hate opening.”

“Since now,” Vi snaps, her tone sharp like she’s already decided and doesn’t care for an explanation.

Mylo narrows his eyes, leaning against the bar with a skeptical look. “You’re serious? You, of all people, wanna deal with the dead hours?”

“Yeah,” Vi says simply, grabbing a bottle of whiskey and beginning to organize the counter with quick, efficient movements. “It’s not a big deal.”

Mylo snorts, tossing the rag over his shoulder. “It is for you. You hate the quiet. You told me that yourself. Even Claggor hates the quiet.”

Vi doesn’t answer right away.

She busies herself adjusting the liquor bottles, her back turned to him as she forces herself not to think about why she’s doing this—or more accurately, who she’s doing this for. But her thoughts betray her anyway, drifting back to the way you’d looked at her tonight, soft and unsure but trusting, the way you’d smiled at her when she offered you the bar as a place to get away. The memory makes something tighten in her chest.

She finally turns back to Mylo, her face composed, her tone even.

“Just need a change of pace,” she says with a shrug, though even she knows it’s not convincing. “Besides, you could use the extra sleep.”

Mylo stares at her for another beat and squints his eyes, clearly unconvinced but too tired to argue.

“Is this about that girl you were talking with earlier?”

“No,” Vi said all too quickly, but she knows she couldn’t keep up the lie against Mylo for too long. “Maybe… Yes.”

“Why didn’t you just ask her out? Looked like she liked you enough. Plus—she literally came back to see you—“

“Just—Let me have this. If it goes sour, you can have all the free drinks you want.”

“Fine,” he says, throwing his hands up in defeat. “It’s your funeral. Just don’t come crying to me when you’re stuck listening to the same three jazz songs we have on Vander’s old jukebox.”

Vi smirks, but it’s faint, her mind already elsewhere. “Noted.”

The truth is, she doesn’t care about the mornings or the hassle of opening. All she cares about is the chance that you might show up again, walking into the bar in the early hours, looking for a place to escape the noise.

And if that means opening the doors herself, sitting in silence for a couple hours, and putting up with Mylo’s grumbling, so be it.

She doesn’t tell him any of this, though. She just gets back to work, excited for the next time she might see you.

The sunlight filters in through the thin curtains of your dorm room, soft and golden, warming your skin as you slowly wake. Your eyes blink open, the haze of sleep still clinging to you, and for a moment, you simply lie there, staring up at the ceiling.

Then, your mind drifts back to the night before.

Vi… again.

The thought of her hits you like a spark, and you feel a smile tug at your lips before you can stop it. Your chest tightens slightly, but not unpleasantly, just enough to make you feel warm all over.

Still smiling, you roll onto your side, glancing at your phone on the nightstand. The thought of texting her had crossed your mind the second you got back to your room last night, but you hadn’t been sure if you should. What would you even say?

Now, as the morning stretches ahead of you, you find yourself staring at your phone again, the nervous energy in your chest making it hard to breathe.

You pick it up, the screen lighting up instantly. And there it is.

A small notification sits at the top of your screen.

“1 new message from violet :)”

Your heart jumps, and your thumb hovers over the notification for just a second before you tap it, unable to wait any longer. The message opens, and your breath catches when you see it.

not to brag, but it’s very quiet this morning. open invitation ;)

Attached is a picture of the bar. The room is empty, save for the neat rows of chairs and the warm light spilling in from the windows. The space looks so different from the lively, chaotic energy you’d seen before—calm, inviting, almost serene. But what catches your eye most is the subtle detail in the photo: her black jacket draped over the back of one of the chairs in the corner, and a mug sitting on the counter.

She’s there, waiting.

Your heart does a little flip, and you bite your lip, staring at the message. The cheeky little smirk emoji at the end feels so quintessentially Vi, and you can almost hear the teasing lilt in her voice as you read the words again.

You’re not sure how long you sit there, staring at your phone, trying to decide how to respond. Your thumbs hover over the keyboard, typing and deleting messages you’re too nervous to send. Finally, you settle on something simple, something safe.

all that space for me?

You hit send before you can overthink it, your chest fluttering with a mix of excitement and nerves. Almost immediately, the little bubble indicating she’s typing pops up, and your stomach flips again.

you get special treatment, what can i say?

Her reply comes with another photo—this time, a close-up of her coffee mug on the counter, a little steam curling up from the top. In the background, you can see her hand resting on the bar, the edge of a tattoo peeking out from her wrist. It’s casual, but the fact that she took the time to send it makes your cheeks flush.

You can’t help but smile again, your heart racing as you stare at the screen. The morning, which had started so quietly, now feels electric, buzzing with the possibility of seeing her again. And as you type out your next reply, you can’t help but wonder where this might lead—and how you’ve somehow stumbled into something that already feels so much more than you expected.

You barely even remember the process of getting ready.

It was all a blur of rushing to find something cute, definitely cuter than the night before yet comfortable, sifting through your limited wardrobe for something that felt right. Even though the chill of winter was biting at the edges of the morning, you chose an outfit—layered up enough to keep warm, but nice enough to make you feel put together. You’d even spent a little more time on your hair, fixing it neatly just for Vi to see.

Now, standing in front of the bar, the nerves hit you all at once.

The quiet street around you makes the moment feel even more amplified. You glance at the entrance, the black-painted door that suddenly feels much taller, more imposing, than it had before. Your heart is pounding in your chest, the bag full of textbooks and notes hanging heavy at your side, reminding you of the excuse you gave yourself for coming here.

It’s just a quiet place to study, you tell yourself for the hundredth time, though you know it’s only half the truth.

The other half is much more difficult to admit—that you’re here for her. That something about Vi has been stuck in your head ever since she walked you home, her warm, smooth voice, the way her blue eyes lingered on you. She made your entire body flutter and you can’t help but want more of it.

You take a deep breath, clutching the strap of your bag tightly, and push the door open. The soft chime of the bell above the frame jingles lightly, and you step inside, immediately greeted by the sound of soft jazz playing in the background. The bar looks just like it had in the photo—empty, calm, and warm, bathed in the golden glow of lights reflecting off the polished surfaces.

Your eyes scan the room, and there she is.

Vi stands behind the bar, her jacket from earlier now draped over a nearby stool. She’s pouring herself a cup of coffee, her back to you at first, but as the door closes behind you, she glances over her shoulder. The moment she sees you, her face lights up with that easy smile, the one that makes your chest flutter in ways you’re not quite ready to deal with.

“Look who it is,” she says, setting her mug down and leaning casually against the counter. She folds her arms across her chest, giving you an appraising look. “Was beginning to think you wouldn’t show.”

You step forward, trying to steady your breathing as you approach the bar. “Well,” you say, your voice soft but steady, “that picture you sent was pretty convincing. Had to check it out for myself.”

Vi’s smile widens, and she gestures to the empty space around you. “Guess you came to the right place, huh? It doesn’t get much quieter than this.”

You nod, trying not to fidget as you sling your bag onto one of the stools. “Yeah. Plus, you did say I’d get special treatment.”

Vi chuckles at that, her voice low and warm, “I did, didn’t I?”

She leans forward slightly, resting her elbows on the counter as she watches you unpack a few of your books.

“Something like that,” you mumble, flipping open a notebook and trying not to let her attention distract you too much. It’s easier said than done, though, especially when you feel her eyes on you, warm and curious, like she’s genuinely interested in every little thing you do.

Vi gestures toward your bag with a playful grin. “Didn’t know you’d bring your entire library with you.”

“It’s called being prepared.”

She smirks at that, but as you settle into your work, she finds herself falling quiet. Her gaze lingers on you as she leans back slightly, folding her arms.

“Go ahead and start. I’ll be here if you need anything,” she says kindly, a smile on her face that made your stomach flutter.

You thank her with a smile and a nod and the only thing Vi can think about is how cute you are.

In just a couple of minutes, you’ve focused up, skimming through a page of dense text, your brow furrowed in concentration, and Vi can’t help but notice the way your nose scrunches just a little when you hit something particularly complicated.

It’s… endearing.

She doesn’t mean to stare. Really, she doesn’t.

The jazz music playing softly in the background seems to fade into white noise as Vi lets herself get lost in the little details of you. The slope of your shoulders, the way your hair falls to the side when you tilt your head, the faint flush in your cheeks that she wonders—hopes—might have something to do with her.

She doesn’t even realize she’s staring until Mylo’s voice echoes in her head: You’re being so obvious, Vi.

She clears her throat, tearing her gaze away and reaching for the coffee mug she’d left on the counter. As she takes a sip, she glances back at you, this time trying to keep her interest a little more subtle.

You catch her staring just as you look up from your book, your eyes meeting hers for a brief moment. Vi freezes, caught, and you tilt your head slightly, raising an eyebrow.

“What?”

She blinks, quickly shaking her head and giving you a grin that’s a little too casual.

“Nothing,” she says, her tone light, though her ears flush faintly.

Then she looks down at her mug, then back up at you. She watches you as you shyly turned away, trying to mask the way your cheeks reddened under her stare. With a soft chuckle under her breath, she moves towards the edge of the bar, finally deciding to make you a cup of coffee.

She moves quietly as she works the espresso machine. The bar is silent except for the faint hum of the machine, the relaxing jazz playing in the background, and the occasional sound of you turning your pages, but her focus isn’t entirely on what she’s doing.

Instead, it keeps drifting to you. Sitting there, head bowed over your notes, and Vi can’t help but notice how different you look today compared to the last time she saw you.

You’re dressed a little nicer today—nothing too flashy, just enough that she can tell you put some thought into it. She likes it. She really likes it.

Maybe it’s the way your sweater hugs your frame a little more snugly, or how your jeans look perfectly paired with your boots. Or maybe it’s just the fact that everything about you feels intentional, like you dressed up… just for her.

Either way, it’s distracting her in the best way possible. She shakes her head slightly, trying to focus on the task at hand, but the thought keeps nudging its way back in: So pretty.

She glances at you as she pours the espresso shot into the cup, the deep brown liquid swirling into the mug. You’re chewing on the cap of a pen, your brow furrowed in concentration, and Vi feels a faint, involuntary smile tug at the corners of her mouth.

She watches closely. Too closely. She watches your lips shamelessly, wrapping your lips around the cylinder shape, biting softly on that pen, and… god, you’re just… something else.

Vi shakes her head and tries to throw the thought out of the window. It’s far too early to be thinking about you like… that.

The hot water follows, and before she knows it, the americano is ready. She sets it on the counter softly, barely making a sound, and steps back to admire her handiwork—not the coffee, but you. And maybe she’d never admit it out loud, but she could probably watch you for hours.

When you finally notice the mug in front of you, you blink up at her with a smile, a little startled.

Vi shrugs, leaning one elbow on the counter, her grin casual but her gaze lingering. “Coffee. Figured you could use it.”

Your lips quirk up slightly at her teasing, but there’s something shy in the way you glance down at the mug, your fingers brushing the edge of it.

“Thank you,” you mumble shyly, almost under your breath.

“No problem, princess.” Vi leans back, her hands sliding into her pockets as she studies you for a moment longer. You’re even prettier up close, she thinks.

After a couple minutes, Vi busies herself cleaning the counter, though her eyes flick back to you more often than she means them to. There’s something about you today that feels different… And if she’s being honest with herself, it’s driving her a little crazy—in a good way.

When Vi had her back turned for a moment, adjusting the bottles on the shelf behind the bar, it was your turn to take the opportunity.

Your eyes wandered before you could stop yourself, taking her in as she worked. She moved smoothly, easy, like she’d done this a thousand times before—and maybe she had—but it didn’t make the sight any less captivating.

You’d been trying to focus on your notes, scribbling little reminders in the margins or flipping pages as if you were actually absorbing the words.

But who were you kidding? You couldn’t concentrate. Not when Vi was right there.

Your gaze lingered on her arms first, toned and inked, muscles flexing just enough with every movement. The way she reached up to straighten a bottle, her fingers long and strong, made your thoughts blur and stutter.

And then there was her profile—the sharp angle of her jawline, the way her asymmetrical lips curved faintly even when she wasn’t smiling. That tiny quirk, one side of her top lip arched slightly higher than the other, was unfairly charming. It made her look like she was always on the edge of smirking, always holding back some witty comment.

When she turned slightly, moving to wipe down the counter again, you quickly dropped your eyes back to your notebook, pretending to read a passage you hadn’t actually taken in.

But the distraction didn’t last long. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw her pick up a glass, her hands moving over it in smooth, practiced motions as she polished it to perfection. Her forearms flexed again just slightly, and you caught yourself staring again, your thoughts hazy and full of her.

Every time you looked up, there was something new to notice—the way her brows furrowed just a little when she was focused, the way her tattoos seemed to tell a story you desperately wanted to know. You liked the way her hair fell just a little out of place when she leaned forward, the way her shirt clung to her broad shoulders and the defined curve of her biceps.

You liked the way she moved, so sure of herself yet entirely unaware of just how mesmerizing she was to watch.

It was distracting, sure, but you didn’t mind in the slightest. If anything, you welcomed it.

It didn’t take long for the mornings at the bar to become your new routine.

Vi would open promptly at ten in the morning, and you’d stroll in not long after, bundled up in a jacket, a bag full of textbooks and notebooks slung over your shoulder. She’d always greet you with that soft, lopsided smile of hers, already moving to make you coffee before you even asked.

“Morning, princess,” she’d say, setting the mug in front of you with a little flourish, and you’d roll your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips every time.

You’d settle into your usual spot, unpack your books, and get to work while Vi busied herself behind the counter.

She was always within view, her quiet presence oddly comforting as you flipped through pages and scribbled notes. And she didn’t hover, not exactly, but you knew she kept an eye on you. She’d pause her cleaning or organizing to glance over, catching little glimpses of your concentrated frown or the way you tucked your hair behind your ear absentmindedly.

For you, the quiet space was perfect, and Vi’s company made it even better.

You studied through the morning, your head bent over your books, easily working and concentrating with the quiet surroundings, before eventually packing up to head to your exams in the afternoon.

One morning, though, exhaustion finally caught up with you. You’d been cramming for a couple days, running on little sleep, and your body decided it couldn’t keep up anymore.

Vi noticed you were quieter than usual, your head drooping slightly as you flipped through your notes. She’d thought about saying something but didn’t want to disturb you.

When she looked over again a few minutes later, though, she saw you slumped forward on the counter, your head resting against an open textbook. Your breathing was slow and even, your face pressed against the pages, looking completely at peace.

Vi froze for a moment, her chest tightening in a way she couldn’t quite explain. You looked… adorable, she thought, almost too perfect in that quiet, vulnerable moment. She wiped her hands on a towel absentmindedly, then glanced around the empty bar.

Unable to help herself, she moved from behind the counter and slid into the stool beside you, making sure to be quiet. She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the counter as she studied you.

The soft rise and fall of your shoulders, the way your lashes fluttered just slightly in your sleep, the curve of your lips as they parted ever so slightly—it all made her heart ache in the strangest way.

For a few long minutes, she just sat there, her head tilted slightly, watching you like she was trying to memorize every detail. She thought about waking you up, but part of her didn’t want to. You looked too peaceful, and honestly, she liked having this moment to herself.

Vi let out a soft breath, her lips curving into a small smile.

“Pretty,” she murmured under her breath, the words barely audible even to herself.

When finals week ended, you should’ve felt relief.

You’d survived the late nights, the endless notes, the last-minute cramming. But as you walked back to your apartment after your last exam, all you could feel was a gnawing worry sitting heavy in your chest.

Without exams to study for, without needing the quiet escape of the bar in the mornings, what excuse would you have to see Vi now?

Could you just… show up?

Vi had told you plenty of times that you were welcome there whenever. But it felt different now, like you were losing the one solid reason you had to sit in that quiet space while Vi worked behind the bar.

The thought made you slow your steps, your bag of textbooks feeling heavier than it had all week.

You’d fallen into a rhythm with her—those soft, peaceful mornings where she’d make you coffee without asking, tease you gently when you got too absorbed in your books, and being in her presence made you feel more grounded than you’d ever been.

Now that the routine was gone, you weren’t sure where that left you.

You tossed your bag onto your bed and flopped down beside it, staring up at the ceiling. Maybe I’ll still go to the bar tomorrow morning, you thought, trying to reassure yourself. But doubt crept in immediately. Would she think it was strange if you kept coming back without a reason? Would it seem like you were lingering too much, too long?

You rolled over, burying your face in the pillow as the worry churned in your mind. You couldn’t deny how much you liked being around her—how much you liked… well, her. The idea of not seeing her felt almost unbearable.

With a groan, you sat up and pulled your phone from your pocket. You stared at the screen, thumb hovering over Vi’s contact name.

You’d only messaged a few times before—mostly her checking in, asking if you’d made it back to your apartment safely. The thought of starting a conversation now made your stomach twist nervously.

But you wanted to see her. Needed to, even.

You tapped out a message and then erased it.

Then another.

Then erased that too.

What were you supposed to say? Hey, finals are over, but can I still come to the bar and stare at you for hours like a hopeless idiot? Stupid.

Finally, you set your phone down with a sigh, running your hands through your hair. Maybe you were overthinking it. Maybe she was thinking about you too, wondering if she’d still get to see you now that finals week was done.

But for a while, you stayed away.

Not because you didn’t want to go back—you wanted to more than anything—but the thought of walking into that bar now made your chest tighten with nerves.

The thought embarrassed you, enough that you buried yourself in other things—laundry, tidying your dorm, even a quick grocery run you didn’t really need. Anything to avoid confronting the growing ache in your chest that whispered how much you missed her already.

You told yourself you’d go tomorrow. Then tomorrow came, and you put it off again.

But those days dragged.

The emptiness of your mornings felt heavier than you expected, and the thought of Vi kept slipping into your mind no matter how hard you tried to focus on anything else.

Here, it felt hollow, like something was missing. And you knew exactly what it was.

By the second night, you were pacing your room, staring at your phone every few minutes, wondering if you should just message her. You groaned at yourself, flopping onto your bed and tossing your phone to the side.

It was ridiculous. You wanted to see her. You liked seeing her. So why was it so hard to just show up?

It was the knock on your door that snapped you out of your restless thoughts. You opened it to find Maddie standing there, already halfway dressed up, her hair curled and makeup done. She grinned at you, that mischievous glint in her eyes as she leaned against the doorframe.

“Get dressed,” she said without preamble. “We’re celebrating. We deserve to let loose a little.”

You hesitated for half a second, your mind immediately jumping to Vi and that bar. “Where exactly are we going?”

Maddie smirked. “The Last Drop, obviously.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you tried to play it cool, shrugging like you didn’t care either way. “Oh, back there again?”

“Hell yeah,” she said, already pushing her way into your dorm. “C’mon, don’t make me drag you. Get dressed. No excuses.”

For the first time in two days, you felt a rush of anticipation—nerves, yes, but excitement too. You couldn’t deny it anymore. You wanted to see Vi.

And maybe going with Maddie and the others would make it easier. Less pressure, less obvious that you were showing up just to see her.

So you jumped at the opportunity, rifling through your closet while Maddie lounged on your bed, offering unhelpful commentary about your choices. Eventually, you settled on something nice—a pretty dress, stockings, a coat to match.

“You clean up well,” Maddie teased as you slipped on your shoes.

You flushed, ignoring her as you grabbed your bag and jacket. It was cold outside, but you’d still made an effort—a bit of mascara, a touch of lipstick, enough to feel put-together.

But as you walked toward the bar, the nerves came creeping back.

The neon sign of the bar glowed in the distance, and your chest tightened as you stepped closer. The thought of seeing Vi again made your heart race, but you shoved the nerves down.

As soon as you stepped through the door of the bar, you could feel the atmosphere shift. It was quieter tonight, but still filled with the familiar hum of conversation, the clinking of glasses, the low buzz of the jukebox in the corner.

Your eyes automatically darted to the bar, hoping—no, praying—that you might catch sight of her.

And then Maddie’s voice broke through your thoughts, loud and unmistakable.

“Hey, over here!”

You turned to see her waving enthusiastically at a booth toward the back of the bar. A few of her friends were already there, but what caught your attention wasn’t a group. It was the other two people sitting at the table, one of them leaning back with a casual air, a drink in hand, the other staring at you like they were expecting you.

You froze for a moment, your heart sinking. Your gaze flickered between Maddie and the table, noticing her bright, mischievous smile. She’d set you up.

You forced a smile, suddenly feeling out of place. “Uh, Maddie…?”

Your stomach dropped. A double date?

“This is Chris,” she interrupted, pointing at the guy sitting next to you. He smiled widely, practically leaning over the table as he extended his hand.

You hesitated for a moment, still processing the situation. “Uh… hi.”

“We thought you two would hit it off,” Maddie added, as though she hadn’t just dropped a bombshell on you.

“Yeah, you know, I take Professor Talis’ class, right?” Chris said, his voice a little too eager. “We’ve had a couple of group discussions before.”

You offered a polite smile, not quite sure what to make of him. You weren’t even sure how to respond to the whole situation.

Was this supposed to be a date? You’d come to the bar to see Vi—not this.

You glanced around, your eyes scanning the familiar faces behind the bar, hoping to see her. And there, at the counter, you finally spotted her.

Vi.

Chris kept talking, his voice a constant buzz in the background as you tried to nod politely, throwing in an occasional “mhm” or “yeah” just to keep the conversation moving.

But your attention wasn’t on him. It wasn’t on anything other than Vi.

You saw her again, and this time, it wasn’t a subtle glance. Vi had noticed you, her gaze locking onto you from across the room. Her eyes moved briefly over your face, taking you in, before they shifted downward—her gaze narrowing slightly as she looked at Chris, who was still talking to you like everything was normal.

