#it will burn his system circuits!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

keferon · 6 months ago

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Chapter 3 of Blurr’s storyline in Mecha AU!

Previous chapter

“Speaking of Mechs.” continues Blurr, ”That thing's evacuation system sucks. What if you were stunned by the fall? What if something short-circuits and starts a fire???”

Swindle just clenches the glass in his hands. Feels the cold moisture of condensation dripping down onto his fingers.

“Then I'd burn.” he doesn't say

Under the cut⤵️

——————————————————

It's Swindle's birthday.

He thinks it is.

He's pretty sure.

Since he was taken into the program, it's always hard to tell. It's like time flows differently here. He had a calendar, but Brawl put it somewhere a while ago and then forgot where it was. And they're not allowed to have phones yet. Though Swindle assumes Onslaught managed to steal one from someone anyway.

Shit. Where's the calendar?

Swindle remembers the date, but can't remember the month.

There's a strange static tingling sensation in the back of his head. If he turns his head too fast, it'll grow into an unpleasant pricking pain.

The last time in the lab was disgusting.

He can't remember what month it is. He's not even sure why it bothers him so much. Not that birthdays mean anything within the walls of the program.

He stops in the middle of the living room and looks around with a meticulous eye. He's already checked the beds, desk, and nightstands...hah.

“Hey have any of you seen my calendar?”

Vortex, sitting on top of the bunk bed shakes the ash off his cigarette right down into Blast Off's lap.

“Nope.”

“TEX YOU'RE LITTERING ON MY BED.”

“I could have ..torn it up” offers Brawl from across the room.

Swindle turns on his heels and angrily rests his arms at his sides.

“You tore it?”

“I might have,” Brawl scratches the back of his head.

Swindle pinches the bridge of his nose

That's fine. Not that he cares that much. Not that any celebration at all would save the crappy day.

He has some new “experimental” medical procedure scheduled for later, which generally means suffering. Or if he's lucky, some critter will attack the city and instead of squirming on the slab, he'll have to go cuddle with huge nasty beasts. Which is slightly better than the actual procedures. He'd like that to happen. If only his head would also stop buzzing....

“Happy birthday to me” Swindle thinks, sticking his Mech hand under the plates of a particularly ugly monster and pulling something disgustingly oozing green blood out of there. He can see the faces of the random gawkers who didn't have time to evacuate. Ooh, some of them got that nasty stuff on their faces. Swindle has no time to feel sorry for them.

The monster did attack, but it's entirely possible that this monster ended the last meager supply of luck Swindle had. Because somewhere. Something. In his head begins to hurt again and the world in front of his eyes begins to slowly blur and..

ahh FUCK….

The monster grabs him knocks him to the ground and Swindle can literally feel in his bones that something's wrong, but the data from his Mech doesn't give him any useful information. Which isn't that uncommon. These things are glitchy as hell and aren't designed to recognize anything but the most basic popular malfunctions.

The word “error” shines mockingly in his face. Blurring in his eyes and reflecting in red on his uniform.

Error, error, what the hell is this error. He needs to know what's wrong so he doesn't accidentally kill himself, but all this bucket offers him is oops. You're in trouble teeheee~

He can hear the sound of Blast Off's giant cannon in the distance. And the loud rumble where Vortex and Onslaught are trying to get out of the ring of monsters.

His Mech is unresponsive. His damn machine refuses to move and Swindle isn't quite sure if it's the Mech that's the problem, because his head feels like a piece of raw rotten meat and maybe the error meant that what's broken is him.

The monster leans over him, trying to rip off whatever it can rip off and thank god this thing apparently isn't smart enough to realize that the Mech is controlled from the head because it's aiming straight for his chest.

He needs to get out. If he can't get this thing to move, he needs to get the fuck out of it before the alien gets him.

He manages to open the emergency hatch and quietly slip out and ohhhh the world is spinning, this is not bloody good.

He manages to take a few steps before a loud B A N G comes from somewhere above and IS THAT A TRAIN???? Who in their right mind would think of using a fucking train as a throwing weapon???? Is that Brawl? It's got to be Brawl. Oh, Swindle is so gonna kill him.

Because (sadly) in addition to the monster, the train and Swindle, there's also physics involved in this circus.

So while the monster is effectively brought to rest and knocked sideways with a hole in it’s head, the train stops its forward motion and starts its downward motion.

Right onto Swindle's head.

