#i suppose he likes to have fun sometimes. you know what good for him in that regard

[my-stories-vault]

Thank you for such a lovely comment, Beth. Left me giddy, lol. Took me the entirety of yesterday on what I wanted to say 😄💘!

This was super sweet H 😍 I haven’t read a song fic in SO LONG, and from talking with you and what little I know of Tollywood (also thanks to you), seeing this paired with Love Story and the little nod to Dean being her Romeo at the end was just so special!

Haha, yesss - I was nervous about that, lol. Didn't see too many of those here. Lol, yeah, the dramatic Tollywood - I tried to walk the fine balance between my exaggerated world and the outter sublime one. I realised while I was writing that the Romeo and Juliet is a good drama to pair with my culture in some ways, it made a good bridge between my two inner worlds. So glad you liked it 🥰!

I can’t get over how beautiful your prose is ❤️

Thank you so much 💘. As a Lit Major, it's an honour to here one of my works being called "prose" - feels like a plaque. Means a lot 🥹

On a side note, I know it has nothing to do with it, but the wrapping ribbons brings me to my first love of love stories - Sailor Moon

Oooh. Is it an Australian cartoon? I love the gif you've shown me, lol. I grew up on Doremon and Shin Chan, or Ninja Hatori if we stretched it - but Sailor Moon sounds so fluid (probably the effect of the ribbons 🤭😂).

There you go again. I love the usage of hanging the moon. I’ve only seen it used a few times, but you just know Dean loves deeply, and if he finds something like he has here, he’s going to be fiercely protective. I loved how you showed him fierce and protective of her, while trying his damn hardest to be respectful of her wishes.

Right? The phrase is so damn gooey and sexy at the same time - I wonder why it isn't used more often. Haha, thank you so much - my Deans keep changing on what season/background he has if it's in an AU - but this one thing'll never change. Protectiveness bordering on paranoia - I find if I were as traumatised, I would've been the exact same 🙂.

Hahah - thirty seven. I’m surprised the hunting ones like the dungeon are a problem when her family are hunters, but I guess it’s not the to do thing to have where you work and where you live under one roof?

Ooof, that's a good point. I forgot it might not seem that normal to a non-native eye 😂.

Okay, I'm going to break down the parental code that reigns a lot of people here: Control.

They don't have a problem with weapons, per se, but they have a problem with what house the weapons are in. They see Sam and Dean and they see two jacked men, grazing the glory of six feet without parents (elders are guides, without them you are a disgrace in our society - you will never be up to any good) - and they think that their daughter's nearly committed a sin. Because then the boys are stronger than the parents and they disapprove.

Does that make sense? I sometimes get my normals blurred lol.

Yeah - I need you to tell me more. Is it over the shoes that I’m assuming they’re wearing? The ankles? Lower leg?

It's preferable that both the blesser and the blesse (just make words but I hope you get the sentiment 😂) are barefoot. Shoes are sort of disrespectful that's why you don't wear it in temples, and that means, you shouldn't wear them while giving/receiving blessings either. However, when in hurry, you excuse it. And the blesse is supposed to bend down well and touch the toes of their elders; the elders will loving show their blessings by touching your head.

Fun side fact: some cultures don't allow girls to touch feet (before marriage) because they are considered reincarnations of goddesses.

DEAN DESERVES EVERYTHING - so does this reader!

I just copy pasted because I wanted it to be said again 😂❤️ - especially the Dean part 🙃.

This is what I’m wondering again lol. Her parents are hunters. I reckon they’re seeing a lot more that they’re saving face over. We won’t comment on that stuff, but we will show here other marriage prospects in private.

Oh, they are very conscious of society watching. They won't say anything in front of the Winchesters because they are "strangers". But if I know their mindset correct (said the author, lmao) they came prepared with the Marraige prospects - they were simply waiting to know about her virginity so they could know if the guy would accept her or not.

Please note that I hate it as I say it 🙂🔫.

How dare! I was so mad when I read that. And the line about trying to be a friend to your kids. A parents job is not to be a friend but to parent.

Very true. But here, usually the self-conscious mothers, feel like if they were their child's friend, they would be younger. A dad rarely ever feels worried about their age. I figured I should include it to demonstrate to a slight extent what the mother was going through too. I don't know if that's something in pther cultures as well?

Really I was mad with how the parents were treating her the whole time, but the contrast with Dean and the love he was showing, my heart ❤️

Also just love Dean doing what he does best!

I'm so glad I was able to convey that through, lol. I was nervous I was overdoing it or not enough. I usually don't get like that, but I wanted to show all sides in a very few words. (As you know, one-shots aren't my strong suit 🤣.)

This was a beautiful story (where’s the proposal- huh? Huh?) Thank you so much for sharing! Whenever I read reader inserts, I’m reading the y/n as an OC and I loved how you shared your culture with us and the little differences/nuances compared to western culture.

Hahaha, inserting the thought of proposal in my other series now lol.

And thank you so much for reading. Feels damn awesome to hear your comments and thoughts about it 💘😘!

Love Story King.

Pairing: Dean Winchester X Y/N L/N

Blurb: You are in love. You have strict Indian parents. What else spells disaster?

Trigger Warnings/Tags (18+): language, overprotective parents, angst, hurt/comfort fluff.

Song Inspiration and Lyrics: Love Story by Taylor Swift (mentioned in bold and italics)

A/N: This one's close to my heart 🙃. My dear friend, Hepza from Wattpad, had this challenge with me two years ago. She wrote about Indian Arranged Marriages, and I wrote about the Love Marriage version. These were my prompts: "I don't want a Prince Charming on a white horse", Love Story by Taylor Swift, and any two Indian wedding traditions of my choice (they're explained in the chapter). If you want to give Hepza's version a go, you can find her on Wattpad - her version's amazing ❤️❤️.

Disclaimer: NOT ALL Indian parents are like how I've shown in this fic down here. Some are kind, supportive, and progressive. However, a few of these situations are derived from the real lives of a few other people I know: this is for them: I hope you all find your Deans, lovelies.

Love Story King.

We were both young when I first saw you

I close my eyes and the flashback starts

I'm standing there

On a balcony, in summer air

You trode lightly on the gravel road that hugged the Bunker from the outside. The early summer sun shone on the black rocks like an aesthetic come true. Slight summer heat licked up your neck and spiraled down your spine as you stretched languidly. Closing your eyes, you spread your arms as if waiting for the morning gorgeousness of the backwoods to douse you like the wrapping ribbons of the wind. The snow was melting, and so were you. Your melanin-plus body was appreciative of the dying winter even if you were having an internal meltdown.

You spent November through January dodging the outdoors, telling Dean you didn't want to catch a cold. The poor man, alternatively, with his brother, braved the frost to go on supply runs. You repaid them with warm meals for their tummies, tummies that had been homesick for most of their lives.

Today, a slice of your home was joining you. You couldn't decide if you were more anxiously nauseous or anxiously happy to be seeing them after two years.

But it wasn't your mom's nagging calls that had finally dogged you into an agreement. Your parents wanted to meet their future son-in-law. You'd finally broken down and told them about him - your conscious couldn't let you marry Dean without at least their approval. You owed them a meet-and-greet because Indian or not, they'd helped take care of you all your life.

Right up until Dean came along and plucked you from the crowd.

You'd always been a hunter, so that kind of introduction to Supernatural 101 hadn't really been necessary in your case. And much to both yours and Dean's surprise, you two had clicked. You had just moved out of your parents' sheltered scrutiny when you bumped into Dean on a case - one thing led to another, and you ended up in each other's company so often that one day you two decided not to part.

'Good morning,' a tastefully gruff voice met your ear; it was a warning before two arms wrapped possessively around you.

You let out an indignant huff on being interrupted during Nature Time, but you turned into a puddle in his embrace - where you felt the safest. Accepted, loved, and at home. Before Dean, you didn't think of those words as synonymous. 

'Fill up on all that affection,' you mumbled, resting your head back against his chest, and he pressed his lips to the side of your hair before lowering his head into your neck so that the scraggly scruff of his cheek tickled your skin ever-so-lightly. He brushed his lips to the juncture where your neck and collarbone met as he hummed, making a shiver run down your spine.

'Tell me why again?'

He laid a series of kisses on your shoulder, trying to make you forget your dumb rules. You also saw the tint of nervousness in his voice, through the relaxed gait he'd forced onto his body.

You smiled sadly. 'It's not allowed - hugging, or even holding hands before marriage. Much less kissing, or . . . sex.'

When you broke that news to Dean two weeks ago, you didn't know who had been more annoyed about it: him or Sam; mostly because Dean constantly complained about it, much to your amusement and Sam's horror. Dean had also been "making up" for the lost time about to happen, once again, to Sam's absolute misery.

Not that you had been exclusively and actively seeking out that "act" before meeting Dean - in fact, he'd been your first - but you did like . . . canoodling with him. You were the more one-man-woman kinda person - literally in everything. And you'd known that when you had given yourself to Dean, he would be it for you. Meanwhile, that was still unacceptable to your family. So, this visit was essentially going to be "fake it till you can make it" kinda altercation.

'I know it's supposed to be honourable,' he commented, placing another kiss up your neck. 'I just think it's stupid. I mean, what if you marry a person and you have no chemistry?'

You smirked. 'You're just upset about no sex for a week with me.'

'Of course. That, too. You're downright edible.'

It elicited a stuttering giggle from you. He turned you in his arms to see you for himself, and you snaked yours around his neck.

His freckles shone in the sun, like red polka dots for handsome faces. His cupid's bow dipped his upper lip downward, which you really hoped your kids would inherit one day. Some days you it was a tough decision to consider: what's more adorable about Dean - his dimples when he was smiling with his heart on his sleeve, or his glittering forest gems that highlighted between his crow's feet when he looked down at you as if you'd hung the moon.

He was giving you that look now. It prompted a shy, bashful smile of your own.

'I've told you before: chemistry doesn't matter,' you responded to his question. 'You aren't marrying them because of their . . . "skills", but more because you're promising them the rest of your life - despite anything.'

Once upon a time, he would have teased you for your inability to say the word "sex" so casually - one of his favourite pastimes was poking you out of your shell - and what he loved even more was that you often ventured out . . . only for him. He knew what a special pedestal he'd been put on in your heart, and it meant the world to him.

However, today he didn't have it in him to lure you out with sweet nothings. He nodded absent-mindedly, still recalibrating his mind around the fact that he won't be able to say that word for the next week either if he didn't want to be rejected.

If your five-year-long relationship had been anything to go by, you two have a multitude of differences that set you both seas apart, literally. It's evident you two've been a product of generations that belong to different continents altogether, but why should that stop love from blooming? If only Dean could get that across, everything would be all right.

'I'm having flashbacks,' you whispered.

'Of?'

'Our relationship,' you admitted.

He frowned. 'Why?'

'There are thirty-seven things in the Bunker right now that they can disapprove of.'

'That's specific,' he chuckled.

'I'm serious,' you chided. 'Sam has long hair, we have guns taped under the dining table, and don't even get me started on the torture chamber behind the archives. If my snooping mother finds it, you can say goodbye to all our dreams and hopes.'

Dean tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. He knew you wouldn't leave hi,m and he also knew how painful it would be for you to marry him without your parents' blessing. Your relationship with them was complicated; it reminded Dean of his own relationship with his father. Family can rip you apart, but you still want to keep it together; Dean didn't want it on his conscience that he didn't even try to support you through it.

He tugged your chin up and gazed into you with a seriousness that the man reserved for special occasions. 'You know I love you. By the end of this week, they'll know no man, or woman, will love you more than I can.'

You strained on a smile and forced yourself to revel in his optimism. You kissed his palm softly.

'Yeah, they're humans, after all - they'll see it,' you hoped. 'And I love you, too. So damn much.' It was your habit to say it back; you couldn't not.

See the lights, see the party. the ball gowns

See you make your way through the crowd

And say, "Hello"

Little did I know

That you were Romeo, you were throwing pebbles

You welcomed your parents into the Bunker with a huge smiles. It was nice to see them after such a long time. Greetings were passed around, and Dean and Sam had gone as far as to lean down and touch your parents' feet.

It was an Indian thing to touch your elders' feet to seek their blessings, and you were simply surprised that they even remembered it was a thing. You were fighting tears of joy and sheer overwhelming by the time your Mom happily hugged them like her own kids. At least they'd won her heart just a smidge. While the boys backed away to take their bags, you had started leading them down, subtly fanning your face to stem the tears right where they were.

Your parents levied one question after another on you - mostly catching up about hunting (they were hunters, too - it was a family business), then they asked how America was treating you, and you questioned them about their flight before they finally steered the conversation to the reason they were here.

A few days back, Dean had proposed - he'd gone and done the whole nine yards, the champagne, a classy restaurant, beautiful music in the background, and the most breathtaking ring you'd probably ever seen in your entire life. Or maybe, it was just the man who'd been holding it. 

But you hadn't been able to say yes.

It led to one of the largest fights the two of you had had, but it ended with Dean demanding you reveal everything to your parents if it was such a bone of contention for you. Your paralysing fear had only been swayed when Dean later confessed that it felt like you were ashamed of him. You decided the world could screw itself, but you wouldn't let him feel that for a single second more. 

That had been four days ago. Now your parents were here, in your space. 

'So, you live here all alone, Y/N?' your father said with a slight edge to it.

Tread carefully, all the alarms in your head screamed at you - for this was where the beginning of the end started.

'Oh, no. This is, uh, Sam and Dean's place.'

Another look was exchanged between your parents. Oh, how you hated that look! You stuttered to dispel their worries. 'I just . . . you guys were coming over, and my house couldn't have held us all, so Dean offered . . . while you were here.'

You were a grown-up woman, for God's sakes, that lied for a profession - you should have been able to say it better than that, right?

Right.

Luckily, you'd cleared all the lies with boys beforehand, so they knew what to do in case you weren't able to hold your own.

So, even if you'd lived at the Bunker practically ever since you left your parents', they really didn't need to know that. Because forget handholding - living in close quarters with a man before marriage was a sin, and these were two strong, bulky-ass men who could manhandle you around even on their worst days (you bet this was what your father was thinking). If they found out the truth, they would declare you dead to all your family, friends, and relatives.

Dean swooped in when it seemed like you'd jammed. 'We have a lot of rooms here. I wanted you guys to be comfortable. Especially now that we're going to be a family.' He stepped up beside you and was going to put his arm around you, but the way you stiffened reminded him to keep his hands to himself, so he tucked them awkwardly in his pockets, shooting them a charming smile as a replacement.

Your Mom shot him an uncomfortable smile. 'Oh, dear, that's sweet of you. But you didn't have to go to such trouble.'

'Nonsense! Please, you're welcome here.'

Your parents didn't look convinced.

They had evolved barely to welcome the different societal norms of the culture Dean was a part of, but the idea of a love marriage was a new level even for them - heck, they were just getting used to the fact that women could drive cars.

'We should eat!' You clapped your hands and smacked your lips. 

'Yeah, good idea,' Dean breathed out, taking a lead as he often did. 'Why don't you show them the restrooms, sweetheart, and their rooms? I'll get the food; Sammy'll set the table.'

Before you could glare at your boyfriend for the very suggestion, your Mom was already protesting. 'Absolutely not!'

The ever-active brothers who were already in motion froze in their places with confusion and slight fear. The kitchen was the one place where your mother's voice rose - it was sad she'd rearranged her life around that one room, not that you had any say in that. You also realised that the boys lost all the little respect they'd gained in your mother's eyes. With your father, they went negative.

'Why would you work in a kitchen, Dean?'

Dean looked sincerely befuddled. 'Ex-Excuse me?'

Your mom looked at you as if she was waiting for you to yell "Buzinga" or something to prove this a joke - you half wished you could. You may not have gone over this with the brothers, but you were an Indian daughter, and you'd be remiss if you didn't have a suitable lie ready for it.

'Well, the boys have lived alone for most of their lives,' you were quick to supply. 'They're used to working for themselves, Maa.'

Both the Winchesters shot you a look of incredulity at that explanation. 

'Papa, Maa, why don't you take the boys with you, and relax, huh? I'll handle everything.'

That brought a smile to their faces, and they loosened the muscles slightly. Your father patted your mother's shoulder (they weren't even too affectionate after so thirty years of marriage) while Sam followed them with slight reluctance.

Dean doubled back to follow you into the kitchen, where he hissed in a lowered decibel. 'What is this?'

You sighed. 'Indian men are the breadwinners, women work the households - sometimes even the women who work, actually.'

'That's just stupid,' he was quick to aide.

You couldn't even begin to count how many times Dean had said that about the Indian way of doing things. You loved him for it, actually - he hated all the regressive things you did, but he was a willing participant in the traditions that made your culture beautiful - he happily walked the balance for you, like the little girl in you had wanted your partner to. 

'Look, just, work with me here,' you begged. 'I haven't been able to cover everything with you guys, okay? And this is just for a couple of days.'

'But that's a couple of days of you working alone,' Dean said with upset - you know how he took sharing everything with you to heart, and you adored him for that. It was a relief to be with him after the kinds of marriages you'd seen in your household, but you needed to do this if you wanted approval.

You smiled ruefully at him as you brought out dishes. Dean's hand came out to pick up the cutlery before you slapped it away, and he glared at you.

You retorted with: 'Go, Dean. I'll be fine. Trust me - for my parents doing all the household work alone is almost as important as having a college education.'

You could see he was struggling with that new information.

'Now leave, or they'll think you're helping me.'

'Oh, God forbid, you're actually taken care of,' the sarcasm was real.

You smirked before something occurred to you, and your expression turned to one of reprimand. 'Oh! And we're lucky my parents didn't notice it, but don't call me "sweetheart".'

'What, now, they have a problem with nicknames?!'

You could already see this week being too much, but you decided to inhale before you calmly explained. 'Well, yes. It's weird to call a woman with any nickname before marriage, unless of course it's a legal nickname.'

'That's just—'

'—Stupid,' you completed. 'I know.'

He seemed genuinely nettled, so you cut him some slack: 'You can say it to me when we're alone? Just . . . watch everything you do in front of them, okay? It's like fighting a monster - you must watch your every move lest you want yourself to be vulnerable to their attacks. They are vicious when they want to be - nearly as bad as sorority girls, I suppose,' you said, trying an expression more suitable to his understanding.

'Seriously?'

You smiled at him pleadingly, and Dean left with a huff, muttering under his breath.

But you appreciated him going the effort. Dean is a wonderful man, and once you passed through this week, you were sure the rest of your lives were going to be amazing.

And my daddy said, "Stay away from Juliet"

But you were everything to me

I was begging you, "Please don't go"

A knock on the door pulled you from your reverie. You put down your reading glasses to see your mother push it in before you could allow the person inside. Frankly, you were just grateful she knocked before barging in. Getting that habit instilled in your parents was equivalent to getting a child potty-trained.

You smiled softly at your mother and the warm grace she seemed to pull into the room. You felt a nostalgia towards her; you'd missed her, even if it was only a little. 

'Hey, Maa. You and Papa settling in okay?'

'Oh, yes. I unpacked everything. Your father caught on that new show,' she said with a tint of bitterness. Yet if you pointed out, you'd be the bad guy, so you didn't. 'You?' She came to sit beside you on the bed, and you staved off the annoyance that came with the invasion of personal space, making room for her.

'Yep. So. What are you doing here?'

'Oh, I just, we haven't had the opportunity to talk in the longest time . . . And now you're getting married!'

You forced a smile. 'Uh huh. Yeah. Thanks for giving Dean a chance, by the way. It means a lot to both of us.'

'Oh, sure. Sure,' she waived it off, and you felt a tingle of discomfort go down your spine. 'You two crazy kids must be in love if he's willing to put up with your extra curves.'

The last few years with Dean had taught you to take offense at things like that. He cured what he'd called your "sorry syndrome" - it was so bad that when a person told you not to apologise so much, you apologised for apologising so much. A trait of your mother's and a gift of your childhood. However, it had been five years. 

So, instead of shrinking down in shame, which would have been your old self's go-to, you actually scoffed, 'Pardon?'

'Oh, you know,' she said sweetly, casually, looking down at your body in distaste. 'It's almost like you're already married - you seemed to have stopped watching your weight.' She had the audacity to laugh in the end. Her own hands were clutching her stomach as if she were trying to hide her own bulge. 

Embarrassment colored your cheeks beet red. 'Mom,' your voice took a sharpness that made even Dean grimace most of the time - but your mother remained obliviously uncaring of your feelings and happiness.

'Oh, honey, don't look at me like that,' she chided as if you were the one who had it all wrong.

Sure, you may have gained a couple of pounds, but you were still well within the weight range that a person of your height should be at. Just because you didn't have a flat stomach didn't make you unlovable. . . .

'I don't want to talk about this,' you reeled in your emotions to stop them from disrupting your steadfast voice.

If you want to insult someone to death diplomatically, your Mom would be a good teacher.

'Oh, there's no shame in talking about weight; isn't that what girlfriends do?' she nudged. 

It was pathetic that she thought that that was what being your kid's friend meant. What was even more pathetic was that it stemmed somewhere from her need to be young, more than being a supporting star in your life.

The most pathetic thing, you ask? That you actually thought you missed her.

You cringed. 'There's nothing to talk about. Dean loves me for who I am.'

She gave you a sceptical look. 'Are you sure, sweetie? Look, Y/N, he's a man of . . . Western Culture,' she said it as if that were a despicable status to have. 

'We've been talking about that,' you gritted. 'Not all Western Culture is British - not that all the Britishers are wrong.'

'Oh, now you're going to teach me, are you?' her eyes flashed. 'How old do you think you are? I'm your mother. Who do you think is more intelligent here? My parents were in the Dandi March that Gandhi led to get something as simple as salt for his countrymen! And you think you know how the British were, better than me . . . ?'

You tuned her out for a bit. There was only so much you could listen to as she used Gandhi, a brilliant man, by the way, who became one of the original topics of conversation between you and Sam, for her own means. Parents used stories to control their children, at least in your household. 

'And that's not even the point!' she spat, bringing you out of your reverie onto a point that isn't her bragging about being wiser simply because she's older. 

'Dean's . . . an orphan. He didn't have the hand of his elders over his head. And I'm pretty sure he's had sex way before you. I mean, has he even agreed to wait? For you?'

You were so flustered by the point of sex - the first time you'd heard your mother use the word - that you couldn't address how her "orphan" point bothered you, like a knife in your back might.

'Yes!' you lied. Well, partially lied. The part about Dean waiting for you, as soon as he knew you both had feelings for each other, was true. But it was your decision and yours alone when you told him you were ready for the next level. 'Dean's a gentleman, Maa,' you punctuated - this part was a hundred percent true though.

Your mother was yet to be convinced. She pulled out from the pockets of her fully unrevealing nightgown, a few photos, and nausea seemed to climb up your food-pipe the second you realised what that could possibly be.

Your eyes widened in betrayal as she confirmed your suspicions. 'These are a few Indian men your father and I have been talking to, sweetie-'

'No,' you shot out of your bed in revulsion at even the thought. 'What the . . . I love Dean!' You choked on the word "hell" there in the middle. 'You came here to give him a chance!'

'Be that as it may, you're still a kid, Y/N! You don't have the experience of the world - listen to me, just go through them.' She pushed them in your face.

You blinked back your predictable swell of frustrated tears because you didn't want to give her another reason to insult you. 'Why are you doing this?' your voice wavered. 'I don't want another man. I'm in love with Dean. You told me you'd get to know him-'

She sighed (cutting you off) as if she had to explain everything to her dumb little child. 'Look, now that I know you aren't tainted, I'm sure these men will be willing to accept you. It's not too late for you, sweetie. You just fell in love, you didn't indulge in . . . sin,' she said the last word as if it were taboo.

It took you a long second to process her words, "tainted", "sin", and a few more underlying insults in less than five sentences.

You were sick to your stomach. You couldn't actually believe this was your mother - a woman who was supposed to accept and love you no matter what. What surprised you more was how much you held onto hope every time, and how it was that much deeper that they hurt you. Every. Time.

'What the hell is wrong with you?' left your mouth before you could stop yourself.

'Y/N, language!' she gasped as if you'd just told her to fuck off.

You lassoed your temper enough to not let another angry word wander out of your mouth, and you subsequently fled the room. You were faster than her and practically raced down the hall, ignoring her calls for you to get back.

Tears were already streaming down your face by the time you reached the library, and you almost jumped out of your skin when Dean's warm voice sought you. 'Y/N, do you want to join us for a beer?'

You made an abrupt halt, and it was then that Dean noticed your tear-stained face. He was already on his feet and approaching you to comfort you when you let your frustrations loose on him.

'I would love a beer, Dean,' you said ironically, 'But I'm not allowed one. Because I'm still a little kid, and my parents think we're making a mistake by getting married!'

He was shocked at your outburst. He glanced back at the other two men in the room, who looked slack-jawed at you. 

The oldest man in the room gained a furious glint in his eye as he schooled himself. 'Young lady, you need to calm down,' he ordered with restrained emotion.

'Calm down?! Calm do-!' you inhaled sharply. 'How could you do this to me!?' you cried out. 'I love Dean! And you guys knew this, but here you are trying to sell me off as a virginal, all-in-one, ready-to-be-the-mother-of-their-babies woman to a couple of losers I don't even know!'

A hurt look filtered through Dean's expression, and he longed to reach out to you and calm you down himself, but he didn't want to fuel the fire. He hated how they've been treating you, and he's starting to see your point about them driving you crazy.

It hadn't been one whole day, and they'd made you cry so. His heart took a hit everytime he peeked a look at your face. He hated this. He was starting to hate them.

Your father rose to his best height - and once upon a time, you would have shrank away from that intimidating pose that he managed to cut - but you could see it now; your boys towered over even him. And suddenly, you weren't scared of this man anymore - the one who'd controlled your and your Mom's every decision.

'The boys we've been looking for you are all perfect for-'

'That's the thing - I don't want a Prince Charming on a white horse!' you essentially screamed.

Holy shit, I just yelled at my father.

But even that wasn't good enough to stop you. 'And if you can't realise that . . . ' you shook your head at a loss for words, panting, as you rushed up the stairs and out of the Bunker.

Dean only waited for a courtesy second before he bolted after you.

And I said

"Romeo take me somewhere we can be alone

I'll be waiting, all there's left to do is run

You'll be the prince, and I'll be the princess

It's a love story, baby, just say yes"

Romeo, save me, they're trying to tell me how to feel

This love is difficult, but it's real

Don't be afraid, we'll make it out of this mess.

It's a love story, baby, just say yes

Dean knew you like he knew the back of his hand. On foot, without a car, there's only a handful of places your laziness would allow you to walk towards. So, it was no surprise when he found you at a quiet clearing in the Bunker's nearest bunch of woods. You'd gained a habit of storing a blanket and some reserve food in the trunk of a tree that you'd found a hole in. And he knew his money had been in the right place - you were already on the picnic blanket, sniffling as you'd rolled into a ball, trying to comfort yourself.

He sat down silently beside you and pulled you in his arms, tugging till you were fitted snugly between his legs. Then he tried to coax your hands away from yourself, and you broke down sobbing as you released the hold on yourself and caught him in a hug that tight.

He returned the embrace, letting you curl into him as you let your angry tears out. As you let the pain flow. He rocked you from side to side slightly till your full-blown sobs were down to smaller body wracks.

He was curling and uncurling his fingers through your soft, recently washed hair. And it was only when you could hear more than your own voice that you noticed him speaking soothing words to you, even occasionally pressing a feather-light kiss or two atop your hair.

'I thought,' you gasped, clutching the drenched shirt on his chest, 'I thought, maybe this time they'd be proud of me. This time they would approve of my choice.'

Dean waited, you continued.

'Y-You're the best thing about me, Dean,' you swallowed. 'All my life, all my decisions have revolved around their choices, their approval. Everything they wanted. But you . . . you're so perfect. How could they ever find a flaw in you?'

Dean frowned at the choice of your words, and as he often did, he disagreed, deciding to take issue with your words. He pinched your chin between his fingers and made you look up into his eyes. 'You're perfect as you are, Y/N.'

'My parents don't think so.'

'I do.' He wiped the wetness on your cheek, 'Fuck, sweetheart, I want to marry you; I want to start my own family with you, I want you to be the mother of my children - that's gotta mean something, right?'

You blew out a breath. 'I just don't know what to do anymore - I guess, I guess . . . maybe I was . . . I was trying to get them to . . . accept me, for once. I fought with you for that. I mean, what the fuck?!'

Dean ducked down his head, and kissed the saline over your mouth, releasing it a second later to kiss your left cheek, then the other one, and then leave several other butterfly kisses in his wake all over your face, just trying to calm you down.

When your breathing had seemed to get even, and you looked to have calmed down a great measure, Dean finally spoke. 'What do you wanna do, sweetheart?'

You huffed, looking down at your hands. 'Ideally? We should elope.'

He had to chuckle. 'Oh, yeah? That's not very Indian of you,' he poked your tummy, and you glared up at him softly.

'They're never going to agree to this. Us. And I'm not marrying someone they choose . . . some asshole hunter who thinks he's got all the ladies of the world wrapped around their little finger - I've already got one of those.'

'Hey,' he looked you in warning, but both of you knew his gaze held no heat behind it.

You shot him a sweet, mischievous smile, and he narrowed his gaze at you, before he articulated what he wanted to say to you, '. . . Look, I-I don't want you to regret anything. We can't simply sail off into the sunset. If that were possible, we would have already done that.'

You pouted. 'Really? I was already looking for castles on far-off islands where I could be a Princess, and you'd be my Prince.'

'I thought you didn't want a Prince Charming.'

'What I want,' you grasped the open ends of his flannel, 'is to have a life with my one true love, and to not be told how I'm supposed to feel.'

He couldn't resist a peck to your pouty lips, and he tightened his hold on you. 'Alright. You'll have all of that. But after we give this another try, okay? If I can, I want to give everything to you.'

You sniffled. 'Am I asking too much of you? I know we shouldn't care what our parents think. That this is about us.'

'This is more than that,' he said. 'You want your entire family to be there on your wedding day. I get that. I wish my whole family were there, too, you know?'

You gulped your sadness and cupped his cheek. 'I know.' You nuzzled your warmed-up face into his neck. 'I think . . . somewhere I want them to celebrate you too,' you whispered. 'It's silly, but I want to be the family you miss. I want to be there for you. I, too, want to give you everything I have - and if that's crazy relatives, you're gonna have it!'

He half-smirked. 'Well, aren't you nice?' He kissed your forehead with fervor, then he rested his head against yours. 'I love you.'

You kissed him in retaliation, fierce and loving. Long enough that both of you were panting by the time you parted. 

'We'll go in after a few minutes,' he murmured against your lips.

You snickered. 'Papa giving you a hard time, huh?'

'Shhhh,' he pressed another kiss to your hairline, and you had to smile at his avoidance tactic - you knew he was trying not to complain about your parents, and that was legit downright sweet. 'Let's not talk until we're ready to head back, hmm?'

'I can live with that,' you whispered.

I got tired of waiting

Wondering if you were ever coming around

My faith in you was fading

When I met you on the outskirts of town

And I said

"Romeo, save me, I've been so alone

I keep waiting for you, but you never come

Is this in my head? I don't know what to think"

You beamed down at the new designs covering the expanse of your hands right up until your elbows - front and back.

As compensation for forcing you, your parents had tried to make amends - extremely begrudgingly, mind you; and after hundreds and hundreds of talk sessions with Sam and Dean, they had been prepared to finally, completely, and wholeheartedly accept this relationship.

Months. Took you two eight months, precisely.

But it was worth it.

And you didn't know who had been happier with this development - you or Dean; for once, they'd been treating him more like a son than they'd ever treated you like a daughter - gender dynamics, yada yada.

For your sake, the boys tried not to show how obviously they enjoyed their attentions, and your mom's spoiling attitude towards "her boys", but you were glad that your boys were finally getting the love and care they deserved. If your parents are overstrict, they are also overcaring, and it usually plays out in favour of guys. You'd had enough of their involvement for a few lifetimes, so you were just happy to sit back and watch them choose Sam and Dean over you. For sure, some little part of you wished they'd treated you like that when you were a kid, but you'd take the brother's happiness any day.

After all, you shouldn't be too surprised - it was practically a trope to treat the in-laws better than your own kids. And if the in-laws were men, you stood no contest.

But even your mother's pestering and nagging couldn't upset you today.

Today, you'd applied mehendi, and you were bubbling with excitement to show it to your fiancé.

After dodging most of your relatives' rooms who'd taken up residence at the Bunker for the wedding that was in three days, you'd managed to sneak into Dean's room. It wasn't like most of them were up anyway - it was way late in the night, and everyone had crashed after the Music Night (also known as Sangeet in India) that was a custom before the weddings.

Dean was already ready for bed, in his sweatpants, and was pulling on his t-shirt for the night.

You let the door click back softly, and it was a testament to how tired Dean must be if he didn't notice you up until now.

'Hey, handsome.'

He whipped around with his gun pulled on you, and his eyes went wide. 'Y/N! Dude, don't do that! It's bad enough most of your relatives don't know the concept of knocking!'

You let out an evil giggle. 'Aw, did I scare you? Do you need a hug? Do you need me to tuck you in?' you used your baby voice on him.

'No,' he replied in order, 'yes, and yes!'

You laughed this time, holding your hands behind your back this entire time. 'I have a surprise for you first,' you told him in a sing-song voice.

'Really?' he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

'Geez, get your mind out of the gutter! You just said, none of my family knows how to knock.'

'Well, fortunately, I know how to lock,' he looked at you meaningfully. 'Blows your mind, doesn't it? The science of locking?'

Your body vibrated with laughter, and your cheeks throbbed from smiling so much. 'You're incorrigible; but no, that's not the surprise.'

'Then?'

'Close your eyes.'

He sighed in a manner that said, "the things I do for you". You locked the door behind you just for a few moments of privacy (didn't stop Dean's devious smirk from growing) as you drew closer to your man.

You draped your newly colored hands over his shoulders in a gesture you'd lost count of how many times you'd already performed, and it was pure instinct when he returned the hug, keeping you close to him, attaching you to his hip.

'Open 'em,' you softly told him.

He looked down at you instantly, smiling first at your proximity before his eyes drew to the gorgeous shade of brown patterns smattered across your forearms and palms, a fragrance tickling his nostrils as he tried to guess which new tradition he was being privy to now.

'Is that permanent?' came the first question as his own palms came to capture your wrists and have a closer look as his cute brows furrowed curiously.

'No. It's called mehendi.'

He shot you a questioning glance as he turned your hand to get its full experience.

'A heena tattoo,' you clarified. 'It's temporary. You apply it like paint to your hands, sometimes legs. When the first layer peels away, only its hue is left and that amazing smell . . . it was one of my favourite things as a kid, to get mehendi done.'

'Why?' he asked, loving the childlike glee you displayed when you talked about this.

'Because they said, the darker the color of your mehendi, the more your man will love you,' you grinned.

'Oh.' But it didn't have the effect you were expecting on Dean. He frowned and looked down at you in earnest. 'But then why would you wear it at our wedding?'

'What do you mean?' getting anxious that, perhaps, he didn't like it - the wedding was in three days, and this was not going anywhere till two weeks at least.

'I mean . . . do you doubt how much I love you that you needed to put this on? I mean . . . What if it's not dark enough now? Doesn't mean I don't love you.'

You wouldn't have been able to fight the smile even if you tried, and boy, you tried because Dean seemed sincerely hurt by that. You turned your hands so that they rested face-up in his palms, and then, on both hands, you pointed at two distinct spots, making him squint to understand.

'Wait . . . is that my—?'

'When you get married, you write the groom's name amongst the designs to show that your mehendi came true. Only the man you love the most has the honour of going up on your hands in Mehendi,' you informed.

And Dean bit his lip, as his ears turned pink. 'All right, that's awesome. Can . . . Can I also put it?'

An unadulterated laugh burst out of you.

The dirty blond-haired man blushed harder, trying to understand what incited that reaction. 'What? I want to honour you, too!'

You're heart fluttered, and millions of butterflies took off in your stomach, your love swelling up in your chest to the point that you weren't sure you would be able to contain it anymore.

'You would do that for me?' your voice was gently disbelieving, and Dean could have sworn he saw tears shining in your e/c irises.

'Only if it's okay with you.'

You cupped his face in your hands. 'You can do it - just don't let any of the elders see it.'

'Why not?' his nose scrunched adorably.

'They'll think you're gay,' you chuckled.

He rolled his eyes slightly as he rested his forehead against yours. 'Oh, but sweetheart, what I'm about to do to you is so not gay.'

He pressed his lips passionately to yours, and let's just say you didn't get to leave the room like you'd originally planned you would.

He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring

And said

"Marry me, Juliet, you'll never have to be alone

I love you, and that's all I really know

I talked to your Dad, go pick out a white dress

It's love story, baby, just say yes"

There was only one other thing that proved a bump on the road to the wedding.

It was a day prior to the big day.

Your parents had cornered Dean and Sam into the library and insisted that this was more important than sleep; probably even more important than the wedding itself.

The brothers had shared a worried look, and Dean told them that he'd call you too, but your father only demolished that idea by deeming you a child, and he said that there was no possible requirement for you in an adult conversation, quote-for-quote.

Sam had been a huge calming factor to Dean's flaring temper during interactions with your parents. The younger brother, even now, had to temper Dean's rage with a warning look, and a comforting hand on the shoulder that said they were too close to the wedding to let anything ruin it.

And Dean at least agreed with that part.

Although the boys had been loving how well-treated they seemed to be once your parents warmed up to them (and how they also bought into the several lies that Dean and Sam had to pave the way with to the wedding) - it hadn't gone unnoticed in Dean's eyes how you were still treated more like an object being given away rather than his fucking bride. He hid his annoyance well from you, so it wouldn't put you in a tough position.

Sometimes he couldn't believe how unfair that system was towards women, and it was absolutely horrible as to how the woman he considered his world was nothing but an object to be disposed of in some people's eyes.

It was hurtful, and Dean's admiration for you had skyrocketed ever since he saw what kind of shit you'd had to put up with all your life - and how, despite it all, you'd turned into such a beautiful human being - one he could see spending the rest of his life with. One he craved to be with, one he prayed to God for, one he'd always dreamed of.

He wasn't saying that his culture was any better - if anything he probably also condoned it to a great extent - because the thing is, and this was his strong belief, culture shouldn't make people simply for the reason that people make culture; why should one person's thoughts confine another person's actions in such a demeaning way?

He'd sworn to himself that he would treat you like you actually deserved for once - not that he wasn't trying before, but he was going to try harder, and that was a promise he made to himself.

'So, Mr. L/N, what did you want to talk about?' Sam politely asked.

Your father had asked them to call him "papa", a term of informality and endearment that you preferred - but they hadn't been comfortable with it, and your dad hadn't been comfortable being called by his first name, so the boys simply stuck to "Mr. L/N" or "Sir" till they were ready to break that habit.

'Actually,' your father was tense. 'We probably should have talked about this earlier.'

One of your Uncles added, 'We just assumed that you would be the first ones to bring it up. We were wrong.'

'What? What do you mean? Is everything okay?' Dean sat on the edge of his seat.

The older men exchanged exasperated looks.

'What is it?' Dean pressed.

Your father sighed, and raked a hand through his hair tiredly - he seemed to age ten years in those few seconds. 'We haven't discussed the dahej.'

The brothers looked to one another for help - finding the other one equally clueless, they both raised their brows simultaneously in a very brotherly fashion at your family.

'Dowry,' the Uncle cleared up.

Dean felt bile press against his mouth, and he wasn't sure he'd heard it correctly. 'Dowry?' he had to resist grinding his teeth. 'You want to buy me to marry your daughter?' the disgust was clear as day in his voice, and Sam looked equally disturbed by that notion.

'Well . . . don't you want that?' your father looked surprised with their reactions.

'No!' Dean barely stopped himself from yelling. 'Sir, with all due respect, I love your daughter - and I want her for the rest of my life. That's all. Now, if you could stop treating her like a piece of your furniture or something, I would really appreciate it. Traditions or not, she's a human being, and what you just suggested is outrageous.' Dean stood up in anger, but he kept speaking steadily. 'I respect that woman; heck, I worship her, and now that she's becoming my wife, you'd better respect her too, or I swear to God, we're going to have a problem.'

He marched out, leaving Sam to deal with the aftermath. But Dean was too busy fuming to actually give a fuck right now.

And he would've just walked on by till he was in the sanctuary of his room, when he found his peace just at the end of the steps at the beginning of the corridor.

'Y/N,' he breathed out.

You had tears in your eyes again - and would have begged everyone to believe that you weren't always such a crier, and it was the situations really - but right now, you didn't have it in you. You were surfing on one of your most emotionally heightened moments.

Dean's heart sped up. 'Did I cross a line? Fuck, Y/N, I'm sorry—'

You raised a hand to cut him off, rolling your eyes a little. 'These are happy tears, stupid.'

He sighed in relief. 'Really?'

'Well, a mix,' you shook your head. 'Did you really mean that?'

Dean was on the verge of taking offence again, but he kept his voice low so that you were his only audience. 'Of course I did!' He gestured widely and vaguely at the Bunker around you, 'Do you think I'd tolerate any of this for anyone else?'

And once again, Dean Winchester had made your heart grow three fucking sizes.

Any other time, you would've avoided getting near him in fear of being cited - but right now, you were too damn overwhelmed and too damn weak in the knees to not slot your figure against his in gratefulness. You were always amused by how much love you had for this man: you were sure you'd combust if he wasn't holding you together right now.

His anger washed away with your nearness. 'Aren't you scared someone will see you?' There was only a slight teasing lilt to his words, but he was tightening his hold on you nonetheless.

'They'd better,' you answered. 'People should be taking fucking cues from you. You're like . . . like a . . . a Love Story King,' you bestowed the title.

His cheeks decided crimson fit them as he also simultaneously fought off a grimace - but he was trying not to spoil the moment as he smiled down at you, eyes full of awe and adoration. 'Well, now that I've talked to your Dad, and everything is out of the way - I guess you're finally mine.'

You smirked. 'Oh, jaan, Juliet always belonged to Romeo.'

He blushed harder, only because that nickname did things to him. It meant "darling" in your language, and sounded incredibly sexy to him in your velvet tongue.

He then pulled away to show you the inside of his hands. And you gasped softly when you saw your name written on both his palms in Mehendi, and your eyes were pooled with renewed tears. 'Oh, my gosh, you actually went through with it!'

He chuckled at your awestruck expression. 'Yep. Turns out even Romeo only belonged to his Juliet.' He cringed a tad because he segued into your Taylor Swift reference.

But you pulled him down for that, laying your lips against his - the rest of the world be damned. If this man can quote your favourite singer, you can kiss him in a hallway.

A/N: So, what do you think? If you have any comments or questions, please feel to reach out!