Your breath caught in your throat when you saw her brow furrow, just enough to let you know she was confused.

There was something in the way she looked at you, something almost possessive, like she couldn’t quite figure out what was going on but she knew for a fact that she didn’t like it. She stood still for a moment, fingers wrapped around the edge a glass as she studied you.

For a second, you wondered if it was just your imagination, but then it clicked. Vi was jealous.

You hadn’t noticed before, but now you saw the little tension in her posture, the way her lips pressed together just slightly, the way her gaze flicked back to you every time he leaned in a little too close.

Chris, oblivious to well… everything, kept talking, his voice rising a little as he continued to try and make small talk.

You had no idea what he’d said because all you could hear was the beat of your heart in your ears, and the undeniable pull of Vi’s gaze on you. It was like she was silently challenging you, wanting to see what you’d do.

You glanced back over to Vi, who was still watching you, but now she was pretending to be busy with something—towels, or glassware, or whatever it was that could distract her from the situation.

You saw her glance down at her phone for a second, and you could almost feel her trying to decide whether or not to come over, to approach you, to do something to get your attention.

But instead of doing that, she lingered behind the bar, still looking at you—her expression unreadable now. And as much as you tried to focus on the conversation in front of you, your mind kept drifting back to her. You didn’t care about him anymore. You didn’t care about anything except the way Vi looked at you just now.

Your eyes slid back to Vi, and this time, you didn’t look away. You didn’t try to hide how you felt.

On the other side of the room, Vi’s eyes were locked on you, even though she tried to focus on the tasks in front of her.

She couldn’t help herself, a sense of possessiveness building in her chest. She wondered if you had dressed up like that for him. The guy you’d been sitting with, the one talking a mile a minute, clearly trying to impress you.

Vi’s stomach twisted, and she found herself gripping the counter a little too tightly as she watched you.

God, you looked so good. Vi’s chest tightened at the thought. She tried to focus on cleaning the counter in front of her, but the image of you with him—of you dressed up for him—kept invading her mind.

She wanted it to be her you were dressed up for. She wanted it to be her who got your attention, who you couldn’t stop thinking about.

She couldn’t do this.

She had to look away, had to force herself to breathe, because it was all getting too much.

With a frustrated sigh, Vi wiped her hands on a towel and excused herself, slipping through the back of the bar and into the staff area. She didn’t care if anyone noticed. She just had to get out of there.

She slammed the door behind her, pressing her back against it as she took a deep breath. Her heart was racing, and her mind was spinning. She had no idea what this was, what you were doing to her.

But the thought of you with someone else, the thought of you not being hers, made her ache in a way she wasn’t ready for.

She rubbed her face with both hands, trying to shake the frustration from her body. She tried to steady herself, taking in a few deep breaths as she stared at the floor. She wasn’t supposed to feel this way. She wasn’t supposed to be jealous.

But she wanted you.

And the more she thought about it, the clearer it became.

Vi’s heart skipped a beat when she heard the knock on the staff room door.

She’d half expected it to be Mylo, probably ready to give her a hard time for disappearing off the floor. He always seemed to have a knack for knowing when she was brooding in the back, and she was sure he’d have something to say about it.

But when she opened the door, it wasn’t Mylo.

It was you.

You stood there in the doorway, hesitant, but with that soft look on your face. You looked so damn good up close like this—like you had stepped out of a dream. Vi’s chest tightened, and she swallowed hard.

You looked at her for a moment, unsure of what to say, and then, in a voice that was soft, you say, “I thought… I thought you might be back here.”

She stood still for a second, just staring at you, unsure of how to handle the fact that you had found her.

“Uh, sorry if I—” You paused, glancing down at your shoes like you weren’t sure how to proceed. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just wanted to, I don’t know, check in.”

“You’re not interrupting. I just—“ Vi stepped back to let you in, closing the door behind you. “—needed to take a break.”

She leaned against the door, keeping her distance, unsure if you’d notice how much she was trying to keep her guard up.

The silence stretched between you two, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt… intimate in its own way.

You were quiet too, glancing around the small room, but eventually, your eyes fell to her again. Vi noticed the way your gaze lingered on her, and she couldn’t help but feel the heat rise to her face.

Her breath caught in her throat for a second, but she quickly brushed it off, trying to focus on the conversation, trying not to get lost in the way you looked at her.

“You didn’t come back… when your tests were over…” Vi’s voice dropped quieter, a little hesitant, like she wasn’t sure how to ask the question.

She hadn’t seen you in a while, and it made her question everything.

The words hung between you, and Vi shifted uncomfortably, her gaze flickering away for a moment, focusing on something in the corner of the room.

She didn’t want to look too eager, too desperate. But the truth was, she had been thinking about you. Every minute of the day. And when she didn’t see you, when she didn’t hear from you, it made her feel like maybe she wasn’t as important to you as she had thought.

She didn’t mean to sound accusatory, but the words had slipped out. Vi cleared her throat, turning back to you.

“I thought… I thought maybe I’d see you again, but… you didn’t come back.” Her voice softened again.

Did you want to come back? Had she somehow messed things up by letting herself feel this much for you? Vi couldn’t keep the questions from creeping into her mind, even though she tried to push them away.

“You didn’t even text,” she said quietly, her voice softer now, almost a whisper.

You blinked, surprised by the sharpness in her voice, the way it cut through the silence that had been so comfortable just a moment ago. You could see it in her eyes—something in the way she said that, something fragile.

It made your heart skip a beat. You hadn’t meant to distance yourself from her. You just… didn’t know what to say.

“I… I didn’t mean to disappear,” you said quietly, your voice soft and unsure. You shifted your weight, glancing down at your feet, before looking up again. “It’s just, I was nervous about coming back without having a solid reason to, and I thought maybe, you know…”

Vi’s gaze softened, the intensity in her eyes giving way to something more tender. She tilted her head slightly, studying you.

“Nervous?” she repeated quietly, as if testing the word. Her brow furrowed slightly. “About what?”

You swallowed, your fingers fidgeting with the fabric of your dress, trying to find the right words. It felt strange, admitting it aloud, but with Vi in the room with you, you couldn’t stop yourself.

“About… you,” you said, the confession slipping out before you could stop it. “About all of this… about seeing you again, about how I feel when I’m around you… I didn’t want to mess it up.”

Vi’s heart skipped a beat at your words. Her breath caught for a fraction of a second.

“It’s just…” she started again, her voice a little rough. “I missed seeing you. That’s all.”

Her gaze shifted to the floor for a moment, a faint flush creeping up her neck. She wasn’t used to admitting this kind of thing aloud either, not even to herself. But there it was, spilling out between you two like something she couldn’t stop.

You felt your heart tug at the honesty in her voice, the way it made you feel like maybe you hadn’t been the only one thinking about this.

“I missed you, too.”

And for the first time tonight, Vi finally smiled.

You couldn’t help but tease her, a small smirk curling at the corners of your lips as you said, “I was waiting for you to text me, too, you know.”

The words felt bold, but you couldn’t hide the nervous excitement bubbling up inside of you.

Vi dropped her head and let out a breathy chuckle. The jealousy, the frustration, everything she’d been feeling earlier—it seemed to vanish completely.

She leaned back against the door, her eyes never leaving yours, full of something far gentler now—something you hadn’t seen before, or at least not like this.

“Can you come here?” she asked, her voice soft, almost like a whisper, but there was something in it that made the air in the room thick.

You hesitated for just a moment, heart pounding in your chest, but you couldn’t resist. Slowly, you walked over to her, your movements measured, though a nervous excitement fluttered in your stomach.

Vi’s eyes never left you as you approached. She watched the way your dress moved with each step, the way your body shifted as you walked toward her, and it drove her absolutely wild. She couldn’t help but let her eyes linger, taking in the sight of you, the way the fabric clung to your curves.

By the time you were close enough, Vi had already moved. She leaned against the door, her hands coming up to gently but firmly grip your hips, pulling you in closer. You felt the heat of her touch spread through you, her hands on your hips guiding you so that you were now flat against her chest, your bodies pressed together.

You couldn’t stop the breath that caught in your throat, the feel of her hands on you sending a wave of heat rushing through your body.

You could feel the rhythm of her breathing, the slight hitch in it when you finally stood there, so close. Her gaze flickered down to the dress you were wearing, and you could feel the tension in her fingers as she lightly traced the hem of it, playing with the fabric as though she couldn’t quite get enough of it.

“I like this,” Vi’s voice was quiet, almost a murmur, and it sent a shiver down your spine. “It’s pretty.”

You didn’t say anything at first, instead simply meeting her gaze, your pulse quickening under her touch. The way she looked at you now, hungry and dazed, made your stomach flip in the best way.

“I… I wasn’t sure if it was too much,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper, feeling a little shy but also emboldened by the way Vi was looking at you.

Vi smiled softly, her lips curving up as she leaned in just a little bit closer, her breath warming your cheek.

“It’s perfect,” she said, voice low, as if the words were meant only for you. “You look perfect.”

Her eyes darkened just a fraction, the playful smirk on her lips transforming into something more primal, more feral. Her hands on your hips tightened just a little, urging you closer, as if she couldn’t get close enough.

Vi’s gaze was heavy, her pupils dark and blown wide as they locked onto your face, moving slowly down to your lips. Her stare was intense—shameless, even—and it made your breath hitch.

Her grip on your hips tightened, fingers pressing firmly into your sides. The fabric of your dress bunched up under her hands, her thumbs brushing against the soft material as though she couldn’t help herself. Her touch was slow, almost like she was trying to memorize the feeling of you under her palms.

You could feel the heat radiating off her, the space between you almost nonexistent now. The way her gaze lingered on your lips sent a shiver down your spine, and you felt rooted to the spot, as if moving would break whatever spell had settled over the two of you.

Vi swallowed hard, her Adam’s apple bobbing slightly, her hands twitching against your hips as though resisting the urge to pull you impossibly closer. Her chest rose and fell in time with her quickened breathing, and you could feel her struggle to keep herself in check, though the way she stared at you made it clear how difficult that was.

Instead, her fingers tightened again, the slight pull of your dress drawing you even closer to her. Her lips parted slightly, as if she were on the verge of saying something, but her gaze kept flickering back to your mouth, and you wondered if words were even necessary.

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but before you could form a single word, Vi moved. Her grip on your hips tightened, fingers digging into your dress as she leaned in and claimed your lips with her own.

Her mouth was warm, soft but insistent, and it stole the breath right out of your lungs. You froze for half a second, startled, but then everything in you melted. Your hands found their way to her shoulders, gripping her lightly as she pulled you even closer, pressing your body flush against hers.

There was a kind of hunger in the way her lips moved against yours, but it was careful too—like she wanted to take her time and savor every second of it. Her fingers slid up your sides slightly, still gripping your dress, her thumbs brushing over your waist as she tilted her head to deepen the kiss.

When she finally pulled back, just barely, her forehead rested against yours. She was breathless, her eyes still heavy-lidded as they locked onto yours. Her hands were still on your hips, holding you against her.

Vi looks at you, a wide, soft smile spreading across her face as she leans her head back against the door, her hands moving upward, tracing the curve of your back slowly. Her fingertips brush against the zipper of your dress, playing with it absentmindedly as she lets out a breathy laugh.

“I think I’m doing this out of order…” she murmurs.

Your brows knit together slightly, still dazed from the kiss.

“Out of order?” you echo, your voice quieter than you intended.

Vi nods, her gaze drifting back to your lips as if they we drawn there magnetically.

Her smile turns almost sheepish, but the heat in her eyes doesn’t fade as she mutters quietly, “Yeah… ‘was supposed to ask you out on a date first.”

The words make your stomach flip, and before you can respond, she keeps going. Her voice softens, a little lower, as if she’s painting a picture just for you.

“I would’ve asked you where you’d like to eat… something casual, nothing too fancy. Then I’d pick you up, you’d wear something pretty for me, and I’ll take you somewhere nice. Not here,” she says with a small grin, “somewhere quiet, somewhere where I could actually talk to you without interruptions.”

Her hands are wandering now, sliding slowly down your sides, then up again, the warmth of her palms seeping through the thin fabric of your dress. One of her thumbs brushes against your ribcage, close to the underside of your breasts, her touch gentle but enough to make your breath hitch.

You’re barely holding onto her words as her hands move, but she keeps talking, her tone calm and almost hypnotic.

“Maybe, take you to this little Italian place I like. Not too crowded, but the food’s incredible. Candlelit, y’know? Not to be cheesy, but I think you’d like it.”

Her hands drift down again, her thumbs skimming along the curve of your hips as she keeps her voice low and steady.

“We’d get some wine—unless you’d rather have water, of course,” she teases softly, her lips twitching into a smirk, “and then we’d just… talk. No distractions, no noise, just you and me.”

Her fingers glide back up, tracing the line of your spine.

“After dinner, maybe a walk somewhere. I dunno, a park, the waterfront… wherever you’d want to go. Just somewhere I could hold your hand and maybe steal a kiss, if you let me.”

You try to focus on her voice, but her hands are relentless, mapping your body like she’s trying to memorize every inch. Your breath catches when her fingers tease the short sleeve of your dress, her thumb brushing your shoulder.

“Then,” she continues, her eyes flicking to yours, “I’d walk you home, make sure you got inside safe. And maybe… maybe if I was lucky, you’d ask me to come in and... Well, I don’t wanna spoil it.”

Her lips curve into a lazy smile, her fingers halting just above the small of your back.

“That’s how it was supposed to go,” she says softly, her voice dripping with affection as her gaze locks onto yours.

Your heart pounds in your chest, your body warm and your mind spinning. It’s impossible to think straight when her hands are on you, her voice so low and inviting.

“So why haven’t you?” you ask softly, your voice almost a whisper.

You lean in closer, and Vi instinctively follows your lips, her breath brushing against them.

“Hm?” she hums, clearly distracted, her gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips.

“—asked me out yet?” you finish, your voice trembling slightly, the boldness of the question surprising even you.

Vi freezes for a fraction of a second, then her lips tug into a small, almost bashful smile. Without saying a word, she leans in and kisses you again, soft and lingering, her lips fitting against yours. After a moment, her mouth leaves yours only to trail a path down to your jaw, her lips brushing against your skin.

She pauses at the curve of your neck, pressing a slow kiss there before muttering against your skin, her voice husky and low, “You make me nervous, too.”

You feel her lips curl into a smile against your neck, like she knows exactly what kind of effect she’s having on you. Her hands tighten slightly on your waist, holding you as if she can feel the way your legs are threatening to give out beneath you.

You tilt your head slightly, giving her better access without even thinking, and she takes full advantage of it. Her breath is warm against your skin, and every kiss feels like it’s melting away whatever distance was left between the two of you.

“Vi…” you murmur, unsure if you’re trying to stop her or encourage her to keep going.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, her lips slightly parted, her cheeks faintly flushed.

“Yeah?” she asks, her voice quiet.

You don’t have an answer, not one you can articulate anyway. All you can do is stare at her, your heart pounding so loudly you’re sure she can hear it. And then she smiles, a crooked, endearing smile that makes your stomach flutter in the best way.

Vi’s lips return to your neck, her breath warm against your skin. She lingers there, her mouth pressing gentle kisses to the curve of your throat, her hands holding your waist firmly as if to steady you. You feel her lips part, the faintest scrape of her teeth against your skin sending a shiver down your spine.

“V-Vi…” you whimper again, but your voice lacks conviction, too soft, too dazed.

And good god, her name sounds so good on your lips.

She hums in response, low and teasing, as her lips close over the sensitive spot she’s found, sucking lightly. The sensation sends a shiver through your entire body, and you grip the fabric of her shirt without thinking, your nails pressing into her shoulders as she kisses your neck.

Her hands slide up your back, keeping you close, and her lips move to a new spot, determined to leave another mark. You know you should stop her, that you’ll be left with marks you can’t easily explain, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Her tongue traces over the freshly made hickey, soothing it before she moves lower, her lips brushing against your collarbone now. You feel lightheaded, completely consumed by her—her touch, her warmth, her scent, her hands, her lips.

“Vi…” you try again, but it comes out weaker than before, more like a plea than a protest.

She chuckles softly against your skin, the sound low and rumbling, and you feel her smile.

“Too much?” she asks playfully, though she doesn’t pull away.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Instead, your fingers tighten against her shirt, and she takes it as permission to continue. Her lips find the hollow of your throat, her teeth grazing against the delicate skin there before she sucks lightly, her hands roaming lower to rest just above your hips.

By the time she finally pulls back, you’re breathless, your head spinning. Her lips are slightly swollen, her smile smug but tender as she looks at you.

“You’re gonna hate me when you see those,” she says softly, her fingers brushing lightly against your neck where her lips had been.

As soon as Vi pulls back, her lips curling into that smug, tender smile, you don’t think. You act. You grab her collar, pulling her down as you surge up to meet her lips, kissing her hard and desperate, pouring every pent-up feeling into that kiss.

Vi grunts softly against your mouth, low and rough, and it sends a thrill down your spine. Her hands, still gripping your waist, tighten possessively to keep you exactly where you are. You feel her smile against your lips for a moment before she kisses you back just as fiercely, her teeth grazing your bottom lip, her tongue brushing against yours in a way that makes your knees weak.

It’s almost overwhelming, the way she kisses you—like she’s been starving for you.

She breaks the kiss just long enough to push herself off the door, her hands sliding to your hips as she turns you around. Before you can even process what’s happening, your back hits the door with a soft slam, the wood rattling slightly behind you. Vi’s hands cage you in, one hand by the side of your head and the other on your hip, keeping you in place as she crashes her lips back onto yours.

She kisses you like she’s claiming you, like she wants to make it crystal clear who you belong to. Her heart swells with pride as she imagines that guy you were with outside, seeing all those little bruises she left on your neck for everyone to see.

“You’re so pretty, baby,” Vi murmurs against your lips, her voice hoarse and ragged, before diving back in.

Her fingers slide underneath the hem of your dress, tracing the soft curve of your skin, sending a shiver up your spine. The moment her touch makes contact with the bare skin of your thighs, you gasp, the feeling of her fingers inching higher and higher, making your pulse race.

You can feel the way she presses in, her grip firm, as if she’s marking territory, staking her claim. She wanted you so bad. But she’s careful with you, and you can feel how she’s holding herself back just a little, the restraint making you ache for more. You know she wants you just as much as you want her—and you can’t help but be drawn deeper into her orbit.

Her hands reach up under your dress, the pads of her fingers tracing your lace panties and Vi shudders at the feeling. She can feel the dampness and warmth of you already and fuck, it drives her absolutely wild.

“You’re already wet, sweetheart,” she says, smiling against your neck proudly.

“V-Vi… Here?” You gasp into her ear.

She nods eagerly, eyes dazed as she looks at you, “Mhm.”

“B-But, someone might hear—“

“Then, you’ll keep quiet for me, won’t you, princess?” She purrs into your ear. “Can you do that?”

Your breath hitches at the way she says it, making your knees feel weak. You feel her smile against your skin, a sly curve of her lips that tells you she knows exactly what she’s doing to you.

“Hmm?” she hums, her thumb rubbing the center of your panties in soft circles, testing your reaction. She tilts her head slightly to catch your gaze. “Or are you gonna make it hard for me?”

You swallow, your heart pounding as you meet her gaze, your lips parting to answer, but nothing comes out. Instead, you nod, your breath hitching as her thumb presses your clit over the fabric of your panties.

She smiles, one hand coming up to fondle your breast. You whimper when she squeezes softly, enjoying the soft fullness in the palm of her hands.

“Tell me.”

You get lost in her stare, blue eyes telling you how much she wants you.

“I-I want you, Violet.”

Without wasting another second, Vi slips the hand that was under your dress and into your panties, her fingers immediately coming in contact with your soaking cunt, your folds slick with want. She hums in approval, and all you can do is nod again, biting down on your lip to keep from making a sound. Vi notices, her smirk widening as she leans in again, her lips trailing down your neck in a series of soft kisses.

“That’s my girl,” she whispers, her voice vibrating against your skin, making it impossible to focus on anything but her.

And when she slips a finger inside, you drop your head to her shoulder, trying to muffle your moan. Her finger immediately curls against your tight walls and you can feel your knees buckle as she thrusts her finger into you.

“Oh, V-Vi—“

She lifts her head up and kisses you on the lips, her tongue slipping inside with ease. She swallowed your moans as she whimpered into your mouth, her body trapping you between her and the door.

“You look… so good,” she murmured, voice hushed, her lips grazing your skin as she spoke. “Couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

But then she adds another finger without any warning, her pace speeding up as you leaned your head back against the door behind you. You let your jaw fall when you feel her thrusting, and thrusting, and thrusting, and curling right into that spongy spot inside your pussy that made you moan.

“N-nh … A-Ah, fuck!” You gasp, unable to control your voice as she speeds up her fingers.

“Shh, shhhh, baby,” she murmurs against your lips, tilting her head as she watches you fall apart on her fingers. “Does it feel good, princess?”

“M-Mhm—ah—“

“Yeah?” You feel Vi smile on your lips.

Nodding your head, you whine, feeling your body grow weak the longer she fucked you.

“You’re so beautiful,” she murmurs against your neck, her voice low and husky.

Her fingers move quickly as they piston in and out of you, a soft squelching noise filling the empty room, teasing and testing your boundaries, gauging every reaction you give her. You could hear the low thrum of the music outside, playing in the lounge and in the bar, but you can barely begin to think about anything else other than the way Vi was making you feel, the way you were coming undone right in front of her.

“Look at you,” she whispers, her voice thick with adoration, “so pretty like this.”