He just has time to think that dying from a train falling out of the sky is a pretty creative death. His legs are shaking, his head is buzzing and he only manages to take half a sluggish step in an attempt to avoid the inevitable when a loud “MOVE” comes to his ears and something yanks him to the side.

The tug sends fire down his spine and head. The ensuing landing reverberates with pain in his shoulder and sides. He barely has time to process the first two sensations until a moment later he hears a rumble so deafening that he thinks his eardrums are about to burst.

Swindle props himself up on his elbows and hisses in pain as the movement causes the back of his head to sting.

“Ah I'll fuckin' kill him...”

A voice comes above him

“Ouw dude. You okay?”

There's.. Some teenager hovering over him. And behind him is lying...the wrecked train...right where Swindle himself was standing a second ago.

The strange teen frowns worriedly and pulls Swindle upright and drags him somewhere else

“Come on, it's best not to be in the open during monster attacks”

“Ah” thinks Swindle ”right. Without Mech you're a pathetic tiny piece of chop begging to be stomped on by Brawl.”

He tries to focus on balance so he doesn't hang too much on this kid.

They find the nearest unlocked door, which turns out to be the entrance to an underground bar.

“So” says the stranger, letting go of Swindle and shaking the dust off his hair ” You're a pilot! That's so cool, but you're kinda small for a pilot.”

Swindle sighs sullenly.

“I'll let you have that one comment about my height because you helped me, but next time you're dead.”

“Helped? I saved your ass.”

“Helped a lot” says Swindle grudgingly. “Thanks.”

The teen laughs and climbs into the bar. It's a mess everywhere, people clearly evacuated in a hurry and threw everything in haste.

“What's your name? Oh, or, wait. Do you guys use code names? I've heard pilots call each other by call signs, but half the time those call signs sound so dumb, I don't see how they can respond to that.”

He waits for the kid to cut off his flow of words to take a breath. Man, what a chatty boy.

“You can call me Swindle.”

“Kay” the kid pulls out a couple glasses ”I'm Blurr. Would you like something Swindle? I don't mean to brag, but I'm pretty good at mixing cocktails.”

Swindle looks around the room suspiciously. The bar, even though it's underground, looks pretty good. Too good, in fact. The place is clearly not for the poor.

He walks over to the bar and climbs onto a bar stool. There's no one else in here but them, but the electricity is on so he doesn't doubt for a second that they're being filmed by a security camera right now. Maybe a few even.

Blurr throws him an expectant look.

Swindle pretends to go through his pockets. As if there could be money in them out of nowhere. Then he makes a comically confused face and spreads his hands.

“Oh, no, I think I left my millions at home. What's the cheapest thing you have?”

Blurr snorts.

“Ice is free.”

“I'll take the ice then” nods Swindle.

There is a loud rumbling sound above them. It must be Vortex having fun again bouncing on the aliens that have fallen to the ground, crushing their heads.

Swindle is just. He takes off his helmet, takes a glass of ice and presses it to his head enjoying the way the nasty buzzing recedes.

Blurr waits for the rumbling to recede before speaking again.

“But really. You're a pilot but...uh. Are you even old enough to drink?”

Swindle sends him his best grumpy look. It's not exactly a joke about his height, but it's damn close.

“Are you old enough to pour?”

“Sure,” says Blurr too fast for it to be true. If Swindle had to guess, he'd say the guy in front of him is no older than seventeen. The tattered jeans and the T-shirt with the F1 logo printed on it definitely don't help. And, hey, those headphones look very expensive. So do the sneakers. Kid's clearly from a wealthy family.

Blurr pulls out a bottle of syrup from somewhere and pours it straight into his mouth. Doesn't miss, which is amusing. Doesn't wince, which is frankly impressive. Swindle feels the unbearable sweetness just looking at him.

It suddenly hits him

“Hey, do you have a phone?”

“Sure,” Blurr pours himself more syrup. Swindle twitches.

“What's the day today?”

Blurr's mouth is full of an unimaginable amount of sugar, so he just pulls out his phone and turns its screen toward Swindle and oh...oh. He was wrong about the date. And the month, too. It's not his birthday. His birthday was a week ago...

Does that mean he must be nineteen now? Yeah, that makes him nineteen.

Blurr takes the phone back and slips it into his pocket.

“Your face looks funny.”

“I just realized it's my birthday today,” smiles Swindle.