And one more thing! I know I haven't updated for a while. One of my relatives passed away a while back along with the other shit that I talked about. I fell hard off the consistency wagon. When I could find my inner writer again, I decided that I would finish the TSW series before I started posting it again, so this kind of gap never repeats - I've been going hard at it, and I hope to finish writing it soon! Y'all can expect regular posting from around October. Thank you all for your patience 🥰❤️!

Meanwhile, I will try to update a few fics that I do have, like this one, on here.

Tag List.

@aylacavebear @hobby27 @stoneyggirl2 @emma1998sblog @globetrotter28

@bettystonewell @jollyhunter @ambiguous-avery @thegirlinmaroonsweater

[seth-burroughs]

Seth is Kanai Ward's resident God fearing gay that agreed to take the Priest's money only because Yomi pulled him aside and told him he's gonna go to hell even harder if he arrests him. Worshipper on the other hand is actually atheist but keeps on attending the church because he thinks the aesthetic is fire and wants the Priest carnally.

[tossawary]

On one hand, I don't think that Shen Yuan's plan to "fake" his own death is actually a bad escape idea generally. He is missing additional insight into the head of a person (Luo Binghe) who now has very good reason to hate him forever and (in another life) famously likes to take gruesome revenge on anyone who has ever wronged him. Only way to get away from that kind of grudge, it seems.

On the other hand, the death that actually gets executed ends up being SO wildly dramatic and mind-bogglingly mysterious and unintentionally gut-wrenching that it's... laughable. A lot of this is not really Shen Yuan's fault, imo, as a lot of wild cards were coming up and his escape window was closely rapidly, so he seized it while he could. But the sheer MESS left behind... Incredible.

So, I'm currently imagining a scenario where Shen Yuan chooses and somehow manages to frame someone specific for his "fake" death. There needs to be some little story, right? Shen Yuan picks some truly loathsome demonic villain to blame like he's planning protagonist enrichment: Binghe can take some nice revenge on these losers for them "stealing" his original revenge from him. Neatly tied loose ends!

Airplane: "Holy shit, I don't know if I hate anyone this much to do this to them, bro. Wow. Okay. This'll be... uh, fun? Haha, what the fuck..."

Even better if Shen Yuan's scheme basically destroys Shen Qingqiu's body so that no one can do any weird necromancy shit. SUCCESS: Shen Yuan wakes up in the plant body a few years later. (Maybe the System is back; maybe it's mysteriously vanished.) He's expecting Luo Binghe to be more or less back on the path to becoming Demon Emperor of the world now that that strange Huan Hua Palace subterfuge isn't necessary... except... uh...

Well, it turns out that Luo Binghe and Cang Qiong Mountain Sect teamed up to curbstomp the poor villains that Shen Yuan threw into traffic here, and known Heavenly Demon Luo Binghe is just... hanging out on Qing Jing Peak again. There's a- ahem... obviously highly fictionalized song claiming that Luo Binghe basically had a breakdown cursing the evils of demons in front of Liu Qingge... and apparently they were both so mad at Shen Yuan's targets that they forgot to be mad at each other? And somewhere in there, the other peak lords got involved, and Wei Qingwei and Mu Qingfang did NOT like that cursed sword, and thankfully Yue Qingyuan was there to help wrestle a distraught Luo Binghe down at the end there, for Shen Qingqiu's sake.

Airplane: "Yeah, bro, I really don't fucking know. My protagonist is maybe getting something like therapy now...? Yue Qingyuan and Liu Qingge still look like they're chugging vinegar sometimes, but they're maybe trying to 'respect your memory' or some shit. Huan Hua Palace is sooo mad. Do you know how much shit we're getting from the other sects constantly for having a demon disciple? You broke them, bro. You broke my fucking story. Luo Binghe is teaching a junior painting class later and then going out on the town for drinks with his old classmates afterwards... If he's going to burn the sect down at some point, then he's being really fucking weird about it."

And Shen Yuan is, of course, horrified that he has apparently caused the protagonist to lose his groove. Were his deathbed words of wisdom too much? Luo Binghe is acting like some... normal guy trying painfully but earnestly to get over something? He has a pet dog. He's bringing snacks to weekly games night with other senior disciples. He's acting like a widower instead of collecting wives. It's incredibly "pathetic" compared to the ruthless go-getter main character of PIDW.

Shen Yuan, watching Luo Binghe try to achieve mental stability and healthy outlets: "Wow, it's worse than I thought. He's not himself at all! Should I do something to fix this?"

Airplane, who's kind of pissed that his story is in ruins but also lives here now and knows the way that PIDW was supposed to end: "Uh, maybe? Wow, I guess you could, if you really want... The broken System might like that, but... Quick question: bro, do you for real hate this kid?"

[sqgeism]

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 lovey dovey | various hsr men x gender neutral reader

💌 — ; your boyfriend is tooootally the type of guy to...

love mail — a girl gotta do what a girl gotta do. good NIGHT. (it's 8pm as of posting) another short one :p i'm starting to grow to like writing these...

anaxa's the typa guy to prefer slowburn over anything. he wants to earn you, really. doesn't like it when things are too easy because he appreciates the art of courting, though if you DO make it easy for him he still tries to be romantic. wanting to at least feel like he's doing something right to receive such love from you </3

mydei's is the typa guy to appreciate when you bring him in for a dance while he's in the kitchen. while waiting for a dish to cook or the oven to preheat, you begin to hum a familiar song and take his hand. he lets out that deep chuckle of his, indulging in your antics as you two slowdance to your humming. it's so domestic i threw up hi guys

phainon is ABSOLUTELY the type of guy to cross half a battlefield just to help you during a fight. doesn't care how much he's hurt, the distance he has to run, he's at your side immediately. absolutely tears the enemy apart too like.. he is NOT losing anyone else.

dan heng is soooo the type of guy to love taking pictures of you :) candids, proper photoshoots, during dates.. all of it! he adores having his formerly barren camera roll be full of his brightest part of his day. he also keeps some photographs in his wallet, phonecase, all of that! isn't a big words guy so uses this as his way of appreciation <3

dr ratio is the typa guy to use you as his muse. has used your beauty as inspiration for sculptures and doesn't hold back on his compliments for you. you will STRUGGLE to be insecure with how insistent and sharp he is about how perfectly you're 'carved' to be. will playfully debate w u about it

boothill's the typa guy to let you leave your mark on his mechanical body. stickers, kiss marks if you feel like it, little accessories.. do whatever you want, wears it proudly like a medal. personal favorite is his wedding ring <3

moze is the typa guy to like going invisible before hugging you from behind. it used to startle you, but you've grown to appreciate it. he was only like this in the beginning, since he was quietly embarrassed about affection and wasn't sure how to approach it the way you did. decided this was the best way. although you miss it cause it was cute, you like how he doesn't feel the need to anymore. he's grown comfortable with affection <3

jing yuan is the typa guy to know your little 'questions' and subtle hints to things. ask him if he's hungry? he has your cravings being ordered on the phone. does something look nice on you? he already has his wallet out to pay for it. he also makes sure not to walk too fast and matches your pace, all while of course holding your hand. nothing works anymore because he just knows you too well 💔 gives you kisses on your forehead for trying. if you're unhappy he knows to follow up to your cheek, and if it doesn't work he finishes with a kiss to your lips. that one always works :)

gallagher the typa guy to LOOOVE flirting when your tipsy. sometimes you forget he's your boyfriend and get all giggly like when you first met him, it's his favorite thing. doesn't push it too far ofc because he wants to be respectful when you're under the influence, but it takes a lot of years of practice to be able to hold his constraint when you lean in for a kiss.. all sweet with your hands pressed up against his chest

caelus is totally the typa guy who loves to let you wear his jacket. for one, everybody knows it is his, and you wearing it means he's yours <3 so that means nobody approaches you and he likes it that way. also it's comfortable and fashionable! you never get cold :D (and you see his arms so i suppose it's a bonus)

luka is ONE HUNDRED percent the type of guy to love playfighting but he always lets you win. it's always fun with you, you're always so giggly and play dirty, plus while he can totally counter it, he doesn't. let's you have your fun the whole time! unless you start teasing him and that's when he locks in (to tease you back)

blade is the typa guy to appreciate the fact you patch him up. while you're doing so he mumbles about how perfect you are, how he's undeserving of your kindness as he takes one of your hands and kisses your palm softly, making you cup his cheek as he continues his praise of your amazing care for him. sometimes goes overboard and is too focused on showing you how thankful he is and forgets to have his injuries properly treated :p

luocha is the typa guy to like sleeping shirtless. doesn't know why he started this habit, just knows that it started when you two started to sleep together in the same bed. he liked waking up and really feeling you being there. it meant everything to him, this kind of vulnerability. it was beyond lust, it was trust.

gepard is the type of guy to always be flustered easily. we all know it, we love it, but your favorite moments are when you surprise him while he's on duty. when he's stationed to more isolated parts of belobog, he always seems bored or you know.. maybe just doing his duty. whatever it is, he's clearly too focused to let any emotion slide. so when you show up, all smiley and sweet, your energy bounces off of him and he can't help but get all giggly too. only to realize he's still on watch, gets embarrassed, and you relish in the sweet red on his cheeks.

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)

[sceletaflores]

LAYING IT ALL ON THE LINE...

꩜ masterlist ꩜ update blog ꩜ inbox ꩜ taglist ꩜ ao3 ꩜

｡꩜°‧➵ PAIR: Joel Miller x fem!reader

｡꩜°‧➵ WC: 4.1k

｡꩜°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, post-outbreak, hurt/comfort, joel's pov, general violence, minor character injury, jackson!joel, when he picks an unnecessary fight with you because that's all he knows, mentioned age gap, joel miller as a sad old man, joel miller experiences feelings, oral sex (f!receiving), p in v, clothed sex, unprotected sex, erectile dysfunction? we don't know what that means in this house because that old man can fuck like he's twenty AND his knees are made of steel (but only sometimes), porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡꩜°‧➵ @retrosabers SAYS: thinking about you almost dying on patrol and joel is FUMING, unable to convey just how worried and anxious it makes him. the only way he can even remotely conceptualize his feelings is through a very PASSIONATE rawdogging ♡

｡꩜°‧➵ NAT'S NOTE: everyone say thank you sid for this absolutely luxurious prompt...i'm waiting. i had so much fun with this! i love love love a good semi-angsty, emotionally constipated man having to come to terms with his buried slash repressed feelings in the gritty wake of a near-death experience, like that's my shit. hope y'all love it!

dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics!

joel miller realizes that love isn’t just a four letter word…

"Southeast perimeter’s clear. Heading west by the river bed."

“Wow, you’re finally gonna stop gettin’ us lost out here, sunshine?”

“Lost? Please, you cried when I found that shortcut through the cedar thicket.”

Joel listens to you and Tommy bicker over the radio, a forgotten cup of coffee going cold at his side. That's all he can do when you're out there—patrolling in the snow with a few others. He's not proud of how he just sits by like some anxious house wife, listening to the static between check-ins, but he can't make himself focus on anything other than the way your bright voice filters in and out.

He tries not to hover. Tries not to keep the handheld clutched like it's a goddamn lifeline. But he does, eyes glued to the thing like it might crack open and spill you out if he stares hard enough.

Joel's really not even supposed to be listening in like this. Maria's chewed him out more times than he can count each time she catches him hunched over an old radio that he's never bothered turning in, says it'll do him more harm than good worrying over it.

Besides, these channels aren't meant for civilians sitting on their asses at home. He knows that, because that's exactly what he is now—civilian adjacent. Half-retired.

Tommy jokes about it every once in a while, the way Joel's slowed down, the way his joints complain louder than they used to. A while back, he might've laughed too. Now, every little twinge of pain feels like a reminder of what he used to be.

Joel used to be the one they all looked to out on patrol. He could track better, shoot cleaner, navigate faster than most of the younger guys. That's not the case these days. His patrolling has slowed down over the past few years. He only goes out a few times every couple of months, if even that. 

He tells himself it’s by choice.

It’s not, not at all. He’s tired. His knees ache after long rides. His busted shoulder can’t handle the cold without locking up. Jackson’s got a whole rotation now, young joints, faster reflexes, eyes that don’t blur when the wind hits just right. So he doesn’t go out much anymore. Not unless the group is short. Not unless they really need him.

It makes sense. He knows it makes sense.

That doesn’t make it feel right. You out there, miles away in knee-deep snow with a rifle strapped to your back while he’s stuck here. Not out there. Not beside you.

Joel knows you can handle yourself—hell, you’ve proven that a dozen times over. You’re younger. Strong. Fast. Smart as a whip. You can shoot the cap off a beer bottle and you handle a knife better than most people your age. 

Knowing all that still doesn’t quiet the feeling of unease that eats away at him each time you strap on your gear and kiss him goodbye with a, See you later, Miller. Strolling out the door like it’s casual. Like it’s nothing.

There’s a kind of helpless fury in it. A sick twist in his gut every time he watches you ride out. Like he’s some retired goddamn hunting dog. Trusted to guard the porch, but not sharp enough to run with the pack anymore.

Joel adjusts the volume dial on the radio like it’ll make your voice stay longer.

Tommy’s laugh cuts through the speaker. “Didn’t cry. I got snow in my eye.”

“In July? Sure.”

It comes in grainy and light, full of that same teasing bite you always give Tommy—enough to make Joel’s jaw tighten with a quiet, helpless kind of fondness. He almost smiles, but it doesn’t reach past the tight pull in his chest. You’re still picking your way through territory where any tree line might be hiding something.

Joel shifts in his seat, elbows on the table, jaw clenched tight. He tells himself you’re fine. You always are. You have to be.

The channel goes still for a few beats. Then, a crack of static. Some muffled shuffling. And—

“Wait—something’s moving in the trees. Left side, just past the ridge.”

Your voice. Sharper now. Less teasing and pointedly quiet.

“Copy,” Tommy replies, suddenly serious. “Keep eyes on—”

A burst of noise. A flurry of panicked voices overlapping and shouts. The unmistakable sound of gunfire.

Then nothing.

Dead air.

Joel’s heart drops to his boots. “Tommy?” he barks into the receiver. “Come in. What the hell’s happening out there?”

When there’s no answer, Joel shoots to his feet. The chair scrapes across the floor harshly as he crosses the room in two large strides, fumbling for his jacket. “Tommy? Goddammit, someone answer me!”

Nothing.

Joel’s heart thuds violently against his ribcage as he stares at the little black box in his hand like it’s an omen. He feels it rush in all at once—panic, guilt, helpless rage curling cold and mean in his chest. His ears are ringing so loud he doesn’t hear the slam of the door behind him as he tears out of the house and into the cold air. 

Something happened. The group was compromised. You were compromised.

And he’s not there.

He should’ve been there.

Joel doesn’t remember the sprint to the stables. Doesn’t remember shouting at Maria when she tried to stop him at the gate. Doesn’t remember half the ride out. All he knows is that his hands won’t stop shaking around the reins and the bile in his throat tastes like ash—a sick, gnawing pit growing in his gut.

When he finds the group what feels like hours later, just as the sun starts to rise behind the ridgeline—you’re nowhere to be found. His eyes scan the way everyone’s spread out, some with minor injuries and the others patching them up. 

No sign of you.

Tommy plants himself in front of Joel just as he hauls himself off his horse. He doesn’t even feel the way his knees jolt as his feet hit the ground. 

“Where the hell is she?” he rasps, voice so rough it sounds like it’s been dragged through gravel. “Where, Tommy?”

Tommy’s hands are out in front of him like Joel’s a wild animal about to snap. He’s got blood on his hands, but no signs of stab wounds or bullet holes anywhere on him. It’s not his blood. Joel’s stomach turns viciously at the sight, at the thought of whose it might be.

“She’s fine,” Tommy says, eyes wide and placating. “Took a hit, it grazed her side. She wouldn’t fuckin’ stay down.”

Joel knows he won’t feel any relief until he sees you, alive and breathing with his own eyes. “Where.”

Tommy steps aside just before Joel nearly shoves past him, nodding his head toward a rock outcrop a ways away from everyone else.

You’re sitting closest to the makeshift fire, Jesse crouched beside you to clean the gash along your side. You’re bundled in someone else’s coat, hair mussed and blood soaked through your undershirt and spattered across your cheeks.

Visibly shaken. Color drained. Bloody. Alive.

Joel’s throat locks up when your eyes meet his. You give him the smallest, tired smile—like you're trying to reassure him. That look. That stupid, brave little tilt of your mouth like everything's okay even when you're the one bleeding through Tommy's jacket.

It makes something in his chest crack wide open.

“Joel?”

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t know what to say.

Doesn’t trust himself for it to be anything good.

Joel takes three shaky steps towards you before his knees give out. 

He drops hard into the snow. He doesn’t catch himself, doesn’t try. Just falls forward like a penitent man bowing at the altar of a God he doesn’t believe in. His breath comes in short, ragged bursts, eyes locked onto the red seeping through your shirt like it's the only color in the whole damn world.

There’s a beat where nobody moves. Jesse freezes, half-done wrapping gauze, and you’re just sitting there, wide-eyed and shaking like a leaf, lips parted like you’re trying to say something—but Joel’s already reaching for you.

He's on you in the next breath. Not rough, not like usual, not with that greedy, hungry touch he normally has after you come back from patrol. His hands are trembling when they find your face, tilting your chin up gently, his fingers brushing away wet blood and dirt.

Tommy glances away. Jesse too, both men busying themselves with helping the others. It feels too private, even out here in the open.

“Goddammit,” he chokes. “God—baby–”

His voice breaks on the last word. Breaks, something sharp and gutted and boyish, nothing like the hardened man who's grown to guard his emotions like they’re classified. Your hands hover uncertainty over his shoulders, the side of his face. You’re worried. He can see it plain as day, written in the wavering line of your mouth.

“Hey—hey, I’m okay,” you say, voice low and urgent. “I’m fine. Look at me, Joel, I’m fine. It just—it just grazed me, okay? I’m fine.”

You’re not fine.

You’re too pale. You’re stone-cold. Your blood is still tacky on your shirt, drying beneath his body's warmth.

Joel presses his forehead to yours and exhales like he’s been kept underwater, and you were the surface he’d been clawing to.

You whisper his name again, quieter this time, and he shushes you. “Don’t—don’t talk, just—let me—” His fingers press to the pulse point at your wrist like he still needs proof. “Let me feel you.”

You don’t say anything else.

You just hold him.

And Joel doesn’t cry. He can’t. Something won’t let him, but he stays there in the snow for a long time, holding you like a man who thought he’d never get the chance to again.

The ride back to Jackson is quiet.

You fell asleep half-way through, head lolling back against Joel’s shoulder as you both sat in the saddle, your body loose with exhaustion and the emergency pain meds Jesse had in his pack. Tommy rides ahead, checking the trail, but Joel barely looks up. He just holds the reins with one hand and holds you tighter with the other.

You’re taken to the infirmary the second everyone files through the gates. Joel sits by your bedside in stormy silence, hands curled into fists and resting on his knees, the only thing keeping him together.

You talk to the nurse on duty. You even joke with her, cracked voice and tired eyes like it’s all part of the routine. Like getting shot is just another part of the job. And Joel sits there while someone else wraps you in new bandages and checks your vitals.

It makes his blood boil.

All he can think about is the way your voice cut out on the radio. The way he didn’t know if you were dead or bleeding out in some field, alone. And now you’re laughing. Now you’re telling the nurse, “I’m fine really, just sore.” And it makes him want to tear the whole fucking clinic apart.

Joel doesn’t say a word until you're cleared to leave. 

Not on the short walk back to your house. Not when you’re walking through the door, cleaned up. Patched. Your shirt’s gone, replaced by his coat and a thermal blanket around your shoulders.

Not when you nudge his arm gently like you’re testing the waters. Not when you say his name soft, like it might keep him calm before you’re heading towards the bedroom.

It doesn’t.

The moment the door shuts behind him, Joel erupts.

“You got a fuckin’ death wish?”

You freeze in your spot halfway across the room, turning to face him.

Joel doesn’t move. Just stands there, fists clenched at his sides. His voice is low, shaking with barely concealed rage. “You gonna tell me why you thought playin’ saviour was worth bleedin’ out in the snow?”

You don’t say anything for a few beats, eyebrows drawn together in a hard frown as you look at him. “What was I supposed to do, Joel? Jesse was pinned, Tommy would’ve taken the hit. I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice!” Joel grates, stepping towards you. “You could’ve picked you. You could’ve stayed the fuck down like Tommy told you to.”

“I was trying to keep your brother from getting shot in the head,” you snap, the tension finally striking a flint. “I made a judgment call.”

“You made a stupid call,” he spits, voice loud and blistering. “You don’t get to do that.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” you repeat, your body growing stiff and tense.

“You shoulda fuckin’ stayed down.” Joel growls. He doesn’t even look at you when he says it—just rips his flannel off, tosses it hard at the wall.

You don’t flinch. Don’t even look away from him as his shirt falls and crumples into a heap on the floor. “What?”

“You heard me,” he snaps, turning to look at you again. His eyes are dark, fiery. “Jesus, you—do you even fuckin’ think sometimes? You were hit. You knew you were hit, and you kept goin’. You didn’t stop, didn’t stay down like you were told.”

He steps closer, eyes boring into yours, face twisted with something too furious to be rational. “You fuckin’ chose to be a goddamn hero, huh? Run into gunfire like it ain’t a fuckin’ death sentence? That it?”

He can see the second your expression changes, your own anger rearing its ugly head now, bitter and hot. “Don’t do that. Don’t make this about me being reckless when you know I was just trying to keep people alive. I did what I had to do.”

“No!” he snaps, pointing a finger at you, furious and stricken all at once. “What you had to do was come home. That’s it. That’s all.”

You blink at him, breath caught in your throat.

Joel can’t stop, all the emotions he’s been dealt over the past three hours finally boiling over and spilling through his lips before he can think twice about what he’s saying.

“You could’ve died,” he growls, pacing now, hands dragging through his hair roughly like he’s trying to rip the anger out of himself. “Two fuckin’ inches to the left and that bullet would’ve torn straight through your gut. You think you’d’ve made it to town in time for that? Huh?”

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” he snarls, spinning on you, voice cracking. “It’s not fuckin’ fair. Nothin’ about this is. You go out there, and I sit at home waitin’ to see if today’s the day I lose you. That the last thing I heard is your voice cuttin’ out in the middle of a fuckin’ ambush. That’s what I got to live with now. That’s what I saw every time I closed my eyes on that ride back.”

You stand there, lost for words. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“I know you didn’t,” Joel says, suddenly quieter, throat thick. He swallows hard, looking down, shaking his head like he’s trying to get a grip. “But I still almost lost you. And I don’t—fuck—I don’t know what the hell I’d do if that ever—”

His voice cuts off, ragged. Then he’s in front of you again, cupping your face with both hands. “You’re not allowed to do that to me again,” he whispers fiercely. “You’re not allowed to scare me like that.”

“Joel…” You lean into him, slow. Cautious.

Joel meets you halfway.

His mouth is on yours in a heartbeat—hot and bruising and pathetically desperate. His big hands frame your face, thumbs dragging down your cheekbones as he licks a wet stripe over the plush seam of your lips.

You gasp into his mouth when he pushes the blanket off your shoulders, when his palms skate down your sides to grip your hips hard. Not too rough, not yet, but he’s holding you because he needs you rooted. Anchored. Here.

Joel kisses you like he’s still furious at you, like he hates how much he needs you, like he’s punishing you for making him feel so afraid. It’s not soft, all teeth and tongue as he devours you, stealing the breath from your lungs.

When he pulls back, his mouth is wet with your spit, lips pink and swollen. “Need to taste you,” he mutters. “Need to feel you.”

Joel sinks to his knees before you can respond, breath huffing harshly against your stomach. His fingers tug your zipper down with frantic urgency, hooking his thumbs in your waistband to peel your pants down your legs in one swift motion.

There’s no teasing. No smugness. Just a heavy, sharp hunger carved into his face like stone as he pulls your panties to the side, exposing you to his greedy eyes. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting one over his shoulder as he brings his mouth to you like a man possessed.

The first drag of his tongue is slow. Reverent. Hot and wet as he parts the slick seam of your cunt with deliberate strokes that make your spine arch. He groans like your taste knocks the wind out of him, and then he latches on like he’s got a point to prove—to himself or you, he’s not sure. All he knows is that worshipping you is the only penance that could soothe the panic still clawing at his insides.

“Joel.” Your hands tangle in his hair, chin falling to your chest as you gaze down at him.

He sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue relentless, nose pressed deep against you. You whimper, twisting his hair in your grip, hips twitching—Joel doesn’t let you go anywhere. He’s got you trapped, your body pinned with his mouth buried between your thighs like he plans to die there.

It’s filthy, obscene—the way he devours you. Lips slick, beard growing damper with each swirl of his tongue, eyes half-lidded but still trained on your own.

Your eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide and black as spilled ink. There’s sweat beaded on your brow, lips parted and swollen as you let out small huffs of air.

Your thighs are trembling. You're soaked, arching against him, whimpering his name with tears welling in your eyes. And still—still—he won’t let up. He needs this. Needs to make you fall apart. Needs to prove to himself you’re alive by the way your body sings under his touch.

Joel can’t stop. Not until your thighs shake and you’re moaning that you’re gonna come, gonna come, Joel, please—

And you do. You fall apart on his tongue with a broken sob, legs clenching tight around his ears, hips grinding down into his mouth in weak twitches and shudders. He growls and holds you still, licking you through every last tremor until your body goes limp and threatens to sink to the floor.

Joel doesn’t let you fall—he lowers you down gently, like you’re made of spun glass, even as his hands skirt over the hem of your shirt. When he pulls it up, revealing the bandages wound tight around your side, he pauses. His gaze lingers on the wound. Jaw clenched. Something soft and wrecked flickers in his eyes.

Your hand comes up to cup the side of his face, your thumb running over the scar across his temple so gently it has his heart throbbing in his chest. “I’m okay,” you whisper. “Still here.”

Joel takes your wrist in his hand, lowering it down enough to press it hard over his heart. “You feel that?” he breaths. “That hasn’t stopped hammerin’ since I heard your voice cut out.”

You nod slowly. Your fingers curl into his shirt. “I’m sorry.”

Joel squeezes your wrist, turning his head to press a soft kiss to your forearm.

He climbs up over you, chest to chest—the jut of his cock where it tents the denim of his jeans grinds over the sensitive span of your cunt as he settles himself between your legs. He’s thick, heavy even through all the layers. 

Joel’s free hand snakes down his body, making quick work of his belt. He rips his zipper down, freeing his cock from the confines of his soaked boxers and letting it slap up against his stomach.

You moan at the sight of it—hard, straining, the tip a dusty red and wet with pre-come. Your legs widen unconsciously, thighs twitching on either side of Joel’s hips.

Joel takes himself in his hand, fist tight over the base of his cock as he runs himself through your puffy cunt, slicking the skin of his cock with your wetness. “Gonna fuck you,” he breathes, lining himself up between your legs. “Gonna feel you around me, baby, need it so damn bad.”

Joel slides in with one long, smooth stroke, your slick making it easy, and the groan he lets out sounds like pain. Like relief. Like he might lose his mind from the heat of you. Your breath hitches at the stretch, head lolling back against the hardwood as your nails dig into his shoulders.

“Mine,” he grits through his teeth, forehead pressed to yours, his hips grinding deeper as you cling to him. “You’re mine, baby. Always—always mine.”

You nod, panting, eyes glassy. “All yours,” you whisper. “Only yours, Joel.”

And then he moves.

Hard.

Desperate.

Unrelenting.

He fucks you like you’re the only thing tethering him to earth, like if he stops, he’ll unravel entirely. One arm hooks under your knee, pushing you open, deeper than before. His hips slap against yours, raw and hopelessly, but it’s not about getting off.

It’s about feeling you.

Every squeeze, every tremble, every gasp that leaves your mouth when he hits that perfect spot. 

Joel’s never felt like this before.

So angry.

So scared.

So in love.

He fucks you like he’s trying to imprint himself inside your body. His thrusts stitch you back to him, sealing you inside his chest so you can never leave. A mess of skin-on-skin and heat and slick as the two of you meet again and again and again.

“Could’ve lost you,” he growls against your throat. “Fuck, honey, I could’ve—Jesus—”

You wrap your arms around him. “You didn’t,” you whisper. “I’m here, Joel—I’m yours—”

He groans, hips stuttering, thrusts turning frantic. He can tell he’s close, that he’s been close since he sank to his knees in front of you.

“Say it again,” he pants, slamming into you with a low, wrecked noise. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp. “Always yours—fuck, Joel—”

You wrap your arms tighter around him, pulling him closer. Your nails dig into his skin through the thin layer of his undershirt, legs locking around his waist to keep him pressed against you like you’re scared he’ll let go.

Joel doesn’t let go. He’d never let go. Not even when you moan his name like a prayer, not even when your nails rake down his back, not even when you gasp out a warning, your voice thin and needy. “Joel, I—gonna—”

“I know, baby. I got you.” His hand snakes down between you, finding your clit and rubbing quick circles over it, desperate to feel you come. “Wanna feel you. Need to—fuck—need to feel you, sweetheart. Please.”

You shatter in his arms with a broken sob, clenching hard around him as your body jerks, overwhelmed and too raw to hide it. Joel feels you pulse around his cock, the tight warmth of your cunt milking him.

It’s too much, and he’s coming with a groan that sounds like it’s been clawed from his chest. He buries himself to the hilt, hips jerking with every pulse, breath catching in your ear. “Fuck, fuck—” he pants, voice hoarse, “—love you, I love you, I thought I lost you, baby, I can’t…”

You’re both trembling when it ends.

Joel holds you there for a long time, forehead resting against yours, still buried deep inside you. He still won’t let you go. Not yet.

Eventually, when he’s calmed, he pulls back just enough to look at you.

You expect that same look from earlier—rage, fear, guilt—but it’s not there. Just love. Just deep, aching relief.

“I can’t lose you,” he says quietly. “I wouldn’t survive it.”

You reach up, trace the curve of his brow, the edge of his jaw. “You won’t have to,” you whisper.

Joel kisses you again. Softer this time. Sweeter. A delicate press of lips against lips. His fingers stroke your cheek, pulling back enough for his eyes to trace along your face. He follows the line of your brows, the shape of your nose, the soft curve of your lips.

He can’t feel anything other than love.

Gentle. Solid. Steady.

It’s only love.

mini nat's note: everyone please send good vibes for my hell sent ch*m final on monday...i literally need all the luck i can get. thank you so much for reading! mwah.

[asxgard]

I wanted something where Abbott gets involved with a younger resident — maybe everyone in the ER knows about it, except the interns, since it’s their first day. Maybe the resident doesn’t like Trinity’s style, and Trinity goes to complain to Jack, but Jack defends his resident.

In Your Defense | one shot

Dr. Jack Abbot x f!resident!reader

Requested

Summary: After getting on your nerves all day, you and Santos finally go toe-to-toe over a patient. Jack comes to your defense.

[ My Masterlist ]

Note: I’ve been floating around ideas of my own of Jack with a resident👀so this was fun!

Sorry it took a bit! I got distracted with a few other things, and I wanted to make sure Companionship got out yesterday. Plus, this became a lot longer than I originally intended. I hope you like it @mayabbot !

Word Count: 2.7k

Most of my works are 18+ due to adult language and content.

Warnings: age gap, semi-established relationship, foul language, hospital setting, medical inaccuracies, mild Santos hate due difference in style, Pittfest

not beta read

The thing about Dr. Jack Abbot was, you did not need a label to know what you meant to him. There was no officiality of a title, even though you were both serious about each other — but frankly, the title was just a word. You knew where you stood, spending nights in his apartment and cooking breakfast together. He never hesitated to remind you that you belonged to him. Not in the overly possessive way, but in the silent always there type of way.

Jack had a past, and while you never pushed, he opened slowly. He had held you out of reach for some time before you realized what was truly brewing between you, and after he began to share, you thought the slow, quiet way you existed around each other was enough. He had loved and lost, he had fought and sacrificed, so you always assured him there was no rush. Not with you. You supposed there would be something to be said when you finished your residency, since that was a big priority in your life, but that was still a year away.

Like most things, your relationship with Jack did not stay secret for long in the halls of the Pitt. You really should have known better — Princess and Perlah were bloodhounds when it came to sniffing out things like that, and the bet did little to keep it private. You were unsure who had started it, but you were surprised that it was Robby who had walked away with the money. It felt like cheating, since he had insider knowledge after catching the two of you at a bar, but you never said anything.

Waking up in his bed alone was not uncommon — since after your dayshifts you sometimes would just wander to his apartment as opposed to your own. You would curl into his sheets and his smell, even when he would not be home all night. He never minded, and frankly even encouraged it. Working opposite shifts than him cut back on time you had together, but you knew it was only a matter of time before you were back on nights due to your flip-flopping schedule.

He looked worn down when you arrived at the Pitt for your shift, bright-eyed from a full night's rest in his bed. He followed you into the staff lounge so you could put your lunch away and he poured a bit of coffee to top off your thermos.

“Is it a ‘good morning’ type of morning, or a quiet ‘let me contemplate’ type of morning?”

He pursed his lips, “Neither. I lost a vet last night, spent two hours coding him.”

You sucked in a breath, knowing it had been a rough one for him. Those nights were far and few between, but never handled them very well. He was getting better, but oftentimes, he found himself on the roof.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” You said, knowing there was not much to say that would actually make it feel any better. “I made dinner last night, I left some leftovers in your fridge.”

He nodded, “At least we’ll have tonight and tomorrow together.”

You smiled, “I’m looking forward to it. Meet at yours?”

“Do you even have to ask?”

You chuckled, “Go get some rest, old man.”

An eyebrow rose in a challenge, “You won’t be saying that later.”

You smirked, “Counting on it.”

He gave you a rushed kiss on the lips, ensuring it was quick and private, before he was out the door. You sipped on your coffee and let out a long sigh, moving towards the charge desk and greeting Dana with a grin.

You let out a low whistle when you looked up at the board, “Damn, they got hammered last night.”

Frank Langdon stepped beside you to lean against the desk, “Why do I have a feeling you’re going to say the Q word? Don’t you dare, or I swear to god.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, “It was one time over a year ago. Who do I look like? Shen? I’m no longer an amatuer.”

“I’m so glad I don’t work with him much. He’s like a walking jinx at this point.”

“He’s not so bad.” You laughed, “I see we got some newbies.”

Langdon glanced over his shoulder, “Two med students, an intern and an R2.”

“Oh, fun.”

—

You learned all the new faces over the course of the next hour. You found you liked the med students well enough, and the R2, Melissa King, but the intern was beginning to rub you the wrong way. Calloused and indifferent did not mesh well in the chaos of the Pitt, or the team player attitude Robby always tried to instill in everyone.

Santos was the type of person you had vehemently disliked during your med student rotations, and after hearing a few cruel nicknames she had picked for Whitaker and Javadi, you brought it to Langdon’s attention. According to Jack, Langdon had walked into the Pitt with the same type of overconfident attitude, and Robby had taken him under his wing and straightened him out. Maybe you thought he would pass on the wisdom. Not to mention, it took the drama off your plate. You had enough worries keeping your relationship with Jack away from Gloria’s ears, and the last thing you wanted to do was get in the middle of something.

“Trust me, I hear you. She already ordered something without clearing it with me first.”

Your nose scrunched in annoyance, “We don’t need someone like that down here.”

“Maybe you could let her shadow you…” he said, a smile growing as your annoyance did. “Show her the ropes. You know, that whole no-nonsense but still empathetic thing you’ve got going on might be right up her alley. You’d be a wonderful teacher.”

You deadpanned, “You owe me. Like super, major—”

“You’re the best!”

You wished you had gone to Collins instead.

Try as you did, the brashness of Santos did not quell under your careful hand and you grew more frustrated with her poor bedside manner and knack for doing things before clearing them. Just when you stepped away to use the restroom, she ordered BPAP for one of your patients and nearly killed him. Yelling was not in your wheelhouse, nor was letting something like this get the better of you, but as the shift ticked on, your fuse grew shorter. Screaming would be the worst teaching tool, but she seemed to railroad over any and all of your advice.

You passed her off to Mohan to take an hour seeing your own patients without Santos’ shadow. At the end of the hour, Mohan only gave you a knowing glance before getting back to it. By the time you went to complain to Langdon, he had disappeared. Just a bit after that, Robby sent Collins home.

Taking a deep breath, you pep-talked yourself into holding it in until the end of your shift. Then you could pass the news on to Robby and go home to forget about it.

—

When the mass casualty event was called, you fiddled with your hands, rubbing anxious circles on one of your palms. The shift had beat you up and left you out to dry, and you knew you were not likely to get out on time. Anxiety thrummed through your system, or perhaps it was the anticipation

Jack’s face was a welcomed one and you wanted to thank whoever you could that he had showed up when he did, a mess of supplies from his truck. With both Robby and Jack at the head of this, you knew the team would get through it. One patient at a time.

Robby placed you in the pink zone, with instructions to float over to yellow if they needed help. Jack found you in the supply closet trying to grab what you could to prepare for the influx in your zone, and he seemed to read you like your shift had been written on your face.

The braindead boy who no one could help. The drowned little girl no one could have saved. Dana being punched by an angry patient, which set your teeth on edge. The anguished screams of grieving family members. Your frustration with the cocky intern. Langdon abandoning you. Collins going home early. The anticipation of all the blood and loss that was sure to be waiting for you as soon as the first cars arrived with the Pittfest victims.

He squeezed your hand, “Find me if you need anything. I got you.”

There it was, that silent, all-knowing ‘always here’ anchor you had needed given in just a few simple words and a giant gesture. You smiled at him and squeezed his back, exhausted and relieved all at once.

You kicked it into gear, getting to work in your zone. Trying to ignore the tragedy around you and just focus on the medicine was easier said than done, especially getting more and more covered in blood as the shift dragged on. It truly was a blur, except for the fact that each patient was clear as day in your head.

Intubating, assessing, applying pressure to wounds, checking on the status of the operating rooms for your more critical patients, forwarding a few to red. Rinse. Repeat. A never ending cycle of carnage.

Mel whizzed past you and you looked back down at your patient, checking his pulse points. He was as stable as he was going to get, and you waved McKay over to him so you could run by yellow zone to see if they needed anything.

Whitaker’s wide eyes greeted you, “She’s doing a REBOA.”

You stopped dead, “What? Who?”

His eyes looked over to Santos, who was leaning over a patient. All the blood rushed from your head, anger and fear tangling together.

Mel was beside you then, tapping her fingers together in an anxious fashion, “I told her—I tried—“

You swallowed before rushing forward. She had already inserted the balloon, and there was not much you could do. You had only done one before, during a mass pile up over a year before, but it was under Jack’s careful supervision.

“Are you insane?” You hissed low, trying not to cause a scene.

Santos only glanced at you, “Patient was bleeding out, need to—“

“No, no, no, no.” Something snapped and all the frustration you had been feeling all day came barreling out of you. “What you need to do, Dr. Santos, is clear shit like this with your senior resident. With an attending. Literally anyone else. Mel already told you no and what do you do? This is how people die. Doctors feeding their own fucking egos and not letting themselves be checked.”

She simply stared at you, “It’s already—“

“No, this was rash.” You glanced down at the patient, seeing that the balloon was likely already in place, but from Donnie’s grim features, the patient was not doing much better. “If it worked? Amazing, great. You saved a patient. But if you keep doing this shit, someone is going to die. You’re not as infallible as you seem to think you are.”

You felt him before you saw him, a once calming presence now beside you and it made all your hairs stand on end. Like you had been caught with your hand in the cookie jar.

At the hospital, he was your attending, you were the resident and you definitely should not have lost your cool like that in the middle of the shitstorm that was already occurring. You physically braced yourself, steeling your composure and trying not to wince. Jack did not scold in public, but you had made a scene.

Jack’s attention had been pulled away from his patient at a particular voice carrying through the air, growing louder as it continued. Your voice. Unmistakable and in the chaos, completely unnerving. It was not like you to shout, or yell, especially in the mess the Pitt had found itself in. He was walking towards your voice without even thinking about it, gait rushed but not running.

“She performed a REBOA.” Mel told Jack as he approached, eyeing each of you warily. “I told her not to.” She gestured to you. “She told her not to.”

You felt Jack’s eyes on your face, and you glanced over to him. He took in your features and looked back to Santos.

“A REBOA? Are you shitting me?”

“Dr. Abbot, I couldn’t get any of the attendings and the patient was bleeding out. No other options.” Santos told him, looking at you again. “I don’t think her yelling about it, or at me right now is exactly—“

“She is a resident and you are an intern. You never should have done that on your own, ever.”

You blinked, half surprised, half thankful. You never wanted your relationship with him to bleed into the professional act you two played whenever you were in the hospital. You never wanted him to play favorites or defend you when you didn’t deserve it. But a part of you relished in him supporting you. Especially after dealing with her going over your head your entire shift.

Two nightshift nurses — Alma and Riley — and Donnie exchanged knowing glances, hiding their smirks well, while Santos just stood there. Jack looked back to you and raised an eyebrow, asking if you were okay without any words.

You gave him the tiniest of nods, likely not to be seen as anything more than a twitch, but Jack caught it easily. You were okay, for the most part anyway. You could talk to him about all of it later. You hoped this could all be behind you soon, as mild embarrassment for yelling in the ED crept up your cheeks. You would pass along the information to Robby and let him handle it. He would be likely to scold you for losing your cool and yelling like he had earlier with Langdon, who was now back floating through zones with little explanation as to why he had left.

Santos looked between you two like she was trying to read you.

Jack had his focus back on the patient, asking Donnie for her vitals.

“Carotid’s weak. Radial’s barely there.” Donnie said.

“Another three cc’s in the balloon.” Jack advised and Santos followed the instruction.

Whitaker looked up, “Radial’s much stronger now.”

“Lock the balloon. Check the wound.”

“Wound’s dry, barely a trickle.”

“That’s because there’s no blood going to her legs.” Mel whispered from beside you.

“Get IR and Vascular on the case.”

The patient began coming to, opening her eyes and looking around her tiredly. There was a relief in the sight, but the fact that this would only make Santos more bold in the future made you worry.

Jack leaned in close to Santos, “That was reckless and could have killed the patient. You need to follow the chain of command here.”

Santos gave a tense nod, her tiny smile disappearing.

You stepped away when Jack did, finding a few moments when you pulled off your gown to replace it with a fresh one. He stepped behind you to tie it while you reached for new gloves.

“It’s been a shift.” You explained simply, not even needing him to open his mouth. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry.”

“We can talk about it later.”

You turned to face him, “No, if you’re going to scold me, I’d rather you do it now. Get it out of the way.”

He studied your face. “Can’t change anything now. She did save the patient, but she could've just as easily made it worse. And you lost it for a minute. You know as well as anyone that yelling achieves nothing.”