Her free hand, the one that was fondling your tits, moves from your waist to cradle your face, her thumb brushing over your cheek as she leans in to kiss you deeply.

And holy fuck, you could feel it—how close you suddenly were.

You were sure Vi could feel it, too. She groans against your neck, head falling to your shoulder as she breathes you in, feeling your tight walls clench around her digits. You close. You were so damn close—

Then, Vi’s ears twitch—the sound of footsteps coming closer from behind the door.

She freezes. But only for a brief moment when she hears Mylo’s voice through the door, her body going taut as she glances at you. Your eyes widen, but Vi doesn’t pull away. Instead, a sly grin spreads across her face, her pupils blown wide as she looks at you.

Her lips find your ear, her words sending a shiver down your spine. “Stay quiet for me, yeah?”

And instead of stopping, her lips curl into a mischievous grin. Her fingers don’t falter, if anything she thrusted them faster into your wet pussy, her other hand moving quickly to cover your mouth as a quiet whimper escapes you, muffling all your delicious moans. You whimper against her mouth, eyes rolling back, not sure when you were going to cum. You felt so close—so fucking close.

“Shhh,” she whispers, her mouth brushing against your ear, her voice low and dripping with amusement.

From the other side of the door, Mylo’s voice comes again, confused but unconcerned. “Vi? You in there? You good?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she calls out, her voice steady, calm, like nothing at all is happening. “Just… needed a minute.”

You feel your face heat up as you struggle to stay composed, muffled against her palm, your eyes wide and pleading. But Vi’s gaze is locked onto yours as she continues to fuck you.

“Well, can you hurry up? The bar’s getting packed,” he says.

“Y-Yeah, I’ll be there!” Vi sighs as your legs begin to tremble.

Mylo grumbles something you can’t understand, footsteps retreating as he wanders off.

As soon as the sound of his steps fades, Vi lets out a low chuckle, finally removing her hand from your mouth. Her thumb brushes against your lips as she leans in close, her breath fanning your cheek. You were right around her fingers, and Vi couldn’t help but groan and press her thumb against your clit.

You jolt in her arms as you hold on to her shoulders for some leverage, trying to keep yourself steady, even though it felt like an impossible task. Vi groans when you clench, your soaking wet pussy dripping down your thighs, dripping onto her hand as she fingers you.

Vi could feel it on her fingers, slick and tight. How close you were—fuck fuck fuck. She moved faster and all you could do was hold on and cry into her shoulder.

“V-Vi, I—close—I’m—“

“You wanna cum? Yeah?” Vi whispers, using her body to press you against the door, fingers thrusting harder, deeper and faster. “Cum for me, baby.”

Then it crashes. Vi feels your body tense under her touch, your breaths coming faster as you gush around her fingers. She can see it in the way your hands clutch at her shoulders, the way your head tilts back slightly, lips parting as a soft, desperate mewl escapes your mouth.

But before that sound can grow louder, Vi’s lips crash onto yours, swallowing the moan that tries to escape. She doesn’t stop her fingers until you’re trembling in her arms. You melt against her, your body trembling, leaving you breathless and clinging to her, her strong arms and broad shoulders hold you up. Vi doesn’t pull back, keeping her lips on yours until she’s sure you’re done riding it out.

When she finally does break the kiss, her lips linger close, her forehead resting gently against yours. You’re panting softly, and she’s just smiling.

“Fuck,” she murmurs and you can feel her smirk against your skin as she presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth.

Vi’s hand slows to a stop, pulling her fingers out of you slowly, her palm pressing flat against your thigh as she watches you. Her gaze is stuck on you, like she couldn’t believe what she’s seeing. The way your body trembles against hers, the soft flush of your cheeks, the way your lips part as you gasp for breath—it’s all too much and somehow not enough at the same time.

Her chest tightens as she leans her head forward against your shoulder. Vi wasn’t prepared for this—wasn’t prepared for you. And the thought crashes into her like a freight train: she’s falling hard. Maybe she already has.

She lifts her head up and he thumb absentmindedly brushes against your skin as you catch your breath. You’re leaning against her now, your head resting lightly on her shoulder, still dazed and glowing after your orgasm. Vi doesn’t even realize she’s staring, her lips slightly parted, her pupils blown wide with love.

She blurts it out without even thinking.

“So… dinner… Friday?”

Her ears burn as she watches for your reaction.

“I mean—” she starts, her voice faltering, unsure whether to backtrack or double down.

But when she glances down at you, still pressed against her, all she can do is grin sheepishly.

“You’re seriously asking me out… right now?” you say, lifting an eyebrow at her. Your voice is soft and teasing, but still a little breathless from everything that just happened.

Vi’s lips curl into a crooked grin, and she lets out a laugh that’s equal parts nervous and amused. She’s holding you up slightly, biceps flexing under her shirt, her hands resting lightly on your hips, her thumbs grazing the fabric of your dress like she’s afraid to let go.

“Yeah,” she says, her voice low but steady, her grin widening. “Is that a problem?”

You shake your head, narrowing your eyes at her like you’re trying to figure her out. You dart your eyes downward, glancing down at where her hands are on you, feeling the warmth of her touch through the thin fabric.

“Stupid,” you mutter under your breath.

You stare at Vi.

“Friday?” you ask softly, tilting your head slightly, your voice teasing her.

Vi nods again, more earnestly this time, her lips parting like she’s about to say something, but nothing comes out. Instead, she just looks at you, like she’s this big, lovesick puppy. And, if she had a tail right now, you’re pretty sure it would be wagging hard enough to knock over a chair or two.

“Friday,” she repeats.

She shifts on her feet slightly, her hands still resting on your hips, thumbs brushing tiny circles against the fabric of your dress. You bite back a laugh, your smile growing as you watch her, all nervous and excited.

“Okay,” you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Vi’s entire face lights up, her crooked grin spreading so wide it makes her dimples appear.

“Yeah?” she says softly, and you nod, still smiling.

And then she stops, her eyes flickering to your lips one last time, but she doesn’t move any closer.

She’s waiting—patiently, sweetly—for you to close the gap if you want to. And it makes your heart ache a little because she’s trying so hard to hold herself back for your sake, even when you can tell it’s killing her.

But as soon as your eyes day to her lips and smile softly, her restraint crumbles. She leans in and kisses you, her hands tightening slightly on your hips. Vi’s heart feels like it’s about to burst out of her chest. She likes you—so much it scares her, so much she doesn’t know what to do with herself right now except kiss you harder.

You kiss her back with just as much intensity, your fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt to pull her even closer. You can feel the slight tremor in her hands where they grip your hips, sliding up slowly to your waist. She tastes like peppermint gum and something faintly sweet, and the way she kisses you makes your heart race so fast you’re surprised she can’t feel it through your chest.

Vi pulls back for just a moment, her forehead resting against yours as she exhales a shaky breath. Her lips are still parted, her eyes half-lidded as she looks at you, and she’s smiling—wide and boyish and so full of joy that it makes your chest tighten.

“I really, really like you.”

You laugh softly, your hand moving up to touch her jaw, your thumb brushing over her cheek where her tattoo is.

“I really, really like you, too,” you tease, your own voice a little shaky from how lightheaded you feel.

Vi grins, her dimples showing, and then she kisses you again, this time slower, softer, like she’s savoring it.

You cant think of anything else but her. The noise from the bar, the memory of whatever brought you here tonight—it’s all drowned out by the feeling of Vi’s lips on yours and the warmth of her hands on your waist.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself stop overthinking.

Vi feels like she’s floating, her chest so full it feels like she might burst. She likes you so much it almost hurts, and the way you kiss her back like you feel the same way makes her head spin. She pulls you just a little closer, her fingers slipping around your waist, and she can’t stop the quiet, breathless laugh that escapes against your lips. You smile into the kiss, your own heart thudding loudly in your chest.

If this is what liking Vi feels like, you think, you don’t ever want it to stop.

ty for reading ! | navigation

[lunch-munch]

current girlfriend | fluff ʚɞ

warnings: none summary: you had seen that TikTok trend where you referred to your partner as your "current gf/bf" and wanted to test it on Billie to see her reaction hehe

You adjusted your phone against the stack of books on your dresser, making sure the lighting hit just right. You'd been putting together this outfit for twenty minutes—a vintage band tee tucked into high-waisted jeans, layered with rings and your favorite chunky sneakers.

"Okay, let's do this," you murmured to yourself, hitting record.

"Hey guys! So I'm obsessed with this look today," you said, stepping back to show the full outfit. You did a little spin, grinning at the camera. "The tee is thrifted, obviously, and these jeans are actually Billie's but don't tell her I stole them again."

From the other room came a muffled "I can hear you!" followed by Billie's distinctive laugh.

"Billie! Come show them your fit!" You called out, still filming.

A few seconds later, Billie appeared in the doorway, wearing an oversized dark green t-shirt, paired with basketball shorts and some slippers, cause we like to be cozy around here. Herblack hair was in a messy bun, and she had that slightly sleepy look since she had been working on music all morning.

"Dude, I look like I just rolled out of bed," Billie said, shuffling over with her hands buried deep in her shorts pockets.

"You always look good, shut up," you replied, then turned back to the camera with a bright smile. "And this is what my current girlfriend is wearing today."

Billie's head snapped up so fast you were surprised she didn't get whiplash. "Current?" she raised her eyebrows, giving you a sceptical look. "Current girlfriend?"

You kept your expression neutral, continuing to film. "Yeah, I love how oversized everything is on her. Very comfy, very Billie."

"Yo, hold up." Billie stepped closer, that little crease appearing between her eyebrows, and she shook her head slightly before giving you a look. "What do you mean current girlfriend? Like, as opposed to what? Your former girlfriend? Your future girlfriend?"

"I mean, you're my girlfriend currently, aren't you?" you said innocently, fighting back a smile.

Billie tilted her head. "I—yeah, but why are you saying it like that? Current?" She pulled her hands out of her shorts pockets, gesturing vaguely. "That's weird, dude."

"How else would I say it?" you asked, keeping your voice casual while still filming.

"I don't know, just... your girlfriend? Like normal? Seriously, what's with the 'current' thing? That sounds like I'm temporary or something." Billie said whilst continuing to study your face.

"It's fine," you said, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. "Just showing off our fits."

Billie studied your face for another moment, then shrugged. "Okay, whatever. But yeah, I look like I just rolled out of bed compared to you." She gestured at your put-together outfit. "You always make me look like a slob."

"You look perfect," you said, and the genuine affection in her voice made Billie's cheeks pink slightly.

"Shut up," Billie mumbled, but she was smiling now. "Are you done filming? I want a smoothie."

"Alright, now me and my current girlfriend are going to make some smoothies" you repeated to the camera, fighting to keep your expression neutral.

Billie's eyebrows shot up. "Okay, now you're definitely being weird." She crossed her arms, studying your face intently. "Why do you keep saying it like that? Current, current, current—it's freaking me out a little."

Your mouth started twitching, fighting back a smile as you watched Billie get more worked up.

"Wait, are you laughing?" Billie stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "Babe, why are you trying not to laugh right now?"

"I'm not—" you pressed your lips together, but a small giggle escaped.

"Oh my god, you are!" Billie threw her hands up. "What is happening? Did I miss something? Why is this funny?"

That broke you completely. You doubled over laughing, phone shaking in your hands. "Your face! Oh my god, Billie!"

"What about my face?!" Billie looked genuinely bewildered now. "Bro, you're freaking me out. What did I do?"

"It's a prank," you managed between laughs. "It's this TikTok thing where you call your partner your 'current' boyfriend or girlfriend and film their reaction."

Billie stared at you for a solid three seconds. "Are you serious right now?"

"Dead serious," you said, finally catching your breath and stopping the recording.

"Dude." Billie ran both hands through her hair. "I was genuinely trying to figure out if I fucked up somehow. You're evil."

"But you love me anyway," you grinned.

"Unfortunately," Billie said, but she was smiling too. "Now you owe me a smoothie for emotional trauma."

AN: okay so I guess this is my debut haha

[littlelovelunette]

Ambessa or Sevika putting reader over her knee while doing paperwork spanking them every time they get frustrated with work completely ignoring the reader

Frustration

Featuring— Ambessa Medarda and Sevika

Warnings: Spanking, mildly smut.

Ambessa Medarda !

Ambessa was so nonchalant about it when she pulled you over her lap and ripped your panties off your ass as if it was the thinnest fabric on earth.

"My my." She taunted. "What a slutty underwear," she throws away the useless fabric, "Must've chosen it out to give me a show." She squeezed your ass. "Right, dearest?"

You got goosebumps as you grip the side of her chair, drawing in a deep breath as you feel Ambessa's big hand covering the entirety of your ass.

"Too bad, I'll be a little too busy to give you that sore of attention right now."

Ambessa's right hand lifted off your back and she concentrated on the paperwork, pen gliding smoothly down the paper as she filled in some calculations for her next long campaign. A number went a little too high— the first swat came down on your ass cheeks. Smack!

It was loud, your cheeks jiggled from the force and a slight red handprint formed afterwards.

"So sorry, doll."

She rubbed your butt, as if comforting you from the sting of her hand as she focused on writing again, muttering the additions as she scribbled some more numbers onto the little tables of the documents. You moved a little, shifting slightly to get comfortable and earned another swat. Then another.

Smack! Smack!

Tight, hard. Unforgiving.

"Don't want your wife angry, now do you, sweetie?" Ambessa asked simply as she stacked the papers and put them away, dragging a new file towards herself.

"Nuh-uh," you muttered.

"Louder."

Smack! Smack! Smack!

"I'm sorry, no, please... I don't want you angry at me." You whimpered, teary eyed as you clutched the chair for dear life.

"There we go. Such a sweet girl."

Ambessa squeezed your ass with one hand as she traced the lines of the paragraph printed on the document with the other. You didn't know how long you stayed there over her lap, letting her use your ass as a stress reliever.

Whenever the numbers didn't add up right, she smacked your ass as if that would solve all her problems. They werent hard smacks necessarily but they were tight and harsh in their own ways.

"Ambessa... It stings a lot..." You whimpered out, sniffling.

"Is that so?" Ambessa squeezed your right buttcheek— smack!

And it went on for the day...

Sevika !

Sevika hated whenever she needed to arrange up a new blue print for her mechanical arm. Although she knew Silco would easily have an expert mechanic do it for her if asked but she didn't want to rely on anyone for help— that's just how she was. You brought her a glass of whiskey. She worked the best with alcohol afterall.

"If you need anything else, call for me I'll be right here," you smiled and gave her shoulder a squeeze.

Her hand wrapped around your waist. "Come."

You blushed when she snuggly pulled you over her lap but then the giddiness was replaced by something darker— lust. You felt the way she eyed your plump ass and teased the hem of your skirt before pulling it up.

"Pretty," she traced the lace of your panties. "I've been stressed. I need a way to cope."

"Cope?" Your curiousity was cut short.

Smack!

Your eyes widened and a small gasp left your throat. Sevika paused to take in your reaction before she chucked and dipped two fingers at your crotch, pushing your panties aside, pulling them back and showing you how they were slicked in your juices.

"Filthy slut. You liked that, didn't you?"

Smack! Smack!

You didnt have an answer for her and so that night you stayed like that, awaiting a smack every time Sevika got stuck over a calculation or a complicated gearing.

By the time Sevika was done, your ass was covered in red and was sore. The stinging pain made you wanna rub it but you didn't dare move from your place.

"Look at ya', all quiet and compliant for me."

Sevika pulled your panties down, her calloused flesh hand running down the curve of your now reddened ass. You let out a low whimper.

"Did so well for me, mama," she let you up and had you sit on her lap. You wrapped your arms around her and rested your face against her chest. "You're okay now." She whispered and held you close. "My good girl."

[chrissv4mp]

♱ ONE DOOR DOWN

warnings. smut, use of y/l/n, masturbation, p in v, unprotected sex, subtop!billie, dirty talk, mild praise kink, language.

synopsis. your counselor asks you to ride along with the track team while they're on their tournament. you're not particularly happy about it, until rooms are assigned and billie texts you late at night.

au. g!p jock!billie × leadership/cheerleader!reader

words. 3.7k

letters. quickest thing i've written in a while, WHO CHEERED 😛

you found out during sixth period. just before class ended, your name was called over the intercom to come to the counselor's office, and your leadership advisor had told you there was some kind of last-minute shuffle, that the chosen leadership rep had something come up and they couldn't make it.

she follows up by saying you're the next best choice because you're "reliable," "organized," and "a good presence for the younger athletes." along with a quiet comment about how you were the first choice, but they decided to give someone else a chance.

you want to say no. want to point out the large stack of homework on your desk that you'd usually have done by now but got too busy, the group project in history that no one else is working on, the way you hate long bus rides and shared hotel rooms and being in charge of a bunch of kids who don't listen.

but you don't.

because you're reliable. organized. a good presence.

so now it's friday night and you're standing in an—almost empty—hotel lobby six hours away from home, sitting and staring at a man arguing with the front desk ladies.

the head track coach is listing off room assignments, voice heavy with exhaustion and irritation from the long, rowdy bus ride here. people are cheering tiredly once they hear their names together, some groaning, and others immediately rushing down the stairs and to the elevators in an effort to beat the other there.

you're leaning your chin against the palm of your hand, nearly asleep, when you hear your name being called.

"y/l/n," coach avery murmurs. "and... eilish. rooms 129, 130."

billie glances over at you, backpack slung over her shoulder, duffel bag hanging loosely on her other. her lips twitch up in a small smirk as she nods at you, the hall, and then gets up without another word.

you follow behind her slowly, feet dragging against the carpet as you make your way to the elevators. it's quiet until you reach the second floor and check into your room, the door shutting behind you. that's when you finally let out a groan of exhaustion.

before anything else, you drop your backpack in the corner along with your suitcase, unpacking your toothbrush, hairbrush, and makeup. you set everything in the bathroom, then go back out into the room and unpack your outfit for tomorrow, setting it on the little desk by the tv.

with that done, you turn off the overhead lights, strip out of your clothes, climb under the sheets, and flick on the bedside lamp, getting comfortable beneath the soft comforter and trying to ignore the hard feeling of the pillows.

then a door opens. and it's not the room door.

it's the adjoining door between yours and billie's rooms. your eyelids flutter open slowly as you prop yourself up on your elbows, squinting.

she's leaning against the door frame, towel slung around her neck, sports bra hugging her chest, collarbones still a little damp from her shower.

"goin' to bed so soon?" she asks, voice smooth, low. teasing.

you pretend not to look at her chest. or the way her shorts hung low on her hips. you fail. miserably. so, you try to brush it off with a reply. "that bus ride was hell. i'm surprised you're not dead asleep right now."

billie grins, stepping into your room. "can't go to bed without a kiss, boss, you know that."

that stupid nickname. she'd started calling you that recently, and ever since, it stuck with her. and you hated how much it actually effected you, how much you loved hearing the way it rolled off her tongue.

"mhmm," you deadpan. "well, tonight, you're going to."

she groans loudly, exaggerating the sound and acting like you just stabbed her right through the heart. billie fake-limps toward the bed, fingers curling at the edge of the mattress and frowning when she sees you roll back onto your side.

"baby," she whispers. "you're, like, a different person when you're tired. it's kinda funny." you roll your eyes at that.

when you kick her from under the sheets, she jumps back. "but alright. whatever you say, boss."

"take your ass to bed, billie," you grumble under the sheets.

and she does, muttering a small "i love you" before she pads back into her own room, not even bothering to lock the door behind her. when she leaves, you think it'll be easier to get to bed. but it's quite the opposite, especially with the loud ac humming in the room and the thoughts of c's and d's filling your grade book when you get back.

the missing assignments you had were already starting to pile up, and you couldn't afford to get kicked off the leadership team this late into the year just because mrs. johnson is on top of everything with her grading technique.

so you slip the covers off your body and walk over to your backpack, grabbing your laptop from inside of it and crawling back into bed. the bright screen so close to your face makes you flinch when you open it, not used to the lighting this late at night.

you go through multiple assignments in the span of 15 minutes, answering test questions like they're preschool topics, along with fixing up the weekly newsletter that always seemed to have a million typos although the writer was your english teacher. you couldn't blame him through, you always saw mr. grayson falling asleep behind his desk while flipping through a powerpoint.

the chill of the ac makes you shiver. and it's nearly midnight when your phone dings, lighting up on the bedside table and catching your attention.

shutting your laptop and setting it on the table where your phone was placed, you grab the small device and unlock it. it's billie.

bils, 11:48pm: it's cold without u

bils, 11:48pm: keep turning over like ur gonna be there

bils, 11:49pm: wanna feel your skin on mine.

your breath hitches, eyes flicking over the words over and over again like if you re-read them you'll maybe see something different. but, nope, it's exactly what you think.

she was always like this. bold. shameless. never scared to send something risky. and this just proves it.

but you don't give her the satisfaction of your real reaction.

you, 11:51pm: you should've stretched harder today, eilish. maybe you'd be faster at getting over yourself.

the message doesn't even read 'delivered,' it just flicks to 'read' as soon as it's sent. you see the typing bubble appear as you laugh, then they disappear.

no reply for a few minutes.

you blink once. twice.

one message, plus an attachment.

you open it. and—god, this girl might be the death of you.

billie. lying in her already messy bed, sheets pulled down low on her body. bare chest on full display, the swell of muscle visible under soft skin. she has one arm bent behind her head, the other resting low on her stomach. your eyes trace over the faint lines of her abs until you realize it—her hard, thick length protruding from between her legs.

the tip is red, swollen and dripping with precum already. it's resting against her lower stomach, veins running up the base and making your stomach twist.

your mouth goes dry.

the text under the photo doesn't help.

bils, 11:57: need u bad. pls come over here.

you let out a small sigh, shaky and desperate as your eyes flick to the door. it's cracked open just a bit, giving you the smallest opening to peek through. but all you can see from your bed is the edge of her mattress.

so you get up, slowly, pushing the covers off and stepping onto the soft hotel carpet. your heart stutters as you reach for the door handle, fingers twitching—but then you hear it, and you swear your heart stops for a moment.

quiet whimpers, shaky gasps, broken moans of curses and—and your name. repeatedly. those words catch your attention before the fast, wet squelching sound does. she's touching herself. couldn't even wait until you got there.

it makes you even wetter than before.

you twist the handle slowly, pushing the door open all the way and freezing in place when you finally see her. billie. at the edge of the bed, one hand wrapped around her length as the other gripped the sheets so tight her knuckles bled white. her skin was shiny with a thin layer of sweat, strands of hair sticking to her neck and forehead as she stroked herself.

her room is darker. warmer. it smells like vanilla lotion and her arousal. you can hear the faint voice of some sports commentator on the tv, but nothing can overpower her desperate moans and the sound of her hand pumping up and down her dick.

when you step in and shut the door behind you, billie finally looks up—eyelids hooded, lips parted and swollen from biting down so hard, cheeks flushed. she moans quieter, hand stopping at the tip of her length.