“Oooooooohh~~~” rejoices Blurr ”Congratulations! It's kind of poetic that you almost died just today. Can you imagine how funny the numbers on your tombstone would have looked.”

Swindle chokes on air.

“That's certainly a very appropriate comment, thank you...”

“Sorry haha said without thinking.” Blurr reaches under the counter again and pulls out a bottle from there “Hey, they have more syrups!”

There's another loud rumble from upstairs.

Blurr presses his head into his shoulders and stares up at the ceiling as if hoping to see something through it.

Swindle puts his elbows and head on the tabletop

“Don't worry, it's just Brawl.”

Blurr doesn't take his eyes off the ceiling

“ You can tell that by the sound of falling concrete?”

Swindle lazily dangles his feet. The chair is high and even the toes of his shoes don't reach the floor.

“Brawl is the loudest. And the heaviest, too. He's always crashing into everything, throwing things and breaking things too. You can hear him a mile away.”

He pauses to listen

“And that kch-ooooooooomm is Blast Off's cannon. It's some super rare experimentally advanced one, so it sounds like something out of a space movie. He couldn't stop bragging about it for half a year when he got it.”

Blurr chuckles and leans his elbows on the counter, relaxing.

“ And this...uh...what's this?”

“That's Vortex, he's our local lunatic. Best not to listen too much to what he does, it's almost always disgusting in ways you would never even consider.”

Blurr makes a disgruntled face and is silent for a couple minutes.

“It's weird hearing you call them by their names. I mean, I kind of always knew Mechs were run by people but you guys are never seen, so most of the time it's just.. Huge robots and huge monsters. You know what I mean. I was actually surprised when I saw you get out of that Mech.”

Swindle just nods. Because, what else is there to add.

“Speaking of Mechs.” continues Blurr, ”That thing's evacuation system sucks. What if you were stunned by the fall? What if something short-circuits and starts a fire???”.

Swindle just clenches the glass in his hands. Feels the cold moisture of condensation dripping down onto his fingers

“Then I'd burn.” he doesn't say

Blurr doesn't seem to notice his glum mood

“Oh, hey. If it's no secret, why did you go into piloting in the first place?”

Because he had no choice? He can't answer that, that information isn't for civilians.

Because he didn't know what he was getting into until it was too late? That's not vague enough either.

Because he was up to his neck in debt and barely into college before a smiling man showed up on his doorstep and offered him good money if he agreed to a couple tests...?

“I had to do it for the people.” Swindle decides to repeat a line of propaganda.

“Ohhhh.... That's...a good reason. The monsters are disgusting, of course. But the reason is cool.”

Swindle just. Holds his glass of melting ice, listens to Blurr's mutterings, and enjoys the peace. This random teenager is not his superior or colleague and has nothing to do with the organization at all. Swindle doesn't have to remember to salute or follow orders or fear being reported to his superiors.

He can just. Be.

Just him and his free ice and his saved for free life.

That's. Sweet.

Blurr's drinking syrup again.

...and a little disgusting.

—————————-

Brawl jumps out of bed, hits his head on a shelf hanging on the wall and drops everything on it onto Blast Off's head

“Swindle!!!” yells Brawl.

“Why are these books sticky???” shrieks Blast Off.

“You don't wanna know~” giggles Vortex.

Swindle sighs.

“You're alive!!!” ignores Blast Off Brawl's complaints. And a second later runs up and pulls Swindle off the floor in a crushing bear hug.

Behind them, Blast Off, with his face wrinkled in disgust, gathers all the dropped books back onto the shelf.

Swindle wheezes pathetically and slaps Brawl's arm with his palm, either to reciprocate the gesture or to beg for mercy

“Br...khaaaaah...Brawl I can't breathh.”

“OH. I'm uh. Here. Wait.”

Brawl puts him back on the floor and runs back to the shelf.

Onslaught, who has peeked into the room, puts a hand on Swindle's shoulder

“You've been gone a long time. Boss said you tried to escape.”

His tone isn't judgmental. And not pressuring. Not even questioning, but Swindle knows Onslaught wants more information. Swindle clutches a piece of napkin with a phone number in his pocket and smiles weakly.

“I've found a...friend? I think?”

Onslaught nods. In a manner that only he knows how to do. Not giving an opinion, not encouraging or condemning. Just taking in the information. Swindle admires him for that.