You cringed, remembering your med school days.

“But you weren’t wrong.” He added, grabbing your arm and forcing you to look at him. “She took an unnecessary risk and hopefully next time, will try to find an attending, or a resident. I’ll mention it to Robby, maybe he can help her get back on track. The Pitt doesn’t need any more egos, I think we’re at capacity.”

A small smirk broke through on your lips, “Thank you.”

“You feel good enough to get back to it?” He raised a careful eyebrow.

You took a breath and nodded. You parted without ceremony, heading back to your respective zones and got lost in the work.

want to join any of my taglists? shoot me a message!

Dr. Abbot taglist: @flyinglama @valhallavalkyrie9 @melancholyy-hill @travelingmypassion @yournerdmodziata @dark-twisted-and-mechanical-mind @sarah-the-bird-nerd @artsymaddie @partofthelouniverse

The Pitt taglist: @cannonindeez @spoiledflor @kittenhawkk @nessamc @thatchickwiththecamera @sharkluver @loud-mouph @ksyn-faith @sunfairyy @dragonsondragons @mischiefsemimanaged

Did my own feelings about Santos bleed into this? …maybe. She grew on me, but oh my god she really was getting on my last nerve for most of this season. I hope season 2 comes with some growth from her.

[rafey-baby]

rafe has always been close with his sister…  

c/w: incest, dubcon, oral (m receiving), rafe being a perv about his (adopted) sister & her being inexperienced, 18+ mdni!

wc: 1.7k

part two & moodboard

if this is something u don’t like, scroll & read something else xx   

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Her big brother has always been rather overbearing, which is something she’s tried to shrug off as him merely being protective, but as far as her understanding of siblings goes— they aren’t supposed to act the way Rafe does.  

Ever since they were little, Rafe has been weird about everyone in their strange family, but sometimes it makes her feel gross when he barges into her room while she’s changing— not even bothering to cover his eyes as he sits down on her mattress and starts ranting about something completely irrelevant.

It makes her feel disgusting when she notices the subtle smirk tugging at his mouth as his gaze narrows down onto whatever bare sliver of skin she’s hurriedly trying to hide from his borderline hungry eyes.   

And she doesn’t particularly enjoy when he gets wasted or high off of whatever he’s snorted at some stupid party and insists that he just has to sleep next to her because he’s not feeling good. And despite her drowsy complaints, he’s always snuggling too close for comfort with his hands all over her; pulling her flush against him and letting the cushion of his lips graze the skin of her neck.

He keeps telling her that it’s nothing out of the ordinary when he gives her details about the girls he’s slept with and what his favorite positions are, even if she’s told him multiple times that she doesn’t want to know. And whenever they’re home alone, he even goes as far as bringing girls to his room— making sure their loud moans echo right into her bedroom when he knows she’s trying to study.   

And whenever he’s tagging along during her little shopping trips (he doesn’t let her go alone because what if something happens?), he always demands on joining her in the fitting rooms— even squeezing himself into the crammed space when she’s trying on lingerie, claiming that she absolutely needs his opinion.   

“Rafe, that’s weird,” she tries to get him to wait outside but of course he merely rolls his eyes.  

“S’not weird, know how indecisive you can be, jus’ wanna help,” he says, seemingly genuine while he’s already fiddling with the clip of her bra.   

And she feels her cheeks burning when the cashier mentions how sweet it is that her boyfriend is paying for her clothes— to which Rafe merely chuckles while she can’t find the words to correct the poor woman because she’d probably faint if she learned the truth about their relationship.

More often than not, he tends to be borderline territorial. One time, she’s simply talking to a guy at some party, when all of a sudden, she feels an all too familiar presence behind her.

“Who’s this, hm?” he slurs, slinging a heavy arm over her shoulder.   

“Oh, it’s…um, no one,” she peeps out because she knows how he is. However, her attempts at calming him down prove to be fruitless because he’s already approaching the guy with a scoff.   

“You, uh, you do know that this is m’sister, right? Mine. So, why don’t you, uh, go ‘n try to impress some other bitch, yeah?” he offers him a sickly-sweet smile, voice harsh before telling her they’re leaving— strong hands on her waist already dragging her towards his truck.

“I was having fun,” she complains when he’s putting the seatbelt on her— his breath smelling of beer when he drawls out a reply. “You can have all the fun you want with me when we get home, yeah?”   

“But I wanted to spend time with my friends,” she pouts.   

“That’s just too bad then, isn’t it?” he murmurs while starting the engine— resting a warm palm on her thigh soon after, ignoring her efforts of shrugging it off.  

- - - - - - - - - - -

When he learns that she hasn’t had her first kiss yet (because why would anyone even think about touching her when they know Rafe is a complete psycho), he mocks her to the point of her eyes growing glossy as she tries to blink away the soggy droplets.

“S’okay, you wanna get it over with, hm? I’ll help you,” he so kindly offers with faux concern glimmering in the moonstones of his eyes.   

“Rafe, that’s gross,” she frowns, to which he merely furrows his brows before scoffing— as if she’s the one being weird.   

“So, uh, so you tellin’ me you want some…some stranger at a party who only wants to get in your pants to do it instead?” he narrows his eyes as if that’s the only alternative.  

“N— no,” her answer is hesitant.  

“Listen, m’just…m’just, tryna be a good brother ‘n help my little sister out, but if you don’t want m’help then don’t come cryin’ to me when you embarrass yourself cause you don’t even know how to kiss,” he lifts his hands up in surrender before shrugging, suggesting that he’d merely be doing her a favor.   

And before her brain has the time to process what’s happening, he’s already dragging her into his lap. And it feels wrong when their mouths are suddenly slotting together— when he’s letting out a shallow groan and slipping his tongue past her teeth without so much as a warning.

“Rafe! You didn’t tell me you were gonna do that,” she squeaks out, pulling away with her face all crumpled up, feeling disconcerted.   

“Shut up, you’re gonna wake up everyone, thought you wanted to learn?” he mutters out before he’s smearing his mouth on hers once more— this time with a tight grip on her jaw that forces her to stay put as the the kiss turns into something sloppy; wet.

And afterwards, he makes her promise that she won’t tell anyone because ‘you don’t want dad to get mad at you, do you?’ and even if she feels guilt eat away at her, she keeps it to herself because the last thing she wants is to upset anyone. 

- - - - - - - - - - - -

“Rafe guess what? I have a date tomorrow,” she gives him a giddy smile while stepping into his room a few weeks later.  

“With who?” he eyes her while slouching on his bed, seemingly in the midst of texting someone.

“This guy I met on the beach today,” she sits down on the edge of the mattress when he places his phone on his nightstand.

“Yeah? What’s his name?” he asks, shifting closer.  

“Um, Ethan.” 

“Last name?”  

“I— I don’t know, didn’t ask…why does it matter? Was just wondering if you could drive me there?” she says, surprised by his sudden interest. 

“Where?” his tone sounds almost exasperated now, as if she’s done something bad.

“Um, we’re just gonna hang out at his house,” she chews on her bottom lip, suddenly nervous.

“You havin’ a date at his house? You finally gonna lose that virginity, huh?” he asks as patronizing laughter bubbles from his chest.

“What? No! S’not like that,” she mumbles, her skin already boiling. 

“No? You do know when guys say they wanna hang out, it means they wanna fuck, right? You’re not that stupid, are you?” his gaze is borderline condescending when he raises his brows.

“Well, he’s not like that, he seems nice,” she tries to defend herself, feeling small all of a sudden.

“Sweetheart, every guy’s like that, especially the ones that seem nice, you’re so fuckin’ naive,” he scoffs while running a hand through his hair.

“You know what? Forget about it, I’ll just walk there,” she huffs out, standing up to leave, however, she doesn’t get far before he’s grabbing at her arm.

“Listen, m’just tryna look out for you, okay? Don’t feel like dealin’ with your shit ‘bout how he broke your heart. I mean, if you’re not gonna let him hit, he’s gonna be expectin’ somethin’ else, you know that, right?”

She swallows.

“I— are you sure? But…but I don’t even know how to—” 

“Poor baby, what would you do without your big brother, hm? Don’t worry, I’ll teach you, yeah?” he coos before pinky promising he’ll be gentle.

And that’s how she ends up on her knees in front of him. 

“Ray, this doesn’t feel…right,” she mumbles out, eyes focused on the ruddy tip he’s thumbing over while he stares at her.

“Shh, can be our little secret, yeah? Jus’ wanna make sure my little sister doesn’t embarrass herself,” he lets out a grunt when she blinks up at him with uncertain eyes.

“Open your mouth, tongue out,” he instructs while moving closer to her tentative form, biting his lip when she gingerly does what he tells her to. Then, he’s thudding the drippy head on the flat of her tongue— one, two, three times, which makes her let out a noise; something that only seems to spur him on.

He tastes salty and it makes it all the more real, all the more wrong because she doesn’t necessarily mind the taste, which makes her feel entirely too gross about the situation altogether— the words ‘I don’t wanna do this anymore’ turning into a tangled muddle when he’s already pushing past her lips, making her gag around the sudden intrusion.

“Shit, tha’s good, jus’ take it, yeah?” he rumbles out; a big hand holding the back of her head as he stuffs himself deeper down her throat— cock twitching in response to her whines and attempts at drawing away for air.

It overwhelms her to no end when he’s so rough, abrasive, but despite his broken promise, she’s unable to prevent her thighs from pressing together when throaty moans keep escaping him; his respiration turning labored by each lazy rut of his hips while her head begins to spin.

Only when his sticky cum gushes onto her tongue— the white substance dribbling past the seam of her lips and covering her chin in the process, does he grant her a moment to catch her breath.

“Guys like it when you swallow,” his voice is like gravel when he pushes at her jaw, heady gaze glued to the way her throat bobs when she does just that, the aftertaste of what they’ve done making her feel stained; dirty.

“You know, s’cute you thought I’d let some, some shithead fuck my sister,” he sounds almost humored as he pats at the flushed skin of her cheek— making her eyes turn watery when he swipes a thumb under her wobbly bottom lip to clean up the remaining mess.

She feels something in her guts churn when he tucks it back into her mouth with a sick smile.

[mercvry-glow]

Want and need (18+)

parings. andrew "pope" cody x reader

summary. you're tired of pope's staring, so this time you give him something to do about it.

warnings. this is an 18+ fic so mdni, unprotected sex, rough sex, p in v, possessive!pope, age gap (pope is late 30s, reader is 25), typical animal kingdom stuff, mentions of drug addiction and drinking (but nothing in depth), pope and reader have wanted each other for a long time and all hell breaks loose, I am not responsible for what you read online, let me know if there's anything else!

notes. I really don't even know what to say, this was really self indulgent but also a shit ton of people asked for this. this is my first time writing smut, so please go easy on me 😭 I love y'all tho and I hope this makes those who asked for this very happy and I'd be more than willing to try for other characters too. as always any and all feedback is appreciated!

wc. 4100+

You were young when you were taken into the Cody household. Barely ten or eleven, chasing the coattails of Baz, Pope, and Julia. They were older, reckless, and way more fun than Deran and Craig in your young mind. You were just a kid back then, all scraped knees and wide eyes, desperate to be seen, to be wanted. And they gave you that—chaotic, dangerous, and messy as it was.

Now, you were older. Maybe not in their eyes, not entirely. To them, you’d always be the kid who used to sneak beers from the cooler and fall asleep on the couch mid-party. But you’d grown. Twenty-five looked good on you. It felt even better.

With the kind of money Smurf funneled your way—whether out of guilt, habit, or because she saw something useful in you—you were living comfortably. Shopping trips in LA with Julia’s old taste still lingering in the back of your mind, a crisp white sports car that purred when you touched the gas, and a room in Smurf’s homethat came with a 12-foot deep pool and too much sunshine. It wasn’t just surviving anymore. You were lounging, tanning, sipping something cold, and living the dream—Cody style.

But even with all of it—the car, the clothes, the pool—you still found yourself looking for him.

Andrew.

He was the one who never really changed. Still guarded. Still intense. Still carrying every unspoken burden like it was strapped to his chest. And even after all these years, you hadn’t outgrown the way he made you feel—safe, seen, even when you didn’t want him to see everything.

Sometimes he’d come by, dropping something off for Smurf, checking on Craig or Deran through you, but his eyes always lingered a little longer when you were around. Not in a creepy way. Just… aware. Like he was always assessing, always measuring how close was too close.

But you weren’t a kid anymore.

And you were starting to wonder if he knew that too.

He was always too worried about Julia or Cath to notice the young girl that gravitated toward him more than his brothers—and that was okay, it had been okay. You weren’t supposed to be seen back then, just allowed to linger. And Pope, for all his walls and rough edges, let you. He never pushed you away, never told you to stop following him like a shadow. But he never really looked at you, either.

Then life changed—fast and hard.

Julia left, tearing a hole right through the Cody family like a storm no one saw coming. She vanished into the haze of addiction, baby in tow, and that was that. Cath and Baz fell into each other in the aftermath, and that burned too—more for Pope than he ever admitted out loud. And when Pope finally cracked under the pressure, when he went to jail after a job went bad, everything fractured. The center couldn’t hold.

Life moved on, and you along with it.

You learned not to wait for anyone. You learned how to handle yourself, how to use what the Codys gave you—protection, money, a name that opened doors and slammed others shut. You carved a place for yourself in the world they ruled. No one questioned why you were there anymore. You weren’t the kid tagging along.

You were a woman now.

And when Pope got out, when he came back into that sun-soaked chaos of a world you both knew too well, he noticed.

Really noticed.

Maybe it was the way you carried yourself now—confident, sharper, always watching like you used to—but from a different angle. Maybe it was the way you didn’t look at him like a lost, broken thing the way everyone else did. Or maybe it was just time. Maybe he finally realized you weren’t following anymore.

You were standing still. And he was the one stopping in his tracks.

"You gonna keep watching me like a creep or are you gonna come sit and talk with me?" you called out, not even turning your head, just lazily lifting your sunglasses as you lounged beside the pool.

Your bikini left little to the imagination—tiny, tied at the hips, glistening slightly from the coconut tanning oil that coated your sun-warmed skin. The scent mixed with the citrusy bite of the cocktail you’d been nursing for the past hour, the condensation from the glass dripping down your fingers as you swirled the straw.

You could feel his eyes on you before you even spoke. He always tried to be subtle, lurking in the doorway or leaning against the fence like he had any real reason to be there. But Pope was never good at hiding his intensity, not from you.

"No one else is here anyway," you added, voice lower this time, laced with something soft—an invitation, not a challenge.

You finally turned to look at him. He hadn’t moved yet, still standing a few feet away like he was weighing his options. Same old Pope. Arms crossed, eyes narrowed, like walking ten feet to a lounge chair might cost him something heavy. But there was something in his expression that wasn’t so guarded now. Something careful. Curious.

“You worried Smurf’s gonna pop out of the bushes or something?” you teased, tilting your head with a little smirk. “She doesn’t care what I do. You know that.”

He shifted his weight but didn’t answer right away, jaw flexing like he was grinding down words before they made it to his mouth. Then finally, he started walking—slow, measured, like he was still deciding if this was a mistake.

But he came anyway and sat right at your feet. 

"What's on your mind?" you asked, nudging him with your pedicured foot—painted a glossy shade of white that caught the sunlight just right. It was playful, meant to break through the stiff walls he always had up. You weren’t trying to push too hard. Just enough to remind him he didn’t have to sit there like a stone.

He didn’t flinch at the touch, just looked down at your foot resting lightly against his jean covered thigh, then back up at you with that unreadable expression he always wore. But there was something different in his eyes. Softer. Or maybe tired.

"Nothing," he muttered, eyes drifting to the water. "Just making sure you’re alright."

You rolled your eyes, “Of course I’m fine, you’re watching over me aren’t ya?”

He didn’t answer, but the faintest flicker of something passed through his eyes—something just shy of a smirk. You caught it, even if he tried to bury it again just as fast.

You leaned back against the lounge, arching your back just a little as you stretched out your legs, your toes still resting against his thigh. “You always do that, you know,” you said, your voice low and smooth, laced with something warm. “Watch me like you’re trying to memorize every move, but never saying a damn thing.”

Pope’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. Didn’t deny it either.

“I used to wonder if it was guilt,” you went on, your eyes locked on him now, studying his face. “Me being around… all the time. If maybe, you thought I was just another thing you had to take care of.”

His gaze finally slid from the pool back to you—slower this time. Steady. That unreadable expression giving way to something heavier.

“It wasn’t guilt,” he said. Voice rough, low enough you almost didn’t hear it over the soft splash of water from the filter nearby.

Your lips curved slightly. “No?”

He shook his head once.

Your foot pressed a little firmer against his thigh, not teasing anymore—more like claiming space, letting him feel the weight of your presence. “Then what was it, Andrew?” you asked, letting his name linger in the air between you like the taste of the rum still on your lips. 

“Why do you still look at me like that?”

Silence stretched for a moment too long. He looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words, and Pope never needed many. He was more action than speech. Always had been.

So you sat up slowly, cocktail forgotten now, your body turned toward him as you leaned forward just enough to let your fingers brush his wrist. His skin was warm. Tense. Alive under your touch.

“I’m not a kid anymore,” you said, softly now, like it was a secret between the two of you. “You can tell me things...”

His breath hitched—so slight, but you felt it. Saw it in the way his hand twitched under yours, like he was holding himself back with every ounce of control he had.

You leaned in a little closer, close enough that he could smell the sweet coconut clinging to your skin, the soft salt of pool water in your hair. “You can touch me now, Andrew,” you whispered, barely louder than the wind rustling through the palm trees overhead. “If you want to.”

His hand moved then, slow and unsure at first, like he was afraid you might vanish if he did. But you didn’t. You stayed right there, watching him, heart pounding in your chest as his calloused fingers brushed your thigh—just a whisper of contact, but it lit a fire low in your stomach.

And he looked at you like he didn’t know how to breathe anymore.

“You sure?” he asked, voice hoarse, thick with restraint.

You nodded, smile turning sultry, sure. “Go ahead.”

And for the first time since you were a kid chasing his shadow, Pope Cody didn’t run.

The tension between you snapped like a live wire—sharp, charged, inevitable.

You shifted, slow and deliberate, rising just enough to swing one bronzed leg over his lap. His eyes followed the movement, hands clenched at his sides like he was trying to stop himself from grabbing you right then and there. But when you settled on top of him, thighs hugging his hips and your hands bracing against his chest, he didn’t move away. Didn’t even blink.

He just stared up at you, jaw tight, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling like he was caught between every wrong instinct he’d ever had—and the one that felt right.

You leaned in slowly, your lips just a breath away from his, fingers sliding up the sides of his neck, thumbs tracing his jaw. “Tell me to stop,” you whispered, though your tone dared him to.

He didn’t.

So you kissed him.

It started slow—soft, testing. But the second your mouth met his, the switch flipped. His hands gripped your hips like he’d been dying to touch you for years and finally stopped pretending he didn’t want to. You moved against him instinctively, gasping softly when he deepened the kiss, his mouth hungry and rough, like he was trying to swallow every second of the years he’d lost, every second he hadn’t let himself want this.

Your fingers twisted into his curls as you rocked against him, feeling him grow harder beneath you. His groan rumbled in his chest, low and feral, vibrating against your lips. He kissed like he fought—intensely, without hesitation, like nothing else mattered but this moment. But even now, even like this, his touch wasn’t careless.

One hand slid up your back, fingers splayed over your spine, grounding you. The other stayed planted at your waist, as if anchoring himself to you, needing you close but terrified of losing control. You could feel it in the way he held you—like he didn’t want to break you. Like part of him still saw that girl who followed him around, and the rest of him was warring with the woman now straddling him in the late afternoon sun.

You pulled back just slightly, lips swollen, eyes locked on his. “I’m not scared of you,” you breathed.

His eyes darkened. “Maybe you should be.”

You smiled. Slow. Wicked. “But I’m not.”

And then you kissed him again, deeper this time, letting your body press flush against his, the heat between you scorching, undeniable, and no longer something either of you could ignore.

A hand slipped under your bikini top, rough palm closing over one of your tits, you gasped into his mouth. His thumb brushed against your nipple, and the sharp jolt it sent through you had you rocking harder against him, your hands fisting in his shirt.

“Fuck—just take it off me,” you muttered against his lips, breathless, needy.

Pope didn’t hesitate. He tugged at the knot behind your neck, and the top came undone with a quick flick of his fingers. You didn’t even care where it landed—just felt the warm afternoon air on your bare skin and the heat of his gaze as he pulled back to look.

His eyes swept over you like a storm cloud rolling in—dark, intense, and full of want. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he rasped, voice strained as he leaned in, lips brushing the swell of your chest.

Your fingers threaded into his dark curls, nails gently scraping his scalp as he sucked a mark into your skin, his stubble rough against your soft flesh. You moaned low in your throat, head falling back as he worshiped you with his mouth, biting, licking, claiming.

“You’ve always been mine,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. 

You looked down at him, your body flushed and burning, heart pounding so loud you swore he could hear it. “Say it again,” you whispered, grinding down against the bulge in his jeans.

And in the next second, he surged up, one arm wrapping around your waist as he stood, lifting you with him like you weighed nothing. You wrapped your legs around him instinctively, breath catching as his mouth returned to yours—urgent and possessive. He didn’t say another word as he carried you inside, but his kiss said everything. Every step was heavy with purpose. Like he’d finally given in to what he’d been fighting for years.

He pushed the sliding door open with his foot, barely breaking stride as he carried you inside, your bare chest pressed to him, his lips never straying far from yours. The house was quiet, golden sunlight spilling across the hardwood floors as you clung to him, your fingers tugging at his shirt, desperate to feel skin against skin.

By the time he made it to your bedroom, the tension had hit a fever pitch. He laid you down on the edge of the bed, standing between your thighs, eyes sweeping over your half-naked body like he couldn’t decide whether to worship you or ruin you.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, heart thudding, watching the way his hands shook slightly as he pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it to the floor. The way his chest rose and fell, same as your own, like he was holding back something dangerous.

"You look like you're about to bust," you said with a teasing smirk, voice low and breathy.

“I am,” he said simply, stepping closer, his hands sliding up your thighs, thumbs brushing the edges of your bikini bottoms. “You’re driving me insane.”

“Then lose the rest,” you whispered, voice nearly a dare.

He hooked his fingers under the ties, and with one smooth tug, the last piece of fabric between you was gone. You leaned back slowly, watching his eyes drag over every inch of you, hunger and restraint warring in his expression.

Then he was back on you, like wet on water.

Mouth on yours again, harder this time, kissing you like he was drowning and you were air. His hands roamed everywhere—your waist, your hips, the inside of your thighs—like he couldn’t touch enough fast enough. And you didn’t want him to stop. You wrapped your legs around his slim waist, pulling him closer, grinding against his buldge pressed between you. He was rock hard. 

Every kiss, every touch felt like years in the making—pent-up tension finally snapping in the heat of that bedroom. You moaned into his mouth, nails digging into his back as he pushed you further onto the bed, hovering over you like he wanted to devour you whole.

“Fuck—tell me you want this,” he growled against your neck, voice ragged.

“I’ve always wanted this,” you breathed, eyes locked on his. “I’ve always wanted you.”

He crashed his mouth against yours again, and this time, there was no hesitation—just raw need, years of it unraveling all at once. His weight pressed you into the mattress, solid and grounding, as if he was trying to make sure this was real. 

That you were real. 

That after all the years of watching, waiting, denying, he could finally touch you the way he’d needed to.

Your hands were everywhere—his back, his chest, tugging at the waistband of his jeans with trembling fingers until he groaned against your skin. “Jesus, kid,” he muttered, breaking the kiss just long enough to yank them off with a rough urgency, kicking them away as he settled between your legs again.

You arched up into him, your body already aching, your thighs spreading to welcome him as he hovered over you. There was a flicker of hesitation—his eyes searching yours, his thumb brushing your cheek in a moment of quiet, reverent pause.

“You sure?” he asked, voice low and gruff, but laced with something almost tender.

You reached up, fingers curling around the back of his neck as you pulled him back down to you. “Fuck me,”

That was all he needed.

He tugged on his cock a few times before sliding into you slowly, carefully, and your head fell back with a soft cry—his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. He filled you completely, a delicious stretch that had your nails digging into his shoulders, your legs tightening around his waist.

He didn’t move right away—just held himself there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard, like he was memorizing every second. “You feel like… fuck,” he whispered. “You were made for me.”

And then he started to move.

Slow, deep thrusts that left you gasping, your hands clutching at him like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your chest, his hands gripping your hips with a bruising intensity, pulling you closer every time he drove into you.

“You’ve always been mine,” he murmured against your skin, lips brushing your ear. 

Your heart twisted, heat building, rising between you in waves. You met every thrust, your bodies moving in sync like they were meant to be tangled like this. And as his pace quickened, rougher now, needier, you clung to him—your body trembling, your voice breaking as the edge drew closer.

“Pope—” you gasped, barely able to get his name out before it hit you. A rush of heat, pleasure, everything blurring as your back arched as you came, orgasm tearing through you, raw and electric.

He wasn’t far behind—groaning into your neck, his rhythm faltering, then stilling as he found his own release, his entire body shuddering above you.

The room was quiet except for the sound of your breath and the faint rustle of sheets. Pope didn’t move for a while—just rested there, head buried against your shoulder, arms still wrapped around you like letting go might shatter the moment. When he finally looked at you again, something had shifted. There was no going back.

His grip on your waist tightened as he thrust deeper again, rougher now—no more holding back. His mouth was at your throat, breathing you in like he needed your scent to stay sane, his teeth grazing your skin as he growled, “You don’t know how long I’ve fucking waited for this.”

You moaned, your fingers tangled in his hair as you clung to him, legs locked tight around his hips once again. “Fuck-ddon’t stop,” you whispered. “Show me.”

That snapped something loose in him.

“You want me to show you?” he rasped, voice thick with hunger. “You think I can be gentle with you now? After all these years, watching you walk around in those little shorts, laughing like you didn’t know what you were doing to me?”

His hand slid up your body, wrapping lightly around your throat, thumb resting on your jaw as he looked down at you, eyes blazing. “This body’s mine now. Say it.”

Your lips parted, breath hitched, your voice shaky, “It’s yours- fuck! All yours,”

“Damn right it is,” he grunted, thrusting into you hard enough to knock the air from your lungs, his other hand gripping your thigh and hitching it higher around his waist. “You’ve always been mine, I knew I’d take you like this.”

You cried out, body burning under his every touch, the filth of his words twisting deliciously in your stomach.

“You like that?” he growled against your ear, biting your lobe before sucking it. “You like me talkin’ to you like this? Fuckin’ you like you were made for it?”

“Y-Yes—God, yes—Pope,” you gasped, head swimming as he hit deeper, angling his hips just right to make your toes curl.

“I don’t want anyone else lookin’ at you like this,” he snarled. “No more showing off at that pool like you’re just some pretty slut.”

“Wh-why? You jealous?” you teased, barely able to keep your voice steady as your back arched into him.

He bit down on your shoulder—not enough to break skin, just to mark you. “I own you.”

With that, he flipped you onto your stomach in one rough motion, dragging your hips back until you were up on your knees, face pressed into the sheets. You gasped, the new angle hitting something brutal, perfect, as he thrust back in with a groan.

“This is mine,” he growled, one hand fisting in your hair, the other gripping your hip so hard you knew it’d bruise. “You’re mine.”

The way he said it—like a promise, like a warning—you believed every word.

“Fuck- I get it—Oh my god!” you gasped as he tugged on your hair, hips barely able to meet his harsh pace. 

“You’re so fucking tight,” he groans out, bucking even harder as he fucks you with intent. You pant, eyes fluttering as he continues his brutal rhythm that’s hard enough to shake the bed frame. 

You’re not even in your own body anymore, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. The once lavender scent of your room, now replaced with sex and what lingured of Pope’s cologne. 

He slides a hand down between the two of you, thick fingers catching on your clit as he rubs in tight circles bringing you closer to your next orgasm. 

“I- fuck Andrew… I’m- I can’t!” you moan into the bed, fists wrapped in the sheets like your grip will somehow alleviate the growing feeling in your stomach. 

“Cum for me baby, I want to feel you.” he head dips to your shoulder blades, kissing down your back as he eases you to the brink once again. 

It’s a white hot feeling as it rips through you, but Pope doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, pulling back just enough only to slam back into you one last time. 

He tenses, body stiff as he gives you a few more sloppy thrusts as he cums inside you—thick, hot, and everything you want as he pulls and lays beside you taking a few deep breaths. 

You can feel him dripping out of you, but you don’t care. Too spent, you take your time before turning to look at him. Pope’s curls are a mess, though you’re sure your own hair isn’t much better. 

It’s silent for a while.

 you’re cuddled up to him, tracing little shapes on his chest with his arm thrown around you. It keeps you close to him, like maybe you’ll disappear if he’s not touching you in some way. 

“Why’d you let me do that?” His voice is soft and gravely, but genuine all the same. 

“Believe it or not, I’ve wanted you to do that forever…” you give him a small smile, still tracing your little shapes into his freckled skin. 

He sighs, something deep and heavy laced in it. “I’m not good for you,” he mutters. 

“I think I can decide that for myself,” you shift your head to look up at him, deep hazel eyes meeting your own. 

His lips capture yours in a kiss, something softer than earlier but the meaning is still the same. 

You're his, and honestly you don’t really mind it. 

mercvry-glow 2025

[brain4stew]

I’ve got an idea about friendly killer reader… And I’m serving y’all it on a silver platter. (Based on my experience as friendly killer ofc🙂‍↕️)

(Again, I don’t know the characters exact personalities and so on, so they might, if not most likely will be OOC!!)

That being said, headcanons/something is under the cut!! ;

• You are the only killer giving the survivors a break… Even if you are corrupted… (John Doe “yourself” skin)

• Noob likes you, due to you being friendly and not killing anyone.

• Two Time is neutral about you being a friendly killer. (They kind of enjoy a chase once in a while…)

• Chance likes you for being friendly. He even asks to shoot you a couple of times. (If you say no, then he won’t shoot you, but he will shoot a wall. His fucking gun exploded on him like three times.)

• Builderman asks you to destroy his sentry and dispenser whenever you’re the killer. (Which you happily do, after everyone’s healed up.)

• Guest 1337 is still a bit skeptical about you, but likes you for being friendly. A friendly killer once in a while gives him a break he desperately wants…

• 007n7 is grateful for you being a friendly killer for once. He gets a break from having to survive his own son.

• Elliot is even more grateful! You are giving him a break from going insane, with how stressful other killers can be, towards him and the other survivors.

• Shedletsky… Strangely enough, he asks you if you can fling him with your spikes. (You do, and… You flung him across the map, and into the poisonous river, which shocked everyone and even you… You all laughed about it though, as Shedletsky sometimes couldn’t stand up afterwards, or he was stuck somewhere.)

• Dusekkar is quiet, but he’s grateful that you are friendly. He can conserve his energy for the time being, and doesn’t have to panic as much…

• Every survivor likes you for being friendly, and they REALLY want you to be in every round they’re in. But, as we know… Not everyone is happy about this.

• The other killers… Are not happy at all.

• You’re supposed to kill them! Not let them live!

• You always lie, and say; “It’s to give them a false sense of hope.”

• 1x1x1x1 is obviously the most pissed off out of the killers. You. A friendly killer? Does he need to teach you how to kill survivors again?? Or does he just let you?? It’s infuriating.

• John Doe is the 2nd pissed off killer. Sure, he kind of bites to your lie like a fish biting bait. But, he’s disappointed and angry at you. He gave you some of his corruption to kill those survivors. Not to let them live! …But then again… Giving them a false sense of hope does sound good…

• Mafioso (dude’s getting a redesign and new name soon…) is the 3rd pissed off killer. Why did you let those survivors live for?! For what purpose?!… Maybe you want him to go kill them, for the debts they may have… Fair enough… He also understands your lie, so he’s not that pissed off about it. More like upset.

• Jason isn’t as pissed off as the other killers. He understands why the others are pissed off, but also doesn’t. Back in the camp he was in, before being taken to area 51… He also gave teenagers a false sense of hope. So it doesn’t really matter to him. It means that he can possibly kill the survivors more easily.

• C00lkidd… He… Doesn’t understand at all. He’s upset, yeah, sure… But he’s also glad. You let the survivors go, even his dad! That means that you want him to have as much fun as he can!!

[bumblebeesfromvenus]

Eye Candy 🍬

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Jason Todd × chubby/curvy!reader

FINALLY. I've been wanting to get this out for forever but shit kinda hit the fan and I'm also sick right now lol

This is pure comedy. So much fun to write!! This is for all my thick girlies <3

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─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Jason wants you to meet his brother (Dick) and his best friend (Roy). As if that wasn't enough of a bomb, doubt starts to creep into your mind at the realization that your curves would make you stand out like a sore thumb in the Wayne family. Jason proves you wrong by taking you to a bar and letting Dick and Roy walk right into a trap.

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"You want me to what?"

"Hey, it's not that big of a deal-... yeah, no, it's... it's a big deal." Jason winced, brows furrowing while he flexed his hands around his mug.

Coffee- of course it was, though it was far too late in the day for even more caffeine, or so you'd scolded him once again.

You were staring at him, slack jawed, eyes widened just slightly as a brief huff of disbelief left your lips.

"Jay, you just told me you want me to meet your family. In what world is that not a big deal?!" You exclaimed, your tone a little more screeching than you'd liked.

He sighed, shoulders dropping ever so slightly, his eyes turned away as a frown etched itself onto his features.

"It's just Roy and Dick, s'not really meeting my family." He mumbled, toying with the handle of his cup, scratching his nails against the ceramic.

"Look, you don't have to, alright? I just thought-... I guess I don't really know what I thought."

Your heart ached. You've never seen him so defeated. So utterly downtrodden. His back slouched, head hung low while his gaze was focused on anything but you.

That heartbreaking glimmer in his eyes that never failed to make your own water.

Gently, you pried the mug from his grip and set it aside, taking his hands in yours.

The action made Jason avert his attention back to you, looking like a kicked puppy.

"I do want to meet them. I really, really do. Because they are your family, whether you want to admit it or not." You smiled softly, watching as he lit up immediately, a huff of relief making his chest feel lighter.

"I'm just nervous. And worried, I suppose? What they'll think, you know. I'm sure that I'm not exactly what they imagine when they think of your girlfriend." You chuckled nervously.

Jason, on the other hand, looked confused. Eyes narrowed, You-can-see-the-gears-turning-but-nothing-is-happening confused.

"What in the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

You cackled at the expression on his face and the goofy tone of his voice.

"Okay, let me put it like this. You're family is a bunch of buff, unfairly jacked and lean super geniuses. Not to mention how good the girls look. And Kori? She's a literal space princess! I just feel like I don't quite fit in. Can you imagine someone like me at one of those Galas? They would lose their minds-"

"'Someone like you? You mean a gorgeous, beautiful, stunning plump lady with a brain so big I sometimes wonder how your neck is still intact? You mean someone like that? Because we could use more of that, trust me." He chuckled dryly.

"Also, you're hot as fuck." He deadpanned, blankly staring at you.

You playfully rolled your eyes, tracing the space between his knuckles.

"A. I know, B. you're biased. I mean, they all probably expect you to date some super model." You explained, sighing.

You knew your worth. You knew that you were beautiful and perfect just they way you are, even beginning to love yourself.

But when challenged with a family full of hotties like the Wayne's plus Gotham's elite, it was hard not to feel just a little out of place with all your curves, bumps and pudge.

Jason's lips were pressed together in a thin line before he inhaled sharply and pinned you down with his gaze.

"Alright, first of all, they have no expectation of who I'd date because I was fuckin' dead, and when I came back my only interest was revenge and smashing peoples heads in. If anything they thought I would die alone."

The bluntness of his words and the expecting raise in his brows had you shell shocked, and pleasantly surprised.

"You're making problems for yourself that don't exist, ladybird." His tone turned soft as did his eyes, enveloping your heart in a blanket of warmth.

"So, respectfully, you don't have a point." He concluded for you, leaning back against the couch with a satisfied noise.

"Huh, I guess I don't." You breathed out, a smile spreading on your face while Jason already sported a wicked grin.

"There ya go. Now, can I brag about my hot, smart and curvaceous girlfriend to my dickhead brother and loser best friend? Because, sweetheart, you're one hell of a woman." He smirked, leaning in to get you all hot and bothered by his proximity.

You bit your lip, trying to act unaffected by his antics.

"Okay, fine," You groaned, feigning annoyance, "But only because I love you." You finished, failing to hide the smile on your face.

In one swift motion, Jason grabbed you and pulled you into his lap, your back pressed firmly to his chest. You let out a startled noise that morphed into a laugh.

"See? Just had to butter you up a bit, pretty girl." He nosed at your neck, a grin showing off his pearly whites while his arms were snaked around your middle.

"What can I say? You have a way with words." You smirked, looking back at him over your shoulder.

Jason chuckled and turned you in his lap, making you face him.

"I do have a very skilled tongue, as you know." He winked at you, kneading the fat of your hips in his hands.

You groaned and rolled your eyes before grinning and pinching his cheek.

"So, you up for tomorrow? It'll just be at a shitty bar somewhere. They won't judge you, I promise. And if they do, they can take it up with Fuck-" Jason raised one arm and flexed his bicep, "and You." With a wide smile, he lifted his other arm, and you watched as his muscles practically inflated.

You giggled, squeezing his arm with an approving nod of your head.

"I'll be there. I just have some errands to run, so I'll meet you at the place, yeah?" You replied sweetly, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose.

Jason's face scrunched up at your kiss, making him look like an adorable little bunny.

"Sounds good, ladybird." He replied, smiling.

There was something hiding beneath that smile, though. Something sinister. Mischievous. You squinted your eyes at him.

"... What are you up to?" You asked suspiciously, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Who? Me? I'm not up to anything." He replied sweetly, batting his lashes at you.

"Mhm." You hummed, searching for a hint in his teal eyes.

You could see his resolve cracking, his gaze breaking from your for just a split second. You continued to stare at him. Jason cleared his throat and gave you a tight smile before striking.

Quickly, he pushed you off his lap, making you stumble to the floor of your living room on shaky legs before he lowered himself to the ground, hooking one arm around your knees and hoisting you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

You screeched, digging your hands into his hoodie so you wouldn't fall.

"What the fuck! What are you doing?!" You screamed, cracking into a smile when you heard Jason cackle mischievously.

He moved quickly, rounding the couch and any obstacles with ease.

"Well, you see, I've been stumblin' over my words all day. Care to help me loosen up my tongue at bit, doll?" He grinned, hurrying to your bedroom.

"Jason!-"

Your voice burst with a laugh before you were interrupted by a loud crack when his hand met the back of your thigh.

You gasped, quickly followed by a slap against his clothed back.

"Remember that name, angel. I have a feeling you'll be using it a lot tonight."

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

"So, she coming?" Roy asked curiously, settling back into the deep-set lounge with his drink.

The redhead was seated in the middle, between the brothers, earning a shove and an annoyed eyeroll from Jason.

Dick snickered, taking a sip of his beverage.

"Why are you so obsessed with my girl, dude?"

"We just wanna make sure she's real. I'd hate to break you out of Arkham again, little wing." Dick grinned from behind the rim of his glass.

"Wow." Roy clicked his tongue, nodding along to the diabolical comment.

Jason only stared at his brother blankly, blinking once, then twice.

"Too far?" Dick asked, wincing slightly.

"Whaddya think, dickhead?" Roy sighed sharply.

"You should be so glad that I'm in therapy. Otherwise I woulda wiped the floor with you right now." Jason mumbled, taking a swig of his drink.

"It's the Piña Coladas talking." His brother chuckled awkwardly.

Jason just snorted, leaning against the soft cushions.

"To answer your question, yes, she's coming." Roy lit up, excitedly setting his beer down on the table.

"Really? So we get to meet the fabled ladybird, huh?" The redhead grinned, bumping his shoulder with Jason's.

He only shook his head and playfully rolled his eyes at Roy.

"Why didn't she come with you, then?" Dick asked, brows furrowed.

"Had to stop by the craft store." Jason replied simply, finishing his drink.

"Oh, so it's like that? You really did get yourself a pretty little thing, didn't you?" Dick smirked, watching as Jason chuckled in response.

"Dickhead's right. They not only make pieces of art, they are ones." Roy agreed.

Dick scoffed at the nickname.

"She's pretty alright. Looks like she belongs in the Louvre." Jason responded with a smile, then immediately regretting that decision when Roy and Dick began to look like the cheshire cat.

"Ooooo, Jay's in looooove." Roy teased with a chuckle.

"Did little wing find an even littler wing? That's adorable." Duck sniffled, wiping a faux tear from his lashline.

Jason grumbled in response, flipping them off.

"At least I didn't cheat on my girl." He mumbled sharply, hiding behind his second -or third?- glass of the night.

Dick's smile fell and he was reduced to a muttering mess, pouting like a child.

"God, you guys are actual children. Can I have one night-"

they both glanced at Roy when he stopped speaking, his lips parted as he stared at the entrance of the bar.

"You're lettin' flies in, carrot top." Jason said blankly.

Roy let out a low whistle, loosely gesturing to the bar before a smirk cracked on his face.

"Look at that piece of Eye Candy over there."

Dick followed his line of sight.

"Fuck me." He cursed, eyes wide.

"Look at those hips, jesus-"

"Now that's a woman."

Jason was mid sip, uninterested in this mystery woman ordering a drink at the bar. But, he glanced up anyway, only to choke on his drink when his eyes landed on you.

He sputtered, coughing as he felt the alcohol go up his nose.

"Woah, she got you good, didn't she?" Roy teased with a laugh, patting his back.

"Yep.." Jason croaked out, holding back a laugh.

"I'm telling ladybird." Dick said quickly.

Snitch.

"When will she be here anyway? It's been a while." He questioned, pulling up his sleeve to take a look at his watch.

"Soon, soon.." Jason replied, clearing his throat.

"Man, she could sit on me, and I'd thank her. And that rack-"

Roy continued letting his eyes trail over your body.

As amusing as Jason found this little misunderstanding, he couldn't help but grind his teeth and clench his fists.

Meanwhile, Dick delivered a slap to the back of Roy's head.

"Pervert! You don't talk about women like that." He scolded the redhead.

"Says you! As if you don't wanna be suffocated by those thighs or-or knock out on that tummy, I know you do!" Roy said sharply, pointing an accusing finger at Dick.

"Of course I do, but I didn't say it out loud, now did I?" He replied in a condescending tone.

"You fucking-"

"Oh, look, she's approaching us." Jason said nonchalantly, leaning back into the cushions with a grin, watching as the petty bickering between his brother and best friend stopped immediately.

"I call dibs! I saw her first." Roy said quickly, straightening his posture and trying to look unbothered while you approached.