"knew you'd come," she smirks lazily, voice low. needy.

you swallow hard, hands moving to grip the dresser like you need an anchor.

"you're insane," you breathe. hardly a whisper.

"'nd you're late," she murmurs, eyes dragging hungrily over your body. "missed you." she whines, and your knees almost give out beneath you.

her breathing becomes even less even than before as you slowly stalk over, brows furrowing like the space between your two bodies physically aches. because it does.

she watches as you cross the room. slow. cautious. like you're afraid she'll disappear if you blink.

you stop just a few inches from where she's sat at the edge of the bed. her head tips back to look you in the eyes, seeing the desperation swirling in your irises even in the dark atmosphere of the room.

"please, c'mere," she begs, breathless.

the rapid beating of your heart against your chest is so loud you swear she can hear it. but you step closer anyway.

her hands find your hips immediately, pulling at the hem of your shorts and whining when you place your hands atop of hers, stopping her movements. you watch as her hips buck instinctively when you lean down to press a kiss to her lips—a quick one, leaving her wanting more when you pull back.

a small grin pulls at your lips when you feel her fingers digging into the fabric of your shorts.

"been thinking 'bout you all day," she says quietly, lower lip trembling. "watchin' you—mm, boss everyone 'round, lookin' so pretty in your little leadership shirt... had—god, it drove me crazy."

your breath stutters.

her eyes meet yours again—dark, needy, so full of longing to feel you against her, to feel you around her.

"billie, you can't just—" her lips find yours before you can finish your sentence, kissing you like she's been waiting for this since the moment she stepped on the bus.

and she has.

the second her tongue slips between your lips, you lose any ounce of self control you might've had left. her hands tug harder at your shorts, huffing in frustration against your mouth when you deny her once again.

billie whimpers against your lips, eyes fluttering open. "i'll be so good for you tonight."

and how could you not believe her? you always do.

still, you remove her hands from your hips and nod over toward the headboard. billie gets the message quickly, scooting back onto the mattress until her back hits the board. you rid yourself of your shorts, hearing billie's breath hitch at the sight of your curves in the shadows.

you crawl onto the comforter, eyes flicking to the way her cock stands proudly between her leg—9 inches. that's what she'd always brag about over calls when she was away for meets, games, tournaments. just whenever she was away from you for more than a day.

you'd only ever seen her once. just taking her into your mouth was a struggle by itself—you have no idea how big she'd feel inside of you.

billie shivers when you straddle her lap, hovering over her just close enough that it drives her crazy. lips close enough to hers that she'd feel your breath fanning across her skin, to watch the way her eyes search yours like she's trying to figure out if you're actually real.

"prove it to me," you whisper.

and billie wastes no time.

not rushed, definitely not slow—but intentional. she straightens up, hand sliding down your side until it rested on your hip, tugging you gently to fully sit down on her lap. her lips brush your collarbones, free hand pulling the strap of your tank top to the side so that she'd have more access to your smooth, soft skin.

her mouth is warm. lips pressing the most gentle, caring kisses along your neck, jaw, and cheek, until she reaches your lips and she really can't continue with the softness.

you kiss her back with the same amount of fervor, hands reaching around to tangle in her hair, nails digging into her scalp and massaging softly—so soft it elicits the smallest whine from billie.

the tips of her fingers tease the edge of your top, sneaking under the hem, not quite waiting for confirmation but not exactly rushing it either.

"couldn't wait 'til after your meet tomorrow, could you?" you tease against her lips, pulling away just to see her.

she shakes her head quickly.

you pause. "use your words, track star."

billie's cheeks flush in embarrassment at the name. "y'looked too good to wait. needed my hands on you now."

her hands slide around, moving to your back slow and reverent, pulling your shirt over your head. you shiver when the cold air hits your skin, but her hands are warm and grounding and right there, soothing the chill and teasing the clasp of your bra.

your lips curl into a smirk when she doesn't undo it, pulling away just enough to take her in, your eyes dark and teasing.

"gonna do something or are you just gonna stare?"

billie huffs, pouting and working her fingers quickly on the clasp, undoing it and watching as you slide the straps off your shoulders, throwing it to the floor without a care in the world.

"you're so pretty," she mumbles, leaning close and pressing sloppy kisses down your sternum. "so perfect."

you tilt your head back, eyes fluttering closed as you bask in the feeling of billie's plump lips wrapping around your nipple, tongue flicking along the bud until she feels it harden beneath the stimulation. she moves on, her hand coming up to palm your breast as she wraps her lips around your other nipple, earning a pleased moan from between your lips.

her hand grabs your thigh so tight you're sure it'll bruise in the shape of her palm, dragging you down closer on her lap where she's already so hard it makes your head spin.

you grind into her mindlessly, hips moving on instinct. she lets out this soft, broken sound against your skin that makes your entire body throb, arousal pooling into your panties and forming an obvious wet spot. her hips buck up, eyebrows furrowing in painful pleasure.

"please. please, baby," she begs, letting your nipple go and resting her forehead on your chest. "want—fuck, i need to be inside you so... so bad."

"show me," you say, just as needy. "be good like you promised."

her eyes flutter shut at your tone, her trembling lip caught between her teeth. her hands slide back down to your hips, lifting you without struggle, bucking her hips up against the thin fabric separating your arousal from hers.

she breathes heavy into your neck, whining and whimpering as she rocks her hips against the warm fabric, feeling your sticky slick even through your panties. "take 'em off—"

"s'no time," she cuts you off with a moan, a few octaves higher than before. "can't—baby, i can't w—wait anymore."

"then don't."

billie shivers when it reaches her ears, one of her hands coming down between your legs to push your panties aside. you hover over her, lips parted slightly as you slowly lower yourself down onto her cock. you choke on a moan before you're even past the tip, feeling just how big she really is.

what she feels somehow seems more enhanced—especially with the way she's shaking and gasping and digging her nails into your skin. she can't take her eyes off the way your pussy swallows her so well, taking inch by inch with hardly any pauses.

your fingers pull at her hair harsher than before, unable to contain yourself once she finally bottoms out.

"fuck, fuck, fuuckk—so... you're so tight, ma," she whimpers, stumbling over her words, cock throbbing. "feels... s'good."

a moan of her name rips through your throat when she bucks her hips up without control, both of your eyes squeezing shut at how good it felt. she grabs your hips tight, thrusting up in sloppy, deep motions that make the whole hotel room fade away until it's just you, billie, and the heat blooming in your stomach.

every time she brings you down, she whispers something.

"so tight."

"missed you."

"wanted this so bad."

"wanna make you cum," she whines, head falling back against the headboard when she feels you clench around her throbbing length.

your jaw falls agape when billie's hand sneaks between your thighs and starts to rub tight, controlled circles on your puffy clit, urging your hips to move forward against the extra stimulation.

when your bounces start to get slower, billie whimpers and quickly—but gently—flips you over, your back on the mattress and her body hovering over you. her hips never stop moving, thrusting faster and deeper and maintaining a steady pace.

"bein' so good f'me," you praise between moans, nails dragging down billie's back and leaving a trail of marks. "fuck, don't stop, bil."

she whimpers directly into your ear, her rapid breath fanning across your neck and sending goosebumps all along your body. your legs wrap around her waist, pulling her closer and causing her dick to slide deeper into your cunt, her tip kissing your cervix perfectly.

billie gasps loudly, brows furrowed and face red—you kiss her without wasting another second, not wanting her coach or one of her teammates to come knocking on your door telling you to be quiet. the teasing would be terrible for the next few months.

"gotta be quiet," you mutter against her swollen lips, "can you do that f'me, pretty girl?" you ask, voice broken.

she nods eagerly, lips finding yours again to shut herself up—she doesn't trust herself not to make more sounds with the way you're squeezing her so tight, the warm feeling in her belly nearly overwhelming.

you cum without warning, moan muffled against billie's lips, legs wrapped tightly around her waist as she fucks you through it, her hand between your bodies and rubbing your clit to help you ride your high through every last aftershock.

the feeling of your walls fluttering around her length had her head spinning, mouth running dry, the knot in her stomach about to snap. she just needed to warn you before—

"baby—oh fuck—baby, m'gonna cum," billie whines, hips stuttering, "can't—oh my god, i can't—"

you can't even process how billie pulls out just as she lets herself go, sticky, white ropes of her arousal pooling onto your skin and the ruined fabric of your panties. her breath comes out in fast, sharp gasps as she comes down, fingers wrapped around her length and pumping quickly to prolong her orgasm.

her hips still buck subconsciously even when she pulls her hand away, cock going soft.

the both of you just sit there for a few minutes, staring at the mess that billie made, breathing heavy in the warm space of the hotel room that you're realizing is really quiet now that you two aren't lost in the pleasure.

you see billie finally snap back into reality the second she hears your quiet giggles, eyes flicking up to yours. her cheeks flush under your gaze, hands moving to find the comforter and hide herself under it. she's so shy now that she isn't so needy. it's adorable.

"m'gonna go get a towel," billie murmurs quietly, fingers brushing along your thigh as she scoots off the bed and pulls on her discarded pajama shorts from before you came over.

she comes back from the bathroom after a few minutes, a damp towel in one hand. she parts your legs with her other hand, dragging the warm cloth along your skin to clean up her arousal. you shiver beneath the ticklish feeling, earning a small smirk from the girl between your legs.

"sorry," billie looks down again, clearing her throat. "...think i pulled out too late." she murmurs, cheeks heating up in embarrassment.

a soft grin pulls at the corners of your lips at her words, your hands coming down to grab at her forearms. billie gets the memo, tossing the towel aside and crawling over your body. she can't even look you in the eyes she's so shy, so ruined.

"wasn't your fault," you say, trying not to giggle. "you looked so pretty trying not to fall apart. seeing that was an apology in itself, so don't feel bad, bil."

that's when she finally gathers enough courage to look at you, the fog in her head slowly starting to clear out and get replaced with her usual smug personality.

she pulls the covers over your body, fingers finding your hips and pulling you close to her under the fabric, lips finding your shoulder, your neck, your jaw—anywhere she could manage to reach, she pressed a kiss there, each one sweeter than the last.

"...still got that goodnight kiss," billie murmurs quietly, smug, a grin forming on her lips like she's proud of herself. "you said i'd have to live without out, but here i am."

"kissing you anywhere i want," she brags softly, laughing against your skin as she does exactly that.

you roll your eyes, "yeah, well those goodnight kisses better be worth whatever shit we'll have to face tomorrow."

she goes silent immediately, pulling away from your body only to stare you dead in the eyes like you just confessed your undying hatred toward her. you laugh at the way her cheeks flush 10x redder than before. but then she shrugs, leans forward, and presses her face into your neck again.

"worth it."

tags. @mseilishmwah @sophloveswomen @mxqdii @livvydunneness @dyingbymistake @wiidfi0wer33 @loving1dsworld @tan1shere @fallingforfalll2 @cierraonline @dandelions4us @scarlittt @ifwdominicfike @slxtarchive @bilsdillldough @47lake @hopingforgoodblogs @mybluebossanova @strwberrybils @justtr @greenbttrflyy @billsbaby @bilsova @lottiepierce @northlndnisred @asterisk-eyes @dragoneyelashart @xxangelfarrlzxx @ilomiloblohshh @kittymarrow @meliciousmel13 @jul3esz @rightarion @svelish @eilishssiennaa @eeuni @dragoneyelashart @thinkshespretty @cnnibalize @canthelpit0 @hailwiggly @karaaeilish @bilswifee @drunkinyourbenz @aka-persephone @bitchesbrokenpromises

[mrsknowitallll]

Nobody Else But You

Elias Moore “Stack” x Black Plus Size Reader

Summary - You’re done with Stack, for good this time… or so you thought.

Warnings - Fighting, cursing, i think that’s it?

A/N - Had to write something for Stack’s fine ass too. May or may not do a part two.

You stormed toward the club, fist clenched at your sides.

“Move cornbread.” You huffed staring up at the larger man.

“You know i can’t do that girl, last time you came up in here stirring up a whole bunch of trouble and we can’t have none of that tonight.” He stood his ground, crossing his arms.

“It’s gone be a whole lot more if you don’t get yo big ass out my way, move!” You shoved past him causing him to stumble.

“Where Stack at?” You questioned narrowing your eyes at Slim.

“He in the back with Smoke.” The older man held his hands up in surrender not wanting any issues with you.

You burst through the door causing Smoke to grip his pistol, easing up when he realizes it’s just you.

“Hey baby what you doing he-“ Stack’s words get caught in his throat as you slap him, his head whipping to the side dramatically.

“That bitch can have you!” You snatched off the necklace with his initials on it he had given you, throwing it in his face.

“What the hell you talking bout? What bitch?” He looked puzzled as he chased after you, following you down the road.

“The bitch that you fucked last week in the joint, right on top of the bar after hours? Yeah she told me all about it, how you told her you loved her, how you told her you was gone leave me and run away with her.” Tears began to spill down your fat cheeks, your lip quivering as you spoke.

“I don’t know what lying ass huzzy done got into yo head, made you believe all that bullshit but i ain’t fuck nobody last week in the joint, i ain’t been fucking nobody else but you!” He raised his voice slightly getting frustrated.

“Don’t lie to me Stack, I can put up with a whole lot but cheating THEN lying bout it? Oh yeah i’m done, like I said that BITCH can have you.” You spat marching down the road.

“Y/N! Y/N! GET YA ASS BACK HERE!” He screamed stomping his foot like a child.

You bit your lip, sobs wracking through your body, this was the last time he’d play with your heart.

You got up early the next morning, despite your heartache life goes on and you had shit to do.

You stopped by Bo Chow’s shop grabbing some supplies that you needed to patch up a hole in your roof.

Usually you’d have Stack do that but you no longer needed him, you’d do just fine on your own.

“On the house.” Bo waved a hand dismissively as you attempted to hand him cash.

“Nu uh Bo, take my money, i don’t want no handout.” You shook your head shoving the cash into his hand.

“You family, take that and get on up outta here girl.” He shoved the cash back into your hand closing it into a tight fist.

“Alright just this once, but next time don’t pull that shit again.” You grinned playfully.

His face broke out into a smile and he shooed you away, handling the next customer.

As you walked down the desolate road back towards your home a car pulled up beside you, a familiar voice calling out to you.

“Get in the car girl.” Stack commanded.

“I ain’t getting in a motherfucking thang, take yo ass on somewhere man.” You snarled.

“Y/n stop playing round and get yo ass in this car!” He growled slamming the door, marching over to you.

“Or what nigga?” You challenged.

You knew he’d never hit you, despite all the bullshit he loved you and he wouldn’t dream of laying a hand on you. You just liked to push his buttons, it was easy when he had such a short fuse.

“Or imma put yo ass in there.” His voice softened, tone teasing as he pulled you against him.

“I’ll slice ya ass with my blade before you even get the chance, try me.” You leaned into his face, eyes daring.

“You’d cut me?” He chuckled biting his lip.

“With no hesitation.” You smiled faintly.

“Get yo ass in this car and let me talk to you.” He sent a harsh slap to your ass causing heat to pool in your gut.

You finally obliged placing your things in the back seat.

“You know i ain’t been with nobody else since i’ve been back right?” He questioned as you passed him the hammer.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore Stack, i mean you’ve done it before.” You looked away from him, tears welling up in your eyes.

He paused looking down at you.

Hurt flashed across his face at your expression, he never ever wanted to make you feel that way again.

He stepped down from the ladder grabbing your forearms and pulling you flush against him.

“I was younger then, stupid as hell, wreck-less, foolish. I’m a man now and i realize that while i was finding temporary bliss in the little gemstones around me I was too blind to see that i had a diamond right in front of me.” He held your face gently, leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss.

“And i didn’t fuck no bitch in the joint last week. Whoever told you that shit is a damn lie, they just tryna get me caught up, tryna come between us.” He placed his forehead against yours pecking you on the nose.

“I believe you baby, i’m sorry i let other people get in my head.” You sighed softly, eyes fluttering closed.

“It’s all good oh and one more thing.” He reached into his pocket pulling out the necklace that you threw at him the day before.

He placed it around your neck again, securing the clasp.

“I don’t wanna see it off of you no mo’, gotta let these niggas know who you belong to.” He spoke gruffly.

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: some nsfw

♡ fem reader

Thinking about what a dumb party girl you are and the poor loser who's stuck tutoring you in all the classes you skip.

You were one of those people who believed everyone to be her friend. The type that went shopping a lot and hung at the mall more days than you bothered showing up to class – a bit of an airhead.

He’d call you a bimbo, but you’re not really known to sleep around – something about finding the right guy.

You opened the door with a smile, “Hi, welcome! Come in~” and pulled him inside by his arm. “I just got out of the shower, so I haven't really gotten dressed – hope you don’t mind!”

You’re in pink from head to toe – a bit excessively, like you’d gone shopping in the little girl’s section, only… you don’t have a little girl’s body… and that top and those shorts are a little too tight on your curves.

“Doesn’t really matter what you wear as long as you got your books.” He answers nonchalantly – as though he isn’t trying hard not to make out the outline of your cunt where it’s cupped so tight in unfairly thin cotton.

“Okay then~” You giggle, interlocking your fingers with his before turning around and leading him in.

His eyes go to the crease of your asscheeks as soon as you turn around, looking at where they peek out from under your bootie shorts – plump squeezable fat jiggling on every peppy step you took in your fluffy bunny slippers as you pull him into the private comfort of your room.

“My parents are out of town, but they left money for pizza – or whatever else you might want~”

You were all alone?

He doesn't know if he likes that or not. Blind trust. Don’t you realize how much bigger he is than you? Doesn’t it cross your mind at all how you’d have to call the police if he decided he didn’t want to leave at the end of the night?

“Pizza’s good.”

You smile, plopping down on your bed. “Okay then, mister Tutor~” Everything in your room is pink as well. “What do you have in store for me?”

You shouldn’t say stuff like that. Gives the wrong impression. You’re lucky he isn’t a bad guy.

“Where’s your books?”

You look a little puzzled for a moment – as though it was an unprompted question. “Right! Uhm…”

You kneel down in front of your bed and drag a dusty stack of textbooks from underneath.

“Here.”

He raises a brow at you.

“Have you ever even opened them?”

You giggle again. “I’ve written my name on the inside like a good girl~”

He struggles hard not to swallow the tightness in his throat – feeling a twitch in his pants at the sight of you sitting on the floor like that.

“Well, it’s a pretty name.”

You look a little disappointed – or maybe it’s just in his head.

In any case, you rise from the floor and sit down in one of the chairs by the desk, which he’d guess had never held any book other than a magazine.

He picks up the textbooks and sits down in the other chair. And it’s odd, staring at himself in the mirror in front of you – but he has to, to see if he looks suspicious – if he’s showing any tells of how badly he wants to touch you.

He opens up the book on the top of the stack, hopes he doesn’t smell like sweat – and you put your hand on the tent in his pants.

The book flaps close, and he jumps out of his chair – and you innocently peer up at him with your long lashes.

Then you say, “What?” as though his reaction surprised you. 

He stays silent – blinking once, then twice – mouth dry and out of words.

You slant your head to the side. “Don’t tell me you had your heart set on teaching me math.”

You have a look on your face that makes him feel like begging.

Standing up, you stalk him until the backs of his knees hit the bed, and he falls down on it with a heavy thud – still stunned and stupid, looking at you with wide eyes as you mount him – rubbing that cute tightly-hugged mound upon his bulging crotch – making him groan with cinched brows, watching your pretty manicured fingers as they fiddle with his belt buckle.

“You really want this?” He asks breathlessly, and you stop to eye him – eyes wondering over that cute look of shock riddled all over his face.

You gave him a small catlike smile, bit your lip, and batted your coy doe-eyes down at him – running your hands up his chest until you reached his throat. “I wouldn’t exactly invite a big boy like you over, much less into my bedroom, if I didn’t want it.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Shigaraki, Shinso ♡ JJK – Nanami, Geto, Gojo, Megumi, Yuuta, Choso ♡ HQ – Tsukishima, Kuro ♡ CSM – Aki ♡ DS – Tanjiro, Zenitsu ♡ HxH – Feitan, Leorio

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

Full fic with smut available here:

[cherrychilli]

18+ Steve Harrington x f! reader, perv! Steve, best friend! reader Masturbation(m), voyuerism (f) implied PIV sex, very teeny tiny mention of body horror. Nothing graphic I prommy. WC:2.7K

A/N: Pervy Steve being pervy once again. Reader's a bit of a weirdo herself. Enjoy!

Steve's already beginning to regret his decision.

It's a sobering realization as he tries to think back on the last time he played ball with the team. Or with anybody for that matter. A long long time ago, he gulps.

The thing was, stacking VHS tapes at Family Video was certainly a far cry from the kind of exercise he used to do back in Highschool. Barely breaking a sweat. His breath remaining controlled and nowhere near labored.

And now here he was, damn near wheezing as he tries to catch up to you as your jog ahead of him, although if there's one thing that's making this hellish jog tolerable its that he gets to watch your ass bounce underneath those little shorts of yours.

"Just two more blocks, Stevie c'mon", you called over your shoulder at him as he sourly trudges on, making a mental note to never get roped into one of your fitness kicks again.

Throat hoarse, knees shaky and sweat aplenty, he manages a thankful smile at the sight of your house, the both of you agreeing to stop there because it was much closer than his own place.

Both his and your Nike's crunch over the gravel that fills your drive way, now much prettier lined with your mother's hydrangea bushes in full bloom. Fresh bunches of pastel blues, purple's and yellows attract buzzing bees and fluttering butterflies alike. It's beautiful enough to make Steve forget about the way his ankle clicks with every step after jogging up the slope that lead to your home.

"So, what are you going to stitch these onto next?", he gestures to the hydrangeas and your whole face lights up ecstatically. "I'm not sure just yet but I can't wait until I find something good enough".

It was no secret that you liked florals, most of your clothes featuring some kind of posy, big or small. But for the items that didn't have any, you learned quickly with a needle and some thread, embroidering all kinds of flowers onto your clothes and other belongings - cushion covers, tote bags, the pockets on your jeans, pillow covers and whatever else you could leave your mark on.

Walking up to the porch that wrapped around your house, the windchime tinkles above your heads as you work your key into the lock, the sound reminding Steve of clinking champagne glasses together which in turn reminds him of how positively parched he is.

When you get the door unlocked and step aside, you let Steve walk ahead of you this time, sensing his impatience as he heads into the kitchen, pouring the both of you a tall, chilled glass of ice water each.

You thank him and sip at yours, amused at the sight of Steve chugging his down. Well, not just amused. A rivulet runs down his chin and snakes down the length of his throat as his adams apple bobs up and down, dampening the sweat soaked collar of his shirt even more.

Putting your empty glass down, you discreetly turn your back to Steve, bringing your hands up to pinch your cheeks hard, as if it might help force out the weird but not exactly unpleasant feeling that sprouted as you watched him trying to quench himself. It wasn't the first time it's happened either. Just a side effect that came with being friends with the former King Steve you supposed. It was during times like this that you could see why so many wanted his attention.

Steve on the other hand hasn't noticed your reaction, only that the pleasantly chilly relief that washed over him is short lived when it comes time to head up to your room. It's on the second floor so Steve frowns at the sight of your oak staircase, slowly but heatedly ascending it, cussing all throughout the way. You're just so tickled by it, his silly disdain making you giggle.

Feeling sorry for him, you insist on letting him go in and shower first because it was the polite thing to do. There's a little back and forth exchanged between you two when Steve begins to feel a little embarrassed and suggests you head in first seeing as it was your bathroom but you press on until eventually you get him to give in.

"Alright alright. I'll be out in ten" he tells you, picking up his duffle bag containing a fresh pair of clothes for him to change into, stepping into the bathroom and closing the door behind him.

He sticks to his word, making sure to wrap up in under ten minutes because he hated keeping you waiting. But perhaps most importantly because he didn't want you to think he might be doing something he shouldn't.

It's something he's always been cautious about for a long time now. Many a time he's showered in your bathroom, carefully observing all of the products that make you smell as nice as you do. It's all innocent except that he can never shake knowing how you shed your clothes in here. How you work in your cranberry shampoo in your hair. How you squirt your cherry blossom body wash onto your loofah and run it over every inch of your body - your legs, between your breasts, your belly your --

Whipping his head side to side just in time like that might help eject the thought from his head entirely, he's able to snap out of it, toweling off and shoving his clothes on before taking a moment to compose himself.

Coming out, Steve nearly walks into you when he interrupts you in the middle of pulling off your socks and dropping them into the wicker basket by the bathroom door.

"I'll just be a couple of minutes" you tell him but you both know it'll be a little longer than. You weren't one to skip over your haircare and skincare routines. Not that Steve minded.

When the door clicks shut behind you Steve lays down on your bed, the soft mattress feels like heaven on his back after that cursed jog and it's all made even better because your sheets and your pillows smell like you.

He could have dozed off right there if he wanted but his mind keeps working. It makes him wonder. Having spent the night a few times he knows you throw on a pair of modest shorts and a wrinkled sleep shirt two sizes too big for you. But was that how you always tucked in for the night?

Were you the type to forego the shorts? maybe leave on a pair of panties under that billowing shirt? or did you discard that too? panties and nothing else. Or maybe you took those off too if the conversation he'd overheard you having with Robin was to believe.

"I feel like I'm on the menu, man. Barbeque all day. I pretty much live in my shower when I get back home that I might have to start paying rent for it", Robin comments on the heat.

"Shit, me too. Nights are the worst though", you reply, using a leaflet someone had handed you out on the street to fan yourself.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Sometimes I don't even towel off and that's how I get to sleep. No clothes, no covers. Just praying it doesn't get hotter. And that I don't wake up in a pool of my own sweat in the morning, you know?"

Oh fuck oh god no.

Steve stares down at his sweats, horrified to find the very evident outline of his cock tenting between his legs. And what's worse, he knows all too well that it won't go down on its own unless he takes care of it himself. It's always been this way. His dick is anything if not persistent.

He looks around your room in panic, surveying carefully. He knows he can't finish the way he usually does, messy streaks splattered on his soft belly. He needs something to clean up the mess without you finding out. That's when his eyes land on the dirty laundry hamper you'd used not even fifteen minutes ago.

Steve scrambles off the bed, approaching your hamper of dirty laundry. He can still hear the shower running inside, letting him know that he probably still has a little more time left.

Looking thoroughly, Steve figures you must have done your laundry recently because all that's there is a couple of t-shirts and...

He picks up one of your socks as it lays at the very top of the little pile, slightly damp but still plush and soft, a little sprig of lavender embroidered near the top by the Nike logo.

Just knowing you'd worn it makes his dick twitch and though it's a couple of sizes smaller than some of the socks Steve's used for the very same purpose, he guessed it'll be a tight fit but possible.

Quietly shuffling back into your your bed, Steve's quick to pull the waistband of his sweats below his cock and his ass.

He spits into his hand to slick it up and down his length, finding even more embroidered items neatly spread in every corner of your room -- a row of sunflowers running up your curtains, fuchsia colored tulips on your blanket, daisies on the robe you've left folded over your desk chair.

He thinks himself rotten for doing this. Using something of yours to help get him off. Especially something of yours which you'd gone through the trouble of making look nicer.

Although, if he's being completely honest, knowing that kind of makes him want to do it so much more.

To corrupt. To taint. To claim.

Steve gently, but with a sense of urgency, pulls your sock over his length. Groaning, he guessed right about it being a tight fit but that just makes the sensation all the better.

The slippery slick fibers makes him think of your mouth - your pretty lips when you're both outside, trying to beat the heat with a couple of cherry popsicles. Your red tongue always wrapped around the sweet treat in a way that Steve could never do but watching you suck at it and take it in inch by inch down to the bottom was just as good to watch too.

There was no dry chafing as he kept at it, precum soaking into the cotton too to help keep things wet and glide his cock through. Looking up at the ceiling he thinks of you on top of him. What he'd give to watch your tits bounce in front of his face, to hear the springs beneath your mattress groan and strain the harder you bounced on his cock.

"Oh Jesus, fuck", eyes squeezing shut. At this point he knows he's getting close, and all wants to think about before he cums is you coming out of your bathroom, draped in your bathrobe. The black satin one, although if you were emerge in that thick baby blue one you seem to favor you'd get no complaints from Steve about it.

His hand pumps harder and harder, picturing you undoing the sash from around your waist, pulling it open and letting it fall to the floor and pile there. The little pink Dahlia you'd stitched into it still visible where it sits on the floor.

"No clothes, no covers", Steve recalls you saying and that's exactly how he pictures you, draping himself over your nude body, touching and kissing you all over. Surrounded by the scent of you, pressing his nose to your pillow. He wants to know what you smell like if you were to let him bring his face between your legs. The soft scratch of your bush tickling his nose, the warm tangy slick collecting on his tongue as he runs it up between your folds, never forgetting to kiss your clit before he sucks it.

And that's what does it. Hips twitching, toes curling, eyes so close to rolling back into his head. Steve empties himself into the sock, filling it with the thick, sticky cum he'd much rather pump into you if you'd ever let him.

"Well, thanks for cleaning up Stevie"

He shoots up in your bed, horrified at being found out like this -- for fuck sake he's even still got your soiled sock fitted over his cock.

"I didn't hear the door open..." he wants to crawl out of his own skin and slip into somebody else'. Literally anyone else who isn't him would do.

"Oh don't worry about that. I caught an eyeful peeping through the keyhole." you walk over in your cotton shorts and t-shirt.

"So, what were you thinking about"? you cock your head to the side all inquisitive.

something about the way you're composing yourself tells Steve that you're neither mad nor trying to embarrass him. So there's no point lying at this stage is there?

"You", he admits shamefully. Like a puppy who'd chewed up the furniture.

"Oh yeah?", you inch closer to him, eyes dropping for a second to get a look at his limp cock still stuffed to the brim inside your sock.

"Would you like to feel the real thing? if your friend isn't too tired to come out and play that is", you wink at Steve who can only look back at you with his mouth agape.

"Yea-Ye-sur-yup. Yeah, I can do that", he sputters, cock already turning stiff again.

"Good, now lets get this thing off", you carefully peel the sticky sock off of his cock, stringy blobs of cum left behind.

"Wow, that's a lot. Have you always cum this much?", you ask with amazement, collecting some of it onto the pad of you index finger before rubbing it against your thumb. So slippery. still warm. so tempting to suck it right off your fingers.

"Only when I think of you", Steve confesses with a smile and it makes you feel ecstatic to hear it.

"Okay. Prove it", you grin, challenging him. Jumping on to Steve's lap where you can feel his dick already springing up again.

"Oh, you're really in for it now", he grins back, determined to leave you so sticky that you'll both need another shower to wash it all off again.

---

Morning comes, sunlight pouring in from between the curtains and he finds himself alone in your bed, alarm bells about to ring when he sits up to find you busy at your desk.

"Morning", You smile at him and it makes Steve feel a little silly for thinking you might have walked out on him.

"What you got there?" he tries to peer at the desk and you swivel your chair towards him, holding up a black t-shirt Steve recognizes as his own.

"Like it?" you look at him hopefully, finger tapping at the pocket on the left.

His heart begins to cartwheel, doing all kinds of gymnastics in his ribcage when we sees it. A bunch of powdery blue hydrangeas looking like they're emerging from inside his pocket.

"it's beautiful", he tells you honestly, pulling on his boxers to join you at your desk, running his thumb along the pretty stitching.

"So...would you mind if I made one to match?" you ponder cautiously, afraid it's too soon. Afraid of scaring him off.

"Yeah? you want everyone to know you're my girl?", he grins right in your face, his nose brushing yours. Exactly the opposite of what you'd feared.

The butterflies in your stomach delight in being referred to as his girl, a whirlwind of them fluttering their wings wildly.

"Mm...maybe I'll just stitch your mouth closed instead", you sass him just for fun rather than inflate his ego.

"Hm...but then I wouldn't be able to eat your pussy the way you like it", he counters easily.

That makes your face feels warmer and warmer, like you'd been standing out in a sunbeam without an umbrella.

"Fine. Wouldn't want a perfectly good mouth go to waste", you shrug.

"But one wrong move and it's the needle for you, Harrington", you point the sharp end at him, blue thread still looped through the other end. Your threat merely jest and nothing more.

"I'd be happy even if one day you decide you'd like to stitch us together". he says plainly. Not at all like the other remarks when it was more than clear that he was joking with you.

It shakes you for a fraction of a moment but the corners of your mouth pick up into an enamored smile. There's a big difference between wanting to be with someone and wanting to be attached to someone. You know he doesn't mean it in the literal sense but fucking hell, do you love the sound of it. To share the same blood coursing through your veins, to share the same flesh, to share the same scars once the stitches dissolve away.

No one without the other.

"Okay", you lean forward to press your lips to his. "That can be arranged".

[webslinger-holland]

Bucky x avenger or assistant in Thunderbolts timeline maybe

With All Due Respect | Bucky Barnes from Thunderbolts*

Summary: The newly appointed congressman and his sharp, no-nonsense assistant fight growing attraction behind closed doors—where power, restraint, and reputation collide.

Warning: mutual pining, yearning, tension, angst, some fluff in the end

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Assistant Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.8k

Type: Request

It was a bright and early Monday morning. The door to Congressman Barnes’ office opened with a soft click. The familiar rhythm of her heels tapping against the hardwood just enough to pull his tired gaze from the report in front of him.

She came into the room with a drink carrier balancing on top of a short stack of files in her hands. The sight of caffeine this early in the morning was the perfect wake up call. He straightened in his seat.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Bucky muttered, rubbing a hand over his face to wake up. “I was about to start chewing on the corner of this briefing.”

Carefully, Y/n went to lower the stack of files onto the top of his desk. He reached for the larger coffee automatically—until she effortlessly swatted his hand once. And he looked up at her slightly offended.

“That one's mine,” she said casually.

Bucky paused, brow raised. “What? Why do you get the bigger coffee?”

"I paid."

"You used my card." He replied bluntly.

She took a long sip from her cup which left a small red stain behind on the lid. “And the one who does more work gets the bigger caffeine dose. Your card was payment for emotional damage.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What damage?”

“Reading these.” She tapped her finger against the files left on his desk. She picked up the top one and tried to hand it to him, but he wouldn't budge.

Bucky groaned, slouching further in his chair like a teenager faced with summer homework. “I don't want to read them. They’re boring.”

“Tough luck. That's politics,” She dropped the folder on the desk with a satisfying thump.

He reluctantly reached forward to take the file. She briskly walked over to her own, much smaller desk near the front of the room. She missed the way his eyes watched her retreating figure. She came back only a moment later with a planner and pen in hand.

“You’re chairing two committees this week and your proposal’s being dissected in subcommittee," Y/n read from the planner and Bucky groaned again. "I need you awake, briefed, and at least pretending to care.”

He looked up at her, expression dry. “Remind me again why I hired you?”

“Because you were three hours late to your own ethics hearing and I saved your political career with one color-coded binder and a phone call just last month.”

“Right.”

Heading back to her desk again, Y/n sat down and got right to work. She typed emails, made phone calls, rearranged the schedule, and proofread packets for him.

All morning long, Bucky struggled to keep his focus on the packets in front of him often realizing his gaze was transfixed on someone else. She sometimes caught him staring, but he'd just pretend to read the packets again.

Picking up the phone and putting it to her ear, she typed a number and listened to the dial. She waved him down to get his attention.

"Don't forget about your lunch meeting with Henderson," she whispered because she anticipated someone to pick up the phone on the other end.

Bucky’s eyes softened. “You always remember the things I forget.”

“It’s literally in my job description, Congressman." She explained like it was nothing out of the ordinary, glancing at him from around her computer.

She always made the job easier. That was part of the problem.

She was brilliant and capable—keeping him afloat when all the politics threatened to drown him. Yet, every time he got too close, every time he lingered too long or made the mistake of looking at her like he wanted more, she’d pull away.

Professionally. Politely. Firmly.

She'd made herself absolutely, maddeningly off-limits to him.

He could see it in her posture—the steel spine, the strictly platonic smile. She was protecting them both. From rumors. From headlines. From himself quite frankly.

Still, that didn’t stop him from watching her when she wasn’t looking. And it didn't stop him from wanting her.

Later in the week, his assistant came into his office already talking on the phone with someone and just finishing up the conversation. He had been looking out the window of his office, but her sudden presence made him turn his head.

Watching with slight amusement, Bucky leaned back in his office chair and smiled at her mannerisms. She ended the call and tossed her phone onto her desk. Coming to round the side of his desk, she came to sit on the edge and slid some papers to him.

"Talking points for your meeting with the committee. And the full donor report you were too tired to finish reading last night.” She handed them off.

"So uptight," Bucky commented and Y/n sent him a look of warning. "Technically, I’m the one getting grilled by half of Congress today."

“And who prepped your notes, rewrote your speech, called your driver twice, and reminded you to zip your fly before you walked into the elevator?” Y/n wondered, lifting a perfectly arched brow.

Bucky blinked. “…That last part was a life-saving intervention.”

“Exactly.” She smiled. She held up a pen and pointed to a spot on the paper. "I need you to sign this."

"What are you doing this weekend?" Bucky asked, paying no mind to the form in front of him. "Have any plans?"

A long pause fell between them. She kept her gaze locked on the paper, still waiting for him to take the pen from her and pretending not to hear him.

"We could go out maybe—" Bucky began.

"James..." Y/n tried.

He knew that tone. And she only used his real name when she was dead serious about something.

“I know what it would look like. And you’re right to keep your distance.” Bucky confessed and lowered his gaze solemnly. “I just wish you didn’t have to.”

She felt a small gentle smile growing at the corners of her lips. "I'm flattered you asked."

As she sat perched on the edge of his desk beside him, Bucky spared her a glance. It was a shy and quiet glance; one with a slight hope for a future.

"Sign here," Y/n redirected his attention to the forms again. He reluctantly took the pen. "Focus, please."

So Bucky dutifully signed his name on the forms just like she wanted him to. She collected the papers together, suddenly satisfied and still keeping things professional.

Once she left, Bucky was left to his own thoughts once again. He wanted nothing more than to show his appreciation; for all her hard work, dedication to the job, and the patience she showed with him. The distance was starting to eat at him.

There was another fundraiser. The ballroom shimmered with low golden light with grand chandeliers casting a soft glow over polished marble floors and D.C.'s best-dressed elite. Bucky had shaken so many hands tonight he was sure he could sketch every cufflink from memory.

But all of it faded the second she walked in.

His breath caught in his throat.

Her dress was nothing flashy—she never went for loud—but it hugged her like a beautiful glove. She wore a deep navy silk that had a slit up one side. Her shoulders bare. Her hair was loosely curled and tumbling over her shoulders—very different from her regular pinned up look.

She didn’t look like his assistant.

He found her near the bar, chatting with a communications rep from another office. She turned just slightly as she sipped from a flute of champagne. Her lipstick looked wonderful in the lighting.

"Congressman,” Y/n acknowledged with a faint smile. She lowered her drink onto the bar that he leaned against.

"You trying to kill me?” Bucky asked with a deadpanned face.

Her face fell. "What?"

"That dress.” Bucky gestured to the dress and looked away just so he wouldn't be caught staring. She glanced down at herself and wondered if something was wrong with it.

"You don't like it?" Y/n wondered. She sounded ever so slightly disappointed.

"I do like it; that's the problem." Bucky confessed. He eased closer to her, so close that he could practically smell the perfume on her neck. "Did I… buy that? My card’s been a little overworked lately.”

She smiled to herself. "No, Bucky. You didn’t pay for this one.”

There was something about the way she said his name—low, teasing, familiar—that made his pulse spike. She only ever used “Congressman” around others in professional settings. Only on a few occasions did she slip up. And it made him feel like maybe she wasn’t entirely immune either.

"You look beautiful tonight," Bucky admitted softly.

Her smile faltered and he wanted nothing more than to make her smile like that again. She averted her gaze and reached for her drink again.

“Don’t,” she begged softly, keeping her voice low so nobody could hear except him. “Not here.”

“Why not here?” Bucky challenged just as gently.

“You know why.” Her tone was still gentle, but firm. She nodded toward the nearby photographers, to the colleagues, the staffers, the political sharks circling with champagne flutes. The wolves were always hungry. “They’re all watching.”

He hated that she was right. He just didn't want to say it.

“So this? You and me?" She motioned to the space between them. "It’s the one thing I can’t let myself have. I’ve worked too hard to be seen as more than someone who just looks good at your side. I do not want to be reduced to the assistant who sleeps with her boss.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away.

“I’d never let them reduce you like that,” Bucky said, quiet and certain like the way someone speaks a promise.

“I know you wouldn’t,” Y/n nodded. “But you wouldn’t be the one writing the headlines.”

Her gaze lifted to his again, just for a second. Just long enough for him to see that it wasn’t indifference keeping her at a distance—it was the way she cared too much.

And the way she knew better than to trust a world that never once played fair.

Just as she turned to walk away from him, Bucky reached out to grab her wrist so they stood shoulder to shoulder. He didn't look at her, just held her close enough to hear. His cold vibranium fingers digging into the flesh gently.

"At least let me take you home," Bucky knew this was all becoming too much for both of them. “You won’t even have to say anything. Just... let me be the one who gets you home safe.”

Her expression flickered. Not from annoyance. Not resistance. Just hesitation—the kind built on months of boundaries, and months of slowly breaking them.

"Fine." She agreed.

The drive back to her apartment was silent and so was the elevator ride up to her floor. The two of them stepped out of the elevator together and silently continued walking down the hallway. He loosened his tie because appearances where no longer needed.