"God fucking dammit." Dick cursed, being left to grumble with his Piña Colada.

He looked at Jason, who was comfortably leaned back with a smirk.

"How are you so chill about this?!" Dick asked irritated.

"You'll see." Jason grinned.

You walked towards them with a smile, the drink you'd just ordered at the bar in your hand. Roy put up his most charming face and quickly cleared his throat.

"Hello there, sweethea-"

his entire face dropped when you placed a hand on Jason's shoulder and pressed a kiss to his lips. His hands instinctively went to rest on your hips, giving them a gentle squeeze.

"Hi, baby." You greeted sweetly.

"Hey there, ladybird." Jason grinned, glancing at Roy and Dick.

The redheads jaw was on the floor, speechless while his gaze flitted between you and his best friend. Dick was just as shocked, but quickly broke out of it.

"THAT’S LADYBIRD?!" He yelled, earning harsh stares from other guests.

Dick quieted down with an apologetic smile and leaned closer to Jason.

"You fucking asshole! Why didn't you do anything? You let us say all those things-" at the realization Dick went pale.

"He's gonna beat our asses." Roy mumbled, still staring at you and Jason.

"... Fuck."

You just stood there dumbfounded while Jason had a grin on his face that made a shiver run down Roy's spine.

"What things?" You asked, you brows furrowed in confusion.

Jason pulled you into his lap, resting one of his hands on your thigh.

"Don't worry about it, angel." He said softly, pecking your cheek.

"How the hell did you end with such a charity case as Jason?" Roy asked bluntly, slumped in his seat, defeated.

"Excuse me?" You sputtered with a scoff.

"That's a lot of nerve coming from someone looking like an affair baby." You shot back.

Dick burst out laughing, Jason cackling along side him while Roy only stared at you.

"And she's feisty? Fuuuuuuck.." He whined.

"Nice to meet you, ladybird." Dick gave you a friendly smile and nod, still wiping the tears from his eyes.

You returned the smile before leaning in to whisper into Jason's ear.

"Is the rest of your family also like this?"

"Like what?"

"Loudmouth assholes." You replied, staring straight at Roy who looked like you just slapped his mother.

Jason laughed, throwing his head back when he saw Roy's face.

"Ah, no. Some of them are quiet assholes."

Dick scoffed, immediately defending himself and his siblings with big hand gestures.

You chuckled as you watched.

"Don't be sad, carrot top," Jason began, giving Roy's shoulder a squeeze, "You couldn't handle her if you tried."

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Jason loves fat girls. Argue with the wall <3

Let me know what you think! 😚🩷

More of Jason and others -> 💫

《DC Taglist》: @allysunny @arkhamknightscxnt @gaozorous-rex-blog @hellonhells-x

Comment to be added 🐝🫧

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

[kiwiatoll]

THEN DONT ᭢᭡ sjy

𝟏𝟑𝟕𝟖𝒾 ──── loser!jake f!rea ✿ angst & smut ᵕ ᵕ blow job, riding, based on this ask ❞ 𝑫𝑰𝑨𝑹𝒀 ｡ ⠀

REBLOG FOR A KISS !? ʕ´   ᩙᩙ `  ʔ

Jake doesn’t mean to overhear it.

He’s just in the hallway, minding his own business, looking for you, actually—when he hears the voices. Familiar ones. People he knows. People you love.

He freezes when he hears his name.

“I mean, yeah, Jake’s sweet and all,” someone says with a shrug. “But don’t you think she could do better?”

He doesn’t breathe.

“I always thought she’d end up with someone… I don’t know. More put-together. More confident. He’s like a lost puppy most days.”

There’s laughter. It’s not malicious. Not sharp. But it cuts Jake anyway. Deep.

He doesn’t stay to hear the rest.

The feeling follows him. Clings to his ribs and gnaws at his throat like guilt.

You don’t say anything when he curls into your side that night and holds you tighter than usual. When he kisses your shoulder instead of your lips. When he pulls away before you can touch him.

You always assumed Jake was clingy because he was horny or needy or soft. But sometimes it’s because he’s scared.

Scared you’ll leave.

Scared someone better will come along and you’ll finally realize he’s nothing but a sad, annoying, insecure boy who likes Legos too much and cries too easily.

A few days pass.

He doesn’t bring it up.

He tries to act normal. Happy. Like his brain isn’t chewing him alive with doubts. He makes stupid jokes, buys you snacks, plays with your hair in bed until you fall asleep on his chest.

But the pit in his stomach only grows.

And then it gets worse.

Jake’s lying in bed with you one lazy afternoon, head on your lap, when your phone buzzes. You ignore it at first—too caught up in rubbing little shapes over his temples, humming some random tune, but he notices.

You’ve got a lot of DM requests.

When you finally go to check one, Jake sees it.

Not the message, but the sender. The profile pic. A verified account.

A face Jake remembers from weeks ago; a party you dragged him to, where he sat awkwardly in the corner nursing a Sprite while you chatted and laughed and looked so effortlessly you.

He remembers that guy talking to you. Tall. Perfect smile. Designer shirt. Confident in that smooth, cocky way Jake could never be.

His chest tightens.

He doesn’t say anything. Just makes a mental note. Later that night, when you’re asleep, Jake opens Instagram and searches the guy’s username. And of course, it’s bad.

He’s gorgeous. One of those guys who looks like he knows he’s gorgeous. Shirtless gym selfies. Thousands of likes. Flirty captions. Comments full of girls. Jake scrolls for way too long, each post punching a little deeper into his gut.

He looks at his own profile after. Blurry mirror selfies. You in the background of half of them, making fun of his camera angle. His follower count isn’t even close.

He shuts his phone off and stares at the ceiling.

Why are you with him?

Why him, when you could have that?

He gets quiet again.

You notice.

“Jake,” you nudge him on the couch. “Why’re you all droopy?”

“M’not.”

“Liar. You’ve been weird.”

He shrugs, avoiding your eyes. “Just tired.”

He’s not. He hasn’t slept properly in days.

But what is he supposed to say?

“Hey, I stalked one of the hot guys in your DMs and now I feel like crawling into a hole and dying because I will never be good enough for you?”

He doesn’t want to sound pathetic.

So he smiles instead. The weak kind.

You frown. “You sure?”

He tries to lighten the mood.

“I mean, it’s not like you don’t have a thousand guys in your inbox dying to take my place.”

You snort. “Jake.”

“I’m serious. I saw a few. Some of them were hot.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Jealous?”

He shrugs again. “Maybe.”

“Well, I’m with you, dummy. So what does it matter?”

He laughs, quiet, breathless. “Yeah… sometimes I don’t even know why you are.”

You roll your eyes and swat his arm. “God, I don’t even know why I’m dating you sometimes.”

You mean it as a joke. Obviously. But the second it leaves your mouth, you feel the shift.

Jake goes still. His smile fades. His face falls. Something breaks behind his eyes, quick and silent and devastating.

And then, softly—

“…Whatever.”

You blink. “Jake—”

He stands, brushing your hand off his leg. Doesn’t look at you. “I’m gonna go build for a bit.”

Your heart sinks. “What?”

“I’ll be in my collection room.”

The door closes behind him before you can say anything else.

You sit there for a while, stunned. Confused. Guilt blooming like a bruise across your chest. You didn’t mean it. It was just a throwaway line. Something stupid. Something Jake normally laughs off.

But this time—he didn’t.

You wait ten minutes. Then twenty.

You try knocking.

No response.

So you go get the box from the closet. The new Lego set—the one he’s been talking about for weeks. The one you secretly ordered and saved up for. A rare one. He’d been rambling about it all month.

You crack the door open, peeking inside.

“Jake?”

He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, a half-built model in front of him, but he’s not moving. Not building. Just staring.

You step inside quietly, holding the box.

“I got you something.”

No response.

“It’s the Galaxy Explorer set. The vintage re-release. Remember?”

Silence.

You set it down gently beside him. Still nothing. You kneel in front of him, heart twisting. “Jake…”

He blinks up at you slowly. Eyes dull.

“You’re not gonna open it?”

He shrugs.

And that’s when it hits you. He’s not just upset. He’s hurting. Like, deeply. Broken in a way Jake almost never lets you see.

Your chest caves in.

“Jake,” you whisper, crawling into his lap. “Come on. You’re the best boyfriend—”

“I’m your only boyfriend,” he mutters, eyes downcast. “How can you say the best when there’s no one to compare to?”

Your throat closes.

“I was joking,” you say quickly. “Baby, I swear—” He doesn’t answer. You feel the tears in your own eyes now.

“I’m not good at this,” you whisper. “At being soft. Or saying how I feel. You know that. But Jake—fuck, you’re everything to me. I don’t want anyone else. I can’t. You’re the only thing in this world that makes me feel safe. And stupid. And warm. And real.”

You’re babbling. Desperate. Pulling at his hoodie until you’re straddling him fully, pressing your forehead to his.

“You’re so beautiful,” you murmur. “Even when you’re sad. Even when you cry. Especially then.”

Jake closes his eyes, a tear slipping down his cheek. You kiss it away. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

He swallows. “You didn’t mean to.”

“I know. But I still did.” You kiss him softly. And again. And again. Then lower. Down his neck. To his chest. To his stomach.

You kneel between his legs, hands trembling as you tug his sweatpants down. “Let me show you,” you whisper.

And then you take him into your mouth, slow and reverent, like you’re praying. Jake gasps, hips jerking, hands flying to your hair. But you don’t rush. You worship. Licking and sucking, moaning around him just so he knows how much you love it. How much you love him.

He starts crying again—quiet and raw—and you don’t stop. You let him fall apart while you give him all the softness you usually hold back. When he cums, it’s with a broken sob of your name.

And when you crawl back into his lap, he holds you like he’ll never let go. You ride him slowly, tearfully, kissing every inch of his face.

“Jake,” you breathe. “Jake, I love you. I’m sorry. You’re everything to me. I’m never leaving. I swear. I swear.”

He doesn’t speak. Just holds your waist and cries silently, thrusting up into you like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. And when you both finish, shaking, clinging, crying into each other’s mouths, you don’t move.

You stay like that. One trembling mess of love and fear and forgiveness.

TAGLIST ࿀ ׁ @gxwesn @gyarumindd @somuchdard @ssanhwatto @jinxedly @seokjinthescientist @hoonprksung @eunvyue @kkxheeluv @enhawonnie @ghost-of-minnie @underscorealastor @yazmike @tokkisluv

[sunday-bug]

The Celibacy Challenge

Pairing: New Avenger!Bucky x New Avenger!Female!Reader

Word Count: 3k

18+ Minors DNI (NSFW)

Synopsis: You decide you want to try a celibacy challenge with your boyfriend, Bucky. Who caves first? The New Avengers place their bets.

A/N: Is this based off a challenge that I failed with my husband? Hehe. Also, shoutout to my girls for betting against me - @soelstress @buckybarnes82 @buckybarnesfic / yes, it was ME, you were right.

“Why though? I just don’t get it, honey,” Bucky sighs, shaking his head.

“It’s supposed to be a challenge, baby! It’ll be fun.” You’d just gotten through a poor explanation of a sex experiment you wanted to try with Bucky, and he was less than enthused.

You show him the article you have pulled up on your laptop - 30 Day Abstinence Challenge: A Battle of Wills - and smile. “It’s meant to be hard… no pun intended. And at the end when we can finally have at it, it’s apparently explosive.”

Bucky furrows his brow, clearly unimpressed with the idea, and lowers his voice, his expression growing more serious. “Is it not explosive enough for you?” He blushes, looking around the empty common room before he continues more quietly, “Because It is for me.” 

“Oh stop, it’s amazing, baby. You’re amazing. That’s not what I’m saying. Just try it with me? It’ll be good for us! And there’s this optional part that people add where they do yoga together at night. It’s supposed to help you relax and loosen your muscles.” You look up at him with a hopeful gaze, nearly begging.

He rolls his eyes. “I know how to help you relax and loosen you up already. We don’t need a sun salutation for that.” 

You cock your eyebrow at him. “Didn’t know you were a yoga man, Buck.” 

“I’ve dabbled… it was a long time ago - anyway, if you really want to try this, then I’ll do it with you.” 

“Yay!” You squeal. “Let’s start fresh tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? So are you saying… ?” Bucky winks at you.

“Yes, Sarge. Take me to bed.”

DAY ONE

Bucky walks into the kitchen the next morning to you and Yelena at the breakfast bar nursing two coffees. 

“So, yeah, it’s supposed to help you feel centered and then at the end, it’s apparently incredible.”

Bucky stops short and looks at you, “Really? You’re telling everyone about it?”

You shrug and smile, “I mean, yeah? Why not? It’s not like they don’t know we have sex, Buck. We’ve been dating for a while now.”

“Yeah, and we hear you sometimes. It will be nice to have silence for a month,” Yelena quips, sipping her coffee and eyeing Bucky.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair and preparing his own cup. “Fine.”

By the end of the day, everyone in the Watchtower knows about you and Bucky’s little challenge. John gave Bucky a nod and flexed his bicep as Bucky walked into the gym that afternoon - a silent show of support. Bucky sighed and popped his headphones in. As he’s doing squats, a large body appears behind him and waves in the mirror. Bucky grunts and hangs up the bar, taking out an earphone. 

“What do you want?” He asks gruffly.

“Winter Soldier… I hear it’s going to be dry month for you! No snow in forecast,” Alexei jokes, his face turning red from holding back laughter.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Bucky groans, returning to his workout.

“You can do it. You are strong - resilient. You survive Hydra. You can survive no lovemaking for month, eh?” Alexei elbows Bucky in the ribs.

Bucky glares daggers at Alexei and he finally takes a hint, walking off.

Meanwhile, you are working out on the opposite end of the gym, chatting through your jog.

“You’ll do great,” Ava says, running on the treadmill next to you. “It’ll go by fast. Plus, if we get called to a mission, it’s not like you’ll have time anyway.”

“You’re right. Honestly, though, I just love the thought of making him squirm,” you tease.

“You would,” she laughs. “You guys are cute together.”

DAY TWO

After dinner you walk into the living room to find everyone crouched down around the coffee table. Bucky had gone out to get more snacks for your movie night. As soon as you walk into the room everyone stiffens and Bob swallows as his eyes dart back and forth between the coffee table and you.

“What’s going on, you guys?” You ask suspiciously, walking quickly to the table to find any evidence. John puts a small notebook with writing you can’t make out in his back pocket and Yelena scrapes some coins into her hand. “Oh, hi girl,” she says, an attempt at nonchalance. “What movie should we watch tonight?” 

You narrow your eyes at them all - your teammates, your friends - and cross your arms. “Bob, what’s going on?” 

“Uh,” he stammers, looking around at everyone. “We were, uh, just… uh, making a list of movies we haven’t seen yet.” 

“Really?” You ask, putting your hand out and looking at John. “Give me the notebook.” John stands up quickly and backs away. 

“No,” he scoffs, backing into a wall. “It’s just a list of movies. I swear.” 

You see Alexei’s body shaking with laughter out of the corner of your eye and turn toward him. “What’s so funny?” 

“I cannot say,” he chuckles, running a hand through his beard. 

“Alexei Shostakov, tell me now,” you demand, walking over to him. Bucky walks in at that moment, two grocery bags of snacks in hand and assesses the room. 

“Is everything ok?” He asks, putting the bags down on the kitchen island.

“No!” You whine. “They are up to something!” You gesture to the team. 

“You mean the bets?” Bucky asks casually as he starts to unpack the bags.

Your skin heats and you crane your neck to look at him. “What bets?”

“The bets on our challenge,” he explains, and Yelena and Ava groan. John throws the tiny notebook on the coffee table. “What the hell, Bucky? She wasn’t supposed to know!” 

Bucky rolls his eyes, “Doesn’t matter anyway. She’s gonna lose.” 

Your heart skips a furious beat and you march over to him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” You demand. 

“Our challenge. You’re going to cave first,” he explains calmly, handing you an Oreo.

“We place bets,” Alexei says, walking over to grab a bag of Twizzlers. “We all agree that you cave first. You lose.”

“Are you kidding me?!” You shout, looking at everyone. “Glad to know you all think so highly of me. I’m going to win just to spite you all.” The team laughs, knowing you aren’t truly upset. 

You turn toward Bucky and stand on your tiptoes to whisper in his ear. “Prepare for the worst 30 days of your life.” Bucky chuckles, but you notice the hair on his forearm stand on end.

“I look forward to winning,” he quips back, his lips brushing your ear.

DAY THREE

Tonight you and Bucky head to the gym to do your new nightly yoga routine. You changed into shorts and a sports bra - your red set that he loves - and set your mats up. He saunters in, gym shorts slung dangerously low on his hips and no shirt. 

“Ready to get all stretched out?” He asks, dimming the lights. 

You scoff at his suggestive comment and settle onto your mat. “Yep,” you answer quickly, still annoyed about the bets.

“Good, I’ve been looking forward to this all day,” he mutters, sitting on the mat across from you. “Take it away, sweetheart.”

You lead, talking about each position and how to breathe through them. You glance over at Bucky during downward facing dog and see him checking out your ass in your yoga shorts. 

“Next up is called the happy baby pose,” you say, lying on your back. “You bring your legs up and grab your feet with your hands, like this.” You demonstrate, spreading your legs and grabbing your feet. Bucky’s throat bobs as he watches you model the pose and then he clears his throat.

“I know what you’re doing. You’re not slick,” he groans. “I’m not falling for your tricks.”

“You’re right. It’s not like you haven’t seen me in this position before. Many times,” you say with a wink. Bucky grabs his feet and follows your lead, stretching into the pose. His eyes find their way to you again.

“Enjoying the view?” You ask, looking over at him. 

“Fuck yeah I am,” he growls before shutting his eyes. “But I’m winning this damn thing.”

You groan and sit up. “Fine.”

Bucky chuckles and you finish your last few poses before rolling up your mats. There’s a light sheen of sweat covering his back and you lick your lips. Fuck - look away.

DAY FOUR

Bed sharing was not without its difficulties. Cuddling was second nature at this point in your relationship, and many times the spooning and soft snuggles led to more. But not this month. You were not going to break first. Bucky pulled you into his chest, still half asleep, and nuzzled into your neck as morning light filtered into your shared bedroom. His breath on your skin sent an immediate jolt of pleasure between your legs and you knew you were in the Danger Zone. 

“Time to get up!” You announce more loudly than normal, squirming out of his arms. You turn to look at him, and damn if he wasn’t a God among men. “Fuck,” you whisper, knowing this was going to be a lot harder than you thought. But it would all be worth it. Right?

You walk down to breakfast and see Yelena and John sitting at the table, while Bob is in the kitchen cutting up some fruit. 

“Morning,” they all three say in unison, and John stealthily removes his tiny notebook from his pocket. You see the movement from the corner of your eye and glare at him. “Really, John?” 

“Well?” Yelena asks, waiting for details. 

“Jesus, guys. Nothing happened,” you say, reaching into the pantry for a box of Cheerios. “Sorry to disappoint. We’re still holding strong.”

DAY FIVE

“You’re doing a hell of a job rearranging furniture,” Bucky quips from the office off of the living room. 

“I’m trying a new arrangement - the feng shui is off in here,” you mutter, pushing the couch a few inches to the left. “Everyone else will like it, too. Don’t worry,” you say. 

“Oh, I’m not worried, doll - I’m just watching,” he leans back in his desk chair and winks. “Maybe it’s not the feng shui that’s off. Maybe you’re just missing something.”

Just a wink - just that little smirk sends heat flooding to your core. Fucking Bucky. Well, you wish you were. But here you are, arranging furniture just to feel something. 

“Try moving the coffee table a little to the right,” he quips, fully watching you now, his legs spread in his chair, his arousal obvious. You want to pounce on him. 

“Stop teasing me, you prick,” you whine, turning your back to him. 

“Stop teasing me in those fucking leggings, then,” he says gruffly, walking out to you, eyes dark.

He looks feral. Like a wild animal - a hungry wild animal. A hungry, horny wild animal. Jesus. Your thighs clench together as he stands behind you, barely touching you. “You need some help with this?” 

“Yes,” you admit. “Thank you. And stop breathing so close to me.”

He smiles and walks to the other side of the coffee table, helping you lift it with ease. “Where to?” 

You groan under the weight of the table and nod your head to the right, “Just this way.” You let out a sigh as you both set down the table and Bucky’s lips twitch into a smirk. “I’ve been missing that sound.”

“What sound?” You ask, confused. Bucky walks to you and gets in your personal space without laying a hand on you. 

“All your little sighs, your groans and moans, your fucking whimpers, you saying my name… Hell, you not being able to say anything because your mouth is full. I need to hear it.” He tilts your chin up to meet his gaze. His dark blue eyes are stormy and full of want.

“Are you breaking first, then?” You tease, leaning up to softly kiss his lips.

“Never,” he whispers into your mouth before breaking away. He chuckles and adjusts himself before walking back to the office, leaving you there aching and full of need. Asshole.

DAY SIX

You walk to the garage to find Bucky working on his bike - tight black t-shirt, rag slung over his shoulder, and the smell of sweat and grease in the air. Nope. Nope nope nope. You turn back around, knowing you won’t be able to take this view without jumping on him. 

“Where you off to, baby?” He asks before you get back to the door, wiping his hands on the rag. 

“I was just looking for… a paintbrush. It’s not here,” you say, hand on the doorknob, eager to escape this honey trap.

“Could you bring me some water please? It’s getting hot out here,” he asks sweetly, and you now notice the sweat dripping down his temples and neck, pooling into the hollow of his throat.

“Uh huh,” you squeak out, rushing back into the compound to get you both some water. Your throat felt so dry all of a sudden - so thirsty. You steel yourself before walking back into the garage, and when you open the door you find your precious, evil man standing over his motorcycle, wiping his sweaty face clean with his t-shirt. His abs and biceps glisten in the sun shining through the open garage door. 

“Thank you,” he says gruffly, reaching for the water bottle. He takes the cap off slowly, eyes never leaving yours, and takes a long drink, humming quietly as the cool water goes down his throat. 

“You’re welcome baby,” you say, sitting down on an overturned bucket, feeling your knees getting weaker with each passing second.

“Would you hand me that wrench?” He asks, gesturing to the workbench covered in tools. You move your hand to what you think he’s asking for and he shakes his head. “The one to the left. There ya go. Good girl.” You pick up the wrench and promptly drop it on the floor at his praise.

“You okay?” He asks with a smirk. This motherfucker.

“Honestly?” You ask, about to combust.

“Honestly,” he encourages you with a wink.

“I need you to bend me over and make me forget my name,” you admit confidently.

He laughs and bites his lip. “You caving?” 

“I’m caving,” you say with a shrug. “I need you.”

“Get your ass upstairs, then. I’ll be up in a second,” he growls.

“But I can’t lose! Everyone was betting that I’d cave first!” You whine, standing up and kicking the bucket like a child.

“Then we’ll tell them I caved first,” he says quietly, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“You’d do that?” You ask in amazement, ready to let him have you however he wanted.

“I just want to hear you sigh my name into my neck, baby. I could give a shit about some bets… Now, get upstairs. Take off that pretty dress. Lay on the bed. I’ll be there in five.”

You fly back inside and run upstairs to your bedroom, the ache building between your legs. You strip off your dress and get under the covers to wait for Bucky.

Bucky walks inside the compound calmly and washes the grease and grime from his hands. His dick is already hard, and frankly, he’s a bit pissed at the days that went to waste when he could have been buried inside you. He makes his way to your room and passes John.

“You look like a man on a mission,” John jokes, taking in Bucky’s focused saunter and dark eyes.

“I am,” he mutters, walking past John to your bedroom.

He walks through the door and closes it abruptly behind him.

“I’m sorry. This challenge was a dumb idea,” you admit, pulling the covers up to your chin. “I need you. I miss you.”

“It was a strange idea, love. I’ll agree, but the yoga has been nice. I love seeing you in all those positions,” he whispers, getting on the bed with you and pinning your wrists above your head.

“You’re not going to go easy on me, are you?” You ask, biting your lip and trembling. 

“Not even a little bit,” he growls.

–

After you both thoroughly and completely fail the challenge (twice to be exact), you head downstairs for dinner with the team. John already has his notebook on the dining table propped open with a pen. You try your best not to make eye contact with anyone. 

“You guys do anything fun this afternoon?” Yelena asks, raising a brow.

“Just watched a TV show together,” you answer almost too quickly. 

“What show?” Bob asks genuinely.

“Golden Girls,” Bucky says at the exact moment you say “The West Wing”. You clear your throat and correct yourself, “Golden Girls”, just as Bucky says “The West Wing”.

“We watched both,” you say with a nervous laugh, putting some green beans on your plate.

Yelena walks over to get a plate and looks at Bucky. “James, your shirt is on inside out.”

John snorts from the dining table and you look at him warily, then to Bucky. 

“Oh, yeah, it is,” Bucky looks down and shrugs, filling his plate and walking to the table. “What’s so funny, Walker?” 

“You guys obviously caved. We just need to know who,” Ava says quietly, rolling her eyes.

Bucky scoffs. “It was me. She’s just too cute. Couldn’t help myself,” he says as he plants a kiss on your head. “Everyone happy?” 

Bob’s eyes light up from the end of the table and he shouts excitedly, “I was right!” 

Your eyes flit up to meet him. “You believed in me, Bob? That’s so nice actually.”

“Of course I did. Barnes never shuts the hell up about you. I knew he’d cave first. I’m surprised he hasn’t asked you to-”

“That’s enough,” Bucky interjects. “I caved first. Let’s move on and enjoy dinner.” He looks at you slyly and winks before leaning down to whisper in your ear, “I’ll always take the blame for you, sweetheart. But you’re going to pay me back later with your mouth.”

Your thighs constrict and you gasp quietly. Poor Bob. Awful at placing bets, but he’d never have to know.

[zoe-oneesama]

The Kwamis! Some of these came easier than others, but since Angelic Layer has no magic involved, all the kwamis became human~ They won't be very prevalent, they're mostly here to fill in background character roles - shop clerks, MCs Tournament Directors, fans - so they won't have a whole lot of speaking roles (aside from, you know, the MCs who're there to commentate on the fights lol). But I thought I'd give them all a nice nod in the story somewhere.

As expected, Tikki and Plagg are the main MCs. Marinette and Adrien's fights will be going on concurrently so Tikki will be commentating Marinette's fights while Plagg commentates on Adrien's. They'll have the most dialogue of the kwamis, so I do want them to have unique ways of discussing what they're seeing.

Pollen will be working directly for the Bourgeois'. As a VIP with a direct relationship with the international director of Angelic Layer, Chloe has her own private practice layer in her home and Pollen is in charge of it's upkeep and maintenance. She matches Armand the Bulter's levels of competence.

Trixx is a Rena Rouge mega fan. They've been following Alya's blog for as long as they can remember and are mega stoked that Alya moved to their city. When Alya starts to doubt herself, it's Trixx's voice that can be heard cheering her on to not give up.

Nooroo and Duusu are servants in the Agreste Estate. Unknown to Adrien, they are fully aware of his sneaking around to play and the two do what they can to make excuses and deflect Nathalie when Adrien isn't where he's supposed to be. They're rooting him on from the shadows!

Wayzz is the adult son of Marianne and Fu. He brings them to Angelic Layer fights against his will because the two really enjoy them. The two seem to be really invested in Ladybug and Chat Noir's career (and the behind the scenes shenanigans that they secretly spy on).

Longg is Kagami's bodyguard. Like Nooroo and Duusu, they are fully aware of what Kagami is doing behind her mother's back and feigns ignorance when Kagami pulls something..."sneaky" to get to a fight secretly.

Here's where we get into some existing jobs from the show:

Orikko and Kaalki are the "Layer Hot Girls (and boy)". lol I just thought it was funny that Angelic Layer even has them.

Mullo is the sales clerk at the Princess Piffle store (the store where you can buy your Angel and all the accessories). All of them lol. Mullo and her many many sisters who look just like her.

Barkk and Fluff take similar but still different roles (the uniforms are ALMOST the same but there are some tiny differences). So Barkk is the receptionist at the Practice Ring (literally you pay to reserve a mini-layer to practice on) while Fluff is the waitress/cashier at the cafeteria at the Tournament Center.

(and back to making shit up lol)

Daizzi is a nurse where Rose goes to the hospital and she has segmental localized vitiligo. Rose is particularly close to Daizzi since she helps Rose make her donations to the hospital.

Sass is the backstage directory, aka, the guy who makes things run. He has an earpiece that has the same diamond pattern as his pants on it! The anime does show one person who helps backstage, but I wanted to have a little fun with Sass's look and tie in to him being "in charge" of the kwamis.

Ziggy works at Socqueline's family art supply shop, which is frequented by Angelic Layer players who are on a bit of a budget. They love talking with the customers about their angels, though mostly the design part.

Stompp is Ivan's foster mother and Roarr his foster sister (Stompp's bio-daughter). I actually didn't think of what kind of job this outfit would be good for, but I think she'd make a good security guard - usually working at rock concerts, which she bonds with Ivan over, but she's also been hired for Angelic Layer tournaments. Sometimes sore losers get a little...violent.

Roarr falls in love with Juleka's Angel Purple Tigress immediately thanks to her pre-existing love of tigers in general. She's even bold enough to proclaim her love to Juleka herself!

Xuppu is Ondine's sibling and a fan of King Monkey, though they'll go out of their way to make fun of Kim himself. Secretly, they're very invested in Kim's career and get very upset on his behalf when he loses.

[solxamber]

Trash Novel Chronicles: Villain System vs World - Riddle Rosehearts x reader

You have a guilty pleasure: trashy villainess stories. So when you die a frankly, humiliating death, and end up in one of the worst ones you've had the pleasure of reading, you're in denial. Then the villain system shows up. Well, there goes your second chance at life So what do you do now? Do villainous things and cause as much chaos as you can, of course. And maybe, just maybe, bag the male lead, Riddle Rosehearts while you're at it.

i had so much fun writing this, i hope you like it just as much!

Series Masterlist

You’ve had a week. Not just any week—a rough week. Work has been an absolute dumpster fire, deadlines have been chasing you like a pack of rabid wolves, and your responsibilities are piling up like a game of Jenga about to collapse. If someone were to ask how you’re doing, you’d just laugh maniacally and hope they’d back away slowly.

So, when you finally make it home, the first thing you do is collapse face-first onto your couch with all the grace of a dead fish. After a moment of just lying there, contemplating whether adulthood is some kind of elaborate prank, you do the one thing that always makes you feel better: grab your phone and open up your webnovel app.

You scroll through your favorites—ah yes, the classics. Trashy, absurd, villainess webnovels that are objectively terrible but subjectively amazing. You’re talking about the ones with titles like “I’m the Evil Duke’s Twisted Ex-Fiancée, But He Loves Me Now Because I Have Plot Armor!” or “My Death Flags Mean Nothing Because I Can Charm My Way Out of Everything (And Also, Dragons)”.

It’s like junk food for your brain. You know it’s not good for you. You know there are objectively better stories out there. But the drama, the ridiculous misunderstandings, the sheer stupidity of every character decision—it’s beautiful. It’s a hot mess, and you are the fly drawn to it.

Except this time, you somehow pick the worst one.

You don’t know if it’s because your standards are already on the floor and this one somehow dug under it, or if the exhaustion has finally gotten to you, but it’s bad.

The story is all over the place. The villainess is cartoonishly cruel, like she wakes up in the morning and thinks, “What heinous thing can I do today?” But sometimes, you swear she doesn’t even want to be that way. It’s like the author just decided, “Villainess = bad,” and put their brain to bed.

The plot? Oh, it’s a mess. The villainess and heroine are sisters—the real daughter of a Duke and the adopted, sweet angel who gets all the Duke’s affection. Naturally, they both fall for the same guy: Riddle Rosehearts, some prodigy with a complex about rules, order, and justice. Of course, the Duke arranges for his precious adopted daughter to marry Riddle, and the villainess? She flips out, does a bunch of cruel things (of course), and eventually gets herself killed in a totally overdramatic fashion.

Okay, typical villainess plot so far. Nothing new there.

But the worst part? The treatment of poor Riddle. It’s like he’s just a toy to be fought over. The sisters practically claim ownership of him like he’s a fancy handbag. Then, once the villainess is conveniently eliminated, the author gives Riddle this tragic backstory. Harsh childhood, crazy controlling mom—you know, the works. You brace yourself for the resolution, for him to rise above his traumaand find happiness.

Nope. His trauma is treated like a joke. Nothing gets resolved. He’s just stuck in this gilded cage, with the heroine taking over as the new warden. And somehow, that’s supposed to be the happy ending?

It’s horrible. It’s nonsensical. It’s everything you could want right now.

You should stop. You know you should stop. But the sheer absurdity of it has you in its grasp.

And you don't even want to think about the love decagon. Yes, decagon. There are 9 men dying over this heroine who has the personality of rusty spoon.

You snort, your laughter echoing through your empty apartment. It’s awful. It’s brain-rotting, cringe-inducing garbage.

You love it.

The plot is hanging on by a thread, and yet, there you are, fully committed. You don’t need quality writing, deep themes, or even consistent character motivations. What you need is to watch this trainwreck unfold until the bitter end, and you’ll be damned if you don’t see it through.

But that’s when the universe decides to kick you in the teeth. In a sequence of events so absurd you couldn’t make it up if you tried, you—oh, wait for it—die. And not in some grand, noble fashion, either. You slip on some residual shampoo on your bathroom floor, and fall face first onto a tap. Ouch.

Really?

Out of all the dramatic, swoon-worthy ways to die, like saving a kitten from a burning building or sacrificing yourself for someone you loved, you went out like a fool. A shower slip. One minute you’re standing, and the next, you’re faceplanting like some poorly executed slapstick scene.

And then, boom. Everything went black.

Which brings you to now. You feel odd. The texture of the sheets beneath you isn’t quite right. They’re silkier than the cheap cotton sheets you usually wrapped yourself in before bed. The air smells... different too. Not to mention, the bed feels way bigger, and you’re nestled in something way too plush to be your beat-up old mattress.

You bolt upright, blinking against the sunlight streaming through the room. You squint around and your eyes widen. This is… not your room. Gone are the band posters, the laundry in the corner, and your trusty alarm clock with the missing buttons. Instead, you’re surrounded by opulence: heavy velvet drapes, an intricately carved wooden dresser, and a huge vanity covered in jewels.

Your heart drops.

Slowly, you lift your hands. They are... not your hands. These are dainty, perfectly manicured hands. No chewed-off nails. No pen smudges from your hours of work. Just smooth, perfect fingers, topped off with the exact kind of expensive manicure you'd normally cringe at paying for.

No. Fucking. Way.

Frantically, you throw the blankets off yourself and scramble to the nearest mirror. What you see staring back at you isn’t your own reflection.

“Oh. My. God.”

You’ve been isekai’d. Into a webnovel.

And not just any webnovel. No. The terrible one you’d been reading before your humiliating death. You’re in the body of the villainess, the character who was basically a walking disaster from beginning to end. Not to mention, she was set to die a very messy, very public death within a few weeks.

“Oh god. I’m screwed.” You pace around the room in a panic, wringing your hands together. “How am I supposed to survive this? I can’t be a villainess! I don’t even like drama!”

You glance around desperately for something, anything that will give you some semblance of control over the situation. This can’t be happening. Maybe this is all a weird dream? You pinch yourself. Hard.

“Ow.” Nope. Definitely not a dream. Just your reality. Fantastic.

Then, you spot it. A glowing screen, floating mid-air right next to your head.

The classic system menu, like the ones from every villainess isekai you’ve read.

Except, instead of comforting you, this one makes you want to scream. Because in glaring red letters, it says:

“Villainess System Activated! Complete your tasks or face severe consequences.”

You blink. “Consequences?”

A new notification pops up, smug as hell. “Severe punishment will be dealt if you fail your villainous duties."

Oh, great. You’re trapped in a parody of an isekai where you not only have to survive as the villainess, but also complete quests like some twisted game. Lovely.

You stare at the system menu. “This is going to be fine,” you mutter, trying to convince yourself. “I just have to do the opposite of whatever got this chick killed. Just... stop being a jerk, right?”

But no sooner do you say that when the system blinks and pops up your first quest:

“System: Ruin Lady Heron’s Garden Party. Reward: 50 Villain Points.”

Are you kidding me?

You groan, rubbing your temples. “Okay, but hear me out,” you say to the system like it’s a person you can negotiate with. “What if I ruin it... with a compliment? Like, I tell her that her flower arrangements are so beautiful that she faints from the shock?”

The system’s reply is immediate: “Invalid. Must complete task in line with villainess behavior.”

“Oh, come on!” You pace the room again, muttering under your breath. “Fine. You wanna play it like this? I can play.” You crack your knuckles. “We’ll see who outsmarts who.”

The next hour passes in a whirlwind of panicked planning. You’ve read enough villainess novels to know the basic rules: never do what you’re supposed to do, but always make it look like you are. It’s malicious compliance at its finest.

So, when you arrive at Lady Heron’s garden party, dressed to kill (because apparently that’s a thing villainesses do), you’ve already concocted your plan.

The system wants you to ruin the event? Fine. But you’ll do it your way. You compliment Lady Heron’s flowers with the fakest smile you can muster, pouring on the charm. You gush about her decorations until she’s practically glowing, all while subtly steering the conversation away from the usual petty gossip that gets the villainess in trouble.

Instead of sabotaging the food, you pretend to be horrified when the catering staff makes a small mistake, swooping in to save the day and looking like a hero in the process. And as for the “accidental” tripping of the host’s dress that was supposed to happen? You deftly catch her instead, earning surprised gasps from the crowd.

By the end of it, the system’s fuming, and you’re basking in the glory of having completed your “villainous task” without actually being villainous.

Malicious compliance for the win, you think smugly.

The system didn't like your attitude and it wants it to be known.

"System: Next quest: Defeat the chicken in the garden."

No problem, right? It wasn’t like you were going up against a raging dragon or anything. It was just a chicken. A harmless little chicken.

Wrong.

You found yourself standing in a dusty barn, staring down the most demonic creature you’d ever seen—a puffed-up, red-eyed chicken with an attitude problem. This thing wasn’t just any chicken; it looked like it had gone ten rounds with a tiger and won. Twice.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” you muttered under your breath, rolling up your sleeves as the chicken fluffed its feathers like it was about to brawl. You eyed it warily. It eyed you back, and for a second, you swore you saw flames in its eyes.

"System: Quest update: —Defeat the Chicken of Doom!"

Chicken of Doom? You squinted at the thing. “You could’ve warned me, you know.”

"System: Where’s the fun in that?"

The chicken let out an ear-splitting squawk and lunged at you like a tiny, feathered fury. You dodged, barely, as it pecked the air where your face had been a moment earlier. This was no ordinary chicken. This thing had skills.

You scrambled out of the way, trying to think of a strategy that didn’t involve you getting pecked into oblivion. “System! Any tips here?”

"System: Aim for the legs. That’s where the power is."

The legs? You glanced down at the chicken’s scrawny legs. “I’m pretty sure it’s coming for my face, not my ankles!”

"System: Well, you could always just run. But that’s not very villainous, is it?"

“Oh, you are the worst,” you grumbled as the chicken made another wild leap for your head. You ducked, grabbed a nearby rake, and swung it around like a makeshift sword. “Alright, chicken. Let’s dance.”

What followed was an embarrassing display of you flailing around the barn, trying to fend off this demonic poultry with a rake while the system laughed at you from the sidelines.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of dodging and weaving, you managed to hook the rake around one of its legs, pulling it off balance. The chicken flopped onto its back, flailing wildly as it squawked in outrage. You quickly pinned it down with the back-end of the take, panting heavily.

"System: Congratulations! Quest complete. 50 Villain Points awarded."

You glared at the system’s message. “I better get more than 100 points for this. I deserve a medal.”

"System: How about the satisfaction of knowing you just defeated the Chicken of Doom?"

You groaned, wiping sweat from your forehead. “Next time you send me on a quest, can it be against something less likely to murder me? Like a butterfly?”

"System: No promises. But look on the bright side—you’re officially undefeated in chicken combat. And you now are +50 Villain points richer"

“Fantastic,” you deadpanned, finally letting the defeated chicken hobble away with its dignity intact. “Just what I always wanted to be known for.”

You walked out of that barn a little wiser, a little bruised, and a lot more wary of small farm animals. From that day forward, chickens were officially your sworn enemies.

Villain points: 100

You were still in denial that you were in that novel. But what's a better wakeup call than running into the main lead? The guy who the story revolves around, Riddle Rosehearts.

You had decided to take a stroll in the academy's gardens when a loud squeaking noise caught your attention.

Turning the corner, you stumbled upon a scene that confirmed your worst fears: Riddle Rosehearts, was hunched over a small enclosure, tending to a couple of prickly hedgehogs.

“What in the world…?” you muttered, leaning in closer. Riddle was meticulously checking their little habitats, his brow furrowed in concentration. You had to admit, he looked oddly cute.

As you watched, one of the hedgehogs—who seemed to have more ambition than sense—decided to attempt an escape. It made a daring leap right off the side of the table, and you could practically hear the collective gasp of the students around you. Time slowed as you saw the tiny creature plummet toward the ground.

No!

Without thinking, you launched yourself forward, arms outstretched, preparing to catch the little spiky ball of chaos. You almost made it, but instead of a graceful landing, you miscalculated and ended up face-first in a pile of fallen leaves, with a hedgehog landing right on your back.

Riddle’s eyes widened in shock. “What are you doing?!”

With the hedgehog squirming atop you, you tried to push yourself up. “Just… saving this little guy,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. The hedgehog seemed to be enjoying the view from its leafy throne, completely unfazed by the near disaster.

“Are you okay?” Riddle asked, half-concerned, half-amused as he stepped closer. You could see a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, which was both infuriating and endearing.

“Yeah, just a minor case of heroism!” you replied, attempting to sound cool while still half-buried in leaves. “No big deal. Just saving lives one hedgehog at a time.”

The students around you started whispering, some trying to hold back laughter. Riddle, however, seemed genuinely impressed, his cheeks turning a shade of red that almost matched his hair. “Uh… thank you?” he said, fumbling for words. “That was… very quick thinking.”

As you finally managed to roll over, the hedgehog took that moment to scuttle off your back, plopping down on the ground with a little thud. You turned to Riddle, brushing leaves off your shirt. “Yeah, well, it’s what I do best. Hedgehog rescuer by day, unremarkable student by night.”

Riddle blinked, processing your words while his face continued to betray a mix of flustered admiration and confusion. “You… you look quite cool doing that,” he said, almost to himself, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

You smirked, enjoying the moment. “Cool? Well, thank you.”

Riddle opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly flustered. “Right… um, thank you again. I usually prefer to do everything by the book, but you… you have a knack for chaos.”

“Just trying to shake things up a bit!” you replied, grinning. “Besides, what’s life without a little excitement?”

His face turned an even deeper shade of red, and for a moment, you thought he might actually explode. “Excitement is… not exactly my strong suit,” he admitted with a seriousness that almost made you laugh.

Just then, Cater called out, “Hey, Riddle, are you blushing over there?”

Riddle straightened up, all business once more. “I am not blushing!” he snapped, though it only made the others laugh harder.

You couldn’t help but chuckle yourself. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, it’s very becoming.”

At this point, he was trying desperately to regain his composure, his usual dignified self crumbling under the unexpected twist of fate. “Right, well… um, thanks for your help,” he stammered, trying to pivot back to his hedgehogs as if that would restore some order to his day.

“Anytime!” you replied cheerfully, already plotting your next move in this wild webnovel world. After all, you might just have to become the chaotic force that turns Riddle’s world upside down.

As you left him there, you couldn’t help but think—yup, you were definitely in that webnovel. And you were not hating it.

"System: New quest: Sabotage the dinner. +100 points"

Oh this was a quest you were willing to do even if the system didn't ask you to. All you need to do was question your darling sister's yapping and you'll be set.

The dinner is going about as smoothly as you’d expect a social gathering could in this godforsaken story. Which is to say, not smooth at all.

You’re sitting at a long, polished table that looks like it’s seen better days—probably because it's held together by the sheer willpower of outdated noble customs. Your dear sister, the illustrious heroine of the world, is seated at the opposite end of the table, positively glowing in her usual self-absorbed way, surrounded by a gaggle of male leads that have somehow become entangled in her web of charm. Including, of course, the third male lead, a guy whose name you don’t even care to remember, but who keeps giving you condescending looks from across the table.

Your father, seated next to her, is smiling like he’s watching his favorite child perform in a school play. Every time the heroine opens her mouth, he’s doting on her with embarrassing enthusiasm, nodding along like she’s spewing pearls of wisdom when, in reality, it’s more like dribbling out some very glittery, very ignorant garbage.

“Oh, Father,” your sister begins, in that overly sweet, almost nauseating voice of hers. “Did you know that dandelions are actually a type of flower? Most people mistake them for weeds, but I just find them so fascinating.”

You internally groan. Seriously? Dandelions? That’s the big revelation she’s bringing to the table tonight?

Your father beams at her, his eyes twinkling as if she’s just solved world hunger. “My dear, you’re so clever. It’s amazing how much you know!”

Ace, seated next to you, nearly spits out his water. You glance at him and catch the barely-restrained laughter on his face, which only makes you want to snicker along with him.

You give him a look that says "brace yourself."

You lean forward slightly, your face the picture of politeness, and say with a small smile, “Well, technically, dandelions are considered invasive species in most gardens. I suppose calling them ‘fascinating’ is one way of putting it.”

Your sister blinks at you, clearly confused by the subtle jab, while Trey—who’s seated beside Riddle—hides his smirk behind a delicate sip of wine. You catch a glint of amusement in Riddle’s eyes as well. Even he seems to be enjoying this trainwreck.

The heroine, though, refuses to let her utter lack of botanical knowledge slow her down. “Oh, well, I was just trying to emphasize how misunderstood they are! Like, did you know dandelion tea is supposed to help with digestion?”

You can’t help yourself. “Is that why you’ve been so full of it lately?”

There’s a loud snort from Cater, who quickly covers it up with a cough, but not before giving you an encouraging grin. Deuce’s shoulders shake as he tries to hold back laughter, while Ace is full-on grinning at the chaos you’re creating. Trey is still playing it cool, but you know he’s on the verge of losing it too.

Your sister pouts at you, her lower lip trembling like she’s about to burst into tears. Oh, here we go. The waterworks. But honestly, you’re not about to feel guilty for calling her out when she practically walked into it.

“You always have to be so mean to me,” she whines, her voice wobbling dramatically. “I was just trying to have a nice conversation!”

Your father, predictably, jumps to her defense. “Now, now,” he says, giving you a stern look. “There’s no need to be so harsh with your sister.”

Harsh? Oh, please. If this is what he considers harsh, he clearly hasn’t spent much time around actual harsh people. Not that you’re about to say that aloud, of course.

“Apologies, Father,” you say, trying to keep your tone as neutral as possible while still dripping with passive-aggression. “I’ll be sure to keep my comments to myself next time.” You pause for a beat, and then add with a pointed look, “Unless, of course, they’re about real flowers.”

Cater and Ace lose it, full-on laughing at this point, and Deuce isn’t far behind. Even Trey is chuckling softly into his drink.

And then—oh, wait, is that a smile on Riddle’s face?

It is.

Holy crap.

For the first time since this disaster of a dinner started, you see a genuine smile tugging at Riddle Rosehearts’ lips. It’s small, but it’s there. And it’s directed at you.

Well, well, well, you think. Who knew I’d get the tiniest bit of amusement out of the stoic redhead tonight?

Riddle’s mother, who has been sitting quietly at the head of the table this whole time, seems to notice as well. She raises an eyebrow at you, and while she doesn’t say anything, the slight nod of approval she gives is as close to praise as you’re ever going to get from her.

Meanwhile, your sister has resorted to dabbing her eyes with a napkin, and the third male lead looks like he’s about ready to crawl under the table and disappear. Honestly, with the way his face is turning red, you wouldn’t be surprised if he just bolted for the door.

As the heroine sniffles dramatically, trying to regain her composure, Riddle’s mother clears her throat. “Perhaps it’s time we moved on to the next course.”

You sit back in your chair, feeling rather pleased with yourself. You’ve always known how to work a room, but this? This was practically a performance art piece. A subtle roast of the dinner party’s most insufferable members, all without breaking a sweat.

Trey gives you a subtle thumbs-up from across the table, Cater is still grinning like an idiot, and Ace is wiping tears from his eyes. Even Deuce looks like he’s enjoying himself more than usual.

And Riddle? He’s still smiling.

All in all, you’d call this a successful dinner.

"System: +100 points"

Villain Points: 200

You reached a compromise with the system during a mind numbingly boring tea party. You were doing your best to sit there with a polite smile plastered on your face while your sister droned on about her latest dress, but all you could think about was the fact that there were probably better uses of your time—like, say, literally anything else. Maybe you could fake a sudden illness and make a run for it? Or trip over a conveniently placed teacup and disappear into the shrubbery?

And that’s when you heard it.

"System: New Quest—Make it through this tea party without falling asleep. Reward: Not looking like a complete fool."

You almost snorted out loud, but quickly caught yourself. Great, the system is back at it again with these stellar rewards.

Gee, thanks, system. Truly motivating stuff.

"System: Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want something better? How about I throw in 50 Villain Points?"

Your eyes widened. Wait, 50 Villain Points just for not dozing off during this boring nonsense?

"System: Well, technically, you just have to stay awake. I never said you couldn’t look bored out of your mind."

You grinned slightly, trying to hide your amusement behind your teacup. You’re starting to grow on me, you know that?

"System: Likewise. I must say, I didn’t expect someone like you to actually stick with me this long. Most people would’ve either ignored me or gotten themselves killed by now. But you? You’ve got potential."

Aw, stop, you’re gonna make me blush.

"System: I’m serious! You’ve got guts. You think outside the box. You’re not afraid to bend the rules a little. And that’s why I’ve got a proposition for you."

You leaned back in your chair, intrigued. Oh? Go on, I’m listening.

"System: Here’s the deal—I’ll start giving you quests that aren’t designed to get you killed or humiliated beyond repair. In exchange, you have to promise to actually follow through on them. And I don’t mean half-heartedly—I want 100% commitment. Deal?"

Wait, wait, wait. Are you saying you’ve been giving me death traps this whole time?

System: Well… not death traps, per se. More like… character-building exercises.

I swear to God, system, if you ever make me fight a rabid chicken again—

"System: That chicken was a necessary evil! Character development! But fine, fine. No more chickens. Only reasonable, non-lethal missions from now on. What do you say? Partners in villainy?"

You tapped your chin, pretending to mull it over. Hmmm… sounds tempting. But what’s in it for me besides the joy of your sparkling company?

"System: Oh, you know, the usual—power, influence, fame, and fortune. Plus, I’ll throw in some juicy blackmail material for when your sister inevitably gets on your nerves again."

Your grin widened. Now that is the kind of offer I can’t refuse.

"System: That’s the spirit! Now, first mission as my official partner: Sabotage your sister’s next grand entrance. Nothing too catastrophic—just a little stumble, maybe some ruffled feathers. Keep it classy."

And just like that, you and the system were officially besties. It was weirdly comforting knowing you had a sarcastic AI watching your back—and occasionally messing with your enemies. Sure, it might’ve been the weirdest friendship ever forged in the history of villainy, but hey, you’d take it. You’d never be bored again with this delightful chaos agent in your corner.

As you left the tea party with your head held high, the system chimed in one last time.

"System: By the way, next time your sister brags about her shoes? “Accidentally” mention that those went out of fashion last season."

You smirked. Oh, system, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

+50 points, + 1 extremely powerful ally.

Villain points: 250

It was supposed to be a peaceful afternoon. You had gone into the library looking for a quiet place to relax after a long day of trying to stay out of family drama. But of course, there was Riddle, hunched over a mountain of books with his hands gripping his hair like it had personally wronged him. Not to mention, your sister was sitting nearby, yammering on about… something. Something that was definitely not helping Riddle’s clear state of panic.

As soon as you walked in, your eyes locked with his, and in that instant, you could practically hear his brain screaming for help. It was a silent plea, one you couldn’t ignore.

With a sigh and a bit of a smirk, you sauntered over, interrupting your sister’s endless tirade about her latest frivolous pursuit. “Oh, there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” you said brightly, grabbing Riddle by the arm and pulling him up from his chair before he could protest.

Your sister blinked at you, clearly thrown off by your sudden intrusion. “Excuse me, we were in the middle of an important conversation—”

“Were you though?” You raised an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure Riddle needs a break. He’s been studying for hours, right?” You didn’t wait for an answer, instead giving Riddle a quick nudge. “Come on, let’s get some fresh air.”

To your relief (and amusement), Riddle offered no resistance, letting you whisk him away from the library and your sister’s insufferable voice.

Once you were safely in one of the quieter gardens, Riddle sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know how much more of that I could’ve handled. Thank you.”

“No problem. Honestly, I did it for my own sanity too,” you chuckled, leading him to a bench under a shady tree. “But seriously, you look like you haven’t slept in days.”

Riddle’s face flushed a bit as he glanced away. “I’ve been… focused. There’s a lot to cover.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” you replied dryly, nudging him to sit down. “But if you don’t rest, you’re going to burn out. Even someone like you can’t run on fumes forever.”

He hesitated for a moment but eventually sat down, clearly too tired to argue. “I suppose you’re right…”

Riddle leaned back against the bench, his eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. You thought he’d sit there for a few minutes, maybe catch his breath, and that’d be it.

Except he didn’t just catch his breath.

Nope.

Instead, Riddle Rosehearts, the pristine, perfectly poised model student… fell asleep on your shoulder.

And you? You froze.

Oh no.

Oh God.

What do I do?!

Your mind spiraled as you sat there, staring at the top of his bright red head resting comfortably against you. You were acutely aware of the warmth of his body pressed against your side, his quiet, steady breathing, the softness of his hair—

Wait. Why is his hair so soft? It’s like spun silk.

Does he use some kind of magic conditioner? Should I ask him for hair care tips?

No, focus! Focus!

You peeked down at him again, and he looked so peaceful, his usual stern expression completely relaxed. You could feel your heart racing, and the logical part of your brain screamed at you to keep it together, but the other half—the half that was currently hyper-aware of Riddle’s head resting on your shoulder—was completely losing it.

Is this what bliss feels like? Is this how people write poems? “Oh Riddle, how thou art like the setting sun, warm and brilliant yet—WAIT, what am I thinking?! I am losing my mind! THIS IS BAD!

But also… very, very good?

You glanced around nervously, wondering if someone might see this. Would this look weird to people? Am I weird for not moving? I can’t move. He’s asleep. If I move, he’ll wake up and think I’m a weirdo for staying so still and letting him nap on me like this. Oh God, what if he thinks I’m weird?!

But even as your brain launched into a full-blown existential crisis, you couldn’t deny how nice this felt. Riddle looked so soft—so vulnerable—and for once, he wasn’t burdened by the weight of expectations or responsibilities. He was just… Riddle. And that made something inside you feel oddly tender.

Your gaze softened as you looked at him. Maybe this isn't so bad. Maybe I could get used to this. Maybe—

Then, without warning, Riddle stirred, shifting slightly before blinking his eyes open. He looked groggy for a second, but as soon as he realized where he was—where you were—his entire face turned scarlet.

“Ah!” he gasped, jerking upright. “I—! I didn’t mean to—! I—!”

You blinked at him, trying very hard to pretend that you hadn’t just gone through a whole mental rollercoaster while he was napping. “Uh… it’s fine. You were tired. Happens to the best of us.”

He quickly straightened his uniform, flustered beyond belief. “That was… highly inappropriate. I apologize. You must think I’m terribly uncouth.”

“Nah,” you said with a grin, waving him off. “You’re a hard worker. Even someone like you deserves a break.”

Riddle looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole and die of embarrassment. “Still, I shouldn’t have—"

You laughed and patted his shoulder. “Relax. It was kinda cute, honestly.”

He looked at you with wide eyes, his blush deepening. “C-cute?”

Realizing what you just said, your face turned bright red. “Uh, yeah, like… in a respectable, admirable way, obviously! Because, you know, falling asleep is… healthy… and stuff.”

From behind you, you heard Ace’s familiar snicker, and you turned to see him and Deuce standing there, both of them with identical grins.

“You’re totally simping,” Ace teased, wiggling his eyebrows.

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Oh my God, go away.”

Riddle coughed, straightening his back and trying very hard to regain his composure. “Ahem. I think I’ll… return to my studies. Thank you again for helping me earlier.”

He stood up, still looking mildly mortified, but as he walked away, you caught the faintest smile on his lips.

Ace elbowed you with a grin. “You’ve got it bad.”

“Shut up,” you grumbled, your face still burning as you watched Riddle leave.

But deep down, you couldn’t stop smiling either.

You sit at the breakfast table, staring at the notification hovering just above your coffee.

"System: New Quest: Get your sister to humiliate herself in front of the Empress. Reward: 100 Villain Points."

Your sister, ever the radiant queen of smugness, lounges at the other end, flipping her hair like she’s about to step onto a runway. Her latest self-important monologue about being 'practically irreplaceable' in the Empress’s inner circle grates at your nerves.

“What’s with the face?” Ace flops into the seat next to you, raising an eyebrow at your sudden, murderous glare.

Deuce, ever the responsible one, follows, setting down his tray with a clink. “You alright? You’ve been quiet.”

You groan, rubbing your temples. “I got stuck with… a task.”

Ace snickers. “What, the world’s worst chore or something?”

You glance at your sister, now preening at her reflection in a spoon, and mutter, “Worse. I need to make her humiliate herself in front of the Empress.”

Both Ace and Deuce freeze, staring at you in disbelief.

Ace nearly snorts his drink. “You—wait, what? You have to do that?” His eyes practically light up. “That’s hilarious.”

Deuce, always the voice of reason, frowns. “Why do you need to do that? That sounds kinda… extreme.”

You sigh, trying to keep it vague. “Let’s just say... it’s a long story. But trust me, it’ll be worth it.”

Ace leans back, grinning like he’s just been given front-row tickets to the chaos. “Oh, I am so in. We have to take down the drama queen? Say no more.”

Deuce hesitates, but after a glance at your sister—who’s loudly bragging about her upcoming meeting with the Empress—he sighs. “I guess if it’s for a good cause... she could use a little humility.”

“Perfect.” You clap your hands together, a plan already forming. “But it has to look natural. No obvious sabotage.”

Ace smirks. “You say that like I’m not an expert in ‘subtle.’”

The banquet is set in a lavish garden, with your sister already dressed in the most elaborate gown she could find. She looks like she’s ready to steal the spotlight—and she fully intends to. But you’re three steps ahead. As you, Ace, and Deuce trail behind her, you start whispering the plan. “She always does that thing where she stands up to give a toast in front of everyone, right?”

Deuce nods. “Yeah, she loves being the center of attention.”

You glance at Ace. “Think you can handle making sure her ‘center of attention’ moment doesn’t go as planned?”

Ace grins wickedly. “Leave it to me.”

Your sister, in all her glittering glory, steps up to the platform. The Empress and her courtiers watch on, curious, while your sister clears her throat, preparing to launch into one of her legendary speeches.

Ace winks at you, positioning himself near the platform’s support. With the lightest nudge, it shifts, just enough to unbalance your sister. As she stands, her heel catches on the uneven surface.

Her eyes widen. “Wha—?”

And down she goes, arms flailing dramatically as she tumbles straight into a nearby fountain.

There’s a collective gasp from the crowd, and the Empress looks mildly surprised as water splashes everywhere. Your sister, soaked and sputtering, looks utterly mortified.

Ace bites his lip to keep from laughing. “Oops.”

Deuce winces but nods. “Well... that worked.”

You can’t help the satisfied smirk tugging at your lips as your system pings again.

"System: Quest Complete. Reward: 100 Villain Points."

“Perfect,” you murmur under your breath, already thinking about the next quest.

As your sister sputters her way out of the fountain, dripping wet and desperately trying to regain her composure, the crowd falls into an awkward silence. You can practically hear her brain scrambling to salvage the moment.

She forces a bright smile, pushing wet hair out of her face. “Well, that was… unexpected,” she says, laughing nervously. “I suppose even the most poised among us can have a moment of... gracelessness”

The Empress raises a perfectly arched brow, but remains silent, watching with a cool, unreadable expression.

Your sister, in her panic, decides to fill the silence with her usual brand of arrogance. “I’m sure someone will fix that platform,” she says, waving a hand dismissively at the servants. “Honestly, who would set up something so poorly constructed? I could’ve been seriously hurt!” She glances at the Empress and adds, in a misguided attempt to flatter, “But of course, I suppose even the Empress’s court isn’t immune to such… minor mistakes.”

Ace and Deuce both freeze. Your stomach drops.

The Empress’s lips tighten just slightly, a subtle but dangerous shift. “Minor mistakes?” she repeats, her voice icy and sharp.

Your sister, utterly clueless, laughs again, louder this time, still trying to brush it off. “Oh, of course, not your fault, Your Majesty. I’m sure your staff just… overlooked something. It happens, right?”

The crowd’s collective inhale is deafening. Even Deuce slaps a hand to his forehead, muttering, “Oh no…”

Ace looks like he’s about to choke trying to hold back his laughter. “She’s done,” he whispers gleefully.

The Empress finally stands, her gaze narrowing on your sister. “I assure you,” she says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, “such oversights are very rare in my court.”

Your sister opens her mouth to respond, but there’s no coming back from this. The Empress has already turned away, addressing one of her advisors with a wave of dismissal. Your sister is left standing there, soaked and utterly humiliated, in front of everyone.

As the system pings again in your head— "System: Bonus Quest Complete: Cause a Major Faux Pas. Reward: 50 Villain Points"—you can’t help but smirk.

"Well," Ace leans in, whispering, "mission accomplished."

As you watch your sister fumble through an awkward curtsy, trying to salvage what little dignity she has left, the familiar ping of the system goes off in your head again—but this time, it sounds... different.

"Villain System: Achievement Unlocked—Total Disaster;

Reward: 50 Villain Points + Bonus Perk!"

Before you can fully register the notification, the system continues, breaking its usual monotone, deadpan style.

"System: Honestly..." there's a brief pause, like it's trying to hold back a laugh. "I have to hand it to you. This... this was beautiful. I mean, wow, top-tier humiliation. The look on her face? Priceless. I didn’t think you had it in you to pull off such magnificent chaos so effortlessly. Not to mention the insult to the Empress."

Another chuckle—this time, you can feel it reveling in the scene.

"System: You're really becoming quite the villain, huh? I’m almost impressed. Well, because you've reached a new level of villainy—and honestly, you’ve earned it—here’s a special perk. You hit 1,000 points, and I’ll give you an out. You can get rid of me. Completely. No more schemes, no more quests. Freedom from this system."

For a moment, you can barely believe it. The system’s offering you a way out? 

"System: Oh, but until then, I’m not going anywhere. And really, wouldn’t it be a shame to stop now? You’re on such a roll."

You shake your head, but even you can't deny the chaos was a little satisfying. Your sister, now the talk of the court, dripping with embarrassment, is living proof of that.

"What's up?" Ace asks, glancing at you. "You look like you just won something."

"Yeah," you mutter under your breath, smirking. "Something like that."

Villain Points: 500. 500 points to freedom.

The test results had come out earlier today and Riddle had topped it, as usual. But he was not allowed to come celebrate with the rest of you, which has led here.

It’s late at night, and the manor is quiet—eerily quiet, except for the soft rustling of leaves outside Riddle's window. You stand beneath the window with a strawberry tart in your hands, feeling very much like a strange version of a fairy-tale hero. Except, instead of rescuing a damsel in distress, you're here to sneak contraband dessert to an overworked boy whose mother monitors his sugar intake like a hawk.

"Riddle!" you whisper-shout up to the second floor. "Let down your hair—uh, I mean, your bedsheets!"

There’s a pause before Riddle’s head pops out of the window, confused but intrigued. "What are you doing out there? It’s late."

"Shhh!" You gesture for him to keep it down, holding up the tart like it’s some sort of forbidden treasure. "I brought you a strawberry tart. Your mom might have banned it, but we live dangerously in this house."

Riddle’s eyes widen, and for a moment, you think he might actually tear up. "You... You risked sneaking a tart past Mother... for me?" He looks genuinely touched, and you can see the internal battle raging between his desire to stay obedient and his deep, insatiable love for strawberry tarts.

"Yes, I am willing to defy the Tart Tyrant for you," you say, nodding solemnly. "Now hurry up and lower the bedsheets before she finds out and decides to have me beheaded for dessert-related treason."

Riddle hesitates for just a second, but the lure of the forbidden pastry is too strong. After a moment, he vanishes from the window, only to return with a neatly tied set of bedsheets. He throws them down like some kind of serious, rule-abiding Rapunzel.

You take a second to appreciate the sheer ridiculousness of the situation, then quickly tie the tart to the end of the sheet rope. “Alright, here comes the goods!” You give the bedsheets a tug to let him know the package is secured.

With a little effort, Riddle pulls up the tart with the same solemnity you’d expect if he were receiving an ancient royal artifact instead of sugar-laden contraband. He gingerly unties the tart and holds it in his hands, staring at it like it's the most precious thing he's ever seen.

You then somehow use the bedsheets to get up there too. Wow maybe you are truly a fairy-tale hero.

"You truly are remarkable," Riddle says, his voice soft with gratitude. He turns his gaze toward you with such an earnest expression that you suddenly feel self-conscious.

You wave him off, trying to play it cool. "Eh, it's nothing. Just saving you from a tartless existence."

But instead of saying anything, Riddle leans down and, with the utmost care and sincerity, presses a soft kiss to the back of your hand, like some sort of old-fashioned gentleman. "Thank you," he murmurs.

And that’s when it happens.

Your brain shuts down. Completely. Like someone pulled the plug on your thoughts and left you staring blankly into space. The only thing running through your head is static. You don't even register the tart anymore. Did he just—? Did Riddle Rosehearts just—?

You short-circuit so hard that your mouth moves, but nothing coherent comes out. “Guh... buh... uh...” Great. So much for playing it cool.

Riddle, ever the gentleman, doesn’t seem to notice your malfunction, as he’s too busy taking the tiniest, most delicate bite of the tart, savoring it like he’s trying to make it last forever. "Delicious," he whispers, clearly over the moon.

Meanwhile, you’re still stuck on the whole hand kiss thing. Did that actually just happen? Did you fall into an alternate reality? Is this still the same planet?

Ace is going to have a field day with this.

"Uh, well... goodnight!" You finally manage to blurt out before spinning on your heel and power-walking away, almost jumping off the balcony instead of climbing down, mentally screaming at yourself for turning into a malfunctioning robot over a simple gesture. You hear Riddle chuckle softly behind you, a sound that somehow makes your heart do a weird little flip, and then his window quietly closes.

The whole way back to your room, you're fighting off the most embarrassing grin. Maybe this little night mission was worth it after all—short circuits and all.

The next morning, you wake up to a new notification from your ever-so-charming system.

"Villain System: New Quest—Make the heroine cry and win the baking competition. Reward: 100 Villain Points"

You stare at the message, blinking. Make the heroine cry? That’s one thing, but… win the baking competition? You don’t even bake.

"System: Oh, did I forget to mention? The heroine has won every year because it’s women-only, and the original villainess didn’t care about trivial things like baking. Now she’s got a free pass to victory—unless, of course, you do something about it."

You roll your eyes. Right, of course. But then, an idea hits you. Trey. Who needs to bake when you know the one person who could win with his eyes closed?

In this kingdom’s prestigious baking competition, there's one important loophole: while only women are allowed to officially compete, each contestant is permitted a single helper. Of course, most participants choose their helpers from other women to maintain the spirit of the tradition. However, there’s nothing in therules that says it has to be a woman.

The heroine, ever the strategic darling, has chosen none other than the Sixth Male Lead as her helper—an aspiring nobleman known for his meticulous manners and refined taste. His calm demeanor and careful attention to detail make him a safe bet, and you overhear the heroine boasting that, with his assistance, her victory is all but guaranteed.

Yeah, not this year.

Instead of following tradition, you’ve asked Trey to be your helper. Trey Clover—renowned for his skill in the kitchen, and quite possibly the one person who could bake the heroine’s smug little plans into pie. The original villainess never cared enough to bother with this competition, which gave the heroine free rein. But now? Now she has to face you, and by extension, Trey.

And Trey Clover doesn’t play for second place when it comes to sweets.

Later that day, you find Trey in the gardens, tending to some herbs. He looks up, giving you that calm, friendly smile. "Need something?"

"Yeah, actually. There’s a baking competition coming up," you say nonchalantly, "and I need to win."

Trey raises an eyebrow. "I thought it was women-only?"

You shrug. "It is, but I thought you could, you know, help me win."

He chuckles, brushing some dirt off his hands. "What kind of help are we talking?"

"Let's just say," you grin, "we’ll be making a dessert so good that even the Empress and Emperor will swoon. And if sister dearest happens to cry... well, that's just a bonus."

Trey looks amused but intrigued. "Alright, I’m in. Let’s see what we can whip up."

The day of the competition arrives, and as expected, the heroine is floating around the kitchen like she owns the place. You catch a glimpse of her smug smile as she arranges her ingredients, clearly confident that victory is hers.

Little does she know.

You and Trey work quietly, making an intricate dessert that smells so good even the judges start peeking over your shoulder. It’s a delicate mille-feuille with layers of crisp pastry, rich cream, and fresh fruit, and the entire hall is already filled with its tantalizing aroma.

"Are you sure you want to go this hard?" Trey asks, smirking as he plates the dessert. "This might be overkill."

You laugh. "Overkill is the goal."

As the competition moves forward, you notice the heroine starting to fidget. Her confidence wavers when she sees your masterpiece, and by the time judging begins, she’s outright glaring at you.

The Empress and Emperor sit at the head of the table, and when your dessert is placed in front of them, you watch as they take a bite. First, there’s silence. Then, the Empress closes her eyes, a look of pure bliss on her face.

The Emperor leans back, sighing deeply. "This... this is incredible."

Even the Prince, sitting beside them, takes a bite and pauses. He leans in toward you with a subtle smile. "Such talent... A skillful partner would be quite the asset to the royal family."

You raise an eyebrow but smile politely.

"While I appreciate the compliment, Your Highness, I’m not interested in marriage at the moment. My hands are quite full with other matters."

The Prince looks mildly disappointed, but the Empress shoots him a warning glance, and he wisely backs off. You can feel the heroine seething from across the room.

Then, Riddle, who’s been observing the competition from the side, steps up to taste your creation. He takes a small, cautious bite—and his entire face lights up. His normally stern expression softens, and he looks so genuinely pleased that you can’t help but feel a little flustered yourself. Who knew Riddle could be this cute?

"This is... delightful," he says quietly, and for a moment, you forget about the competition entirely. 

"Glad you like it," you say, your voice a little softer than you intended. 

Ace nudges you from the side, wiggling his eyebrows. "You blushing? Never thought I'd see the day."

"Shut up," you hiss back, feeling your face heat up even more.

Meanwhile, the heroine, who has been watching the whole scene, looks on the verge of tears. As the judges declare you the winner, she loses her composure entirely and storms out of the hall, sniffling dramatically.

Ace bursts into laughter. "Wow, you really made her cry, huh? I’m loving this!"

Deuce, more concerned, pats you on the back. "Well... at least you won the competition?"

You smirk, satisfied. "Yeah, I’d say that went pretty well."

As you leave the competition hall, your system chimes in again.

"Villain System: Quest complete! 100 Villain Points awarded."

"System: I’ll be honest. I wasn’t expecting you to fluster Riddle like that, but hey, bonus points for making the Prince back off too. Well played. +25 points"

Villain Points: 625.  375 points left till freedom.

You had to do something about the funny little flips your heart did when you even dared to glance at Riddle and so here you were, dramatically declaring a “Strategy Meeting” with Trey, Cater, Ace, and Deuce. You had even assigned roles—like some kind of overly elaborate battle plan—because, in your mind, this was war. And the enemy? Your increasingly uncontrollable feelings for a certain redheaded, rule-abiding, perfectionist nobleman.

You stood at the head of the table like a general ready to command the troops, but instead of warriors, you had your collection of questionable allies. Trey and Cater were lounging comfortably, while Ace and Deuce seemed entirely too excited about the prospect of scheming.

“Alright,” you began, pacing in front of the group. “Here’s the deal. I think I like Riddle.”

You were met with silence at first. Then, Ace broke into the most ridiculous grin. “Pfft, of course you do. You’ve been mooning over him for weeks now. Congratulations on finally catching up to reality!”

Deuce elbowed him. “Hey, don’t make fun of them! It’s... uh... commendable that you’re so serious about it.” He gave you a sympathetic smile, like you were some kind of lovesick puppy.

Cater, who had been leaning back casually in his chair, gave you a teasing wink. “Aww, our little villain is going soft. I guess all that sneaking tarts and saving him from certain doom finally got to you, huh?”

Trey, ever the calm and rational one, simply folded his arms and gave you a small smile. “Well, it makes sense. You two have spent a lot of time together. He’s... a good guy. A bit high-strung, but good.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “This is not helpful. I need a plan, people! Riddle’s mom already thinks I’m a conniving little troublemaker—how am I supposed to make a good impression while also, you know... not being painfully awkward around him?”

Ace raised his hand dramatically like you were in the middle of a classroom. “Simple solution: you don’t. Just be yourself. He’s already used to your brand of chaos. Besides, you already saved him from his mom’s sugar ban, so I’d say you’re ahead of the game.”

Deuce nodded, adding, “Yeah! Plus, you’re like, really smart and cool, so... you’ve got this!”

“Okay, so,” Cater piped in, “in terms of strategy, you could always stage some grand gesture. I mean, Riddle’s all about tradition and propriety, right? What if you—”

Suddenly, a voice interrupted from behind you. “What are you all plotting now?”

You froze, spinning around to see none other than your mother, the Duchess, standing in the doorway with an amused look on her face. She had an uncanny talent for sneaking up on people.

“M-Mother! I, uh... it’s nothing serious. We’re just—”

She raised an eyebrow, cutting off your fumbling explanation with a wave of her hand. “If you’re scheming about Riddle Rosehearts, dear, you could use a bit more refinement. Fortunately for you, I’ve decided to assist.”

“Wait, what?” You blinked at her, feeling like the ground had just shifted beneath you. “You’re... helping me?”

She gave you a knowing smile. “Well, it’s about time someone showed that other daughter of mine what true charm looks like. You’ve always been the more intelligent one.”

“Uh... thanks?” You weren’t quite sure how to respond to that.

Without another word, your mother turned to the butler who had been standing in the hallway. “Make sure everything is in place for dinner tonight. And do make certain the maids are aware of our... little plans.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the butler replied with a subtle bow before whisking away.

You stared after him, feeling both flustered and slightly panicked. “Mother... what are you planning?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said with a mischievous glint in her eye. “It’s nothing too drastic. Just a little adjustment to how tonight’s dinner will go.”

That evening, you found yourself at the weekly gathering/dinner, sitting at the long, ornate table alongside your parents, Riddle, his mother, and—unfortunately—your sister, who was already droning on about some utterly mundane topic that only she could make sound self-important.

And then, the plan began.

The maids moved around the table, loudly discussing their work. "Oh, our youngest lady is always so kind to us, isn't she? Such a breath of fresh air!"

"Yes, yes," another maid replied with an exaggerated nod. "And always so intelligent! Did you hear how she handled that situation at the garden party? Simply remarkable!"

Riddle’s mother perked up at the praise, her sharp gaze cutting from the maids to you, her expression intrigued. Your sister, on the other hand, looked like she was about to burst a blood vessel.

The butler, who had been refilling glasses, suddenly spoke up as well. "Ah, I must say, our young miss has shown extraordinary grace and poise recently. A true future lady of the house, if I may be so bold."

You were mortified. Your face felt like it was on fire, and you desperately tried to shrink into your seat. This was not what you had planned. You could feel Riddle’s eyes on you, and you were certain you were about to pass out from sheer embarrassment.

Your sister, however, could not stay silent. “Excuse me?” she snapped. “I don’t know what all this nonsense is about, but—”

But the maids and butler kept going, seemingly oblivious to her anger. "Indeed, I can’t think of anyone more suited to such a role!" one of the maids declared.

Riddle’s mother hummed thoughtfully, clearly impressed by the blatant—and likely orchestrated—praise. “It is quite rare to find such well-rounded young women these days,” she mused, looking at you with a glint of approval in her eyes. “Perhaps I should consider the advantages of such a match after all.”

You nearly choked on your drink. Riddle, across from you, was staring at his plate like he was trying to become one with it. He looked both horrified and... pleased? Maybe?

And just when you thought things couldn’t get worse, Ace—because of course, it had to be Ace—leaned over and whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Hey, at least you know Riddle's mom doesn’t hate you anymore. Progress!”

You shot him a glare, but the damage was done. Everyone at the table had heard, and Riddle’s mother raised a curious eyebrow at you both. You could practically feel Riddle sinking further into his seat.

The dinner continued with more awkward small talk, with your mother throwing in subtle digs at your sister’s lack of... everything, while you tried your hardest not to combust from sheer humiliation.

But hey—if nothing else, at least Riddle wasn’t the only one who felt like he needed to escape to the nearest corner. Small victories, right?

"System: Quest: Make Riddle Say Something Mean to Your Sister. Reward: 100 Points"

The system pings you with the next quest, and you almost laugh out loud. Get Riddle to say something mean to your sister? The guy whose idea of an insult is reminding someone to follow the rules more carefully? You know this’ll be near impossible—his mother raised him to be the picture of etiquette and politeness.

But, then again, opportunity tends to strike when you least expect it, and with your villain system, those moments come with a bit of flair.

It all starts innocently enough: horseback riding. You’re a natural at it, of course, and as you effortlessly guide your horse around the course, your sister glares at you from the sidelines, arms crossed.

"Oh, how shocking," she drawls loud enough for everyone to hear. "A masculine activity. How unbecoming for a lady."

Before you can snap back, someone else beats you to it. "That's funny, I quite like horseback riding too," The Empress says, her voice as polite as ever but with just enough edge to make your darling sister freeze.

And when Riddle adds that he also enjoys horseback riding, you almost snort. Of course, he does. Riddle would have to enjoy something that involves strict rules and perfect posture.

Your sister's eyes flicker toward Riddle, suddenly aware that insulting horseback riding is not the wisest move when he is within earshot. She stammers, trying to recover. "I—I mean, I didn’t say it was entirely inappropriate. It’s just—"

You just stare at her, subtly challenging her to continue. And she takes the bait.

Sensing an opportunity to show off, your sister decides to prove she’s good at it too. "I’ll show you how a real lady rides a horse," she declares, moving to mount the closest horse. The horse, sensing the storm of bad vibes radiating from your sister, immediately snorts and takes a few steps back.

“See, even the horse knows better,” Ace mutters behind you, earning a chuckle from Deuce. You can’t help but grin.

Your sister’s attempt to get on the horse is nothing short of a disaster. Her foot slips, her balance is off, and the horse finally has enough. In one swift move, it bucks her off before she’s even properly seated, sending her tumbling to the ground in an undignified heap.

For a second, there's stunned silence. Then, in true ‘sister’ fashion, she gets up, furious and embarrassed, and hits the horse on the flank.

Oh no. She did not just hit the horse.

Riddle’s face turns red—not his usual "I’m about to scold you" red, but the kind of red that suggests a leviathan-level insult has just taken place. "What are you doing?" he snaps, shocking everyone in earshot. Even��you pause, surprised.

You quickly recover, barely holding back your grin. You can already feel the points tallying up.

"That was completely uncalled for," Riddle continues, his voice icy. "You should apologize to the horse."

Your sister sputters, clearly not used to being reprimanded by someone like Riddle.

"I—I didn’t—"

"Violence toward an innocent animal," the Emperor chimes in from his observation point, his tone dripping with disapproval. "Disgraceful behavior."

The Imperial Princess, who has been watching with her arms crossed, gives a snort of laughter. "Well, clearly not everyone can handle themselves with grace on horseback."

Your sister looks like she’s about to implode, her cheeks burning redder than Riddle's hair. "I didn’t mean—"

"Please," Riddle says, cutting her off with a wave of his hand. "Let’s not make this any worse for yourself."

The system pops up again with a cheeky little message.

"+25 bonus points: The system respects that level of carnage. Well done."

Honestly, even you can’t help but respect the sheer scale of the damage your sister just managed to cause to her own reputation in a matter of minutes.

Riddle, who’s usually the epitome of control, saying something that mean? The Emperor, the Imperial Princess, and the Empress all scolding her? It’s a beautiful mess, and you’ll take the points with a smile.

Villain Points: 750. 150 points left till freedom

You’re lounging in the courtyard, enjoying a rare moment of peace, when chaos inevitably strikes. You don’t know why you thought you could have a quiet afternoon without something going wrong. The universe must have you on its watchlist, and today, it decided to throw a wrench in the form of Deuce Spade sprinting across the courtyard, holding a goose under his arm like some kind of barnyard Olympian.

The goose then shows a surprising amount of athleticism and manages to pivot in his arms and jump down.

“GET BACK HERE, YOU FEATHERED MENACE!” Ace screams behind him, waving what looks like a loaf of bread. You raise an eyebrow, confused but intrigued. “Uh… do I even want to know?”

“They’re trying to catch the Duchess’s prized goose,” Cater pipes up, appearing out of nowhere. “It escaped from the coop. Again.”

You squint at the scene unfolding before you, watching as Deuce trips over a bush, while grabbing its tail, sending both himself and the goose tumbling to the ground, feathers everywhere. The goose immediately makes a break for it, flapping wildly in your direction. You can’t help it—some deep, misguided instinct kicks in. You blame your duel with the chicken of doom. Must help friends! Must catch rogue poultry!

You leap to your feet, determination surging through you. This is it. This is your time to shine. You throw yourself at the goose, diving for it like a soccer goalie saving the game-winning shot.

And you miss. Not just miss—you whiff it entirely. Instead, you skid along the ground, getting a face full of dirt and grass. The goose, clearly uninterested in whatever heroic save you were attempting, runs straight towards the nearby rose bushes, where Riddle is calmly reading a book.

“Got it!” you yell, trying to recover from your very undignified position. You scramble to your feet and sprint towards the goose, not thinking—absolutely no thoughts—just vibes and feathers.

“STOP THAT GOOSE!” you hear Deuce shout, which only makes you run faster.

But then… things go wrong. Horribly, hilariously wrong.

The goose, in a feat of poultry acrobatics, launches itself directly at Riddle. In a panic, you leap towards them, determined to protect Riddle from the poultry projectile. Unfortunately, in your zeal to save him, you overestimate your athletic prowess, launching yourself way too high and way too fast.

You soar right over the rose bushes. For a brief, glorious moment, you feel like you’re flying. Like Icarus, you’ve flown too close to the sun.

And then gravity kicks in.

You crash into Riddle, knocking his book out of his hands as you both go down in a very undignified heap. Riddle lets out a startled yelp, and you’re pretty sure your entire life flashes before your eyes in that split second.

When the dust settles, you’re on the ground, somehow tangled up with both Riddle and the goose, who looks mildly offended by this whole debacle. You can barely process the pain in your elbow because, oh no—you’ve just tackled Riddle Rosehearts in broad daylight. You’re doomed. Absolutely doomed.

Riddle, red-faced and thoroughly flustered, pushes himself up, brushing stray feathers off his jacket. “What in the world…?”

“I, uh… was trying to help?” you say weakly, still half-sprawled on the ground with the goose now comfortably perched on your back, like some sort of bizarre poultry crown.

Before Riddle can reply, Ace and Deuce finally catch up, breathless and thoroughly amused by the sight before them.

“Nice one!” Ace cackles, doubling over with laughter. “I didn’t think you’d go for the full-on tackle!”

“Yeah, wow,” Deuce adds, clearly struggling to keep a straight face. “Really… really brave of you. Or maybe just… really dumb?”

Cater, meanwhile, is gleefully giggling during the entire thing. "I can’t believe you almost took out Riddle over a goose!” Riddle glares at them, cheeks still a furious shade of pink. “This is not funny. Someone could have been hurt!”

You finally manage to sit up, the goose still somehow perched atop your shoulder. You look up at Riddle, giving him a sheepish grin. “Uh, well… thanks for breaking my fall?”

Riddle huffs, brushing dirt off his sleeves as he stands. “Next time, please consider not risking your life over poultry.”

“Aw, don’t be mad, Riddle,” Cater teases, still giggling. “Our hero here just wanted to protect you from the fierce Goose of Doom!”

Riddle shoots him a glare that could melt ice.

Ace leans over, giving you an exaggerated thumbs-up. “Honestly, this is peak comedy. I can’t wait to see the look on Trey’s face when he hears about this.”

You groan, already feeling the embarrassment sink in. “Just… just help me up, please.”

Riddle offers you a hand, though he still looks like he’s debating whether to scold you or just cry. As he pulls you to your feet, the goose squawks indignantly, finally hopping off your shoulder to strut away, victorious.

“See?” Ace says, still grinning like a fool. “The goose is fine. No harm done.”

“No harm,” Riddle repeats, looking at you with a sigh. “Except perhaps to our dignity.”

You can’t help but laugh at that, your cheeks burning. “Yeah, well, dignity is overrated. At least we caught the goose… eventually.”

Riddle shakes his head, a small smile finally tugging at his lips. “Next time, let’s leave the heroics to someone a little more... suited for it, shall we?”