Standing in front of her apartment door, Bucky seemed slightly taken back when Y/n hesitated to get her keys out of her bag. Instead, they just stood there together. Neither of them having the courage to look each other in the eye.

The silence between them was thick — full of all the things they couldn’t say in public, and all the things they still couldn’t say here. Not really.

Just when he opened his mouth to say something, she cut him off.

"Whatever you're going to say, please don't say it." Her eyes flicked up to his, looking more pained than anything

“Why not?” He took a step closer, then stopped himself. “It’s late. No one’s watching. Why can't we just say it?”

She exhaled slowly, and when she spoke again, her voice was barely audible. "Because if I told you how I truly felt about you, I wouldn't be able to hold back anymore."

He confessed. “Me neither.”

She tore her eyes away from him, fighting every urge to just cave in and let herself feel something for once.

“I think about it all the time,” Bucky admitted. His words were heavy with restraint. “What it would be like. If we just—”

She closed her eyes. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

“I don’t care about the headlines.”

“I do,” Y/n almost snapped. Then her tone changed softer again: “Because it’s not just your name on the line. It’s mine. And once people start talking… they won’t stop. I’ll be the reason you’re not taken seriously anymore.”

He swallowed hard. “You’re the only reason I am taken seriously.”

That hit her. She blinked, stunned quiet for a second.

He was in front of her before she could breathe, metal hand ghosting just beside her cheek. His other hand trembled near her hip like he didn’t dare touch her—until she didn’t pull away.

“Bucky…” Her voice was warning, pleading, trembling.

“I’m not your boss right now,” Bucky whispered. “I’m just a man who’s tired of pretending I haven't wanted you for longer than I know what to do with.”

And then he kissed her.

Hard. Desperate. Full of every word he wasn’t allowed to say.

She gasped into his mouth, hands flying to his shoulders like they would steady her. He didn’t hesitate; he cupped her face with both hands, mouth slanting over hers.

She kissed him back. God help her, but she did.

Their mouths moved like they’d done this a thousand times in dreams. His hands slipped to her waist, pulling her against him like he couldn’t stand the inch between them. She wrapped her fingers in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, deeper, needier.

And just when the kiss started to tip into something reckless— She pulled away.

Breathless. Shaken. Flustered.

They stared at each other with chests heaving. Their reality settling back in like cold water. Her fingers still fisted his shirt.

“I told you not to do that,” she whispered, voice broken.

“I know,” Bucky said. “But I’d do it again.”

Very carefully, Bucky leaned forward again with every intention of kissing her and capturing those lips he was already addicted to. However, Y/n quickly placed her hand on the center of his chest to stop him. She shook her head in denial; building up those walls once again to protect them both.

“We shouldn’t…” it pained her to say it—it always did. "At least not tonight."

"Alright," Bucky agreed. "I'll wait for you. As long as it takes. Another 100 years if I have to."

This pulled a soft chuckle from her lips; something that he'd especially grown fond of over the past couple months. She reluctantly pulled out of his grasp and opened the door to her place.

"Goodnight Congressman."

The dress peeled off like a memory—too expensive, too tight, too tied to a moment she wanted and couldn’t have. It landed in a soft heap on the floor.

She stepped into the shower and let the water run hotter than usual.

The hot steam filled the air. Her forehead pressed against the tile. She told herself it wasn’t emotion—just the weight of the week. The exhaustion. The pressure of playing someone composed when she wanted to fall apart.

She stayed in the shower longer than she needed to.

When she finally stepped out, she wrapped herself in a cotton robe, dried her hair halfheartedly, and climbed into bed for the night. She laid there comfortable, replaying those shared moments together over and over again in her head.

That was until her phone buzzed beside her. The name 'Bucky' showed up on the screen.

She hesitated. Then answered. Putting the phone up to her ear.

“Hey,” Y/n said quietly; her voice softer than it had been all evening.

"I didn't wake you up, did I?" Bucky's husky tone echoed into her ear.

"No," she smiled and tucked her legs under herself.

The line fell silent between them with neither of them willing to say something before the other. She heard the faint rustle of movement on his end. The city humming faintly through his window.

“I just wanted to make sure you got in okay,” Bucky said on the other side.

“You literally dropped me off at my door, Bucky.” Y/n sounded slightly confused.

“I know,” Bucky murmured, probably smiling. “I just… wanted to hear your voice.”

Her breath caught. The silence stretched again. She toyed with the string on her robe, not really sure what to say.

“You looked beautiful tonight,” Bucky added. His voice so gentle it didn’t feel like a compliment—it felt like a confession. She closed her eyes, head bowing.

“Bucky…” she hated all of this.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said quickly. “I just… I know you’re right. About everything. About how it looks. But when I’m around you, it’s hard to care about any of it.”

She didn’t speak.

“I didn’t call to make it worse,” Bucky added. “I just… I didn’t want the night to end without saying it. That’s all.”

Her hand tightened around the phone. She wanted to say me too. She wanted to say I feel it too. But all she could manage was:

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

A pause.

“Goodnight,” he echoed.

And the call ended.

THIS WAS MY FIRST BUCKY FANFICTION! PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU LIKED IT AND IF YOU'D LIKE MORE LIKE IT.

[gyuuberryy]

𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐌 !

pairing: venom!jay x reader

genre: venom au, one sided rivalry, loser!jay, office coworkers, superhero

synopsis: when a geeky coworker’s transformation catches your eye, curiosity leads to a discovery far darker—and more thrilling—than you ever imagined. now, blackmail has you entangled with jay and his possessive alter ego, venom, in a dangerous game neither of you wants to end.

warnings: kissing, fighting, venom??

note: where are my marvel girlies at whoo hoo! venom is so pookie and my biggest "hear me out" hehe he got me sobbing in the theatre. jay as venom would be SO hot kjvfbvnjb >< so i wrote this to make up for me going mia for a while, i have too much school work so writing will be slow. anyway enjoyyy reading!!

word count: 2.5k

your office life was a balancing act between emails, deadlines, and… keeping your one-sided rivalry with park jongseong alive. jay(as everyone else called him), with his slightly too-short ties and endearing but tragic fashion sense, was the clueless office geek. he was awkward, quiet, and too nice for his own good. yet, no matter how awkward he was, jay always managed to excel in everything he did, effortlessly snagging the praise you thought should have been yours.

what irritated you most was that jay never seemed to notice your rivalry. he was too busy offering you help or giving you his signature polite, bumbling smile. and sometimes, you’d even catch yourself watching him a little too closely, feeling a reluctant warmth for his harmless, good-guy charm.

one afternoon, you wandered over to his desk, smirking as you noticed his usual setup: notebooks organised to the millimetre, a stack of neatly sharpened pencils, and a sticky note that read “be confident!” in his looping handwriting.

he looked up as you approached, adjusting his slightly crooked glasses and giving you a shy smile.

“hey, park,” you began, leaning casually against his desk. “did you remember to double-check the new client report? i know how thorough you like to be.”

jay blinked, his cheeks turning pink. “y-yeah, i went over it twice… just to make sure everything was right.”

“of course you did,” you replied with a playful eye roll. “wouldn’t want our employee of the month slipping up, now would we?”

he smiled, looking down at his notebook. “just doing my best.”

you shook your head, laughing softly. for some reason, you loved seeing him blush, getting him all flustered with a few well-placed jabs. jay was sweet, awkward, and, despite your constant teasing, he never seemed to hold it against you.

but the next week, everything changed.

jay showed up to work that monday looking like a different person. gone were the slightly wrinkled shirts and too-short ties. instead, he wore a fitted, charcoal button-down with the top few buttons undone, revealing a silver chain against his collarbone. his sleeves were rolled up, showing his forearms in a way that made you do a double-take. and he’d traded his old glasses for sleek, dark-rimmed ones that suited him way too well, giving him a smouldering look.

you did a double take as he walked by, giving you a casual, confident nod. “morning,” he said, his voice low and smooth. the bumbling, endearing jay you knew was nowhere to be found.

you shook it off, convincing yourself it was just a fluke. but over the next few days, you couldn’t ignore the transformation.

he traded in his ill-fitting clothes for tailored shirts, stylish watches, and a few artfully unbuttoned collars that showed off his neck and a hint of muscle. it seemed like his glasses had now permanently changed, now sleek and sophisticated, accentuating his jawline in a way that made you, against your better judgement, find yourself staring a little too long.

and it wasn’t just his style—jay’s entire demeanour was different. instead of blushing and stuttering, he’d catch you looking, smirking with a confidence that left you flustered.

one afternoon, you approached him, determined to regain some control of the dynamic. “wow, park,” you said, crossing your arms. “fancy new look. trying to impress someone?”

he looked up, a slow smile spreading across his face. “why? is it working?”

your cheeks heated, but you forced a laugh. “don’t flatter yourself.”

“oh, i don’t need to,” he replied smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “you do a pretty good job of that.”

his words left you speechless, your usual comebacks fizzling as he held your gaze with a smirk. flustered, you turned away, cursing under your breath.

when had park jongseong become… hot?

over the next week, his flirtations continued, growing bolder and more direct. every time you tried to tease him, he’d have a response that left you stumbling. gone was the stammering, geeky coworker you used to playfully bully; in his place was someone who knew exactly how to get under your skin, his newfound confidence throwing you off balance.

but one night after work, things took an unexpected turn.

you’d noticed him acting strange, glancing at his arms as though trying to keep something in check. he slipped out of the office quickly that evening, his face tense, and curiosity got the best of you. you followed him, keeping your distance as he made his way down the street, eventually ducking into a dark alleyway.

hiding behind the corner, you peeked around, pulling out your phone and hitting “record” just in case. what you saw left you speechless.

jay was standing in the middle of the alley, his body tense, his hands clutching his head. dark, inky shadows pulsed along his arms, twisting and curling like tendrils wrapping around him. his posture shifted, his shoulders straightening as the shadows coiled around his body, transforming him into something that was equal parts terrifying and mesmerising.

suddenly, jay let out a deep, guttural growl, his face contorting as sharp, gleaming fangs appeared, his once-soft eyes turning pitch black.

“finally,” a rough, raspy voice rumbled, oozing from jay’s mouth with a sinister excitement. “let’s go for a little… snack.”

a cold chill shot through you as you held up your phone, capturing the whole transformation on video. your heart was racing, but you couldn’t look away. whatever was happening to jay was unlike anything you’d ever seen.

as he turned, his gaze fell on the man who’d appeared in the alley, a figure holding a crowbar, his face twisted in anger. jay’s lips twisted into a wicked grin as he stalked toward the man, his voice dropping into a dark, predatory tone.

“ohhh, you picked the wrong guy to mess with tonight,” the voice sneered, dripping with a twisted glee. “i am going to enjoy this.”

the man froze, his face paling as jay’s shadows coiled around him, binding him in place. jay’s grin widened, his fangs gleaming as he leaned in close.

“run along, before i decide you’d make a nice little snack,” he growled, his voice a terrifying blend of jay’s and something far darker.

the man didn’t hesitate, stumbling away into the shadows. but as jay straightened, his gaze flickered over to you, and his eyes narrowed. in a heartbeat, he was in front of you, his inky black tendrils stretching out to trap you, pinning you against the wall.

you swallowed, trying to keep your breathing steady as he loomed over you, his dark, twisted grin sending a thrill of both fear and fascination through you.

“you… got that on video?” he murmured, his voice back to normal but tinged with a rough edge.

you held up your phone, smirking. “every second of it.”

his eyes flashed with a dangerous glint, and he leaned closer, his face inches from yours. “we could just… eat you, you know. save ourselves a lot of trouble.”

you raised an eyebrow, refusing to back down. “please. you didn’t even eat that guy. there’s no way you’d hurt me.”

he chuckled, the sound low and dark, his gaze flicking over your face. “hmm, true… i like you too much for that.”

the words left you breathless, your heart skipping a beat as you stared up at him, stunned. his face softened, a small, genuine smile replacing the sinister grin.

“so… about that video,” he murmured, his voice laced with amusement.

regaining your composure, you smirked, crossing your arms as best you could with his tendrils pinning you to the wall. “i think i’ll keep it… as insurance. you know, just in case you feel like getting hungry again.”

he tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. “so… what, you’re blackmailing me now?”

“exactly,” you replied, your grin widening. “you’re going to help me out with a few things, and i’m going to keep my mouth shut about your… secret.”

jay sighed, the shadows retracting as he released you, though he kept his gaze locked on yours. “fine. but don’t push it.”

you grinned, savouring the thrill of having the upper hand. “deal.”

over the next few weeks, you took full advantage of your “arrangement.” you had him running errands, fixing things around your apartment, and even carrying your heavy boxes at work. gone was the bumbling, geeky jay you’d known, replaced with someone who wielded both power and confidence—and didn’t hesitate to let you know it.

curiosity getting the best of you one day, you found yourself pulling him aside. “so… about your little… transformation,” you began, eyeing him carefully. “is he, like, a shadow monster or something?”

jay’s eyes widened, and he looked genuinely affronted. “shadow monster?” he repeated, crossing his arms. “he’s a symbiote. and he’s got a name, thank you very much.”

you raised an eyebrow. “a symbiote? i mean, he looks pretty shadowy to me.”

jay sighed, clearly unimpressed with your description. “no, he’s not ‘shadowy.’ he’s a sentient being that forms a bond with his host—me. he’s venom,” jay clarified, the name coming out almost reverently, and with a slight glint in his eye.

“oh, i see. so, he’s a person?”

“well, he has his own… opinions,” jay replied, wincing as he paused. “we’re a package deal, so to speak.”

“damn right, a package deal,” a deep, gravelly voice suddenly rumbled from within jay, and you felt a slight chill as the symbiote made its presence known.

you stared, both amazed and slightly unnerved. “oh… hey there, venom.”

venom chuckled, the sound reverberating low and menacing. “hello, sweetheart. i hear you think i’m a 'shadow monster.' "

jay rubbed the back of his neck, looking slightly exasperated, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes as he said, “see? he doesn’t like being called that.”

you smirked, glancing at jay and then back at venom. “got it, venom,” you replied, a teasing lilt to your voice. “no shadow monster remarks. i’ll be sure to remember that.”

that evening, you called him over to help fix a squeaky window in your apartment. when he arrived, his sleeves were rolled up, and those dark tendrils emerged, forming into tools as he worked. you couldn’t help but watch, fascinated as he tightened the screws effortlessly, his movements precise and fluid.

he glanced over his shoulder, catching you staring. “see something you like, darling?” he teased, his voice low, laced with that familiar dark humour.

you scoffed, crossing your arms. “keep dreaming, park.”

jay smirked, his gaze flicking over you with a look that was anything but innocent. “oh, i don’t have to dream.”

your face heated, but before you could respond, he leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. “you know, all you have to do is say the word.”

flustered, you quickly turned away, ignoring the smug grin on his face.

one night, as you were heading home from work, you felt someone following you. before you could react, a man grabbed your arm, yanking you into a dark alley. panic surged through you, your heart hammering as you struggled against his grip. but before you could scream, a low, guttural growl echoed from the shadows.

jay emerged from the darkness, his face twisted into a terrifying, fanged grin, his body wrapped in shadows that made him look both monstrous and mesmerising. he moved faster than you’d ever seen, dark tendrils coiling around the man’s arms, pinning him against the wall with a force that made your would-be attacker whimper.

“didn’t anyone tell you?” he snarled, his voice laced with dark satisfaction, his grin widening to show those gleaming fangs. “not to mess with what's ours.”

the man’s face turned ghostly white as he struggled against jay’s grip, terror flooding his eyes. jay’s smirk only grew, his shadowed form tightening its hold as he leaned in close, as if savouring every second of the man’s fear.

“i should just eat you,” jay’s voice growled, laced with menace and barely-concealed delight. “but you’re too pathetic for even a snack.” with a dismissive sneer, he released the man, letting him stumble away in blind terror, tripping over himself as he fled into the night.

when you looked back at jay, his inky tendrils had retracted, his monstrous form dissolving into something closer to the man you knew. yet his eyes still held that dangerous, possessive glint, and his breathing was still heavy, his gaze locked onto you with an intensity that made your pulse race.

“you okay?” he asked, his voice softer now, but with an edge of something raw and wild. his hand moved to rest on your arm, fingers lingering as if to reassure himself you were safe.

you nodded, swallowing as you tried to steady your breathing. “thanks to you…”

a wicked chuckle escaped him, his head tilting as his eyes darkened with a new, eerie glow. you could feel the presence of that “other” entity in him, lurking just beneath the surface. “oh, she’s safe with us,” it rumbled, making your skin prickle. “but i think she owes us something, don’t you, jay?”

jay’s gaze softened for a moment before that twisted smile took over again, his features shifting, the shadows flickering as he allowed his alter ego to take control.

“you really think i owe you?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady despite the thrill that coursed through you.

“absolutely,” jay, or rather venom replied, his grin widening. “we didn’t just save you. we protected what’s ours. and i think a little… reward is in order.”

you arched an eyebrow, unwilling to back down. “and what kind of reward does a shadow monster want?”

jay leaned closer, his breath warm and tinged with something dark. “i have a few ideas.” he chuckled, his sharp fangs glinting in the low light. “but don’t worry, sweetheart. we won’t bite… unless you ask nicely.”

your cheeks flushed despite yourself, but you kept your cool. “i don’t think you’re as scary as you want me to believe,” you teased, meeting his dark gaze. “you wouldn’t hurt me.”

his eyes gleamed with amusement. “oh, i could… but where’s the fun in that?” he tilted his head, observing you with a dark curiosity. “besides… jay likes you too much. and, maybe… so do i.”

the admission left you momentarily breathless, your heart pounding as you stared up at him. just as you were about to respond, his face softened, his gaze flicking to your lips before he leaned in.

without waiting another second, jay captured your mouth in a fierce, consuming kiss. the roughness in his embrace was offset by a possessive tenderness that made you melt, your hands gripping his shirt as he pulled you closer.

when he finally pulled back, his eyes flickered between jay’s gentle warmth and venom’s dark amusement. “so, boss,” he murmured, his voice laced with that familiar, playful edge, “any other tasks?”

with a grin, you pulled him closer, “i think i can come up with a few.”

jay chuckled approvingly, his voice a husky whisper against your ear. “good… because we’re just getting started.”

and with that, he leaned in once more, his mouth claiming yours in a kiss that promised this was only the beginning of a thrilling, dangerous new game.

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr

˚ · .𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱

[lessersole]

The Catch - Part Two

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Summary: With the criminal gang still after you, and a new plan from the head of the Thunderbolts, Bucky and Yelena have to do even more to keep you safe.

Word count: 6.5k

Warnings: abduction, being restrained (not in a fun way), mentions of alcohol, creepy/sneaky behaviour (not from Bucky or Yelena).

NO THUNDERBOLTS* SPOILERS! I've not even seen it yet.

Part one | Part three

------------

Three weeks later, you’re still dealing with the repercussions of the attempted abduction. Yelena brought you back to the city, but since the location of your shared apartment had been compromised, you couldn’t return to it. Instead her job - now significantly less of a mystery to you - had offered you both a protected apartment in their New York headquarters, the old Avengers tower.

At first the novelty of it had been exciting - you were living rent-free on the 18th floor in the middle of Manhattan, with stunning views across the city in every room. You could order food or supplies from the on-site restaurant and shop on the ground floor, also all complimentary, or visit one of the many gyms around the tower. There was even a small cinema room, a climbing wall…almost anything you could want. Unfortunately, what you couldn’t have was freedom.

The group who’d targeted you were still at large, they knew what you looked like and, according to Yelena’s boss, even where you worked. So until they were found, you were restricted to the tower. You weren’t a prisoner, Yelena had explained, her sulky attitude giving away that she was passing on someone else’s instructions, but they couldn’t guarantee your safety if you left.

At first fear kept you willingly contained in the luxury building, then concern about Yelena, who was still blaming herself, and how guilty she’d feel if anything happened to you. You’d also hoped you might get to see more of Bucky - this was his workplace too after all - but other than a quick visit a couple days after you left the cabin, he’d all but vanished.

Now, you were getting antsy. With Yelena away more often than not, remote work and video calls were the only social contact you were getting, and the closest you had to fresh air was an occasional risky visit to the Tower’s wind-battered balcony.

As you endure another lonely evening scrolling through streaming services in a fruitless attempt to stave off boredom, there’s a brisk knock on the door of your private apartment. You leap up excitedly, glad for the distraction and hoping this is Yelena - with Bucky alongside her if you’re lucky - to tell you the enemy gang has finally been dealt with. Instead, the person who strolls in without waiting for you to answer the door is Yelena’s boss, Val.

You pull up short, suddenly worried she’s arriving with bad news - you’ve seen her a few times, but she’s never visited you - you’ve never actually spoken to her before.

“Val, hi. Is something wrong? Are Yelena and Bu- is everyone alright?”

Val narrows her eyes at you, mouth pursing in a way that could be either thoughtful or disdainful. “How very familiar of you,” she purrs. Definitely disdainful. “Let me start by introducing myself. I am Contessa Valentina Allegra de la Fontaine, head of this organisation and your friend’s boss. You can call me Director.”

You’ve heard enough about the Contessa to expect this sort of behaviour, but her icy calm relieves some of your worry - surely she wouldn’t be this petulant if she was giving you bad news.

“Director. Sorry,” you defer. “Is everything alright? Everyone’s safe?”

“What an interesting little place you have here,” she mutters airily, ignoring your question and casting a patronising eye over your relatively tidy living space, her gaze lingering on the dinner dishes still stacked in the sink.