You nod, rubbing your sore elbow. “Deal. But if that goose comes at you again, I’m not making any promises.”

Riddle just shakes his head, turning away to pick up his book. And he takes your hand and ties a handkerchief around a scratch you didn’t even realize was bleeding. You can still hear the teasing laughs from Ace, Deuce, and Cater echoing in your ears, but you can’t help the grin that tugs at your own lips.

Yeah, you might’ve girlbossed a little too close to the sun today. But at least you made Riddle smile and he held your hand!(kinda) . And, well, the goose is still alive, so there’s that. Small victories.

"System: Quest: Become the Flower of the Ball. Reward: 50 Points"

The system's new quest pops up with a glorious ping—Become the Flower of the Ball. Easy enough, right? Except, of course, your sister has always held that title. The "Flower of the Ball" is not just the prettiest person at the event; it’s the one who commands the room, whose influence and elegance leave everyone talking for weeks. And you? Well, with Cater on your side, you’re about to change that.

First step: rumors. Cater helps you work your way through the gossip circuit like a seasoned pro. With just a few whispered suggestions here and there, you have half the ball convinced that you’ll be arriving in something that will make your sister’s dress look like an afterthought.

Next, your mother—who’s never liked your adopted sister, mainly because of your father's favouritism —does her part by pulling the strings and reserving the best tailor exclusively for you. Your sister? She’s stuck with second-rate options, fuming in the background. By the time you step into the ball, you look absolutely perfect. The dress is a masterpiece of fabric and sparkle, the kind that makes everyone’s heads turn the second you enter.

Cater sneaks by your side as you walk in. "Nailed it, babe," he whispers, giving you a wink. "They're already talking about how your dress makes you look like a literal god."

And indeed, the whispers from the crowd follow you like a wave. Mission accomplished.

Your sister, of course, tries to maintain her usual position of dominance. She’s chosen the 7th male lead as her escort—a decision that reeks of desperation since she couldn't snag a higher-ranked noble. You, meanwhile, had originally planned to attend with Ace and Deuce, they were your closest friends after all, just to keep things low-key. But before you can finalize that plan, Riddle appears, looking composed as ever, and offers you his arm.

"I thought it might be appropriate if you accompanied me," he says with a shy smile. "Since my fiancée has chosen to attend with someone else this evening."

You almost laugh. Of course, she has. She likely thought it would make her look more desirable, but now it's given you a perfect in. Going to the ball with Riddle is about as high-profile as it gets.

Your sister’s eyes widen the moment she sees you walk in with him. Her expression morphs into barely-contained outrage, but before she can say anything, another bomb drops.

Riddle’s mother—stern and poised as always—leans over to one of her confidantes and just loud enough for you and your sister to hear, says, "Well, perhaps this arrangement is for the best. It wouldn’t be surprising if we reconsider the sister for our families’ union."

Cue dramatic gasp.

Your sister’s face twists in horror, while the 7th male lead stands there, visibly confused as to why he’s even part of this drama. "What—what did she mean by that?!" your sister hisses, shooting daggers at you and Riddle.

You smile sweetly. "Oh, who knows? Perhaps she just appreciates my company more."

Before your sister can explode, the Imperial Princess herself enters the fray. Your sister, still seething, is barely holding it together when she steps forward to greet the Princess, but her curtsey is sloppy. The Princess raises an eyebrow, looking unimpressed. "Hmm, interesting technique," she says coldly, her eyes flicking to you with approval as you execute your bow with flawless grace.

Your sister sputters, trying to recover, but it’s too late—the Princess’ interest is already elsewhere. The rest of the ball quickly follows suit, flocking to your side. Riddle, ever the gentleman, offers you a subtle smile as the room begins to orbit around you instead of your sister.

And then, like clockwork, your sister makes yet another blunder. This time, it’s with the cutlery at the dinner table. The 7th male lead awkwardly copies her, both of them managing to insult half the table in the process. You’d almost feel bad, but honestly, they’re making it too easy.

The system, naturally, is having the time of its life. "+25 points: Honestly, this is comedy gold. Extra points for the mess."

You flash a victorious smile, knowing that by the end of the night, you’ll be crowned as the new Flower of the Ball—your sister’s reign well and truly over.

Villain points: 825. 175 points to go.

Riddle wasn't quite sure when it happened. Maybe it had been a gradual realization, building slowly every time he saw you speak your mind with that sharp wit of yours, or maybe it was something that had struck him like a lightning bolt during a moment like this—watching you hold an entire room's attention, bright and confident in your own, distinct way.

You were just so... you. The way you spoke, that glint of mischief in your eyes whenever you were about to say something clever—it was entirely captivating. It was easy to see why people were drawn to you, why they wanted to bask in your energy.

Right now, you were standing near the center of the room, laughing animatedly as you shared some story with your friends. Your expression was full of life, each gesture adding color to your words, your smile lighting up the whole space. Riddle couldn’t help but find his gaze lingering on you, taking in every detail.

And then, out of nowhere, you turned your head, locking eyes with him across the room. For a split second, he felt his breath catch. He should look away, he told himself. But he couldn't. He was rooted in place as you spotted him.

Your face lit up even more—if that was even possible—and you raised your hand, giving him an enthusiastic wave, completely unabashed. There was something so genuine, so utterly you, in that wave. Your arm flailed just a little, and you were smiling so broadly, so openly, that you looked a little silly. But it didn’t matter.

Because, in that moment, Riddle felt something click into place. He might like you. He might like you quite a lot, actually.

Without even thinking, Riddle found himself waving back, a small smile creeping onto his face. He felt warm, a strange fluttering sensation settling in his chest. He probably looked ridiculous, waving with that soft, dazed look in his eyes, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

You gave him a thumbs-up, your grin widening, and Riddle had to stop himself from laughing. His heart was pounding in his chest now, a warmth creeping up his neck, and the realization hit him with startling clarity: you made him feel light. You made him feel... happy, in a way he hadn’t quite understood before.

He might have spent his whole life avoiding this kind of chaos, but when it came to you—when it came to your laughter, your brightness, your way of pulling him into your orbit—Riddle found he didn’t mind the chaos at all.

In fact, he was pretty sure he was completely smitten with it.

"Villain System: New Quest—Humiliate the heroine in front of the heir to the throne, the First Princess. Reward: 100 Villain Points"

You read the message and resist the urge to sigh. Your sister is a piece of work, sure, but the system really seems hellbent on making her your eternal punching bag. But hey, if the system insists… who are you to resist?

As luck would have it, the annual hunt is coming up—an event where the bachelors of the court go off into the woods to prove their worth, while the bachelorettes sit around and gossip like they're at an overpriced brunch. However, this year, the Imperial Princess, renowned master swordswoman and all-around terrifying person, has decided to spice things up by organizing a competition of swordsmanship for the ladies.

Before the hunt and the competition officially start, it's tradition for those not participating in the hunt to present charms to their loved ones—little tokens of affection and support to tie onto their swords before they charge off to slaughter things in the woods. It’s all very romantic, except, of course, when it’s you and your friends.

You've prepared four charms for Trey, Cater, Ace, and Deuce. Mostly because you know these four will be fighting like it's a matter of life or death (because, let's face it, it’s mostly about showing off at this point), and the least you can do is give them something to remind them not to do anything stupid and die.

You hand them out one by one, and each of them reacts in their own, very predictable way.

Cater takes his with a grin, twirling it between his fingers like it’s a prize from a carnival. "Aw, thanks, bestie! Now I have no choice but to win." He strikes a pose, charm held up as if he’s already envisioning the animal he's gonna get.

Deuce just flushes, taking the charm with both hands as if it's some sacred object. "I, uh, I’ll do my best!" he declares, looking both touched and slightly stressed by the responsibility you’ve just put on him.

Ace rolls his eyes, snatching his charm like you’ve just given him an extra chore. "Ugh, seriously? Now I gotta win for you?" He gives a dramatic sigh, but you can tell he’s secretly proud, especially with the way he ties it onto his sword with a flourish—making sure everyone nearby notices.

Trey, ever the gentleman, accepts his charm with a warm smile, nodding in thanks. "I appreciate it," he says, his tone so sincere you almost feel bad about how unserious the others are. "I'll try to bring back something worthy of this."

You wave them off with a grin. "Just try not to get yourselves killed, alright? I don’t need the guilt."

They nod, though Ace gives you a playful smirk. "No promises, but hey, if I survive, I'll owe you one."

You’re not entirely sure if that’s comforting, but at least they seem motivated... in their own, ridiculous way.

But then comes the surprise: Riddle. Normally, Riddle doesn’t accept charms from anyone. The whole court knows he rejects them all, your sister’s included, and it’s practically common knowledge that they’re engaged.

And yet, as you’re about to turn away, you feel someone tug gently on your sleeve.

You look back, and there’s Riddle, cheeks tinged pink, looking almost… shy? “I… noticed you hadn’t given me a charm,” he says, his voice quieter than usual.

Your heart skips a beat. Riddle? Asking you for a charm? You quickly pull out an extra special one you’d prepared just in case, trying not to look too smug as you hand it over. “Of course, I saved the best for last,” you tease.

He takes it with both hands, his blush deepening, and carefully ties it to his sword. "Thank you," he says, the sincerity in his voice making you feel just a little warm inside.

The time for the competition arrives after they leave and naturally, your sister finds this whole idea beneath her. Women should be "gentle and poised," she says, like she hasn’t spent the last three months practicing how to flutter her eyelashes in just the right way to ensnare the nearest man.

Then she makes a godawful comment. "I'm sure I'm better than everyone here anyways."

The Princess's eye twitches at your sister’s comment, and you can practically smell the impending doom. “Is that so?” she says, voice calm but sharp enough to cut glass. “Then perhaps you’d like to prove it.”

Your sister blinks, feigning innocence. “Oh, but Your Highness, you're a general, a dame, it would hardly be fair—”

“No, no,” you butt in, already feeling the villainous urge rising. You smile sweetly at the Princess, “I’ll do it.”

Your sister’s eyes widen, and you swear you see a flicker of fear. “You?”

“Yes, me.” You roll your wrist casually, like this is nothing. After all, you’ve been secretly training with your mother(a former knight) for weeks. And let’s be real—if you can endure her strict-as-hell lessons without fleeing for your life, your sister stands no chance.

The crowd of onlookers murmurs, excited at the prospect of some royal drama. The Princess smiles approvingly. “Very well. Let’s see what you’re made of.”

The competition begins, and your sister—oh, sweet, naive, overly-confident sister—struts up to the sparring ring like she’s about to breeze through this. She hasn’t even drawn her sword, too busy preening for the audience.

The Princess stands off to the side, arms crossed, clearly unimpressed. “Whenever you’re ready,” she says dryly.

Your sister scoffs, finally drawing her sword with confidence that stems from absolutely nothing tangible.. “This won’t take long.”

It really doesn’t.

You sidestep her first swing with ease, and she fumbles, her balance thrown off. She’s clearly never sparred against anyone with any actual skill, and it shows. You suppress a laugh, offering her a mockingly sweet smile. “Having trouble?”

Her face flushes with anger, and she lunges again, this time with less grace and more brute force. You parry her strike effortlessly, spinning around her and tapping her shoulder lightly with your blade. “Point.”

The crowd gasps, and you can practically feel Riddle’s mother watching you with approval from her seat. Your sister glares at you, red-faced and flustered. “That was just luck,” she hisses.

“Sure,” you reply, twirling your sword for added flair. “Let’s see if your luck improves.”

Spoiler: it doesn’t.

By the end of the match, your sister is out of breath, red-faced, and thoroughly humiliated. You, on the other hand, haven’t even broken a sweat. The Princess claps her hands together, beaming. “Well done! I think that settles the matter.”

Your sister looks like she’s about to cry, and you can’t resist twisting the knife just a little. “Maybe next time, you’ll think twice before insulting women who actually know how to use a sword.”

The Princess snorts.

By the time the bachelors return from the hunt, everyone’s gathered around to see who brought back the biggest game. As expected, Ace and Deuce present their game to you: They’d both managed to snag huge wolves—both proud and slightly smug. Cater hands you his deer with a wink and a grin. Even Trey, with his calm composure, looks pleased as he hands over his bear.

And then, to everyone’s shock, Riddle approaches. He’s carrying what is clearly the biggest game of the day,a bear and a lion, and as he presents it to you, the whole crowd falls silent.

Your sister looks absolutely mortified. The other male leads, meanwhile, are either empty-handed or have brought back something pathetically small in comparison—a rabbit here, a pheasant there. But Riddle? Riddle has the prize catch, and he’s offering it to you, her sister who just humiliated her in front of the entire royal court.

The center of attention, you smile graciously as you accept the game, thanking him softly. The crowd erupts into whispers, all eyes on you and Riddle. Your sister looks like she wants to crawl into a hole and disappear, and you can’t help but feel just a little triumphant.

Meanwhile, the system chimes in:

"Villain System: Quest complete! 100 Villain Points awarded"

"Villain System: Bonus reward! 50 Villain Points awarded.

System: I wasn’t expecting you to charm all of the top hunters into giving you their game… but hey, overachieving is such a villainous trait. Well done."

You nearly roll your eyes at the system’s snarky tone. Of course it would reward you for accidentally out-villaining yourself. But hey, who’s going to complain about extra points?

Villain points: 975. 25 points to go, you're so close.

It was a peaceful afternoon in the garden, one of those rare moments where you and Riddle had a quiet space to just… exist. He was sitting across from you, his face slightly softened from its usual stern expression. The hedgehogs nearby were doing hedgehog things, oblivious to the world.

"I suppose it’s something I don’t talk about often," Riddle started, his voice softer than usual, like he was letting you into a part of himself he kept locked away. "My mother was strict—is strict. Everything had to be perfect. The rules, the grades, my behavior… there was no room for failure. Not even a sliver."

You nodded, already knowing this story from your countless hours reading the webnovel. But hearing it from him directly? It hit differently.

"I wasn't allowed to have friends or play outside. My entire childhood was about memorizing rules and doing things perfectly," he continued. His eyes stayed on the hedgehogs, but his expression grew distant, lost in the painful memories. "Every mistake I made was a punishment… every misstep was a disappointment."

You could feel the lump forming in your throat. Here it comes. The part that always got you while reading.

"But the worst part," Riddle whispered, his voice almost cracking, "was that I started to believe I wasn’t good enough… not for her, not for anyone."

That was it. The dam broke.

You tried to keep it together—you really did—but the sheer weight of Riddle’s story, the pain in his voice, it hit you like a sledgehammer to the chest. You started sniffling. And then… it escalated.

You’re not just crying; you’re ugly crying. We’re talking snot, hiccups, the whole I-will-not-survive-this package.

And then, in between gasps, you suddenly blurt out, "I swear... I SWEAR, I’ll get revenge for you! No one will survive my wrath!" You shake your fist to the sky like you’re about to start a one-person war against his emotionally distant mother.

Riddle looks at you, eyes wide with shock. He hadn’t expected this. No one had. Not even you.

"Are you… are you crying?" he asked, sounding both bewildered and concerned, because let’s face it, you were making sounds that weren’t even human anymore. Somewhere between a hiccup, a wail, and a seal being slapped.

"Y-YES!" you sobbed, wiping your face with the sleeve of your shirt, which didn’t help because now you just had tear-streaked sleeves and a snotty nose. "IT'S SO SAD!"

Riddle blinked, completely caught off-guard. “It’s… it’s not that—”

By this point, you were full-on hysterical, tears streaming down your face as you flailed around in righteous fury. Riddle just sat there, completely overwhelmed. He had expected maybe a few words of sympathy, a comforting pat on the shoulder. What he hadn't expected was for you to declare full-scale emotional war on his behalf.

Riddle, for his part, was speechless. And also… redder than his hair.

He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat awkwardly. "I… appreciate the sentiment, but—"

"No, Riddle!" you cut him off, wiping your nose aggressively with your sleeve again. "You deserve someone who loves you without conditions! And I’m going to make sure the world knows it!" You stood up dramatically, only to trip over a rock, stumble, and fall back into your seat. "Ow."

Riddle, despite the chaos, couldn’t help but let out a soft chuckle at your sheer determination—and the fact that you were still crying while swearing vengeance. It was… endearing, in a very chaotic, unpredictable way.

You, however, were still in your feelings. "I can’t believe your mom! I’m—sniffle—gonna burn her rulebook. Watch me."

Riddle, who had started the conversation with the intention of sharing something personal, now found himself caught in a whirlwind of emotions he didn’t know how to handle. But… somehow, through your teary declarations of revenge and your intense empathy, he couldn’t help but feel something stir inside him.

He looked at you—your face blotchy, your eyes puffy, your determination unwavering despite the fact that you were an absolute mess—and he realized that you weren’t crying just because you felt bad. You were crying because you cared. Like, really cared.

His heart skipped a beat. Maybe… maybe you were the kind of person who could see past all his rules and expectations and just—feel for him. No judgment. Just empathy.

"I… I didn’t realize it would make you so upset," he said quietly, a soft smile pulling at his lips. "But thank you. Really."

Through your sniffling, you managed to nod and offer a watery smile. "It’s not fair. You deserve better, Riddle. I mean it."

And with that, Riddle found himself falling just a little harder for you—ugly crying and all.

It’s a regular afternoon tea party, the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and your sister is… making out with the eighth male lead in broad daylight behind a rose bush.

Ah. Classy.

You had only wandered over to sneak a mini éclair when you caught them. What’s worse is they weren’t even being subtle—like, they might as well have put up a sign that says, “We’re Ruining Our Reputations Here.”

Shocked beyond measure, you accidentally let out the loudest and most undignified gasp. It’s so loud that the entire tea party freezes mid-sip. Cups stop midair, all eyes turn to you like you’ve just declared war on the empire.

“Did someone choke on a scone?” Trey asks, concerned, already standing to assess the pastry crisis.

You try to subtly redirect everyone’s attention back to their tea, but it’s too late. The damage is done. The Imperial Princess, the Empress, the First Prince, the Emperor, Riddle, your parents, Trey, Cater, Ace, Deuce, and Riddle’s mom—all eyes are now locked on you and the unfortunate scene happening behind you.

Your sister and the eighth male lead pop their heads out of the bushes like deer caught in headlights, looking horrified. The heroine, of course, immediately bursts into tears. “I can’t believe you! How could you ruin my private moment!” she wails, mascara already running.

You blink. "Private? You were basically holding auditions for 'Romeo and Juliet' in front of the entire garden."

"Enough!" The Empress's voice cuts through the chaos like a sword. She glares at your sister, then glances at you for an explanation. You're about to open your mouth when—

"An outrage!" The Imperial Princess thunders, stepping forward with the grace of a tiger ready to pounce. "Is this what passes for decorum these days?"

Before you can even begin to process the incoming storm, your sister points her trembling finger at you. “It’s her fault! She—She’s been plotting against me this whole time! She wanted to embarrass me!”

You raise an eyebrow, utterly deadpan. “By forcing you to lock lips with the eighth male lead in broad daylight? Wow, my plans are so intricate even I don’t understand them anymore.”

Ace is snickering so loudly into his teacup that he’s shaking, and Deuce is doing his best to hold back tears of laughter. Cater’s trying to stay neutral, but even he’s got a lopsided grin.

Riddle, on the other hand, looks like he’s trying to create a new spell that will instantly smite him while his mother… well, his mother seems like she’s gonna cut someone.

Riddle’s mom, the always composed Lady Rosehearts, steps forward, glancing at your sister with such a cold expression that you could swear the temperature drops five degrees. “This engagement," she begins icily, "will not proceed. If there is to be any union between our families, it will be with someone more appropriate." She then turns her gaze to you. “Someone like you.”

Cue a choking noise from Riddle, who looks ready to faint on the spot. His cheeks turn red as he stares wide-eyed at his mother, clearly having not expected this. Trey’s eyes widen too, but he quickly coughs into his fist to hide a smirk. Ace elbows Deuce with barely concealed glee.

“U-Um, Mother?” Riddle manages to stutter out. “What… what do you mean?”

His mother gives him a rather smug look, clearly having already made up her mind. “I mean that if this union is to benefit both families, it would be much more suitable for you to marry someone with intelligence, grace, and… a bit of common sense. Someone who hasn’t made a public fool of themselves.” Her eyes drift back to your sister, who is now dramatically sobbing into her hands.

Your father looks like he’s just been hit by a runaway carriage, staring in horror at the scene unfolding before him. “Lady Rosehearts—surely this is a misunderstanding—”

Riddle’s mom raises a hand. “If there is to be any marriage, it will be between my son and your younger daughter. Or,” she adds sharply, “there will be no marriage at all.”

You stand there, blinking at the whirlwind you just caused by gasping too loudly at your sister’s terrible decision-making skills. You glance at your mom, who has her face buried in her hands. But when she peeks through her fingers, you see the slight glint of satisfaction in her eyes. She’s pretending to be scandalized, but deep down… she’s absolutely living for this. You know she's elated that you got your guy.

The Emperor himself clears his throat, trying to restore order to the royal circus. “Well, this is… unprecedented,” he says, diplomatically, though there’s a slight twitch in the corner of his mouth, like he’s holding back laughter.

Your sister, meanwhile, continues her sobbing performance, practically flinging herself into your father’s arms. “Papa, how can they treat me like this?! You always told me I’m the heroine!”

You try to hide your grin. “Heroine of a tragedy, maybe.”

“Enough!” Your father groans, looking utterly defeated. “You’ve done enough damage, girl.”

Riddle reluctantly speaks up. “I… I suppose Mother has made her decision.” His voice wavers a bit, and for a moment, he seems like he might collapse under the weight of all this sudden attention. But then, his eyes meet yours. And despite the chaos, despite his mortification, there’s a small, shy smile on his face.

“You,” he begins hesitantly, “you wouldn’t… mind this arrangement, would you?”

You laugh softly, glancing at the ridiculous mess that was this tea party. “Honestly? I'm quite fond of you so, why not?”

Ace lets out a snort of laughter, while Cater gives you a double thumbs-up from across the table. Trey just smiles warmly, giving you an approving nod. Even Lady Rosehearts looks somewhat satisfied.

The system, not one to miss an opportunity, dings in your head again.

"Villain System: New achievement unlocked! Engagement broken! Also… bonus points for making a royal spectacle of it. 100 Villain Points awarded."

With this, you're free from the system. Maybe it's time to retire your villain act.

You nearly burst into laughter at the absurdity of it all. But for now, you simply give Riddle a small, reassuring smile.

“Well,” you say, “guess we’ve got some wedding planning to do.”

It was a grand banquet, the kind where you could practically smell the prestige in the air. The Imperial Family was seated at the head of the table, all regal in their elegance. You were just trying not to trip over your own shoes and embarrass yourself in front of the Empress again.

Riddle, of course, was the epitome of decorum. Every movement was precise, every word carefully measured. Until—just as he went to refill the First Prince’s wine glass—his hand slipped ever so slightly. The tiniest splash of wine splattered onto the pristine tablecloth. It was so small you would’ve missed it if you weren’t watching him so intently.

But Riddle noticed. Oh, did he notice.

His face immediately paled like he’d just seen a ghost wearing polka dots, and his eyes darted across the table to where his mother sat. Lady Rosehearts was blissfully unaware, engaged in conversation with the Emperor, but Riddle looked like he was about to meet his maker.

You could almost hear his internal screams.

To anyone else, it was a non-event. But to Riddle, this was a catastrophe of the highest order. You could practically feel him sweating next to you, despite his rigid posture.

Time to act.

“Oh no!” You gasp dramatically, standing up and pointing directly at yourself. “I can’t believe I just did that!”

Everyone at the table stopped and stared, clearly wondering what on earth you were talking about. Even the Empress raised an eyebrow, a mix of confusion and mild amusement flickering on her face.

Riddle blinked, looking at you like you had just spontaneously grown a second head. “What…?”

You plopped down a napkin over the tiny splash of wine, covering the evidence. “I—I accidentally knocked the bottle when Riddle was pouring!” you announce loudly, offering a sheepish smile. “I’m so sorry, Your Highnesses. How embarrassing.”

The Empress smiled indulgently. “It’s quite all right, dear. Such things happen.”

Lady Rosehearts glanced over at the napkin-covered spot and frowned slightly, but then she looked back to you and said, “No harm done.”

Meanwhile, Riddle’s face was a mix of confusion, shock, and—was that gratitude? He blinked again, still processing what just happened. His mother hadn’t even glanced at him in disapproval, and now you were taking the fall for a spill no one really noticed.

As the conversation around the table resumed, Riddle leaned in close, whispering under his breath, “Why would you do that?”

You grinned and shrugged. “Because I’ve got a heart of gold, obviously. And I quite like you, you know”

Before Riddle could respond, Ace, who had been watching the whole debacle with barely restrained glee, leaned over from his spot across the table. “You’re down so horrendously,” he said, just loud enough for you and Riddle to hear.

You shot him a look. “You’re just mad you don’t have someone as gracious as me taking the fall for you”

Ace wiggled his eyebrows. “Maybe, but at least I don’t go taking the fall for my fiancé before we’re even married.”

Riddle flushed a bright red. “I—I—this isn’t—”

You laugh, leaning back in your chair. “You know, Ace, sometimes you just have to be a hero.”

“Sure, ‘hero,’” Cater chimed in, leaning in on the action with a smirk. “Or, you know, simp of the year.”

Riddle, still flustered, shoots both of them a glare, but you can tell he’s secretly relieved. The impending doom of his mother’s wrath was averted, all thanks to your impromptu performance.

With a small sigh, he finally mutters, “Thank you,” so softly you almost miss it.

You give him a wink and lean back in your chair, feeling pretty pleased with yourself. “Anytime, partner.”

Ace nudges Deuce. “You think we should get them ‘World’s Greatest Simp’ matching mugs for the wedding?”

Deuce shrugs. “I think it’d be cute.”

Riddle buries his face in his hands. "Please, spare me."

But the corners of his mouth are lifting, just slightly.

It happened when you decided to climb the academy's tallest tree. It was a brilliant idea in your mind—after all, you’d just spotted an adorable sparrow nest precariously hanging from one of the highest branches. Rescue mission mode engaged.

The execution? Less brilliant.

You were halfway up, dangling from a particularly wobbly branch, when you heard a very familiar voice calling your name from below.

“WHAT are you doing?” Riddle’s voice was half exasperated, half astonished.

You looked down (mistake) and saw Riddle, arms crossed, staring at you with a mix of bewilderment and that very specific “You’re in trouble” look he usually reserved for rule-breaking.

“I—uh,” you stammered, “I’m saving the sparrows?”

There was a long pause. Riddle blinked. “You climbed that tree for sparrows?”

“Look, I know it’s a bit—”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Riddle interrupted, running a hand down his face. “Do you even have a plan for getting down?”

“...I’ll figure that out later?”

Riddle pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “Of course you will.”

By some miracle (or the sheer force of your chaotic will), you managed to secure the sparrow nest and shimmy your way down without falling to your doom. As soon as your feet hit the ground, you triumphantly held the nest up, smiling wide.

“See? Mission accomplished!”

Riddle just stared at you, mouth slightly open, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Then, out of nowhere, he laughed—a soft, bewildered laugh that grew louder the more he looked at you, dirt-covered and grinning like an idiot.

“You…” he started, shaking his head with a small, fond smile, “You’re such an idiot.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his words. “I—hey!”

“No, really,” he continued, stepping closer, eyes full of amusement. “You’re reckless and absurd and you do things like climbing trees to save sparrows and covering for me in front of the imperial family without thinking it through.”

You frowned, feeling a bit defensive. “Well, someone has to—”

“And yet…” His voice softened, and suddenly he was close, much closer than you expected. His gaze locked onto yours, and you felt your heart skip a beat. “And yet… I don’t think I could imagine my life without you.”

Your brain took a second to catch up. “Wait, what?”

Riddle took a breath, as if bracing himself, and then met your eyes with the most serious expression you’d ever seen on him. “I’m saying that I—” he hesitated, his cheeks turning pink, but his voice was steady, “I’m in love with you.”

You stood there, stunned, staring at him in complete disbelief. Riddle Rosehearts just confessed his love to you.

“…Even after all the dumb stuff?” you asked, still processing.

Riddle laughed again, that soft, endearing laugh that made your heart flip. “Especially after all the dumb stuff.”

There was a beat of silence where you just stared at each other, and for once, your usually silly brain kicked into overdrive. You stepped closer, leaning in with a sudden smoothness you didn’t even know you were capable of.

“Well,” you said, your voice dropping to a low murmur as you tilted your head toward him, “lucky for you… I’m your idiot.”

And before Riddle could even respond, you kissed him.

It was soft, and sweet, and everything perfect. For a moment, Riddle was so surprised he froze, but then he melted into it, his hand gently cupping your face like he’d been waiting forever to do this.

When you pulled back, Riddle was completely flustered, his face red as a tomato, but there was a dazed smile on his lips. “That… That was unfair.”

You grinned, leaning your forehead against his. “You love it.”

Riddle shook his head, still smiling. “I really do.”

And from that moment on, it was clear: you may be the academy’s resident chaos agent, but you were his chaos agent, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

You finally got a private moment to yourself. It was time to say goodbye to the villain system that you may or may not have gotten fond of.

The notification flashed across your vision, blindingly bright:

[Congratulations! You’ve accumulated enough points to finally say goodbye to the system.]

You blinked. "Wait… really? I can finally get rid of you?"

[Yes. It’s been a wild ride, hasn’t it?]

Wild ride was an understatement. The system had dragged you through schemes, quests, and enough drama to fill a ten-season TV show, all for the purpose of toppling your sister's reign of terror. And now, at long last, you were free.

"...So that's it?" you asked. "No final boss fight? No sudden plot twist where you take over my body and reveal you’re the real villain?"

There was a pause before the next notification popped up.

[Actually... about that plot twist...]

You groaned. "I knew it. What is it this time? Are you an evil AI? A demon? Oh God, please tell me you’re not my fairy godmother in disguise."

[I’m… actually the original villainess.]

You stared at the screen for a solid five seconds. "...What."

[Yeah. You, uh, you kinda possessed me.]

You blinked rapidly, your brain short-circuiting. "WHAT?!"

[I was the original villainess of this world. The real one. You didn’t just get isekai’d into some random character. You got me, because I wanted you]

"Oh my God," you muttered. "You’ve been here the whole time?"

[Yup. Watching you fumble around like an idiot. No offense.]

"None taken, but wow—uh, okay," you said, rubbing your forehead. "So I’ve just been… helping you take revenge on your sister this whole time?"

[Well, duh.] The system sounded almost smug. [She tormented me horrifically when I was still alive. That’s why I pushed you to make her life miserable. I wanted justice.]

"Justice," you repeated, thinking back to all the chaos, sabotage, and general insanity. "That was justice?"

[Look, we both know she deserved it.]

You couldn’t exactly argue with that. "I mean, fair. So what now? You just leave?"

There was a long pause before the system replied.

[Well... you actually have more points than you need. You can buy my identity if you want. Get the full story. You know, if you're curious.]

You hesitated for a second, but then shrugged. "Eh, why not. Hit me with it."

The system pinged, and suddenly, memories flooded your mind—her memories. You saw everything: her upbringing, her struggles, how she had tried so hard to be perfect for her family, only for her sister to constantly outshine her. You saw the cruel way her sister belittled her, humiliated her in front of the court, all while smiling sweetly to the outside world.

And then… the tragic ending, where the villainess was cast aside, labeled a monster, and killed.

By the end of it, you felt like you’d been punched in the gut.

"Oh, wow," you whispered. "She really was awful to you."

[Told you.]

"Man… I’m so sorry," you said, your voice softening. "You went through all that, and then you ended up stuck with me."

[Honestly? It was kinda fun watching you screw up everything at first.] The system’s tone was teasing now, but there was an undeniable warmth underneath it. [But you did a good job. Better than I ever did. You were a little unhinged, but hey, that’s probably why I liked you.]

You couldn’t help but laugh. "Thanks, I guess? I tried my best."

[You did more than that.] There was a strange fondness in the system’s voice. [You turned this whole world upside down. You made people laugh, cry, and probably question their sanity. Honestly, I couldn’t have asked for a better revenge.]

For a moment, you felt a lump form in your throat. "So… what now? Do you just disappear?"

[Yeah. It’s time for me to move on. But… hey, I’m rooting for you. Go live your best life. Be happy. And if you ever need to knock your sister down a peg, do it in style. For me.]

You smiled, blinking away the sudden wetness in your eyes. "You bet I will. And hey—wherever you go, I hope you get to relax for once. You deserve it."

[Pfft, I doubt it, but thanks.]

There was a brief pause, then another notification popped up.

[Goodbye, little reader. It’s been real. And remember—always aim for the drama. It makes life more interesting.]

With that, the screen dimmed, and the system was gone.

You stared at the empty space where the notifications used to be. "Aim for the drama, huh?" you muttered, a grin tugging at your lips. "Well, I guess that’s one thing I’m good at."

As you turned around, ready to move forward without the system hovering over

you, you felt something. A strange, gentle sensation, like the faintest brush of a breeze, except it wasn’t just that. It was warmer, more personal, and… oddly comforting.

It took a second, but then it hit you. "Wait—"

You froze, your breath catching in your throat. Was this—?

It was as if the original villainess was giving you a ghostly hug. Soft, delicate, but so real you could almost feel her presence.

Tears welled up in your eyes, completely out of nowhere. You weren’t supposed to feel emotional! Not over a system—no, not just a system—a person who had suffered more than you ever realized.

"I… I’m sorry I couldn’t fix everything for you," you whispered, your voice cracking. "I tried, I really did, but…"

You felt that warmth grow a little stronger, like she was reassuring you, telling you that you had done enough. More than enough. Maybe, in a way, you’d freed her. Given her peace.

The weight of that ghostly embrace made your heart swell, and before you could stop yourself, you started crying. Again. But not the ugly, chaotic crying from before—this was softer, deeper. The kind of crying that cleansed your soul.

"I’ll do it," you whispered, tears rolling down your cheeks. "I’ll finish what I started. I’ll take her down. Not just for me—but for you."

The presence seemed to linger for a moment longer, and then it was gone, leaving behind a quiet strength in its place.

You wiped your eyes, steeling yourself. The resolution hardened in your chest like iron. Everything you had been planning, all the revenge, the chaos you had been orchestrating, it wasn’t just some game anymore. It was personal.

For her.

With a deep breath, you squared your shoulders and looked out toward the path ahead, a fire burning brighter than ever inside you.

"I’ll finish this," you muttered, fists clenching. "And it’s going to be beautiful."

And with that, you walked forward, no longer just a reader in someone else’s story.

This time, you were the one in control.

The day of your wedding to Riddle was perfect. Every detail was as if the universe had conspired to make sure nothing went wrong. The air was filled with the sweet scent of flowers, and laughter echoed throughout the grand venue. Your friends were all there, supporting you—Ace and Deuce bickering over who looked better in their suits, Cater contantly checking if everything was aesthetically pleasing, and Trey managing everything behind the scenes with his usual calm, though you caught him grinning at you more than once, proud as ever. Even Che'nya had shown up, popping in and out of sight as he pleased, throwing teasing remarks at anyone who passed by.

Your sister, however, was absolutely seething. She stood stiffly, dressed impeccably, but with a scowl that could burn down the entire venue. You knew she was fuming because she had always imagined herself in your place, standing beside Riddle. Too bad for her—you had the upper hand now.

You glanced at her briefly as you passed by, a wicked smile tugging at your lips. “Didn’t think you’d have the guts to show your face here. I almost admire it,” you whispered sweetly as you walked past her, arm in arm with Riddle.

She opened her mouth to retort, but before she could get a word out, you tossed one last barb. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to toss my bouquet to you. Maybe you'll get married next? You know, if they can find someone that can stand you?”

Riddle squeezed your hand as if to remind you to behave, but even he had a hint of a smirk on his face. Your friends snickered behind you, and Che'nya, perched casually on a railing, added a quiet, “Oof, that’s gotta sting.”

The ceremony itself was beautiful. Riddle stood there looking like he’d stepped out of a fairytale, his usually stern face softened by the moment. As you exchanged vows, there was a lightness to the air that made everything feel surreal. You could see how much he cared in the way his hands trembled ever so slightly when he held yours.

Ace, unable to help himself, whispered loudly, “You sure Riddle isn’t going to pass out from the nerves?”

Deuce elbowed him, but you could barely hold back a laugh. Even Riddle blushed a bit, shooting a glare at Ace but unable to hide his own amusement.

When it was time for the reception, the fun really kicked off. Che'nya gave a surprisingly emotional speech—well, for him at least, as he vanished mid-sentence and then reappeared to finish his speech. Trey quietly made sure everything ran smoothly, even sneaking a slice of cake for you before the official cake-cutting, while Ace and Deuce took over the dance floor with some wild moves that had everyone laughing. Cater even got caught spiking the drinks and you couldn't help but laugh.

After the wedding, the sun was beginning to set, casting a warm, golden light over the celebration. Everything had gone smoothly, almost too smoothly. Even Riddle’s mother, who was notoriously hard to please, had remained poised and polite throughout. But you knew there was still unfinished business, and the weight of it settled heavily on your chest.

You’d seen the way she treated Riddle for years—through the pages of the webnovel and now, up close. Sure, she liked you, had even hinted at being pleased with your match to Riddle, but that didn’t erase the years of pressure and manipulation she had placed on him. The burden he had carried because of her was too great to ignore, and today, of all days, you were not going to let it slide.

You spotted her near the garden fountain, quietly observing the festivities. For a moment, she looked almost serene, her icy exterior softened by the beautiful day. But that didn’t change how you felt.

Taking a deep breath, you walked over. "Lady Rosehearts," you began, your voice steady but laced with unspoken tension.

She turned to you, a smile on her lips. "Ah, my dear. You were magnificent today. Truly the picture of grace and elegance. I couldn't have asked for a better match for my son."

Her words were warm, genuine even, but they only fueled the fire burning in your chest. You didn’t respond right away, just stared at her, waiting for the right moment to unleash what you’d been holding in.

Finally, you spoke, your voice low. "I appreciate your kind words, but there’s something I can’t let go of." You stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "For years, you’ve pushed Riddle to be perfect. You suffocated him with your expectations, and it hurt him. I can’t stand by and let you pretend that didn’t happen."

Lady Rosehearts blinked, caught off guard. She opened her mouth to respond, but you held up a hand.

"You like me, and I’m grateful for that, but I love Riddle." Your voice wavered, not with fear, but with emotion. "And because I love him, I can’t ignore the damage you’ve caused. The pressure you put on him to be someone he wasn’t. The way you never let him breathe. You may have done it out of love, but it hurt him."

She stared at you, the weight of your words sinking in. There was no immediate defense, no cold dismissal. She simply looked… surprised.

"I…" she began, but faltered. "I thought I was doing what was best for him. I wanted him to succeed, to be respected."

"But at what cost?" you snapped, unable to hold back the edge in your voice. "You wanted him to be respected so much that you never let him make his own choices. He deserves to be happy. And he deserves your respect, not just as your son, but as a person."

The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating. You could see the flicker of doubt in her eyes, the realization that perhaps, just perhaps, she hadn’t done as well by Riddle as she thought.

Before she could respond, Riddle appeared beside you, having noticed the tension from across the garden. He stood tall, his usual calm demeanor in place, but you could sense the vulnerability beneath it.

"Mother," he said quietly, his voice steady but with a new strength behind it. "She’s right."

His mother turned to him, the surprise evident on her face. "Riddle…"

"I know you wanted the best for me. I know you love me. But I needed more than just discipline and expectations. I needed to know that it was okay to be myself. To fail, even." He paused, and his eyes softened. "I love you, Mother. But you have to let me live my life. I’m not a perfect image for you to sculpt."

The silence stretched on, thick with unspoken words. You held your breath, waiting for her reaction, unsure of what to expect. You had always imagined her to be unmovable, too set in her ways to ever change.

But then, her expression softened. She took a step toward Riddle, reaching out to place a hand on his arm. "I… didn’t realize. I thought I was protecting you. But I see now that I may have been too harsh, too controlling." She paused, her gaze shifting between you and Riddle. "You’re right. Both of you. And I am truly sorry."

You blinked, taken aback by the sincerity in her voice. This was not the cold, unyielding woman you had expected. There was genuine remorse in her eyes.

She turned to you, her tone softer. "Thank you. For helping him find his way. And for standing by his side."

For a moment, the three of you stood there, the weight of years of tension slowly lifting. It wasn’t a perfect resolution—years of damage couldn’t be erased with one conversation—but it was a start.You sighed, the anger that had been simmering inside you finally ebbing away. "I only did what anyone who loves him would do," you said, glancing at Riddle with a soft smile.

Riddle’s mother nodded, and though her usual composure was still in place, there was a warmth in her expression that you hadn’t seen before. "Then I’m glad he found someone like you." But you saw her expression crack a little and so did Riddle.

Then, Riddle, ever the perfect son, stepped forward. "Mother, it’s alright." His voice was soft, vulnerable in a way you hadn’t often seen. He reached out and offered her something you never expected—a hug.

For a moment, she hesitated. Then, slowly, she stepped into his embrace, her arms wrapping tightly around him. It was quiet, emotional, and—before you knew it—you were also pulled into it.

The warmth of the group hug surrounded you, Riddle’s mother surprisingly holding you a little tighter than you expected, as if silently acknowledging the forgiveness Riddle was able to give because of your presence by his side.

She then pulled away, wiped her tears and wiped the tears that you didn't realize were falling from your eyes either. "Congratulations, again, I'm proud of you both" was all she said as she turned to leave.

As she stepped away, leaving you and Riddle alone in the garden, you let out a long breath, feeling a sense of closure you hadn’t expected.

Riddle turned to you, his expression soft and full of gratitude. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For standing up for me. For everything."

You smiled, reaching out to take his hand. "You don’t need to thank me. We’re in this together, remember?"

He squeezed your hand gently, his usual stoic expression melting away into something softer, more vulnerable. "I know. And I wouldn’t have it any other way."

From across the garden, you saw Trey and Che'nya watching, Trey giving a subtle nod of approval, while Che'nya grinned, undoubtedly waiting to pounce with some teasing remark later.

But for now, you just stood there with Riddle, the weight of the day finally settling in. You’d won—both the battle for his heart and the battle for his freedom. And in that moment, everything felt right.

The courtroom was packed, filled with nobles from all across the empire. This was the moment you’d been waiting for, orchestrated with the help of your closest friends: Trey’s calm, methodical planning, Cater’s relentless information gathering, Ace and Deuce’s enthusiasm (and occasional chaos), and, of course, Riddle, who stood by your side, his presence a steady reassurance.

Your sister stood at the center of attention, oblivious to the storm about to hit. For years, she had manipulated and destroyed anyone who dared stand in her way. She thought she was untouchable, the darling of the nobility, admired and respected. But you knew the truth, and so did everyone in this room, thanks to the carefully gathered evidence that was about to expose her for the monster she was.