“Uh, yeah,” you’re not sure how to reply to her, “Thank you for letting me stay here. But is everyone-”

“Yes, yes, everyone’s fine,” she answers with a dismissive wave of her perfectly manicured hand, “And I’m so glad to hear you’re grateful for us giving you a home.”

Now it’s your turn to narrow your eyes at her carefully manufactured smile.

She continues, “I’m sure you’re so eager to repay us for our generosity. And to get out of here before you die of boredom. Or old-age. Or being crushed beneath a toppling pile of dirty dishes.”

“Yes?” you respond, apprehension turning your answer into a question.

“Oh I’m so glad to hear that,” Val steps closer to you, “After all, it’s not just Yelena who’s working overtime to ensure your safety. Sergeant Barnes seems strangely invested as well. I heard he even came to visit you here, check you were okay. Such a softie. He usually hates coming to the Tower, which can be very frustrating, logistically.”

She grasps your shoulders, making you jump. “But now you’ve agreed to help, this can all be over so much faster.”

Her smile widens.

—

You try to put all your frustration into your punch as you slam a fist into the solid leather.

“Woah,” Agent Rumlow laughs, “what did that punching bag ever do to you?”

You huff out a breath and wipe your arm along your forehead, catching the sweat before it drips into your eyes. “It can take it.” You tell him, stepping away from the bag to take a pull from your water bottle.

The catch to Val’s suspicious offer became clear almost as soon as you’d accidentally agreed to help. It turns out she had almost all the intel on your would-be abductors, except the location of their base.

“We started to think they were hiding in a cave or something,” Val had chuckled mirthlessly, “But we checked all those, and they weren’t.”

What they had discovered was that the base was so well-hidden and so impregnable, that they took all their hostages there, since it guaranteed they wouldn’t be found or rescued.

“Which means…” Val trailed off suggestively, encouraging you to make the connection.

“You need bait.”

“Bingo.”

At first, all you’d had to do was leave the Tower. You’d been given access to the back stairs and told when to go out - times that synced up with the guard’s shift changes, so it would look convincingly like you were sneaking out - but over a week later you remained entirely un-abducted.

You could tell Val was getting irritated, reminding you in an increasingly terse tone that you needed to forget a lifetime of safety instructions and walk alone down dark alleys, keep earphones on, go headfirst into any risky situations, but the criminal gang were nowhere to be seen. All that had happened to you in ten days of living dangerously was an attempted mugging that you’d only narrowly escaped, and the small tastes of freedom weren’t enough to make up for your continued confinement or Val’s bad moods.

After that near-miss, you’d doubled the amount of time you spent in the gym, building up your strength as a way to feel safer. When one of Val’s agents had offered to give you some tips, acting as a personal trainer-slash-self-defence coach, you’d gladly taken him up on the offer.

It also helped to have a friend you could talk to about your bizarre new life.

Agent Rumlow - Brock - smiles understandingly. “Being stuck inside when you’re not dangling on Val’s line getting a bit much?”

“What makes you think that?” You joke breathlessly as you adjust the wrappings on your hands that have come loose from your furious swings at the punching bag.

Brock chuckles, coming over to help re-wrap the tape around your knuckles, “Look, I get it. I had a stake-out once that took six weeks. Six weeks of being stuck in a tiny run-down apartment in a half-abandoned building with another agent I didn’t even like. At least you’ve got modern amenities, and good company.” He winks at you, using your hand to pull you closer so he can casually bump your shoulder with his.

The action makes you wonder, not for the first time, how serious his flirting is - if he might ask you out if you were actually free to go out on a date.

He’s not a bad-looking guy, tall and muscular with thick, dark hair, and you would have considered saying yes, if not for the still-vivid memory of your kiss in the cabin with Bucky. Nearly a month since you’ve seen him, you still can’t get the supersoldier out of your head. And every time Brock’s brown eyes hold your gaze, you can’t help but compare them to Bucky’s bright, intense stare.

“But if you are getting really tired of being stuck here with me - I have an idea for how we can speed things up,” Rumlow suggests.

You look up at him, curious. “I’m listening.”

He gives you a knowing smile. “What I learnt on that stake-out was that sometimes you can’t wait for them to come to you. Sometimes you have to put yourself right in their path.”

—

Taking a deep breath, you step out of the limousine and nervously smooth down your silky floor-length cocktail dress, trying to look more confident than you feel and pushing down the thought that things have got seriously out of hand.

Brock had told you that the team had discovered the head of the target gang was going to be at an up-scale art gallery party in Long Island. Even if they weren’t certain he’d be heading back to their base after, they knew he’d be surrounded by bodyguards and lackeys, none of whom would pass up a chance to impress their notoriously fickle boss by finding and snatching one of his targets - you.

So now here you are, on the arm of a tuxedo-wearing Rumlow, attempting to blend in with the obscenely wealthy and largely criminal crowd. He’s assured you his cover for the night is secure, posing as a wealthy hedge fund manager looking for a few investment pieces, with you as his date. He’d even insisted on running into you on one of your Val-sanctioned trips outside the Tower, buying you a few drinks and getting your number so he could make a show of inviting you here - “in case they’re watching.”

As on your other trips outside the Tower, you have location trackers hidden all over you - in the shoes, necklace, bracelet and ring Rumlow gave you when you were getting ready. You’d also added one of the trackers Val had given you, a miniature transmitter that tucked away in your hair, hidden at the nape of your neck.

The preparation doesn’t help your rising nerves, knowing that your abduction is the aim of the evening.

As you reach the top of the grand entrance stairway, Rumlow nudges you ahead, pulling his phone out to snap a photo of you. “Gotta make it look real,” he mutters with a grin as he rejoins you, “And if I’m out with a girl as hot as you, wearing that dress, I’d be taking a lot of pics.”

You blame your nerves for how off-putting it feels, having his eyes rove over you. Rumlow gave you the dress, and his reaction makes you suspect he picked it out himself. It’s more revealing than you’d typically choose, the thigh slit reaching almost to your hip, and with a low cut front and back that forces you to go braless, which you know hasn’t escaped his notice. You shiver in the chill evening breeze - he hadn’t thought to give you a wrap - and urge him inside with a hand on his arm and a smile you hope looks natural.

Inside the grand hall the two of you mingle with the other guests, Brock keeping hold of you at all times in a way you assume is meant to be reassuring, as you sip champagne and pretend to admire the art. Mimicking the other guests, you force your face into an expression of detached interest, but you’re wound tight with tension, the expensive wine like sandpaper in your throat, and Rumlow’s hand unpleasantly clammy on the bare skin of your back.

You have no idea what these gang members might look like, but as you glance around you’re surprised to not see any faces you recognise from the Tower. On each of your previous trips out there have always been one or two agents surreptitiously loitering nearby, ready to act fast if anything goes south. For an event as big as this, it would be easy for them to blend in amongst the crowd - surely Rumlow’s not the only person Val sent here?

Brock leans in close to you, his dry lips brushing your ear, “It’s showtime,” he whispers, before kissing your cheek and straightening up. “I’m going to the men’s room,” he tells you, loud enough for those near you to hear. “Feel free to have another drink, while you wait for me.” He grins wolfishly, snatching a full champagne flute from a passing waiter and pressing it into your hand before disappearing into the crowd.

You sip from the glass and focus on your breathing, hoping your shaky legs won’t tilt you off your too-high heels. The next part of the plan is for you to follow Rumlow to the bathroom - you’re more likely to be snatched out of the public view. You wait a few moments, gulp down most of your drink, then make your way to the women’s restroom at the back of the hall.

The gleaming white bathroom isn’t empty, but there aren’t many people around. None of them spare you a second glass, so you try to act natural - entering a cubicle, washing your hands, then leaving. Still, no one approaches you.

As there’s still no sign of Brock either, you pull your phone out of the small clutch you were provided and send him a message.

Everything ok?

It’s read instantly, and followed by the dots that show he’s typing.

Yeh, his reply comes, where r u?

You frown, but before you can reply another message pops up.

U cm to the back bathroom? The left?

You glance around you, and sure enough there’s a thick wooden door ajar at the end of the corridor. Maybe a staff area, or more private bathroom. You’re a little apprehensive - something feels off, but you can’t tell what. This whole evening is too weird for you to trust your own instincts.

The heavy door swings open silently, and you’ve barely taken a few steps into the dim hallway before an all too familiar sharp sting on your neck makes you flinch. Muscles instantly weak, you can’t even turn before your body folds and you collapse into darkness.

—

The first thing you notice when you come to is the uncomfortable cramped position you’re in, and the swaying feeling that isn’t just in your head. Despite your lingering grogginess, your inability to even sit up makes you realise you’re trapped in the trunk of a car.

Panic surges up in you, and you shakily take a deep breath - this was the plan, you remind yourself. Eventually, the car will stop, you’ll be rescued, and the whole gang will be taken out, freeing you to go back to your normal life.

Unfortunately, your brain can’t convince the rest of your body. Your breaths hitch and your heart pounds, so in another attempt to reassure yourself, you focus on the location trackers that are your lifeline - and a hot surge of nausea pulses through as you realise you can’t feel them. The cable tie trapping your hands behind your back is the only thing circling your wrists, and your necklace, ring and shoes have vanished. You can only hope the final tracker in your hair is still there.

—

Bucky cracks his knuckles. This whole operation had felt wrong from the start.

He and Yelena had been assigned to stake out the gallery party, following Val’s information that the head of the gang would be there. What neither of them had known until he saw it through his scope, was that you would also be there. Bucky’s eye had immediately been caught by the sight of you ascending the steps in a slinky dress and his body was flooded with conflicting emotions. It had been too long since he’d seen you, and you looked stunning, but why were you here, of all places? And with Rumlow? The party intel was top secret - way above Brock’s clearance - and yet here he was, leering and pawing at you like he owned you.

“She’s here,” Bucky mutters into his comm device, trying to keep the anger out of his voice, “with Rumlow.”

There’s a shocked pause before Yelena responds, immediately knowing who he means. “What? She isn’t supposed to leave the Tower! And Rumlow is not on this mission - you and me are the only ones Val told about this.”

“I know,” Bucky growls, “but that asshole is here, acting like they’re on a date or something. You didn’t know anything about this?”

“No,” Yelena replies darkly. “I’m calling Val. If this is some extra secret crap she’s pulling-”

“She would have told us.”

“She keeps secrets from us all the time!”

“But hiding this makes no sense,” Bucky points out, “We’re guaranteed to see them, and blindsiding us doesn’t help the mission,”

Yelena curses, “So what’s going on here?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t like it.” Backing away from his hidden vantage point, Bucky goves in to his first instinct. “I’m going in.”

“No!” Yelena’s response is immediate, “That won’t help.”

“I can sneak in through the back. Into the bathroom. Get her out-”

“And if you’re seen?” Yelena hisses, “It will be even more dangerous for her.”

As much as he hates it, Bucky can;t argue with that. Instead, he stays crouched in the hills overlooking the venue, Yelena on the opposite side of the building, both intensely focused on the arriving attendees, and the glimpses of the party they can get through the windows.

In the weeks since he’d met you, Bucky had been unable to get you out of his head. He’d been immediately intrigued by you, and that kiss in the cabin - that kiss he couldn’t stop reliving - had been electric. He didn’t date much, but he knew that alone couldn’t explain the fire that had ripped through him at the touch of your lips, and pulsed hotly in his body whenever he thought of you.

He’d insisted on helping Yelena track down the people who had threatened you, and the weeks of frustrated deadends were wearing on him. All he wanted was to eliminate the person who’d put a target on your back, wrap you safely in his arms and make sure no one ever thought of hurting you again.

But now here you were, not just in the path of danger, but laid right at its door, with Brock Rumlow’s slimy hands holding you there.

After what felt like an eternity of waiting, he hears Yelena’s voice in his ear again. “She’s moving! Tech has five trackers on her, plus one on her phone. All but one are still in the building, but the last shows movement, fast, heading west on the highway.”

Bucky’s up and on his bike in seconds, skidding onto the road in a plume of dirt. As he and Yelena follow the tracker, she fills him in on what headquarters had told her after she reported your appearance at the party.

“Val’s been sending her out of the Tower to try and draw them out - using her as bait. But just in the city. She hadn’t authorised anything tonight. Rumlow’s gone rogue - she said trying to get a promotion or something maybe - four of the five trackers were checked out by him earlier today. The fifth is one Val’s team gave her from when she started leaving the Tower.”

“And let me guess,” Bucky snarls, “that’s the one we’re following?”

“You got it.”

“You think Val really believes Rumlow’s doing this for a promotion?”

“I think she said that so we don’t kill him before she can talk to him.”

“Too bad.”

“Точно,” Yelena agreed.

—

Bucky’s got the throttle of his bike in a death grip. The only thing stopping him putting finger-shaped dents in the bar is the knowledge that breaking the thing would stop him pursuing the bastards who took you.

“It’s gone!” Yelena’s panicked shout crackles into his earpiece, followed by a string of Russian expletives “The last tracker signal - it’s - it’s disappeared.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches so hard he swears he hears a tooth crack. 

After chasing the tracker for miles, until long after the sun set behind the mountains in front of them, they’ve lost their only heading.

Sitting on their idling bikes a few minutes later, they pour over Yelena’s mapping screen.

“The signal must have been lost inside the mountain,” Bucky assesses, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice.

“Not if it’s a normal mountain,” Yelena frowns.

“Maybe it’s not.” They share a look, “Maybe that’s why we haven’t been able to find them all this time.”

“Дерьмо,” she swears, “More proof they’re not just a small-time gang then. At least that narrows the search area. Look, there’s only one road into the mountain, over this bridge, through the tunnel and out the other side.”

“It can’t be that simple.”

“It’s never that simple,” Yelena groans, “How about I go into the mountain the obvious way, you look for something else? Some other way they could have taken her.”

Not wanting to waste any more time discussing tactics, Bucky agrees. As Yelena speeds off over the bridge, he skids his bike down the steep side of the hill to the ravine underneath it. Racing over the rocky ground, he keeps his eyes focused on the steep mountainside.

“Bucky, can you hear me?”

“Yes, have you found anything?”

“No,” Yelena’s disappointment is clear over the line, “Nothing promising. But if you’re still hearing me then it’s not the mountain blocking the tracker signal.”

Bucky’s silent. This isn’t good news.

“The only thing I’ve found is a road tunnel. It was kind of disguised, so I thought, maybe - but it just goes outside, down to the base of the mountain.”

“That’s where I am,” alertness drowns out his foreboding, “What side of the mountain?”

“South,”

“There’s no road down here,” he tells Yelena as he speeds up, “So a road down from there -”

“Is suspicious,” Yelena finishes.

Sure enough, as he rounds a spur of the mountain, Bucky spies a flattened path in the dirt leading towards what looks like just a crack in the cliffside. Leaving his bike far away enough that the engine won’t echo within, he silently approaches and peers inside. The darkness of the night outside helps his enhanced eyes adjust even faster.

“This is it,” he whispers to Yelena through his comm, “I’m going in. Wait outside.”

“Buc-” The rest of Yelena’s reply is cut off as he uses his vibranium arm to push the false rock face open enough for him to slip inside - whatever stopped your tracker working has silenced his communication device. Pulling a knife from his holster, confident that he’s found your location, he sneaks into the bunker.

—

You shudder violently as another chill wracks your body. You’re still bound by cable ties - ankles together and hands behind your back, and shivering just makes your muscles ache more. The black sack over your head stops you seeing anything, but you can feel the hard floor beneath you, cold and damp through your thin dress.

After a painfully bumpy journey being knocked around the trunk of a car, you were dragged out, squinting in the sudden light before your captors forced a bag over your head and lugged you away to your current location. The only clues to your surroundings were the echoey footsteps as you’d been carried away, and an alternating pattern of bright and dark that reminded you of walking down poorly lit tunnels. A sharp turn ended with you being dropped to the floor, the clang of metal on metal and receding footsteps making you certain that even if you broke out of your bonds, you wouldn’t be able to escape.

At least your body could only sustain the adrenaline rush of panic so long, and you focused on breathing, telling yourself that having your eyes covered meant they probably weren’t planning on killing you.

Unless they’d hidden your face to make your execution easier on them.

Shutting down that thought, you wriggle upright, leaning against the rough wall. It scratches your bare back but you feel less vulnerable when you’re not lying down - you can hear men’s voices not too far off, and can just about make out enough lewd comments to know they appreciate the dress Rumlow put you in.

Was he in on this? It would explain the loss of your trackers, the lack of other agents and the general unease you’d felt all night. Anger flares at the thought, and you grab onto it, desperate to feel anything other than fear and despair. Eventually even that peters out, leaving you numb - and with nothing to do but wait, alone in the dark.

It feels like long hours later, once your frozen body has become as numb as your mind, that a sudden hush from the men makes you sit up straight, attention focused. The moment of silence is rushed away in a chorus of shouts, yelps and swishing, thudding sounds that you can’t identify. You jump as gunshots ring out, ending with a strangled cry and heavy thud.

Fully alert, every muscle is tense and locked, your eyes wide as you pant into the fabric. Before you have time to react, a welcome voice, gravelled with emotion, calls your name.

You gasp in relief - Bucky! You wince at a metallic screech, and an instant later the bag is pulled from your head and your sensitive eyes meet Bucky’s relieved ones.

“It’s okay,” he tells you, ripping the cable ties from your wrists, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Your arms scream in pain as they’re released from their cramped position, but that doesn’t stop you flinging them around Bucky’s neck as he removes the ties from your ankles.

“Thank you,” you gasp, sure that you’ve never meant those words so much in your life.

Bucky simply shakes his head, restrained emotion pressing his mouth into a straight line as he wraps his arms around you, squeezing gently as he lifts you to your feet.

“You’re freezing,” He breaks away to take off his jacket and wrap you in it, his concerned eyes noticing your shiving body, from your sack-mussed hair to your bare feet. Without hesitation, he picks you up and moves back through ripped apart iron bars into what you can now see is some sort of underground tunnel system.

Stunned, you cling to him tightly.

“We have to be quick,” he tells you, “Yelena’s outside, but the entrance is a long way-”

“You found her?!” This close even you can hear Yelena’s ecstatic shout in Bucky’s ear as his comm device bursts into life.

“Yes,” he answers, not breaking his stride, “I’ve got her. Where are-”

“I’m inside,” Yelena answers before he can finish his question, “in a control room. Left!”

“What?”

“There’s a fork in front of you, take the left.”

“How do you-”

“This whole place is a Faraday cage, inside it I can see her tracker signal. I know where you are, go left.”

Bucky turns left, moving silently and rapidly through the tunnel with you in his arms.

“There are too many people between you and the way you came in-”

“Not any more,” Bucky growls.

“-this is the only other way out and it’s closer to you.” Yelena explains.

A few twists and turns later, Yelena’s directions lead you to a half-concealed hatch high up in the wall of the tunnel. Once Bucky yanks it open, you can see the starry sky and feel a soft breeze - as well as hear a distinctive hum coming from the silvery mesh covering the opening.

“Don’t touch it,” he warns, switching his hold so he’s grasping you around your thighs, lifting you until you’re practically sitting on his right shoulder, feet against his chest. Yelena explained the rest of her plan to him in rapid Russian, so you know he’s waiting for something. Just as you open your mouth with a question, a deep boom resonates through the base - and the mesh stops buzzing.

Instantly, Bucky rips it away with his vibranium arm and pushes you through the hole with the other. Startled, you find yourself on a dusty slope, steep enough that you’re immediately sliding down it - but luckily not for long enough that you gain too much speed.

Managing to avoid the rocks littering the hillside, you land in a heap on the flat ground and turn to check on Bucky. As you do, you hear a sharp zap and see him tumbling down the hill after you.

“Bike.” he gasps as he lands almost on top of you. “That way. Quick.”

You follow his nod and set off, speeding up once you check that he’s got to his feet. You can tell from how he moves that something’s off, but if it’s not slowing him down, you won’t let it stop you either.

Round a bend you see the same black motorbike he picked you up on months before. Bucky catches you up and mounts it, reaching across himself with his right arm to pull you in front of him, and you realise his metal arm is hanging limp at his side.

“Bucky,” you gasp.

“It’s fine,” he insists through gritted teeth, “It’s temporary. But I need you to work the clutch.”

Imitating his grip on the right, you grasp the left handlebar, fingers over the lever. “Got it,” you assure him.

“Keep hold of me with your other arm,” his voice is gruff in your ear as he slides closer to you, pressing his legs tightly over yours, “And grip with your legs. I’m not letting you fall.”

You grab his forearm as the bike takes off.

—

Following Bucky’s instructions, the two of you zoom safely through the night, ending up at a small motel off the main road. After parking in a secluded spot round the back, Bucky leads you into a room, securing the door behind you.

“You promise Yelena’s safe?” You ask as soon as the last lock clicks into place.

“Yes,” he assures you. You’d already checked on the drive, but you wanted to make sure.

“You said you’re okay too though, and-” you trail off, gesturing to his vibranium arm, still motionless at his side.

With an efficient click and gentle whirring sound, Bucky detaches the arm and lays it on the small table with a sigh. “It’s not a problem. Just needs to recalibrate.” His searching gaze turns back to you, still only wearing his jacket and the silky gown you wore to the party - now decidedly worse for wear. “You probably want to clean up. And warm up - bathroom’s through there. And there are clean sweats in the bag, help yourself.”

He nods to a black kit bag on the bed; the one bed, you can’t help but notice. After dropping his jacket from your shoulders and draping it over one of the small chairs by the table, you open the bag and pull out a t-shirt and sweatpants - they’re soft and clean, and clearly Bucky’s clothes rather than something brought for you, and you have to resist the urge to bury your face in them and inhale deeply. Instead you thank him and move to the bathroom, glad to scrape the grime and dirt from a very long and terrifying day off your skin.