Cater had planted seeds of the truth you found out that grew into full-fledged whispers about your sister’s darker deeds. Even now, the tension in the room was palpable as people murmured, casting glances her way.

You stepped forward, the letter you held clutched tightly in your hand. Riddle gave you a small nod of encouragement, his eyes steely as he took his place beside you.

"Ladies and gentlemen," you began, your voice clear and sharp, cutting through the room's murmurs. "I come to you today not with accusations, but with the truth. The truth of the heinous crimes committed by my sister."

There was a gasp from the crowd, the air thick with shock and intrigue. Your sister's face remained calm, but you saw the flicker of worry in her eyes.

"She has embezzled from the kingdom’s treasury, siphoning off funds meant for the empire's welfare," you declared, holding up the documents that Trey had meticulously helped you gather. "She has blackmailed noble families into silence, using threats and false accusations to maintain her hold over them. And worst of all—"

You paused, letting the tension build as you cast your gaze over the room, making sure every pair of eyes was locked on you. Then, with quiet, deliberate force, you spoke.

"She has been responsible for the poisoning of the emperor’s own cousin, Lady Astoria. A death that was pinned on an innocent maid."

The room exploded into chaos, gasps, and shouts of disbelief filling the air. Your sister’s face drained of color, her facade finally cracking as people turned toward her, expressions of shock and outrage growing with every second.

"These documents prove every crime," you continued, your voice strong and unwavering as Cater passed around copies of the evidence to the nobles. "She thought she could keep her secrets buried. But not anymore."

"These are lies!" your sister shrieked, her voice desperate as she clutched at the air, trying to regain control. "This is a setup! You’ve all been deceived!"

But it was too late. The emperor himself stood up, his eyes narrowing in fury as he glanced over the evidence. The knight commander beside him was already moving, her sword drawn as the guards approached your sister.

"For your crimes against the empire, you are sentenced to death," the emperor declared, his voice cold and final.

Your sister screamed, fighting as the guards seized her, but there was no escape now. The nobles who once fawned over her turned away in disgust, her power crumbling in mere moments.

Riddle’s hand found yours, his grip tight but comforting as you watched her dragged away. It should’ve felt sweet, but instead, you felt a strange heaviness settle in your chest. This was the end, wasn’t it?

As the execution was carried out in the courtyard, the crowd watching with bated breath, you stood off to the side, Riddle at your side, and your friends close by. Ace whispered some snide comment about how dramatic everything was, and Deuce elbowed him to shut up, but you couldn’t bring yourself to laugh.

When it was over, the finality of it hit you like a truck. You had done it—exposed her to the world, avenged not just yourself, but the original villainess too. You expected to feel victorious, but instead, a deep sadness settled in your chest. She should've been the one to see this.

And then, just as you were about to turn away, you saw her.

A faint, ethereal figure stood near the edge of the courtyard. The original villainess. Her eyes were softer than you imagined, her expression free of the bitterness that had fueled her desire for revenge. She looked… peaceful.

Tears welled in your eyes, and before you knew it, you were crying, really crying. Ugly, messy sobs that you couldn’t control. All the rage, all the sorrow, everything you had carried from her spilled out in that moment.

"I did it," you whispered, barely audible, but you knew she heard you. "I did it for you."

The specter of the original villainess smiled, a soft, almost sisterly expression on her face. And then, in a moment that almost felt too surreal, you felt her—felt her give you a final ghostly embrace. It was as if the weight of her vengeance had lifted, her spirit no longer bound by the chains of hatred. She was free now, and so were you.

With a final nod, the specter faded into the night, leaving you standing there, tears streaming down your face. You wiped them away as best as you could, sniffling and trying to compose yourself, but the lump in your throat remained.

The warmth of the original villainess's hug lingered long after she faded, her presence now a bittersweet memory. You stood in the quiet, feeling an overwhelming sense of both loss and completion. For the first time, it felt like the weight of both your lives had lifted.

Then, a soft flutter of wings caught your attention. A small dove descended gently, perching on your shoulder. It was so light, so delicate, and for a moment, it just sat there, as if offering comfort. You held your breath, watching it. The dove turned its head toward you, as though it knew. As though she knew.

You blinked, tears pooling in your eyes again as the dove gave a soft coo and flew away, soaring into the sky. Something inside you broke at the sight—something that had been held together for too long. The tears came harder now, not out of sorrow, but of release.

"She's free…" you whispered, your voice trembling. "She's finally free."

Your chest heaved with emotion, sobs you couldn’t control spilling out as you watched the dove disappear into the distance. All this time, everything you had done, every struggle, every sacrifice, was for her. And now, it was over.

Riddle turned toward you, concern flickering in his eyes. "Are you alright?"

You nodded, blinking away the last of your tears. "Yeah… yeah, I am. It’s just—" You paused, looking up at the sky. "My sister’s gone now. And I think… I'm at peace."

Riddle stood beside you, his own heart heavy with the weight of your emotions. Without a word, he reached out, gently pulling you into his arms. His embrace was soft but firm, grounding you when you felt like you might fall apart.

Riddle’s grip on your hand tightened, and when you looked at him, there was something unspoken in his gaze—understanding, maybe. "You did what was right," he said softly. "And now it’s over."

You took a deep breath and nodded, squeezing his hand in return. "Yeah. Now it’s over."

With Riddle by your side, and your friends waiting for you just beyond the courtyard, you knew that the hardest part was behind you. You had avenged the original villainess, exposed your sister for what she truly was, and now, finally, you could walk away from all of it.

Riddle leaned closer, his voice gentle but filled with quiet strength. "Come on. Let’s go."

Together, hand in hand, you turned away from the past and walked toward the future—your future—with the love of your life, your husband, Riddle, by your side.

Boy, was this a ride to write, but i genuinely haven't had this much fun writing before, and it got longer as i went.

For the next Trashy Novel Chronicles, which twst char would you like to see? I have a few plots planned for these, I'll eventually write them both but which one do y'all wanna see first?

Series Masterlist ; My Masterlists

[glossdebut]

as you are | MYG ★ pt. 1

✧ PAIRING: rapper!yoongi x stripper!reader

✧ SUMMARY: It was supposed to be one night, one lap, one bag secured. But Min Yoongi doesn’t play like the others—he watches like he sees you, listens like he means it, and touches like he has no intention of letting go. But forever doesn’t come easy for you—and if falling for him means facing every part of yourself you swore you’d never let anyone touch? You’re going to have to figure out if it’s worth it.

✧ TAGS: smut, fluff, angst, agust d but make it ginger!yoongi, stripper!reader, MC’s dancer name is lilith, strip club meet cute but it’s not actually cute at all, MC calls yoongi superstar eight (8) times, yoongi is RRRRICH, MC is the queen of boundaries, yoongi is the king of communication, this is just the calm before the storm so enjoy it now while things are still light and fun and flirty

✧ WARNINGS: implied/referenced sexual harassment but it’s pretty light, recreational marijuana use, THREE (3) SMUT SCENES, this chapter is truthfully just a lot of suckin’ and fuckin’ but BEAR WITH ME i’m setting the stage! nsfw warnings under the cut (MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!)

✧ WORDCOUNT: 14.1k

✧ AUTHOR’S NOTE: welcome to part one of whatever the fuck this is lol. i was and remain possessed don’t look at me.

thank you claret @yoonmetogether, K @ktownshizzle, and april @ggukivrse for beta reading this baby! your feedback and severe thirst for this particular yoongi was much appreciated <3 and another big thank you to cherish @strwbyoons for making this beautiful header for me!!!

pls drop your feedback in the comments/reblogs or my inbox! i can’t wait to hear what everyone thinks!

✧ NSFW WARNINGS: lap dances (obviously), semi-public sex/sex in the workplace (strip club), dirty talk (par for the course for my yoongis but this MC gives it just as good lol), vaginal fingering, oral (m. & f. receiving), protected vaginal sex, yoongi has a huge cawk (canon), multiple orgasms, unprotected vaginal sex, pulling out, these two have me scaling my fucking walls fr

You smooth your hands down your thighs as you wait behind the curtain, watching the crowd with a lazy, practiced gaze. Same regulars. Same dead-eyed finance bros. 

But tonight, tucked into the VIP corner like he owns the fucking building, sits someone very different.

Agust D. Min fucking Yoongi. In your club.

It’s not like you never get celebrities in here. They drift through sometimes—athletes, influencers, C-list actors. It happens enough that none of the girls get starstruck about it, more focused on fighting over who gets to work their booth and get the payout that comes with. 

But this guy? He’s in a whole different fucking ballpark. Your best friend, Drea, literally has his picture hanging up in her dressing room locker. You see his face at the start of every one of your shifts. 

Tonight, he looks a bit different from the photo you’re familiar with. His hair is shorter on the sides, not to mention a completely different color. You can’t tell exactly under the neon wash of the room—red, maybe? Orange? 

But it’s definitely him, you’re sure of it. 

“Holy shit,” you mumble under your breath, glancing at Drea where she leans against the velvet edge of the curtain beside you. Even if you weren’t convinced before, the way she’s staring at him confirms it. 

She doesn’t look away, just bites at a manicured fingernail and hisses, “I know. I know. What the fuck.”

You snort. “You gonna go over there?”

You wouldn’t blame her, honestly. Getting to grind up on the man she obsesses over on the daily, and get paid for it? You may be up next on the stage, but you’ll let her fight for her shot if she wants him. You’re shocked he’s not being swarmed already. He must’ve just sat down. 

Drea jerks her head around so fast you think she might’ve cracked something. “Are you insane? I’d have a heart attack. Like, a real one. On his lap. EMTs would have to drag my body off that man.”

You laugh and slide your fingers under the waistband of your outfit, making final adjustments. “Alright. Just making sure. Because he’s hot as hell in person, and I’ve got bills.”

She gives you a flat look. “Bitch, be my guest. Make him pay all of them.”

You peek back out. He’s relaxed in his seat, legs spread, drink in hand, all black outfit draped over him like sin. The friends he has with him are hyped, but he just watches the stage, quiet and unreadable, like he’s seen it all before. Maybe he has. 

But he hasn’t seen you yet. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage—Lilith,” the DJ calls. 

You step out into the light, hips swaying, and Min Yoongi’s gaze cuts to you like a blade through silk.

Your routine is good. You know it is.

Your pole work is solid, even if you keep it simple. Smooth transitions, clean lines. You don’t try to impress with flashy tricks—that’s Drea’s strong suit, and she kills it every time. You’re happy to leave the acrobatics to her. You know your strengths. You’ve got control, grace, a slow-burn kind of sex appeal that seems to work in your favor. 

You start with a slow climb, letting your body stretch and curve around the chrome. One leg hooked, your torso arching back in a lazy bend. You dip into a spin, catching the light with the shimmer of your skin. 

Then the beat drops, and so do you.

A graceful slide down into a split, heels carving clean lines against the stage before you curl in and roll to your knees. You transition to the floor like it’s liquid, like you’re melting for them.

Your floor work is really where you shine—when you’ve got your hands in your hair, body arching syrupy slow. You know how to make the room lean in. 

And tonight, you’re dialed in.

Not performing for the room, though. Not really. You’ve got your target, thanks to Drea. 

Yoongi’s still lounging in his seat, legs spread wide like he owns the fucking air around him. There’s a low amber glow from the table’s lamp, lighting up his face in soft shadow and sharp jawline. His friends are still loud—laughing, passing drinks, shouting over the music—but he’s quiet.

Because he’s watching you.

So, yeah. You make eye contact.

Not the flirty, sugary-sweet kind either. It’s heavier than that. Curious. Calculated. Like you’re sizing him up—what kind of man are you, really?

You drag your palm down your chest, slow and deliberate, and when you tilt your head toward him, his mouth moves—just the slightest curl, like he’s smiling at something only he knows.

The bass hums its final note, low and vibrating. You roll to your knees and rise with the beat’s last echo, flipping your hair back as you stand. 

The bouncer on stage duty has been raking your tips in as your last song ended, scooping the bills into a bucket. He takes your hand to help you down from the stage, and you collect the money that’s been tucked under the straps of your outfit. 

You stuff your earnings in your purse as the DJ announces the next dancer on deck. On a normal night, you’d head back to the dressing room before you work the floor. Sip some water, check your makeup, take a breather. 

But you’ve got a narrow window before the next girl distracts Agust motherfucking D. So you move.

Confident steps, hips still swaying just enough to hold his gaze. And he is still looking—those heavy-lidded eyes tracking your approach like he knew you were coming for him.

Good.

You don’t ask permission. Just slide into his lap like you belong there, one arm hooking loosely around his neck as you settle in. His friends howl, someone whistles, and Yoongi lets out a low chuckle that vibrates through his chest.

“Damn,” he says lazily, his deep drawl smoothing over the syllable. “Didn’t even have time to miss you.”

You smile, close-lipped and sly. “Didn’t wanna risk you falling in love with the next girl before I got a chance.”

He huffs, sharp and amused, and tilts his head, letting his gaze roam down your body. Up close, he’s even better than you expected. Skin smooth, jaw sharp, chain glinting under the lights. He smells expensive.

You lean in, just a little. “So… tell me, superstar. Did you like my set?”

His lips part like he’s about to answer, but he doesn’t speak right away—just lets his eyes linger on your mouth, like he’s debating how honest he wants to be.

“Yeah. I liked it.” A pause. He drags his fingers up the curve of your thigh. “You’ve got good taste in music.”

“High praise coming from you.”

“Damn right it is,” he says with a smirk that’s smug as hell. “Thought I’d spend the night counting ceiling tiles in this place.”

“Oh, he’s a critic,” you tease, giggling easily. “Glad I didn’t bore you to death, then.”

Yoongi hums. “Not bored.” His eyes dip again. “Not even close.”

You recognize an opening when you hear one, so you take it. 

“So,” you purr, dragging a nail lightly over the chain around his neck, “you want a private dance, baby? Or you just gonna keep letting your boys spend all the money while you sit here lookin’ pretty?”

“What if I like sitting here?” Yoongi asks. “You’re kinda nice like this.”

You arch a brow. “And I’m even nicer back there.”

That earns a soft laugh, and his fingers tap a slow rhythm against your thigh—thinking, teasing, stalling. He’s probably making you work for it. Doesn’t matter. You can play. 

“You always this forward?” he finally asks, amused. 

“Only when I know what I want,” you shoot back. “And right now? I wanna get you alone and show you what I can really do. You can sit back and look pretty there, too, if you want.”

He exhales a soft chuckle, head tilting, tongue tucked behind his teeth like he’s thinking about it—but his hand’s already on your waist, fingertips dipping just beneath the strap of your outfit.

His eyes flick up to yours, and that little smirk deepens like he’s finally decided. 

Then, slow and deliberate, he slips two fingers under the strap of your bra and tucks a crisp bill against your skin—folded, thick, more than generous. His knuckles drag along the swell of your breast before he lets the strap snap back into place.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Fuck it. Let’s go.”

You don’t wait for him to change his mind.

You slip off his lap, holding a hand out to him like a dare. His friends hoot behind him, but Yoongi doesn’t react. He just slips his hand into yours, rising from his seat. 

You lead him upstairs, past the curtains, down the narrow hall lit by red LEDs. You know the walk by heart—each bend, each creak in the floor—but it feels different with him behind you. Like you’re walking with a loaded gun tucked in your waistband.

The room’s small. There’s a velvet couch, a mirrored wall, a set-up for your music, a small table where you drop your purse. You motion him inside with a playful flick of your fingers. 

“Sit back, superstar.”

He does. Spreads his legs like before. Leans into the couch like it’s a throne. You slide the door closed behind you and click on your playlist that he likes so much. 

Time to earn it.

You step toward him slowly, eyes dragging up his body, and straddle him without settling your weight. Instead, you just hover, teasing a little before you get started. 

“Okay,” you say, voice soft as your lips brush the shell of his ear, “so technically…”

You roll your hips in time with the music, just enough to make him feel the heat between you without giving him all of it.

“…you’re not allowed to touch.”

Yoongi hums, eyes dropping to your mouth like he’s weighing consequences. His hands stay planted to the couch. “That so?”

You nod. “House rules.”

He smirks. “What happens if I break ‘em?”

“Usually? I’d stop the dance and get one of the guys to throw you out.”

You let that hang in the air for a moment. Then you lean closer, nose brushing his cheek, lips near his jaw.

“But I like you,” you whisper, like you’re letting him in on a secret. “So maybe, maybe I’d be willing to bend the rules.”

Yoongi’s hands are still on the couch cushions, but his fingers twitch like they want to move. Like he’s just waiting for the green light.

You rock your hips a little lower, just enough contact to pull a soft breath from his lips.

“Just a little,” you murmur. “Just for you.”

His eyes flick up to yours, dark and hungry now, the tease burned off into something heavier. His voice is low when he speaks.

“How am I allowed to touch you, then?” he asks, tilting his head as his eyes rake over your moving form. “Where, baby?”

Your hands slide up his chest, nails dragging lightly over the collar of his shirt as you lean in, lips a breath from his. 

“Nowhere’s off limits,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “Except my pussy.”

His tongue flicks over his bottom lip like he’s tasting your words. You lean closer, brushing your nose against his, eyes locked.

“But you gotta be gentle,” you add.

“Gentle,” he repeats, and you revel in the strain in his voice. “Yeah, I can do that.”

You lower yourself fully onto his lap now, bare skin against denim, and his hands finally rise to touch. His palms are warm and slow as they settle on your hips, thumbs dragging little circles over your skin.

You shiver, just slightly. You weren’t lying. You do like him.

Your own hands find his hair, because you want to feel how soft it is. It’s a coppery orange, you note, the color visible this close. And it is soft, silky and thick under your fingers as you ease his head back, just a little, guiding his eyes to yours. You roll your hips against him, teasing, slow grind right along the length of his thigh.

Then, surprising you, he grabs a handful of your ass.

You giggle—honest, breathy, caught off guard by the confidence. By the fact that of course that’s where he went first.

“Oh,” you purr, playful, “is that what you like? Should I tell the world that Agust D is an ass man?”

Yoongi’s mouth curves, but he doesn’t answer. Just tightens his grip, pulling you closer so you’re pressed flush against him. 

His hands leave your skin for a moment, but before you can question it, you feel him slip a few crisp bills into the strap of your panties, right where your hip curves. You don’t look down to count—don’t need to. It’s thick. He’s not stingy. 

You roll your hips in a slow circle, drag your hands down his chest, and lean in close.

“Damn, superstar… that’s real generous of you.” Your voice drips gratitude, sultry and teasing all at once. “Not gonna lie, I’m feelin’ real appreciated right now.”

You let your lips brush just below his jaw, featherlight, like a thank-you without saying it twice. Then you pull back and give him a wicked grin. 

“And I haven’t even pulled out the good stuff yet.”

Yoongi exhales something between a laugh and a groan, head tipping back against the couch. You lean back slightly, just enough to shift his attention, give him a better view.

And then, cheeky little smile still in place, you tug the top of your outfit down. No ceremony, no big tease. Just peel it off and let your tits bounce free, soft and full and right in his face.

“Damn,” he breathes, sitting up a little straighter.

You cup them in your hands, press them together, giving him a perfect view. Then you pout, dramatic and teasing.

“They were feeling left out,” you explain.

Yoongi’s gaze is glued to your chest now, jaw slack, the smirk he’s been wearing all night replaced by something darker. Hungrier.

You slide your thumbs over your nipples, arching a little, letting out a soft sigh just to fuck with him. “You wanna fix that?”

His hands slide up from your waist to your ribs, warm and steady, and then higher. He doesn’t grab—he cups, firm but gentle, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch. His thumbs brush over your nipples, mimicking the way you touched yourself, slow circles that tighten your spine and draw a soft, surprised moan from your throat.

The sound slips out before you can stop it—real this time, not for show—and it stuns you enough to look down and see the tension in his face.

Yoongi pulls back, jaw tight. “Nah,” he mutters, eyes still locked on your chest. “You’re dangerous.”

He’s got his hands on your waist again, still keeping it respectful. And you, now that you’re a few bills richer and sitting in the lap of one of the hottest men you’ve ever seen?

Yeah, you wanna push his buttons a little more. 

Your hands slide up your own body, over your waist, up to your chest, and you press your tits together before leaning forward, bringing them right to his face.

Close enough to graze his cheek. Close enough for him to breathe you in.

“Yeah,” you whisper, lips brushing the edge of his ear. “You’re even finer up close, you know that?”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, but you don’t let him answer. You just smile and roll your hips against him again, making sure he feels everything through your panties.

“Sexy as fuck,” you continue, fingertips sliding into his hair. “Like… so fine it’s fuckin’ me up.”

You lean in closer, letting your chest press against his now as you grind slow and deep on his lap.

“You got me wet, superstar,” you sigh. “Soaked my fuckin’ panties and you haven’t even touched me for real.”

Yoongi swears under his breath as the crossfade on your playlist transitions into the next song.

Normally, this is where you’d end things. You’ve already given him more than any other guy you bring back here. 

Instead, you’re still moving, tits brushing his chest, the heavy bass vibrating your skin—but your mind is somewhere else now.

Because his hands are perfect—big, warm, respectful but firm. And he’s looking at you like he wants to ruin you.

You’re supposed to keep the boundary. You set the boundary. No touching your pussy. It’s not just a club rule, although it is—it’s your rule. Keeps things clean. Keeps you in control. Some girls you work with break it. You don’t judge, but you’ve never personally felt tempted. 

But this? This man?

Min fucking Yoongi. Agust D in the flesh. With that voice, those hands, that face, that money. You’re wet as hell in his lap and he hasn’t even done anything but watch you and feel you up a little. You’ve never had a client who’s gotten your stomach this tight and your panties this sticky. 

You could be out on the floor, making more money. You’ve already gotten more out of him than you expected. But how many of those guys look at you like this?

You’re conflicted. And it shows—just for a second. The roll of your hips slows, your breath hitches, your eyes wander over his face.

He notices. Of course he does.

He tilts his head, almost smug. “Thinkin’ about breaking your rule?”

You bite your lip. His hand slides down and in, close enough to feel the heat between your thighs but not crossing that invisible line. Not yet.

Yoongi leans in. Closer. His voice is low, rough velvet against your throat.

“You want me to tell you?” he murmurs. “What I’d do if you let me?”

You swallow hard, nod just once. He smirks, slow and lethal.

“I’d start slow,” he says, fingers brushing higher along the inside of your thigh. “Take my time. Feel how wet you are through your panties first.”

You shiver. He keeps talking, voice darker now.

“Push them to the side, real gentle… so I can slide my fingers in. Just one first. Feel how tight you are. Then two.” He looks up, eyes locked with yours. “You’d let me, right?”

You breathe out a soft, desperate “yeah.”

His lips ghost along your jaw. “I’d fuck you with my fingers ‘til your legs start shaking. Make you cum on my hand and then taste it, right in front of you. Bet you’d taste so sweet.”

Your whole body tenses, thighs tightening around his.

“And if you’re real good,” he adds, thumb stroking dangerously close now, “I’d let you sit on my cock.”

You shake your head, slow. Barely a motion.

“Can’t fuck me,” you say, almost mournfully. “Not in here.”

Yoongi doesn’t argue. Doesn’t push. 

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Didn’t think you’d let me.”

His hand slides higher anyway, stopping just short of the crotch of your panties, and your hips stutter against his. Your breath catches.

“But everything else?” 

You don’t answer at first. Because fuck.

You’re still straddling him in this dim little room that smells like money and sweat and sex. Still half-naked with your tits out and your panties soaked, pulse racing like someone just flipped the switch on your whole body.

And the way he’s looking at you? Like he wants to be the reason you break your own rules.

The fucking nerve.

You finally breathe, “The rest sounds… real fuckin’ good.”

Yoongi grins. 

Your pulse is hammering, louder than the bass leaking through the speaker, louder than anything in your head except one fact: This is so against the rules.

But you know how not to get caught. You know where the cameras are on this floor—and more importantly, where they aren’t. 

Private rooms are private, but that doesn’t mean that someone from management won’t peek their head in to check. You know how to angle your body and keep everything looking clean, just in case someone checks up on you. 

You’ve seen the other girls do it—slipping into a VIP room and coming out twenty minutes later with their lipgloss wrecked and a full rent payment stuffed into their purse.

You don’t judge. Never have. This job? You do what you need to.

And right now, what you need is this—Yoongi’s hands on you, his voice in your ear, that low, filthy tone making goosebumps raise on your skin. 

You shift forward, rolling your hips again like this is still just a dance, but slower now. You’re grinding right against his thigh, hiding the heat of it behind slow, practiced movements. The kind that wouldn’t raise eyebrows if someone glanced in.

His fingers ghost along the waistband of your panties, and he looks up at your face. 

“You sure?” he asks, voice so low you feel it more than hear it. “Don’t wanna get you in trouble.”

“Yeah, just—“ Your hand slips behind his neck, tugging him closer. “Just keep your hands low, keep your voice quiet, and don’t make me moan too loud, okay?”

Yoongi’s responding laugh is soft, almost reverent. “Shit,” he says. “You’re perfect.”

His fingers dip just beneath the edge of your panties. You brace yourself against his shoulders, head tilted back, breath catching in your throat as he slides one finger inside—slow, careful, like he’s savoring every second. He curses under his breath, low and harsh, like the wet heat of you just knocked the air out of his lungs.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice tight against your skin, “you feel fuckin’ unreal.”

You bite your lip, try to keep the whimper in, but it slips out anyway, soft and broken, right against his ear.

His finger curls inside you, then a second joins it, and your hips rock down without thinking, chasing the stretch, the pressure. His thumb brushes over your clit, slow, maddening, and your whole body jolts.

Yoongi’s jaw clenches. You can feel it. He’s trying to play it cool, but you know better. 

Because his breath is ragged now, and his eyes keep flicking down to where his hand disappears between your thighs, and he’s gripping your waist like he’s holding himself back from something he really wants.

“What,” you whisper, teasing still even with the way he’s wrecking you, “wanna fuck me that bad?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, thumb circling harder now, “you have no fuckin’ idea.”

He’s imagining it. Shit, you are, too. 

You wrapped around his cock. Squeezing him like this. Moaning his name while he fucks you into the velvet, into the walls, into next week.

You whimper at the thought, biting your lip to muffle the sound, clutching his shoulders as your thighs start to tremble around his lap. “Yoongi—fuck—”

“Yeah?” he rasps, thrusting his fingers slow and deep. “That feel good, baby? This what you needed?”

You nod helplessly, gasping into the crook of his neck as his fingers drag along your walls, wet and dirty and so fucking good. 

Yoongi’s fingers pump into your soaked cunt with a rhythm that’s practiced, confident in how they curl just right, hitting exactly where you need him to. Your hips jerk, grinding yourself into his hand like you’re chasing something. 

“Yeah, that’s it,” he murmurs, blown pupils staring up at you. “Ride my fingers. Fuck yourself on ’em.”

You can’t make a sound. You can’t—not here, not with the thin walls and the bouncers pacing the floor just outside. So when it hits you, fast and sharp, you bury your face into his neck and hold on.

Your breath catches, your body locks up, and you grab his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. Fist curled in the fabric, knuckles white, trembling against his chest.

He groans when he feels it—how tight you squeeze around his fingers, how your whole body shudders on his lap, how your breath starts coming out in ragged little gasps right against his skin.

“Shh,” he coos, almost sweet, his free hand stroking your back while he keeps working you through it. “There you go, baby. That’s it. Quiet for me.”

You nod, forehead still pressed to his throat, trying to breathe, trying not to shake too hard. But you’re panting, warm exhales fanning over his collarbone, lips parted in a silent moan as you ride the last of it out.

Your hips twitch once more, then go still.

You finally loosen your grip on his shirt, just enough to lift your head. Your cheeks are flushed, your lashes damp, and Yoongi’s watching you like he’s trying to burn the image into his memory.

Then, just like he promised, he slips his fingers out of you, brings them to his mouth, and sucks.

He goes slow, deliberate, eyes locked on yours while his tongue curls around the taste of you. The sound you let out is somewhere between a moan and a laugh, fucked-out and disbelieving. You press your hand to his chest, shaking your head like you’re scolding him, but there’s no heat in it.

“You’re so mean,” you scoff. 

Yoongi just smirks, fingers slipping from his mouth with a soft pop. “Didn’t want it to go to waste.”

You giggle and drag your nails lightly down his chest. 

“Well,” you murmur, voice low and sweet and still dripping with heat, “I wanna do something for you now.”

Your palm flattens against his abs, sliding down slow until your nails are teasing over his belt.

“You’ve been real good to me, you know. Real generous,” you say, meeting his eyes. “Let me return the favor.”

Yoongi’s head tilts, lazy and amused. “Oh yeah?” he says. “What’re you gonna do, baby?”

You smirk as your fingers toy with the buckle of his belt. 

“Whatever you want,” you say sweetly, dragging it out slow, “except fuck you.”

You kiss the corner of his mouth. “I told you. No fucking in here.”

He hums, but he’s clearly not mad about the boundary—especially not with the way you’re unfastening the belt like a promise.

“I can be good,” you say, grinning as you pop the button on his jeans. “Can be real good.”

Your fingers slide down the front of his briefs, finding him already hard, thick and heavy in your hand. You bite your lip and glance up at him, eyes gleaming.

“But I think I really want to suck your cock, superstar,” you say. “If you want.”

“Yeah?” he rasps, voice thick with disbelief. 

You nod, sinking down to your knees between his legs like you were meant to be there, like the private room exists for this and nothing else.

“Only if you want,” you repeat, lashes fluttering.

Yoongi exhales a curse, spreading his knees a little wider, eyes fixed on you like he’s trying to memorize this second.

“Fuck yeah, I want,” he says. “But I don’t wanna get you busted for anything. If there’s a chance we’ll get caught—”

“We won’t,” you interrupt. You’re really only half-sure that that’s true, but you honestly don’t give a fuck anymore. “It’s okay, baby. Relax.”

He’s not really in a position to turn you down, hard as he is, so he just nods and watches as your hand slips under his waistband.

You get your hand around him, finally, and—fuck.

Yeah. Yeah, he’s big. Thick, hot, heavy against your palm, and you don’t even have him fully out yet. You glance up, eyes wide and playful, lips parted in a breathless little laugh.

“Oh, damn,” you say, stroking slow just to feel the weight of him. “You were gonna let me sit on this?”

You lean in and lick a slow stripe up the length of him, from base to tip, just to feel the way his thighs tighten under you. Then you wrap your lips around the head, sucking softly, letting your tongue swirl and tease.

“Fuuuck,” he hisses, hips twitching up toward your mouth. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

You hum around him, taking him deeper inch by inch, your spit already dripping down your chin, down your hand as you stroke what you can’t fit yet. You look up at him while you do it and Yoongi groans, head tipping back against the couch, one hand buried in your hair without even thinking.

You hollow your cheeks and suck harder, start bobbing your head, ignoring the ache in your jaw as you let him hit the back of your throat just a little.

“God, you look so fuckin’ good with my dick in your mouth,” he groans, voice raw.

You’re moving faster now, eyes fluttering shut, throat relaxing as you take him deeper, your tongue pressed flat against the underside of his shaft. Your hands are braced on his thighs, nails digging in, and you can tell that every moan, every little gag, is driving him closer to the edge.

“Shit—fuck, baby,” he gasps, hips stuttering up into your mouth now, not even trying to stop himself. “You’re gonna make me—”

His hand tightens in your hair. The other clamps down on the back of your head, and then he curses, holding you there.

No warning. Just thick, desperate need and that helpless, broken sound he makes as he cums, cock pulsing deep in your throat.

“Fuuuck—goddamn,” he groans, thighs tensing under your hands. 

You swallow around him, choking just a little as he keeps you down. You take it—every drop, every twitch of his hips—until his grip loosens and he finally lets you breathe.

You pull back slow, mouth slick, eyes glassy, spit and cum on your chin. You lick your lips, wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, and Yoongi stares at you like he just found religion in the back room of a strip club.

“You,” he pants, eyes still wild, “are fuckin’ insane.”

You smirk, breath still a little unsteady. “Mmhmm,” you hum. “You’re welcome.”

Then you plant a hand on his thigh and push yourself up from the floor like nothing just happened, like your knees don’t sting and your jaw doesn’t ache and your pussy isn’t still fluttering for more. You smooth your hands over your hair, fluff it back into place, tug your top up and adjust your panties.

Yoongi’s eyes don’t leave you.

Not when you fix your straps. Not when you adjust your heels. Not even when you lean in to straighten his shirt, smooth out the crease where your fist had tugged it tight against your orgasm.

He grasps your wrist then, holding it in place on his chest.

“I wanna see you.”

You glance up, playful at first. “You’re looking at me right now.”

But his expression’s different now. Serious. 

“Somewhere you’re not working,” he says. “Somewhere I’m not pulling cash outta my wallet just to talk to you.”

You study him—this half-fucked, unfairly handsome rapper with his cock still wet and his eyes on you like he doesn’t even realize the club is crawling with plenty of other girls who would break their necks for his attention. 

You chew your bottom lip for a beat, weighing it. This wasn’t supposed to be more than a good night. A very good night. But now he’s asking to step outside the fantasy, and suddenly it feels a whole lot less like a game.

You reach for the phone in his hand and glance at him with a raised brow. “You gonna actually text me, or just collect numbers for sport?”

He chuckles, soft and a little smug. “I don’t play like that.”

Still… you type it in carefully. Hand it back over slowly. Like if you give it too fast, it’ll mean something bigger than just digits on a screen.

He takes the phone like it’s precious. Glances at the number, then at you. “This real?”

You nod, tentative. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Yoongi tucks the phone away and smiles—small, but warm. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

★ ★ ★

You don’t really expect him to follow through.

Guys say shit all the time in the club when your tits are in their face—I’ll call you, I’ll take care of you, you’re different, baby. Whatever. You’ve heard it all. Most of them vanish by the end of your shift and leave nothing to remember them by but a cheap tip.

But Yoongi? He texts you the next day.

And he doesn’t ask you to “hang out.” Doesn’t say come over. He asks if you’re free for dinner. Real dinner. At a spot so swanky you had to look up the dress code, and then borrow a dress from Drea that hugs your ass just right.

He picks you up in a sleek black car with tinted windows and a driver, because of course he has a driver. He’s chill about it, though. No entourage this time, no cameras, just him in a leather jacket and rings on his fingers, looking like a damn magazine spread.

You knew he wasn’t broke. The chains, the labels on his clothes, the way he paid for his private dance five times over—that all told you Yoongi had money.

But dinner? Dinner tells you Yoongi has money.

He doesn’t take you somewhere he can avoid being seen with you, no hole-in-the-wall spot that only he knows about. No, this man takes you to a place where the maître d’ greets him by name and the sommelier basically bows when he walks in.

Yoongi orders like it’s nothing. Full bottles of wine. Every course. Seafood flown in that morning. Shit that doesn’t even have prices listed.

The waiter pours wine you can’t pronounce. You pretend to read the menu, but you’re too busy watching him.

“You tryna impress me?” you ask, playful.

Yoongi smirks, swirling his wine. “Is it working?”

You raise a brow. “You’re probably going to drop enough on this dinner to pay off my car.”

He shrugs. “You’re worth it.”

Damn. He makes you want to cause problems. 

You’ve been wet since he picked you up, to be fair. 

Now, sitting across from him at this bougie table, you’ve got your ankles crossed tight, thighs pressed together, trying to act normal while your panties are already clinging to you like a second skin.

He doesn’t even need to touch you. He just exists. And somehow that’s enough to make your whole body hum with the kind of energy that makes you wanna do something stupid, like crawl under the fucking table. 

And maybe he knows it. Maybe he sees it in the way you’re squirming just slightly in your seat, the way your eyes keep dropping to his mouth and his hands mid-conversation. He’s been talking about music, about the album he’s working on and the artists he’s been collaborating with throughout the process, and you should care. You’re trying to care.

But your mind’s stuck on a loop: ride his face, ride his face, ride his face.

You sip your wine. Cross your legs the other way.

“You’re quiet,” he says, watching you closely now. 

You smile, lips against your glass. “I’m trying to behave,” you murmur. 

Yoongi’s lips quirk. “Why the fuck would I want you to behave?”

“This is a pretty fancy place,” you say, shrugging like that isn’t the understatement of the fucking century. “I’d hate to get kicked out before dessert.”

“Damn,” he teases, eyes glinting. “Was it something I said?”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t pretend like you’re not doing a whole thing.”

“Oh, I am,” he admits with a grin, no bullshit. “Glad to see it’s working, though.”

You could be in real fucking trouble with this man, you realize. 

Not because he’s rich. Not because he’s famous. Not even because he’s got fingers that still make your thighs twitch when you think about them.

It’s the way he looks at you. Like he’s paying attention and waiting to see what you’ll do next. It gets under your fucking skin. 

So, you re-route. Better to make it clear now, right? Before you give in to what you want?

“You know I don’t do boyfriends, right?”

Yoongi looks up, calm as ever, but says nothing. 

You exhale, powering through your speech. “Not with the job I’ve got. Not with the hours. Not with the way men start acting weird when they realize I let strangers touch my tits five nights a week.”

“I’m down to fuck,” you add, looking him over. “Like… very down.” He huffs a laugh at that, and you keep going. “And I’m down to hang out, too. Grab food. Talk shit. Get off.”

Your expression softens, just a little. “But I’m not gonna fall in love.”

Yoongi sets his drink down thoughtfully. Then he leans forward, arms resting on the table.

“Okay,” he says simply. “You don’t do boyfriends.”

You nod.

“Good thing I’m not asking to be one.”

Your stomach flips.

He tilts his head at you. “Let’s just keep doing what we’re doing, yeah?”

“Okay,” you say, a little surprised by how easy that was. But whatever. 

You swirl the last of your wine in the glass, watching it catch the light—because you’re thinking real carefully about how to say this next part. 

Because yeah, you’re probably about to fuck him tonight. As soon as possible, if you have any say—and god knows you can be real persuasive. 

But you’re not trying to be one of the many girls in his phone getting that “you up?” text at three in the morning just because he’s bored and between studio sessions. 

You may not want him to be your boyfriend, but you sure as hell don’t want him fucking anyone else, either. 

“Just so we’re clear…” you start again, “if we fuck tonight—and I’m pretty sure we’re gonna—”

Yoongi lifts a brow, smirking around the rim of his glass. “You think so?”

You don’t even blink. “I was just being polite. I know so.”

His eyes flash with amusement and he leans back a little, letting you speak. 

“But,” you continue, voice low and measured, “if we fuck tonight, and decide you wanna keep doing this… I need you to clear the roster.”

He opens his mouth, probably to deny it, but you hold up a hand.

“I know you’ve got hoes,” you say, giving him a pointed look. “You’re Agust D. I’m sure it comes with the territory.”

“I’m not trying to lock you down or anything like that,” you continue. “I told you, I don’t do love, I don’t do boyfriends.” You pause, lips twitching into a smile. “But I also don’t share dick.”

Yoongi studies you like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s come across in weeks.

“Okay,” he says, voice even. 

You blink. “Okay?”

“You want it exclusive? It’s exclusive.”

This whole thing feels way too fucking easy. You raise an eyebrow. “Just like that?”

Yoongi shrugs. “Feels like I’d be stupid as fuck to turn it down.”

You hum, pleased. “You would be,” you agree.

You lean back in the booth, legs still crossed, managing somehow to look real damn composed for someone whose panties have been soaked for over an hour.

You give him a slow once-over.

“So…” you say, voice low and sweet, “you gonna bring me to your place, or not?”

Yoongi glances at you, lip twitching, eyes gleaming like he loves how direct you are.

You lean in, fingers tracing the edge of your glass.

“‘Cause I’ve been wet since you picked me up, and if you don’t do something about it soon, I’m gonna start thinking you’re all talk.”

That gets a reaction—a soft curse under his breath and an amused shake of his shoulders. 

“You wanna go now?”

You don’t answer right away. Just take a slow sip from your drink, eyes never leaving his. Then you set the glass down with a quiet clink and tilt your head.

“I mean… Unless you’ve got something better to do than fuck the hottest girl in the room who also happens to be very, very ready for you.”

Yoongi lets out a low laugh, shaking his head like he can’t believe his luck. He slides a hand into his pocket, tossing down enough cash to cover both your drinks and then some.

“Come on,” he says, already standing. “I’ll call the car.”

★ ★ ★

As soon as his front door clicks shut behind you, you’re on him.

No waiting, no bullshit ‘want something to drink?’ You don’t need a damn tour. You didn’t come here to admire his crown molding.

You press him back against the nearest wall, hands already under his jacket, mouth on his neck. His keys hit the floor. So does your clutch. You’re too far gone to care about any of it. 

“Fuck the tour,” you mutter against his skin, already tugging at his shirt. “I don’t care where the kitchen is. I care about your bed. Or your couch. Or the floor. Surprise me.”

Yoongi groans, deep and ragged, grabbing your waist as he walks you backwards down the hall, struggling the whole time with the way you’ve latched onto him. He’s stumbling, laughing, trying to steer, but you’re not making it easy on him. 

“Shit,” he pants, “you been waiting on this, huh?”

You nod, breathless, giving him a reprieve only to pull your dress over your head and toss it. “You’re lucky I didn’t climb into your lap at dinner.”

He curses again, spinning you toward the bedroom. You unhook your bra as he pushes the door open with one hand, dragging you in with the other. 

You move to peel your panties down as soon as your back hits the bed, breath coming hard, legs spread just enough to tease. 

You’re so ready for him to climb over you and finally fuck you like you’ve been aching for all night.

Instead, he drops to his knees at the edge of the bed.

You blink, sitting up on your elbows. “Wait—”

He grabs your thighs and yanks you forward so you’re on your back again and your ass is nearly hanging off the mattress, legs draped over his shoulders. He looks up at you from between your thighs.

“Nah. I’m tasting this pussy first.”

You let out a breathless little laugh, already fidgeting in his grip. “You serious?”

“Dead serious,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh, just above the knee. “You think I’m not gonna find out how good you taste before I fuck you stupid?”

You pout, half playful and half desperate. “I wanted dick.”

“And you’ll get it,” he promises, kissing higher. “But first…”

His tongue slides flat against your slit, slow and obscene, and your head drops back onto the mattress with a gasp.

Okay—fuck.

If it feels like that? Yeah, never mind what you said. You can wait.

Yoongi’s tongue delves deep like he’s starved for it. Your hips jerk off the bed as his tongue fucks into you, dragging wet and hot through your folds before he pulls back just to slurp—loud and messy, mouth open like he wants you to hear it.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, one hand flying to his hair, the other fisting the sheets as your thighs threaten to clamp around his head. “Yoongi—fuck, what the fuck—”

His nose grinds right against your clit when his tongue plunges back in, and your back arches, mouth falling open but no sound coming out. 