Bucky swaps places with you when you’re done, and you curl up on the bed, exhausted in a way you’ve never been before. Anxiety dances at the edge of your chest, but a combination of the adrenaline crash and the warm scent covering you from Bucky’s clothes leaves you relaxed, almost boneless where you lie - until you hear a series of muttered expletives from inside the bathroom.

Concerned, you slide off the bed and pad over to knock gently on the door. “Everything alright in there?”

“Yep,” comes the immediate reply. You sit back down, not entirely convinced as the grumbles and soft grunts from the bathroom continue.

“You sure you’re okay?” You call out hesitantly.

You hear a resigned sigh before the door swings open to reveal a grumpy and slightly embarrassed Bucky.

“I’m fine, it’s just - goddamn buttons,” he grunts, gesturing vaguely at himself. He’s wearing a tight black t-shirt that clings to every muscle in his chest, stomach and arm, and black tactical pants that puddle at his socked feet - and hang open below his hips.

You swallow, hard. It’s probably a good thing you’re so exhausted or you’d be jumping him right now. His dark hair hangs damp in his face, and the heavy brow and slight pout making up his shamefaced expression is unreasonably attractive. Not to mention the visible bulge straining against his boxers beneath his open fly.

“Can I help?” You ask, voice huskier than intended.

An unreadable expression flickers across Bucky’s face as you step towards him.

“Uh,” he bashfully pushes his wet hair back from his face, drawing your attention to his arm again, “If it’s not too-”

“It’s fine,” you tell him a bit too quickly, your voice cracking, “It’s kind of my fault your arm’s not working and – oh,”

You realise why, despite living so long with one arm, Bucky’s struggling now – the palm and fingers of his right hand are red and scorched in a pattern that matches the mesh he ripped though to free you, leaving his motion limited, stiff and visibly sore. Electrical burns, you realise.

“You’re hurt.”

“It’s fine,” he sounds nonchalant as he mirrors your response, but you can’t tell if he’s actually unbothered, or if he’s acting that way to alleviate your guilt, “The serum speeds up healing. It’s already better than it was. I’ll be back to normal by the time we’re back in the city.”

You nod but bite your lip, guilt and worry shining on your face.

“And to be clear,” he adds, leaning towards you to emphasise what he’s saying, his eyes catching yours from only inches away, “None of this is your fault. The only ones responsible for any of this are the scum who took you.”

He holds your gaze, and you can smell the clean scent of his body fresh from the shower.

“Got it,” you answer breathlessly, reaching for him. When your eyes drop and your fingers brush the edge of Bucky’s pants you feel him tense, as though trying to keep himself under control. You’re warmed by the thought that this is affecting him as much as it is you.

Pulling the waistband tight over his hips, you fasten the top button with ease, then continue down the others. Despite trying to touch him as little as possible, you can’t help the tingling pulse in your core at being this close, this intimate with him.

Aware that you’re staring a bit too hard, you make the mistake of looking up at him as you close the last button. Above the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the hard set of his jaw - as though he’s trying very hard not to move - you’re captivated by the dark heat in his eyes. You both freeze for an instant, your knuckles still grazing the front of his pants, when you feel a delicious throb beneath your fingers.

Bucky starts back. “Thanks.” His voice is husky.

“No problem,” you respond, audibly out of breath. There’s a beat where you both just stare at each other, before he moves past you into the room, shoving his feet into his boots in an attempt to distract himself from the way he’s reacting. You realise at the same time he does that he’s not going to be able to tie the laces with one hand, and smile slyly at him, nodding to his feet. “You need a hand with those too?”

Bucky looks at you like he’s forgotten what shoes are. “I, uh-” his shoulders relax slightly as he takes in your expression, “I guess - if you don’t mind…”

“Not at all”, your smile widens and you hear his breath catch in his throat as you drop to your knees in front of him, taking your time as you carefully lace him up, pretending not to notice his hand twitching by his side, or the quiet expletives he mutters under his breath.

You look up at him coyly once you finish, not failing to notice how the buttons on his pants now strain tight.

“All done,” you confirm as you stand.

“Thanks. Again.” He doesn’t move back this time, and there’s barely an inch of space between your bodies.

“Don’t worry about it,” you tell him softly, “Besides, I’d like to thank you. For rescuing me.”

“There’s no way I wouldn’t have.” Bucky replies, his tone deepening as his eyes drop to your lips, but followed by a spark of amusement. “And it was really a team effort.”

“Even so,” you slowly, gently, place your hands on Bucky’s chest, feeling it swell beneath you as he takes a deep breath, tilting his head down to yours. Your lips meet as you capture each other in a kiss that thrums through you from your toes to your scalp.

The delicious press of him against you pulses through your veins as he wraps his arm around you, pulling you close, licking into your mouth. You graze your teeth along his tongue, his lips, needing and wanting him more than anything you ever have, thrilling as you’re rewarded with a deep groan that reverberates out of him.

As you reluctantly surface for air, his lips trail down your neck, the moan that spills from you making him grip you even harder, his arm across your back, hand tight on your waist  - before you remember the angry red burn you saw on him moments ago.

“Wait, your hand,” you manage to gasp out, “Is it hurting?”

He pulls back with a lazy delight at your concern clear in his eyes, “No,” he assures you, tenderly pressing a soft kiss to your flushed lips before pulling back further to look at you with an easy smile. “But thank you for caring.”

“Any time.” You return his dazed smile.

A teasing look crosses his face, “So do you intend to thank Yelena like that as well, or-?”

You laugh, tugging gently on his hair as rebuke. He grins back at you, a broad, open smile you’ve not seen on him before, and you swear you feel your heart swell. “No,” you tell him firmly, using your grip on his hair to pull him back into the kiss.

------------

Tags: @yesshewrites1 @lcolumbia1988 @vxllys @starfly-nicole @luvr-bunnyy @greatenthusiasttidalwave @oneofstarkskids @ye-olde-trash-panda @rockyeatrock @raelikesdinosaurs @freyathehuntress @whitewolfluvr @xoxabs88xox

Part three

[astraljedi]

Be a Good Girl, What’s My Name? (Tommy Miller)

Summary: You’ve been calling him “Timmy” for weeks to just rile him up. But Tommy’s done playing—he’s going to make you say scream his name.

Pairing: Tommy Miller x Reader

Warnings: Smut without plot, edging, teasing, cursing, unprotected sex, P in V, fingering and some oral. Possessive and jealous Tommy.

Word Count: 2.4K

Songs: Miss Independent by Kelly Clarkson/Are You Gonna Be My Girl by Jet

A/N: Decided to write something for fun, dirty and short while finishing the other fics I'm working on. This is for all my Tommy Miller babes, Enjoy! 🤪😈

-

The low chatter of the Tipsy Bison crowd blends with the hum of the music box tucked in the corner, an old and classic tune drifting through the golden sunlit bar. I polish glassware beneath the warm rays, getting everything ready before the evening rush rolls in—when the afternoon patrol finishes up and fills the bar after a long shift.

My midnight patrol shift was boring as hell, a punishment from Tommy after I called him Timmy non stop during our last shift together. Yesterday, he’d switched my spot at the last minute, right as I was locking up here after a long busy night. Barely three hours of sleep before I had to change into my gear and haul myself down to the stables. 

Fuck you, Timmy.

The heavy wooden door creaks open, loud voices filling the bar. I don’t need to turn around to know the scrape of that barstool behind me is him. No one else drags it out like that. 

He taps a finger on the counter—slow and demanding. He’s waiting for me to turn around and give him attention. But I’m in no rush. These glasses? They suddenly look a little messy and unorganized. I reach up, stacking a few neatly on the shelf. The rag slips from my hand, landing on the floor, and I bend to pick it up, taking my time. 

Over my shoulder, I catch his eyes trailing up the length of my bare legs, lingering at my hips, my tight denim shorts hugging every curve. I toss the rag into my back pocket and finally face him, elbows on the counter as I lean in.

“Evenin’, Timmy,” I smirk, resting my chin on my hand. 

Let the game begin.

He rolls his eyes, arms folding across his chest like he’s holding back. “You enjoy pissing me off?”

“I do,” I hum, pulling back and turning again toward the shelves. I reach for a clean glass, making sure to grab the one on the highest shelf, giving him a reason to keep watching. Then I pour a generous amount of the whiskey I know he likes—probably more than I’m technically allowed to. 

I can be generous, when I want to.

I slide the glass toward him across the counter, my grin tugging wider. “Just how you like it, Timmy.”

Tommy closes his eyes, inhaling like he’s trying real hard not to play in my scheming. “You keep pushin’ with this little game you like playing, it’s gonna catch up to you.”

“I like our little game of cat and mouse,” I whisper, leaning just a bit closer, just enough.

“As much as your midnight patrol?” He downs the whiskey in one gulp, not even flinching. I shoot him a glare and snatch the glass from his hands before he can finish lowering it from his smirking lips. 

“At least Jessie knows how to shut me up on patrols.” I refill his glass, though with less this time. No reward, not yet. He clenches his jaw as he grabs it from me, eyes dark and sharp.

He doesn’t say anything else, falling quiet and letting me take the win, for now. I toss him a wink and walk away to serve another customer—Jessie, parked at the far end of the bar. I pour his drink and laugh when he tosses me a terrible joke.

Behind me, the slam of a glass against wood cuts through the music and chatter. Tommy’s still in his seat, but barely. His eyes catch mine, his stare is dark and unreadable, fists clenched at his sides before he stands.

No one else in the bar seems to notice, or maybe they’re just doing a real good job pretending they don’t. Like the heat between us isn’t filling the bar, making it feel small and stuffy. 

He walks out without a word. But even after the door swings shut behind him, my eyes stay there, burning into the spot where he stood, waiting for him to come back.

It’s almost midnight when I flip the closed sign on the front window, shutting the door behind me as the last group of customers stumble out of the bar. I straighten the chairs, clean up the couple of beer bottles on the booth, and get started on the rest of the night’s chores—alone.

I don’t turn off the music, letting it echo in the empty space, like it’s keeping me company. While I wash the dirty glasses, Miss Independent by Kelly Clarkson fills the calm and empty bar. I sing along and sway my hips to the chorus, stacking the clean glasses onto the drying rack.

“Surprise, it's time to feel what's real, what happened to Miss Independent?” I belt out, lost in it—until the sound of the door slamming shut makes me jump. 

A lock clicks behind me. 

My hand darts for the knife on the counter, but before I can even turn around, I’m pinned against the bar and the blade clinks to the ground. Strong, rough hands grip mine behind my back, holding me still.

I know those hands.

Tommy.

“Something you need, Timmy?” I raise my chin, even as our bodies stay pressed together.

“You like pushin’ me over the edge. Calling me the wrong name. Flirting with these boys right in front of me. Now,” he murmurs, “it’s my turn to play with you.”

He brings a hand up, knuckles brushing my cheek. His nose grazes the skin of my neck, inhaling my scent deeply. 

A growl vibrates against my skin.

“I’m gonna mark you, leave you smelling like me. Let these boys know you’re mine.”

I bite my tongue, trying to stay composed, but my body betrays me. I squeeze my thighs together—my underwear is already soaked.

“I’ve got a new game. You do what I say, and I’ll let you come.”

His hand trails from my cheek down to my waistband. The button of my shorts pops open with ease, and then his hand slips beneath my underwear.

“You gonna stop me?” His lips hover just over mine, eyes locked with mine like he's asking for permission. His hand doesn’t move and I need him to.

I shake my head. I don’t trust my voice.

“I need your words, sweetheart.”

“Don’t stop. Please.” I gasp as his fingers slide in with ease, finding my clit and teasing mercilessly.

“All this for me?” he taunts, pinching gently. I try to grind against his hand, but his other one keeps me firmly in place.

He moves fast, circling my clit until my chest is heaving. One of his fingers presses at my entrance, but he doesn’t give me what I want. Not yet.

“What’s my name?” he asks, slowing the rhythm just enough to make me ache.

“Timmy,” I choke out, a smug smirk curling my lips. 

I love this game.

He growls, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking it back. “That’s not my name, darlin’. Try again.”

His hand leaves my hair only to tug my tank top down, exposing my breasts to the cool air. His lips find one of my nipples and suck it into his mouth, tongue swirling, teasing, pulling. I arch against him, my hand flying to the back of his head.

Then he slides a finger into me, and my moan is ragged. It’s not enough—I need more. He gives the other nipple the same attention, and when I glance down, his dark eyes are staring up at me. The sight alone makes my walls clench.

“Tomm—” I start, but bite it off before I give him the satisfaction.

“I know you want to say it,” he purrs against my chest, adding a second finger and pressing his thumb to my clit. The rhythm speeds up again, and I’m shaking, the coil building so tight I can hardly breathe.

“What’s my name, baby girl?” he groans, kissing my jaw as his fingers work me closer and closer.

I tangle my fingers in his hair, my hips bucking, but just as I’m about to fall over the edge, he pulls his thumb away from my clit. He holds me there, whining at the loss of sensation.

Tommy brushes his thumb over it again—just once—and my body arches.

I grab his face, pull him close. My lips graze his as I whisper with a cocky grin, “Timmy Miller.”

He snarls and pulls his fingers out, leaving me trembling and empty. He steps back, leans against the opposite counter, and sucks my wetness from his fingers.

“Don’t want to play anymore, darlin’?” he teases, smirking. “Want to taste yourself?”

I nod, breathless. He pulls me in, and I crash against his chest. His hand grips the back of my neck, pulling me into a messy, hungry kiss. His tongue slips between my lips, tasting myself on his tongue.

His knee slips between my thighs, forcing them apart. I grind down on his jean-covered thigh, the friction almost enough to undo me again. My hands cling to his shoulders, desperate for his touch, for anything he offers.

“Say my name,” he murmurs, lips brushing my neck, “and I’ll give you what you need.”

But I’m stubborn. I don’t want to give him the win. “Let me think about it,” I whisper, tugging at his hair as his teeth nip my neck.

“Such a little brat,” he mutters, stilling my hips and lowering his leg, making me whine from the loss.

His other hand reaches for his belt, unbuckling, lowering his jeans. He pulls out his cock—thick, already leaking at the tip—and I lick my lips at the sight.

“Bad girls don’t get to suck me off,” he growls. “You just stand there, lookin’ pretty, and think about what I asked you.”

The hand on the back of my head lowers me down to his waist and holds his cock near my mouth. “Spit.”

I obey. He spreads it down his shaft, mixing it with his precum. He pulls me back up and makes me watch him stroke himself. His other hand grabs my hip, pulling me closer to his side. 

My walls clench around nothing. I need him—inside me, stretching me, filling me to the hilt.

“Please,” I breathe. “I need you. Fill me with your cock.”

Tommy switches places with me, pressing my back to the bar. He kneels and yanks my tight shorts and underwear down to my ankles. I step out of them and he tosses them aside. My palms press behind me on the counter, steadying myself.

He kisses up my thighs, hands spreading me wider. His nose brushes my swollen folds.

“You’re soaking, sweetheart.”

Then his tongue flattens against me. One long, slow lick that has me buckling my knees. His hands hold me firmly, keeping my hip still, lapping and teasing until I can barely breathe.

“Only for you,” I gasp.

He chuckles, the vibration making me shudder.

Just when I’m about to fall apart, he pulls back and presses against me. His cock rubs through my wetness, teasing the entrance, and then—slowly—he pushes inside.

“This is my pussy,” he growls. “Not for boys like Jessie. This is for a real man to handle.”

I gasp, clinging to his biceps as he lifts one of my legs to his waist. He pushes deeper. His forehead rests against mine, eyes shut tight while I adjust to his size.

“Fuck,” I whimper, trying to move my hips, but his grip on my waist has me pinned. He sets the pace—slow and in control, like he likes it.

“You’re gonna take what I give you,” he growls. “If you want more, you know what to say.”

I shake my head, tears gathering on the edge of my eyes. 

It’s too good. I need more, harder, faster.

Tommy pulls back, leaving only the tip in. “Say my name, say it baby, and it’s yours.” One hand slides between us, circling my clit again.

It’s too much. Too slow. Too hot. He bites my chest, sucking marks into my skin.

My hair clings to my damp neck and my head spins.

“Be a good girl. What’s my name?” he pants, pulling his fingers away.

“Tommy!” I finally cry, and he slams into me, burying himself to the hilt.

“Tommy—Tommy,” I chant, my voice wrecked as he gives me everything I’ve been begging—needing. He thrusts hard and deep, finding that perfect spot with every snap of his hips.

“Is this what you needed?” he grins. “To fuck the brat outta you?”

I answer with a kiss—sloppy and messy, needing him even closer than he already is. My other leg wraps around him, and I meet every thrust with my own.

The coil that has been building up tightens and tightens. It’s unbearable. 

Sweat clings on my forehead and chest, my moans coming out needier and louder. Tommy knows I’m close, feeling my walls clench around him and my own thrust growing sloppier. 

“Please, Tommy,” I sob. “Harder.”

“I got you. Let go for me.” His voice is strained, raw. He reaches down again, rubbing my clit as his thrusts grow more frantic.

“Eyes on me, darlin’,” he groans. His forehead touches mine and I look into his eyes, and then It snaps.

The orgasm tears through me like fire.

Tommy follows, cursing and chanting my name, jerking inside me as he comes. His hand cups my face and pulls me into a breathless kiss, his cock still pulsing deep inside.

I don’t even notice the music stop, the sound of our breathing and our hearts panting filling the empty bar. Tommy is still inside me, looking deep into my eyes as he pulls a few wet strands of hair away from my face. 

“Still wanna call me Timmy?” His voice is hoarse, and smug.

“If it gets me this kind of fucking, I’ll do it again.” I laugh, my body still trembling. “Worth it.”

He pulls out slowly, and I wince at the loss. Feeling sticky and empty. He dips his fingers between my thighs, scoops up our combined mess, and brings it to my lips. I moan around his fingers, sucking them clean.

“Let’s get you cleaned up. I’m taking you home.” He tucks himself away, buckling his jeans. Tommy helps me into mine, leading my shaking legs into my own shorts.

We finish cleaning the counters, stacking the last glasses on the shelves. And when we’re done, he closes the bar door behind me, one arm tight around my waist, keeping me close.

“Does this mean I don’t have to do midnight patrols anymore?” I ask, hopeful.

Tommy smirks. “Let me think about it.”

[satellitespinner]

MISERY LOVES COMPANY - TEASER. ⌖

“i owe you a black eye and two kisses, tell me when you wanna come and get ‘em”

1:00 AM, SATURDAY MORNING.

Your temples pound against your skull, the pen in your hand trembles with the rest of your body. the stacks of papers that covered your table were telling of your stress levels, bills, and grocery prices plagued your mind whilst your body functioned on autopilot.

you had just gotten your youngest to fall asleep, and were now trying your hardest to focus on organizing the absolute mess of your personal life. you probably should’ve given up for the night and gone to bed unfulfilled, but you didn’t. instead you filled out form after form, and scribbled down grocery lists for weeks to come. “fucks sake,” you mutter under your breath, even the sound of your own breathing was irritating you.

time moved as if the clock was scared to startle you, slowly and quietly. the blaring ringing in your ears was probably the only thing keeping you awake, barely alert, but still conscious. your lethargic state is disrupted when your phone begins to buzz on the table. you rushed to silence the ringtone, silently pleading that the abrupt sound didn't wake your kids.

the number was unknown to you, outside of your small circle of friends, you debated answering, just to ask who, and how. but you declined. gently tossing your phone onto the table. the buzzing stopped just as quickly as it began. and you prayed to god for some sort of silence. your moments of peace were short, however. cut off by the persistent caller attempting to reach you once again.

you scoffed and stood up from your chair, pressing the answer button aggressively.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” you whisper yell into the phone, trying your absolute hardest to keep quiet. the person on the other line coughs, “Who even is this?” they don't reply, all you can hear is their jagged breaths into the phone.

“Hello?” you press, your voice dripping with frustration, your head was pounding, your throat was screaming - you didn't have time for this.

”wait, don't hang up.” the person clears their throat, pressing the phone into their ear further, “Please.” the unknown woman roughly pleads with you, the rugged voice wasnt hard to distinguish from one you’ve heard many times before. although you hadn’t heard it in years, you knew.

you didn't have to hear anything else before you knew who it was, your heart dropped when the realization hit you. ellie. ellie that you haven’t talked to in years was calling you from what you suspected to be a pay phone.

“What the fu- ellie?” if you weren’t awake before this, you sure as hell were now. ellie laughs into the phone, an awkward tic that she did often.

“Yeah, hi. hey.” her voice cracked, you sighed aloud into the phone. your fingers massaging your temples to soothe the ache that hadn’t faded. if anything the pain had gotten worse, now seeping into the rest of your body.

“Listen im sor-” “where are you?” her breath hitches, her voice dripping with disappointment, insecurity replaces the blood in her veins, flowing all the way to her heart, where it would stay.

“The tipsy bison.” you scoffed, finally realizing the exact reasoning for her reaching out. “you’re calling me to come get you from the bar, ellie?” her silence is confirmation to her motives, you hear her sigh into the phone, twirling with the cord to distract her fingers.

you wanted to tell her to get fucked, to berate her for calling for the first time in years with the only intention of getting picked up from the bar. you wanted to so badly let her know how selfish she is, and how much you hate her. but you didnt. instead you silently grabbed your car keys and told her to stay put. hanging up the phone without a second thought.

you had just fought with your kids to go down, their room dark, and filled with silence. and you were not about to disrupt that.