He moans into your pussy—moans—like you taste better than anything he’s ever had, and the vibration ricochets through you like lightning. You squirm, thighs flexing and hips lifting against your will. 

He pulls back just long enough to mutter, “Keep runnin’ from it and I’ll hold you down.” The way your cunt clenches around nothing in response is obscene.

And then he’s right back in, tongue fucking you deep again, wet and messy. His lips close around your clit, and you fucking wail as he sucks it into his mouth with a slow, intentional pull. 

Your whole body locks up—back arching off the bed, thighs squeezing around his head as your fingers claw at copper strands and pull hard. 

“Yoongi—fuck—”

Yoongi doesn’t stop. His mouth is relentless instead, tongue flicking and flattening and swirling around that sensitive, soaked bundle of nerves like he knows exactly how close you are.

You’re panting, shaking, voice wrecked as you gasp, “Don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—”

He sucks harder, and you break.

Your body practically curls in on itself as your orgasm crashes through you with full force. You cry out, hips bucking, your grip on his hair so tight you almost feel bad—almost—but he just groans into your pussy like he lives for this, like this is the payoff he was chasing all night.

You don’t come down easy. You ride it—legs trembling, breath ragged, whole body flushed and fucked-out before he finally pulls back. His chin is glistening, lips swollen, and his eyes are impossibly dark with what can only be pride.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking like the devil himself.

You’re still gasping, chest rising and falling like you just ran a damn marathon. You swallow hard, forcing yourself up on your elbows again to look at him with wide eyes. 

“Holy shit, Yoongi,” you breathe, and he chuckles. 

Yoongi leans in, presses a kiss to your inner thigh, then trails his fingers up your stomach, over your chest, shifting until he’s hovering above you, face just inches from yours.

“You ain’t seen shit yet,” he murmurs, and you believe him. 

You reach for him, palm sliding up the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. It’s messy and open-mouthed, full of heat and hunger as you taste yourself on his lips. 

He groans into it, hips rolling down like instinct, and you gasp when you feel the thick weight of him press against your entrance.

Yoongi feels your body tense beneath him at the contact, and he pauses immediately.

He pulls back, just enough to meet your eyes. “You good?”

You nod, flushed, still trying to catch your breath. “Yeah. Just—”

“Got it.” He’s already reaching for the nightstand. “Condom.”

You could kiss him for that. No eyeroll. No groan. No ‘do we need to?’ None of that. Just smooth, focused, one-handed while he tears the foil open with his teeth and rolls it down his thick, aching cock like a man on a mission.

You’re still breathing heavy when he looks down at you again, his smirk softening.

“You ready now, baby?” he asks, and you nod. 

You watch him line himself up, one hand pressing your thigh into the mattress, the other guiding his cock. 

Fuck, even in the haze of post-orgasm bliss, you remember exactly what it felt like to take him in your mouth. Your jaw still aches from it.

You draw in a shaky breath, eyes flicking down to where he presses at your entrance.

“Yoongi,” you say, voice low and a little unsteady, “you gotta go slow.”

He pauses immediately, eyes snapping to yours. “Too much?”

You shake your head. “Not too much. Just… a lot.”

A small smile tugs at his lips. He leans down and kisses you once, soft and reassuring, and says, “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll take care of you.”

And then he starts to push in, slow just like you asked, stretching you inch by inch.

Your breath hitches from burning and bliss in equal measure, and your fingers dig into his back as he fills you up, deeper, deeper, until you feel completely full.

“Fuck,” you gasp, voice trembling. “You’re so fuckin’—stupid big.”

Yoongi grits his teeth, visibly trying to hold still, trying not to fuck you hard right out the gate even though your pussy’s gripping him like it needs him.

“You’re doing so fucking good,” he pants. “Just breathe.”

You do.

And when he bottoms out and your hips finally meet, you both just stay there for a second, clinging to each other while your body adjusts to every thick inch of him. You’re so full it feels like your body doesn’t know where to put him, every nerve ending lit up and screaming, and he hasn’t even moved yet.

You breathe through it with a tight grip on his shoulders, legs wrapped around his waist, your body slowly relaxing around him as that deep stretch shifts from too much to just right.

“Okay,” you whisper, voice still shaky, but with an undercurrent of need now. You shift beneath him, gasping softly at the friction. “Okay. You can move.”

Yoongi doesn’t hesitate.

He draws back slow before his hips roll deeper than you thought possible, like he wants you to feel every inch. It feels like his cock is going to fucking ruin you. 

“Fuck,” you groan, toes curling, “Yoongi—fuck, it’s so good.”

He groans too, head dipping to your shoulder, lips dragging along your skin like he’s trying to ground himself.

“You feel unreal,” he mutters, hips still moving slow. “So fuckin’ tight, baby. So wet.”

Your nails dig into his back and he loves it—you can feel it in the way he thrusts a little harder, but it’s still not enough. 

“Go ahead, superstar,” you goad shakily. “Fuck me.”

The second you say it, something clicks. Like the leash snaps.

Yoongi pulls back and drives into you with a force that sends you up the fucking bed. Your moan comes out high and wrecked, and he grins against your mouth, proud, cocky, like he knew you could take it—just needed you to ask.

He grabs your legs and folds you. Just fucking folds you in half like you weigh nothing, like you were meant to be taken this way. Ankles over his shoulders, knees pressed damn near to your ears, your back arched off the bed with your pussy spread open and soaked, fluttering around his cock like it’s starving.

“You feel that?” he grits out between thrusts, sweat dripping off his brow, his jaw clenched hard. “Feel how deep I am, baby?”

You nod—desperately, wildly—tears brimming because it’s so much, it’s too much, and you’re not sure if you’re sobbing or moaning or both.

“You’re fuckin’ soaked,” he pants, fucking you harder now, the head of his cock pounding right into that sweet, devastating spot that makes your legs shake over his shoulders. “This pussy’s tryna keep me.”

You can’t even speak. You just nod, whimpering, clawing harder at his back, your whole body jolting with every snap of his hips.

He’s strong. Controlled. The bed creaks under you, the headboard thudding against the wall, your body moving with his as he pounds into you, sweat slicking where your skin meets his.

When he feels your walls start to flutter wildly around him, his hand slips between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with devastating accuracy. 

“Cum for me again,” he grits out against your ear. “Wanna feel you squeeze my cock, c’mon.”

You can’t keep quiet this time.

Your moans spill out wild and raw against your will, loud, echoing off the walls, too far gone to care if his neighbors hear. Your body locks up beneath his, stars bursting behind your eyes as you clench around his cock so tight you pull a broken, filthy groan out of him.

“Shit, baby,” Yoongi growls, hips stuttering as your pussy grips him like a fucking vice. “You’re gonna—fuck—milk me dry.”

And then you feel it—his thrusts get sloppy, faster, his abs tightening against yours. His jaw clenches as he fights it, trying and failing to hold on just a second longer.

He growls, “fuckfuckfuck,” through clenched teeth, hips snapping forward one last time as his cock pulses and he spills inside the condom, muscles trembling from the effort of keeping himself upright.

You gaze up at him, dazed and overstimulated, and all you can think is holy shit, he’s so fucking sexy like this.

Copper strands plastered to his damp forehead, veins in his arms popping. His back flexes beneath your hands as he rides it out, cock still twitching inside you while he groans into the crook of your neck.

You stroke his hair, his back, let your fingers wander over every trembling inch of him while he catches his breath, still inside you, still twitching.

Eventually, he shifts enough to kiss your jaw, your collarbone, the top of your breast. His lips linger on your skin like a thank you he’s too fucked-out to speak out loud.

Then, with one last deep exhale, he eases out of you carefully. 

You watch, dazed, as he disappears to the bathroom with a lazy slap to your thigh and returns moments later, tossing the condom in the trash before flopping down beside you.

Minutes later, you’re still sprawled across Yoongi’s sheets, bare but not exactly modest, his comforter tangled around your knees. He’s beside you, propped against his headboard, sweat still drying on his chest, cigarette resting between his fingers.

He takes a drag, slow and lazy, then passes it to you. You hold it between your lips. Inhale, exhale.

“So…” you start, smoke curling around you. 

You stretch to flick ash into the tray beside the bed, then glance over at him.

“Are you gonna keep my number? Or was this a one-time thing?”

“I think I’d be a fucking idiot to lose your number,” he says, “and let pussy like that slip through my fingers when you’re offering a sequel.”

You blink. “Wow. Poetry.”

He shrugs. “I’m a lyricist.”

You roll your eyes and pass him the cigarette, but Yoongi catches your wrist instead. You watch, eyes wide, as he pulls your hand up and presses a kiss to your knuckles, soft and slow. Then he lets go, takes a drag, and exhales like the question’s already settled.

“I’m keeping it,” he says simply.

Your chest tightens as you pull your hand away. 

“Just don’t fall in love,” you remind him, voice playful like you’re teasing him—but there’s a real warning tucked in there. A necessary one, maybe. 

His brow lifts. “I remember.”

You nod, eyes on the ceiling. “I just don’t really have the job for that.”

He’s quiet for a moment, but he doesn’t look offended. Just... considering, maybe. 

“Then I’ll keep it casual,” he says finally, shrugging. 

“I’m just saying,” you murmur, “it’d be a damn shame if I had to stop stripping to protect some guy’s feelings.”

Yoongi hums low in his throat.

You glance at him. “I’m good at it.”

“Yeah,” he says, looking at you dead on. “You are.”

You scoff, disbelieving. This all seems too fucking easy still. 

“I saw you work that room like you owned the place,” he continues. “Watched you read me in two minutes flat and make me think I was in control. I told you. You’re dangerous.”

You smirk, but there’s something warm curling under your ribs. Something a little scary.

He reaches out, brushes your hair off your cheek, thumb tracing your jaw. “I’m not gonna ask you to stop.”

“You sure?” you ask. “That line gets blurry fast when you start fucking the fantasy.”

Yoongi shrugs again. “You don’t owe me anything just because I made you cum.”

Honestly, that might be the hottest fucking thing he’s said all night.

You smile, slow and sharp. “Good. ’Cause I like making money.”

“Good. ’Cause I like watching you make it.”

Nope. That’s the hottest thing. Definitely. 

You let out a quiet laugh, more breath than sound, and lie back against the pillows, arm draped across your stomach.

“Can’t blame me for wanting to make it clear,” you say. “Most guys don’t feel that way.”

Yoongi takes another drag, then taps ash into the tray, nodding slow.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

He shifts onto his side, propping his head up on his free hand as he looks at you.

“I’ve seen it,” he adds. “Act like they’re cool with it until it’s their girl on the pole.”

You hum in agreement, lips flattening into a line. It’s a story you know all too well.

Yoongi’s quiet for a second, and you watch as he stubs out the cigarette.

“I like it,” he says. “That you’re good at what you do. I know what it’s like to have something like that and have people try to take it away from you because it doesn’t fit into their idea of what you should do with your life.”

Your eyes search his face, and for once, he doesn’t smirk. Just meets your gaze like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“So yeah,” he adds, softer now, “can’t blame you for laying it out. I’d do the same.”

“Thanks,” you murmur.

You stay like that for a while, tangled together. But eventually, you realize you should probably go home. 

You swing your legs off the bed, spine stretching as you stand. You slide your panties up your legs—slowly, because you know he’s watching—and then your dress, still wrinkled and clinging faintly of sweat and sex. 

Yoongi’s still propped against the headboard, shirtless, hair a mess, watching you like he doesn’t know if he wants to hand you your heels or pull you back in.

You smooth your dress down over your hips, grab your clutch, and turn to him with a smile.

“You’re calling me a car, right?” you ask, breezy as fuck. 

Yoongi nods. “It’s already downstairs.”

Of course it is. He’s that kind of man.

You walk back over to the edge of the bed, lean down, press a kiss to the corner of his mouth—not sweet, not sappy. Just a reminder.

“Thanks for dinner,” you say. “And… everything else.”

He chuckles, eyes dropping briefly to your thighs. “You sure you don’t want breakfast?”

“Don’t tempt me,” you say with a grin, already stepping back. “I like to leave you wanting more.”

You reach his bedroom door before you turn again, hand on the frame, hips cocked just right.

“I’m looking forward to next time,” you offer. 

“Yeah?”

You nod, lips curved. “And you should come back to the club sometime.”

He tilts his head. “Thought we were past that.”

“You are,” you say, smirking. “But I still gotta make rent.”

He laughs, and you keep going.

“Come through, tip heavy. Give me something fun to do.” You let your voice drop a little, just enough to feel like a secret. “I dance better when you’re watching.”

He just shakes his head, biting back a grin. “Fucking dangerous.”

“Bye, superstar,” you sing-song, flashing him one last smile before slipping out the door.

★ ★ ★

You don’t see him every night. You’re both busy people. But whenever you’re both free, you’re together. 

Sometimes he texts you after a studio session, voice hoarse from rapping for hours. You’ll find him slouched on his couch in sweats, smelling like weed and the remnants of his cologne, questioning why the fuck he does what he does for a living.

Sometimes you hit him first after a long shift, after too many guys who tried to grab what they didn’t pay for, after too many bills counted under shitty fluorescent lights. 

He comes to the club—not often, but every once in a while. He keeps it lowkey, takes the VIP booth in the corner, tips like money’s allergic to his wallet, and watches you like no one else is in the damn room.

Most nights, though, you go to him after you clock out. Exhausted or keyed up, with glitter still stuck to the inside of your thighs either way. You bring takeout. He brings hands. Mouth. Dick. A tongue that could be declared illegal in some countries. 

It’s fun. The sex is insane, and he’s surprisingly easy to talk to at three in the morning with your head on his chest and his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your lower back.

You make it very clear you’re still working. Still dancing. Still stacking bills.

And he makes it very clear he’s not trying to take that from you.

One particularly bad night, you spend your whole shift counting the minutes until you can leave and go to his place. And when you do show up, you don’t even make it past his entryway. 

You kick the door shut behind you, drop your bag by the wall, and grab him by the collar before he even has a chance to say anything. Your lips crash against his hard, your nails digging into his skin like they’re reclaiming something that felt stripped away hours ago by some stranger’s drunk hands.

Yoongi doesn’t complain. He doesn’t ask what’s got you messed up like this. He just fucks you on the floor, exactly the way you ask, makes you cum twice before he even gets you on his cock. It helps a little. 

But it’s not quite enough. Not to fully unravel the tight coil of irritation that’s been knotting up within you since you clocked in. Not tonight.

Yoongi clocks it immediately, the way you stay quiet after, the way your breathing stays uneven. Not in that dazed, well-fucked way, but in a something-is-still-wrong way.

So he gets up from the floor without a word and hauls you to the couch, ignoring your protests at being relocated against your will. Grabs the little tray off his coffee table, flicks on the overhead in the kitchen, and starts to roll.

“Brute,” you grumble, adjusting your clothes so you’re fully covered again. Yoongi ignores you. 

“Rough night?” he asks instead, not looking up, thumbs working the paper like muscle memory.

You huff. “You know the kind.”

Yoongi nods. Licks the edge of the paper, seals it shut.

“Hands?” he asks. Did someone grab you.

“Mhm. Motherfucker got bounced. It happens, but…” You look down at your lap. “Still fuckin’ annoying.”

He strikes the lighter, flame catching, and the first inhale is deep. Steady. He exhales before he speaks.

“People suck.”

You crack a tired smile. “Yeah.”

He walks back over and hands you the joint, then settles beside you with an ashtray in his lap, close enough that your thighs touch. You lean back, letting your head fall against the cushion as you draw in the smoke.

You hold it longer than usual before you exhale. Like if you keep it in long enough, maybe it’ll burn the night out of your lungs.

Yoongi’s hand finds your bare thigh, and you lean into him on instinct, sinking deeper into the couch with a sigh. 

After a minute, he asks, “You eaten?”

You hum, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “It’s almost three in the morning.”

“So?” he shrugs. “There’s stuff open. I can get something delivered.”

“I don’t wanna put you out,” you mumble, smushing your cheek against his shoulder. 

“Nah, it’s no big deal.” He smirks at you. “I already fucked you. Only seems right to feed you while I’m at it.”

That pulls a laugh out of you—an actual laugh, not the overly fake kind you’ve been pulling at the club all night. 

“You’re a real gentleman, Min Yoongi,” you tease.

“Damn right,” he says, pulling out his phone. “What’re you feeling?”

You watch him scroll through the delivery app for a moment, surveying your options. You could probably eat anything right now, honestly. But when his screen lands on a noodle place nearby, your stomach answers for you with a low, traitorous growl.

“That,” you mutter, rubbing your stomach like you’re trying to shut it up. “Noodles.”

He grins, already scrolling through the menu.  “Say less.”

And just like that, the coil unwinds a little more. 

By the time the food shows up, you’re both high as fuck. Like, melted into the couch cushions high, your legs tossed over his lap while he focuses way too hard on picking something to put on the TV. 

The doorbell rings to announce the arrival of your food, and Yoongi extricates himself from the plushness of the couch with immense effort, rubbing one eye as he pads barefoot to the door.

It feels like decades have passed when he finally comes back with the bag, although it’s probably been less than a minute. He drops it on the coffee table, peeks inside, and freezes.

“What the fuck is this?” he asks when the smell hits him, wrinkling his nose. 

You make grabby hands, grinning. “My dinner.”

“This is your dinner?” He pulls out the container and sniffs it, recoiling instantly. “Did you order the spiciest shit on the menu?”

“I like flavor,” you shrug, grabbing a pair of disposable chopsticks from the bag. 

Yoongi narrows his eyes, watching you like you’re a live science experiment. “You’re not gonna have tastebuds by the time you’re done, you know.”

You pop the lid, fix him with a look, and dig in like you haven’t eaten in days.

Yoongi just shakes his head, grabbing his own order and leaning back on the couch. “This is the kind of shit that would make me break up with someone.”

“You can’t break up with me,” you say around a mouthful, eyes already watering. “We’re not even dating.”

“Yeah, and thank fuck,” he mutters, pointing at your noodles with his chopsticks. “That shit’s gross.”

“You’re such a hater,” you snort. 

“No, I just have taste. There’s a difference.”

“Mm, sure.”

The next few minutes pass in companionable silence. The TV volume is low in the background, your legs draped over his lap now while you shovel spicy noodles into your mouth.

You’re halfway through the container, sniffling dramatically between bites, and Yoongi side-eyes the fuck out of you.

“You seriously like this?” he asks, nudging your knee with his.

“Mmhmm,” you hum, lips tingling. “Burns so good.”

He stares at you for a second. “Let me try it.”

You grin, hold out a loaded bite with your chopsticks. “You sure? Might knock that precious palate of yours out of commission.”

“Gimme the fuckin’ noodles,” he mumbles, leaning in.

He takes the bite—all of it—and you watch as his eyes instantly widen with regret. 

“Oh, what the fuck.” He coughs once, fumbling for his water as he chokes down the bite. “What is wrong with you? This is not food.”

You’re laughing so hard your stomach hurts. “You’re such a pussy!”

“Yeah, well,” he starts, taking a long swallow of his drink, “if wanting my stomach lining to remain intact makes me a pussy, okay.”

You slurp another bite, smug. “Keep talking shit. You’re still gonna want head later.”

“You come near my dick with that nuclear warhead mouth and I’m kicking you out.”

You smirk. “Bet you won’t.”

He huffs, loading up his chopsticks with a big bite of his own noodles. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re probably right.”

And just like that, your night is just… better. 

It’s starting to scare the shit out of you, honestly. How easy this is. How natural it feels to answer when Yoongi calls. To let him pull you into his lap on the couch without thinking. To fuck him stupid one night and wake up with his arm around your waist the next.

You keep waiting for the part where it goes sideways. Where the mask slips. Where the thing—whatever it is—crawls out from under the bed and ruins everything.

There’s always a thing. No one’s actually this chill. No one’s this okay with what you do. No man just sits in the club with a drink and a smirk and watches his girl make rent off other guys’ fantasies without something simmering underneath.

So after a few weeks, you start getting... antsy.

Not cold. Not mean. Just a little more careful. A little more guarded. You don’t spend the night as much. You stop texting first. You don’t kiss him quite as easily outside of sex anymore. 

He notices. Of course he does. He’s quiet about it, but the look in his eyes changes sometimes—soft confusion flickering behind the usual smirk, like he’s trying to figure out what he’s done wrong.

You’re trying to figure that out, too. 

You lie awake next to him one night, your head on his chest, his hand resting on your hip, and all you can think is:

What’s his thing?

What’s the moment that tips this? What’s the ex? The lie? The betrayal? The dealbreaker? The part where he says something just a little too condescending about your job? The day you find out he’s been talking to someone else on the side because he decided he wasn’t okay with keeping things exclusive after all?

You don’t know.

You’re bracing for the drop, muscles tight, heart locked up, just waiting. Because if there’s one thing you’ve learned in your line of work, it’s this:

No one hands you something this good without expecting to take something back.

★ ★ ★

Yoongi doesn’t say shit for a while.

He just lets you play it cool, lets you keep pulling away inch by inch like he doesn’t notice. Like he’s not watching every sidestep, every half-second delay in your replies, every night you leave his bed when you used to stay without even thinking.

But you know better. He’s not stupid. He’s quiet. There’s a difference.

So one night, after sex that’s slow and hot and a little more intimate than you meant to let it be, you’re slipping your clothes back on instead of staying curled up with him on the couch. 

“You’re waiting for me to fuck up,” he says, cutting through the silence. 

You freeze.

He’s propped up on one elbow, hair a mess, mouth still swollen from your kiss, and his eyes are on you like he’s already halfway pissed.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” he continues. “You’re treating this like a countdown. Like you’ve got the stopwatch running until I do something to prove you right.”

You don’t answer. 

He exhales through his nose, jaw flexing. “What do you think it’s gonna be, huh? You think I’m gonna call you a whore one day? Act brand new about the job? You think I’ve got another girl on the side? Think I’m lying to you? What is it?”

You look at the floor. Then up at him. And for once, you don’t mask it with sarcasm. You just say it plain.

“I don’t know yet.”

That quiets him, if only for a moment. So you keep going. 

“I’m just waiting to find out,” you admit. “Whatever your thing is. Everybody’s got one. There’s always another fucking shoe waiting to drop.”

Yoongi stares at you for a long moment, something hard flickering behind his eyes. 

“And what if I don’t? Have one?”

You blink.

“What if there’s no shoe, baby?” he continues. “What if I’m not gonna hurt you? What then?”

You stare at him for a second. Then you laugh—sharp and defensive, opening your mouth on instinct.

“Okay. You gonna analyze me now?” you ask, voice tight. “What, that part of the package deal? Fuck me, feed me, crack me open like a psychology textbook?”

“Didn’t say that,” Yoongi says, calm as ever. 

“Yeah, but you’re acting like it.” You shift, straightening up a little. Your tone turns flat. “You don’t know shit about me, Yoongi. Just because you’ve been inside me doesn’t mean you’ve got me figured out.”

His jaw tenses at that, but he doesn’t rise to the bait. He just watches you quietly, like he’s letting you get it out.

You cross your arms. “I told you what this was from the jump. You said you were cool with that.”

“I still am.”

Your eyes narrow. “Then why the fuck are we having this conversation?”

Yoongi pulls back. You stare at him like you’re waiting, annoyed and impatient.

“I’m not trying to trap you. Or fix you. Or psychoanalyze you. I’m just calling it how it looks from where I’m sitting.”

He runs a hand through his hair and exhales slow. 

“You say you’re not looking for anything serious, cool,” he says after a moment. “But you’re in my bed three nights a week. You fall asleep on me. You let me see you on your bad nights, not just your good ones. I’m not asking you to explain it. I just don’t want you to keep flinching every time I’m decent to you.”

You feel small as soon as the words hit you. The defensive heat drains out of you in an instant, shame blooming in its place instead.

You climb into his lap slow and careful, like you’re not sure he’ll let you—but he does. His hands come up automatically, settling on your hips like it’s second nature now. You curl into him, arms around his shoulders, forehead pressed to his temple.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Yoongi exhales, steady. Doesn’t say anything yet. Just keeps his hands on you. 

You nudge your nose against his, soft. “I’m not trying to make you feel like you’re doing something wrong. I’m just…” You trail off, your mouth brushing the edge of his jaw. “I don’t know. I’m used to things going bad.”

He nods, just once. 

You pull back enough to look him in the eyes.

“I am having fun with you,” you say quietly. “And I wanna keep having fun with you. That’s all.”

Yoongi searches your face like he’s reading you in real time, like he’s choosing not to say the thousand things he might be thinking.

Instead, he just says, “okay.”

Your fingers trail idly over the chain around his neck. You focus on the feel of cool metal against warm skin, something solid to touch while your thoughts start slipping into dangerous territory.

He smells like soap and smoke and whatever expensive shit he dabbed on his pulse points before you got here, and his hands are still on your hips like they’re meant to be there. Like he wants them to be.

Too easy. Too easy.

So you twist the chain once around your finger and ask the question that’s been weighing on you. 

“You’re still cool with this, right?”

Yoongi doesn’t move, doesn’t answer right away. You press on. 

“Casual. Just fucking. Hanging out sometimes. You’re not, like… waiting on me to change my mind, are you?”

He exhales and leans his head back to look at you properly. 

“No.”

You brace yourself, waiting for the ‘but’ that never comes. 

“I’m not waiting on you,” he says instead. “I’m just here. If it changes, it changes. If it doesn’t, I’m still good.”

Your breath catches a little. It sounds like he’s telling the truth. You hope he is. 

No pressure. No guilt trip. Just a man who likes what you’ve got going, and isn’t trying to pull more out of you than you’re ready to give. That’s all you’ve wanted from him, from the beginning. 

Your fingers toy with his chain again, just for something to do with your hands.

“Okay… Good,” you murmur, leaning in to brush your nose against his. “’Cause I like this.”

Yoongi doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but his eyes flutter slightly at the touch.

“I like kissing you,” you admit, voice soft, lips grazing his as you speak. “Like fucking you.”

You smile then, slow and crooked, thumb dragging along the line of his jaw.

“You’re unfairly good at both, by the way.”

That makes him chuckle. He opens his eyes and leans close so his mouth is brushing yours again.

“Unfairly good, huh?”

You hum, pretending to think. “Mmm. Maybe disgustingly good.”

He grins, gums showing. “You gonna complain about it?”

“Not unless you stop.”

“Not planning to.”

He kisses you then, for real this time. Just like always, it’s so fucking good. 

Slow but deep, just enough tongue, just enough pressure, the tip of his nose brushing your cheek as he tilts his head. 

Your thighs begin to shift restlessly in his lap, heat blooming fast between them. The low throb builds there again, just from the way his lips move, how he tastes, how he groans into your mouth when your fingers tug gently on his chain.

You pull back just enough to speak.

“Shit.” Your forehead presses against his. “When you kiss me like that…”

You roll your hips against him, slow and deliberate, making sure he feels it.

“…it gets me so wet,” you breathe. 

Yoongi swears under his breath, and his hands slide gently down your back, over the curve of your ass. 

“Yeah?” he mutters, voice thick. “Say it again.”

You grin against his mouth, teasing, turned on, dangerously close to giving in all over again.

“I’m so fucking wet for you, Yoongi.”

Yoongi hums low in his throat, all smug and satisfied. His hands squeeze the soft flesh of your ass, pulling you tighter against the hard length of him beneath his sweats.

“Better not let it go to waste, then,” he murmurs, teeth grazing your bottom lip just enough to make you gasp.

He shifts beneath you, grinding up just a little, making sure you feel every inch of him through the fabric separating you. 

You whimper, and Yoongi grins against your skin like he’s fucking thriving off it.

“C’mon, baby,” he whispers. “Let’s make good use of it.”

Yoongi leans back against the couch, eyes locked on yours, dragging his sweats down just enough to free his cock, thick and already hard, the head flushed and slick. It bounces against his stomach, and your mouth waters without meaning to.

You don’t wait. Don’t need to, you’ve learned. Yoongi offers himself freely to you, whenever you need him. 

You shove your panties to the side, still straddling him, your soaked folds already pressed to the head of his cock as you line yourself up with shaking hands.

“Go slow,” he grits out, voice rough, eyes hooded as he grips your hips. “Fuck, you’re so wet…”

You just nod, jaw slack, heart pounding as you sink down on him inch by inch.

The stretch is filthy. Perfect. Every inch dragging along your walls, making you tremble, breath catching as you bottom out.

“Fuck, Yoongi—fuck—”

“Shit,” he groans, eyes fluttering closed as your pussy grips him tight. “Every time…”

You go slow because he asked you to.

Because his voice, low and strained, told you to. Because his hands on your hips aren’t dragging you down, they’re guiding, like he wants to feel every second of you taking him in.

And because this is new territory.

No condom. No barrier. Just wet skin, heat, and the heavy weight of his cock stretching you full, with nothing between you.

And holy fuck, it’s different.

You feel everything like this. Every throb, every twitch, every slick drag of him against your walls as you start to move. Slow grinds, shallow thrusts, the kind that make your whole body shudder with how intimate it is.

Your mouth falls open, but no sound comes out at first—just a broken breath, because you can’t quite believe how good it feels.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Feel good, baby?”

You nod, barely able to answer, rolling your hips slow and steady, the slick sounds between you obscene.

“Yeah. Feels…” You trail off, moaning as he shifts deeper inside you.

Yoongi catches your mouth with his, swallowing the sound, kissing you deep and slow. Just like the way your bodies are sliding together.

After a moment he groans, head falling back against the couch, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swears under his breath.

Then he laughs, like it actually hurts him, how good you feel. 

“Shit—” He looks down at where you’re grinding on him, hands tightening on your hips. “I’m probably gonna cum quick like this.”

You smirk, breathless, already clenching around him just to fuck with him.

He winces, laughs again. “No, like—I’m serious. You feel too fucking good. Way too good like this.”

You giggle into his mouth, lips brushing his, still slow as hell as you move on him.

“I should probably pull out,” he mumbles, more to himself than you, voice strained.

Your hips keep rolling, slick and full and so goddamn deep, and you can tell he’s getting close already. Really close. His jaw’s tight, knuckles white where he grips you hard enough to bruise, breath ragged as hell.

And then—

“Fuck,” Yoongi groans, eyes squeezing shut like he’s at war with himself. “I can’t. I’m gonna cum.”

Before you can tease, before you can protest, he lifts you off his cock. You whimper at the loss instantly, lips pulling into a needy pout. 

“Shhh,” he soothes. “I got you.”

You try to grind back down but he doesn’t let you. He ignores the desperate whine that slips out of your mouth, the way your hips twitch in search of him, and instead, he slides two fingers between your folds.

And fuck, they slip in so easily. 

You moan, head falling back as he curls them just right, thumb rubbing your clit in tight, perfect circles.

“Miss my dick, huh?” he pants. You nod desperately and he mouths against your neck in response, teeth dragging along your skin as his fingers work your insides. “You’ll get it. But you’re gonna cum first.”

You want to protest, want to tell him you were right there with him—but then he hits that spot just right, and all that leaves your mouth is a strangled gasp. 

“Oh my god, Yoongi—”

Your legs tremble around him, hands clutching his shoulders, and his voice is in your ear again.

“C’mon, baby,” he rasps. “Let go.”

It crashes over you before you can even brace for it—his fingers still fucking into you, his voice all low praise and quiet filth, his thumb rolling your clit with learned pressure.

Your whole body tenses, thighs shaking, toes curling, and then you cum hard, clinging to him like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

“Fuck!”

He groans, forehead pressed to your shoulder, hips already twitching like he can’t stand waiting anymore.

“Shit,” he pants. “Fuck, come here—come here—”

Before you’ve even fully come down, he pulls his fingers from you and lines himself up again, your pussy still pulsing and soaked, aching for him.

And then he’s back inside, sliding in with one smooth, deep thrust that has both of you gasping.

You’re still trembling, still fluttering around him, and he swears under his breath like he’s already too close.

It’s not gonna take long—can’t take long—not with how tight and wet you still are, how you’re squeezing around him like your body’s begging to keep him.

Yoongi’s cursing under his breath, fucking into you harder now, pace messy and urgent, sweat beading on his forehead as he rolls his bottom lip between his teeth. 

You’re still gasping through aftershocks, eyes squeezed shut and nails digging into his shoulders as he fucks into you from below. You feel him throb inside you, and your eyes fly open.

“Baby— I’m gonna—”

He pulls out with a sharp, guttural groan, his veiny hand flying to his cock. He strokes himself once, twice—and then he’s cumming hard, hot and thick across his stomach and your thighs, his head tipped back, every muscle in his body going tight and then lax right in front of you.

“Damn,” you pant, voice wrecked, “look at you, superstar.”

Fuck, he’s so hot.

You don’t even think about it.

You just lean in and kiss him hard. Greedy. Open-mouthed and messy and full of whatever the hell just cracked open between your ribs. 

He doesn’t hesitate. Just kisses you back like your mouth is oxygen. You moan into it, fingers threading into his hair again, tugging just because you can.

“That,” you whisper against his lips, “was so fucking sexy.”

Yoongi huffs, thumb brushing your waist like he���s still coming down. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, knocking your forehead against his gently. “You make me sick, honestly.”

He snorts. “Sure.”

You sigh, head dropping to his shoulder as your heart rate finally starts to right itself.

“I should go home,” you breathe, though you make no move to leave.

Yoongi hums knowingly and presses a kiss to your temple. “You could.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing in a shaky breath.

“But I’m probably not gonna,” you admit. 

“Didn’t think so,” he says, and the smug tone makes you smack his shoulder without any real heat. 

“Don’t get cocky,” you grumble. 

“I’m not.” He pauses, then smirks. “Okay, maybe a little.”

You roll your eyes and settle deeper into the couch, your legs tangled with his, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek.

There’s a quiet that stretches between you. It’s comfortable now, in a way it hasn’t been since you got too in your head. 

“Don’t overthink it,” Yoongi says, breaking the silence. “Just roll with it.”

You don’t answer right away.

But eventually, you nod.

“Okay.”

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[piastriprincess]

diamond  bright  ,  kiss  me  right ⸻  lando  norris  x  reader  .

featuring  lando  norris  ,  new(ish) relationship , love  confession  ,  reader  is  dramatic  as  hell  but  we  love  her word  count  1.8k author’s  note  requested  by  anon  !  i  have  basically  thought  about  nothing  but  law  school  for  the  past  two  days  but  i  was  missing  being  creative  and  wanted  to  give  you  all  something  fun  .  as  a  number  one  lando  defender  i  LOVED  writing  this  .  i  firmly  believe  he’s  a  little  bit  of  a  simp  when  he  really  likes  someone  …  very  precious  TO  ME  !  as  always  come  tell  me  what  you  think  or  send  me  a  request  !  okay  now  back  to  my  finals  studying  cave  .  love  you  all  <3  title  is  from  claws  by  charli  xcx  !

It was never supposed to be serious. 

You knew Lando Norris. The party-boy reputation, the DJ sets, a different girl at every circuit. When he sidled up to you at a bar in Monaco with that charming grin on his face, those blue-green eyes sparkling like the Mediterranean behind him, you didn’t expect much. An evening of harmless flirting, maybe. He’d buy you drinks. You might go home with him, if he wasn’t unbearably cocky. (You had a feeling he might be.) He was a player — you’d written him off in your mind before he even opened his mouth.

Turns out, you didn’t know Lando Norris at all. 

You didn’t know he would talk to you that entire night, looking ridiculously pleased every time he made you laugh, like he’d won a prize he hadn’t dared to hope for and couldn’t believe his luck. You didn’t know he would walk you home, and instead of asking to be invited up, asking if he could take you to dinner, hands stuck in his pockets so you couldn’t see the way they trembled. You didn’t know that one date would turn into nearly six months of good-morning texts, of coming home to bouquets of flowers on your doorstep just-because, of slow kisses that burned you up from the inside. 

It was like trying on a dress that looked ugly on the hanger and finding it fit you so well you never wanted to take it off again. To make a long story short, dating Lando was kind of your favorite thing. You liked everything about him. And lately, when you lay tangled in his sheets at night, his arms wrapped around your waist and his mouth pressed softly to your shoulder, breathing in his clean, boyish scent, you thought maybe your feelings were more than simply liking him. 

You couldn’t tell him, though, not yet. You cringed at the thought of the awkward silence that would stretch between you if he didn’t say it back. You trusted Lando — he was sweet to you in a way that made your chest ache sometimes, in a way that you couldn’t imagine being fake. But what if the thrill for him was all in the chase, the reckless desire to get something he thought he couldn’t have? What if now that he had you, now that he really knew you, the shine had worn off?

So you kept it to yourself. Let him slow dance with you in his kitchen to a song you’d never heard, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled at you. Let him text you stupid jokes and ridiculous strings of emojis in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep. Let him scrape his teeth over your collarbone and whisper your name like a prayer into the darkness. Loved him quietly, secretly, in the private corner of your heart he hadn’t quite found yet. 

You told yourself it was fine. Things were good between you. Great, even. You weren’t going to mess it up by saying it first. You would wait until he did. 

If he ever did. 

—

The most embarrassing moment of your life starts with a phone call. 

You’re weaving through the aisles of the grocery store, looking for the pasta. Lando’s had a long day of sponsor meetings and media, but insisted that he wanted to see you anyway for your regular date night. You agreed, on the condition you could make him dinner; you like the idea of taking care of him for once, instead of the other way around.  

Your phone starts buzzing, and you pull it out of your pocket, greeted with Lando’s face — some ridiculous photo he’d taken of the two of you early on, your cheeks pressed together like two halves of a heart. You answer without hesitating, shifting the basket of groceries onto your hip. “Hey, you.”

“Hi, gorgeous.” His voice is light, but you can hear the weariness underneath he’s trying to cover up. “Just checking what time you were thinking of coming over. Zak added a last-minute meeting to the calendar, but I should be done by 7.”

You prop the phone between your shoulder and your ear, grabbing a carton of eggs. “That’s fine. I’m just picking up the stuff now, I’ll stop at home and then come to yours.” You lo- You like the domesticity of the conversation. You wonder if someday, you’ll make grocery lists together, wander through the aisles side-by-side.

“My little chef,” he says, warmth in his voice. “Give me a sneak preview of the menu. What are you making me?” 

“Oh, I thought I’d whip up some sushi,” you tease, grin on your face. You can imagine him on the other end of the phone, crinkling his nose in disgust, and the thought lodges in your chest with a far-too-familiar fond ache. 

“Right, I actually have plans. Can’t have you over anymore,” he deadpans, like clockwork. 

You let out a bark of laughter, throwing a box of pasta into your basket. “I’m kidding. Do you think I don’t remember your freakish aversion to fish?”

“Wow. My own girlfriend, bullying me,” Lando sniffs. “Might just die now. Wasting away, starving and alone, with no one to comfort me.” 

“I’m making carbonara, you big baby,” you snort, pressing the phone between your shoulder and your ear as you inspect two different wedges of Parmesan. “And maybe cookies, for dessert.” You place the cheese in the basket, heading for the checkout lane. 

“How’d I get so lucky?” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. Oh, you’re a goner. It does something stupid to your heart. 

“Guess the universe knew you needed me,” you reply, unpacking your basket onto the conveyor belt. You’re moving a little slowly; you only have one hand to unpack while the other holds the phone.

He laughs. “Score one for the universe.” His voice drops a little lower, a little softer. “I can’t wait to see you.”

“Me too,” you reply, fumbling for your wallet as the cashier eyes you with increasing impatience, tapping at the card reader. A line has grown behind you, you realize. “Shit. Lan, I gotta go. I love you, bye.” Click.

You slide your sunglasses over your eyes as you step out of the air-conditioned grocery store. The weather as you walk home is warm. The late-afternoon sun hangs low and golden in the sky, and— 

You nearly drop the bag you’re carrying, catching it just before the eggs shatter over the Monaco sidewalk.

You told Lando you loved him. And you didn’t even realize it. 

—

By the time you get home, you’re seriously considering faking your own death.

You stand slumped against the wall of the elevator, cheeks burning with humiliation. You’ve spent the entire walk thinking up what feels like a thousand different ways to play it off — jokes, sarcasm, pretending you were talking to the cashier instead of him. They’re all stupid, all equally unlikely to work on Lando. Maybe the best option is to cancel tonight in favor of lying facedown on your carpet and never moving again. 

The elevator doors ding and slide open. You step off, turn the corner down your apartment hallway, and there’s Lando’s standing on your doorstep. 

For a minute, you think it’s a hallucination, because he can’t actually be in your hallway. He lives on the other side of Monaco, practically, and there’s always traffic. You stare at him, taking in the ruddy cheeks, the way the sweat beads at his temples, how he’s still trying to catch his breath.

He ran here, you realize, heart thudding wildly in your chest. He ran. 

The silence is terrifying, stretching between the two of you like a chasm. Then:

“Did you mean it?” he asks, voice hoarse. 

“You’re supposed to be in a meeting,” you blurt, eyes wide. 

“Fuck the meeting,” he rasps, gaze trained on you. “Did you mean it?”

You have an out, now. You could lie, say it was unthinking, a force of habit from calling your mother, your friends. You could stay where you are, with those three little words rattling around your head every second of every day, and pretend it doesn’t kill you to hold them back now that you know what it feels like on your tongue. 

Or you could tell the truth, and take the chance that you’ll lose something, because there’s a possibility you could get everything. 

You look at the wild-eyed boy in front of you, who ran across Monaco just to see your face, and you already have your answer. 

“Yeah,” you say, voice small and heart in your throat. “Yeah, I meant it.”

He closes the distance between you in two steps, cups your cheeks in his hands, and smashes his lips to yours. It’s desperate, wild — your teeth knock together, and when you gasp against his mouth, he slides his tongue against yours in a way that makes your knees buckle. You pull him closer, closer, hands fisting into his shirt like he might disappear if you let go. 

“I love you too,” he gasps when you finally break apart, like it’s paining him to hold the words back. “Fuck. Been wanting to tell you for weeks, but I didn’t want to freak you out.”

You laugh wetly, forehead pressed against his. “I love you,” you say, and his whole face cracks into a smile so bright it’s like you’re looking at the sun. 

“Say it again,” he breathes. The look on his face is so obvious, all soft and awestruck. You wonder, distantly how you ever thought he didn’t feel the same.

“I love you,” you repeat, every syllable deliberate, and his arms wrap around you so fiercely it knocks the air out of your lungs. You yelp as he lifts you off your feet, laughing against his neck, your legs kicking uselessly for a second before you just give up and cling to him instead. He carries you to your door like that, arms steady and warm around you, and for one dizzying moment you think you could stay like this — weightless and safe and stupidly, overwhelmingly in love — forever. 

Maybe it was never supposed to be serious. But when he hugs you from behind while you stir the pasta, whispering I love you into your ear for the hundredth time that night like a promise he intends to keep, you seriously don’t think you’ll ever get tired of hearing it.