Behind them, Brawl pulls some piece of paper out from under the books that have just been put away and drops them again

“FUCK!” yells Blast Off. Vortex just starts hooting like a hyena.

“Hey Swindle I found the calendar!” yells Brawl waving the paper.

Swindle frowns in surprise.

“It's a different calendar...”

“I found you a new one.” nods Brawl.

“...Why...is it...it's torn in half?”

“It had stupid flowers drawn on it, so I ripped them off. And I accidentally ripped off more than I needed.”

“Ah,” says Swindle, clutching the calendar, ”That's...Thanks. I forgive you for losing the previous one.”

Behind them, Blast Off is trying to strangle Vortex with a jacket.

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

Blurr waves his arms happily like a hyperactive windmill.

“Swindle!!!”

Swindle smiles and adjusts his glasses

“Your party can be seen from across city.”

“I know~~” primps Blurr “Are you hungry? There was a snack table around here somewhere.”

“I didn't bring any money.” lies Swindle.

“Hey man, it's a party. Help yourself, it's free.”

“Оh.” Swindle's mood instantly brightens. “All right, then.”

“You look terrible” Blurr decides to share.

Swindle, busy shoveling food into his pockets, nods.

“I've had a rough week. Actually, it'd be cool if you didn't tell anyone you saw me here. I'm kind of not supposed to be here.”

He doesn't elaborate.

Blurr is a civilian. In his mind, a rough week is rude people or an exam or bad weather. Swindle's bad week is strap marks on his wrists and double vision. It's nausea from injections and sleepless nights because Vortex won't stop screaming in his sleep.

Blurr doesn't know that. With him, Swindle can pretend to be somewhat normal.

-----------

“Heeeeey“ says Blurr ‘I haven't seen you in a long time~"

“That” thinks Swindle ”is a pretty standard phrase for both of them.

Blurr looks older. Taller too. He was taller than Swindle before, but now that difference is starting to look almost comical. He's also flaunting a cast on his arm.

“Did you get hurt?”

“Didn't make a turn at training” waves Blurr off “It's no big deal. Wanna go find something to eat?”

Blurr is always trying to feed him, Swindle notices over time. Offers him drinks or snacks or whatever.

“ I like your uh..cap?”

“I got a promotion” Swindle smiles proudly “Me and the guys were made a special group...actually you're not allowed to know more than that, so you'll have to take my word for it when I say we are officially cool.”

He purposely adjusts his cap by the brim so Blurr can get a good look at it.

Blurr makes a delighted sound. Something between a “wow” and a giggle. He generally makes a lot of sounds all the time. Tapping his fingers on every hard surface, stomping in place like he's always late for something, laughing, whistling, clicking his tongue. A human orchestra.

__________

Onslaught sits down next to Swindle and clutches his hands in his lap in front of him. This makes the bed legs squeak pitifully. Onslaught has grown surprisingly large. He can almost rival Brawl in height already. Most people find that intimidating, but Swindle just thinks Onslaught is like a wall. A big, solid concrete wall that's so good to hide behind.

“Be careful with what you tell this guy.”

“Don't worry” says Swindle ”He's not the type of friend you tell secrets to. He's just a fun dude who's great to hang out with.”

Onslaught hums.

“And who feeds you for free.”

“If that's how you're trying to ask me to share, you're not doing a very good job.”

Vortex snaps his fingers as he walks past them

“Hey Swindler, the lab is closed for today. It's your day off.”

“Wha...”

Onslaught tilts his head.

“Vortex. What did you do?”

“I spat in their dna sample vault” proudly proclaims Vortex “and didn't tell them exactly where.”

-----———————-

Blurr frowns.

“Hey...are you okay?”

“No” thinks Swindle.

“My friend died” he says instead.

He's not okay. He feels like an animal caught in a beartrap, trying to chew off its own paw to get free.

Except the trap is closed around Swindle's head and it's not a body part he can afford to lose.

There's been a lot of talk. Even more rumors. Swindle listened but tried not to believe.

And then one of pilots, Shockwave… was taken to the lab and brought back a different damn man and it felt like Swindle had the rug pulled out from under his feet with hot coals underneath.

Because Swindle's boss, with his stupid, rehearsed smile, started writing reports about how “human personality flaws are something that can be fixed. That challenging behavior is something that can be repaired with tools.

Blurr freezes.

“Who?”

“Vortex.”

Because of course it's Vortex. Talented but difficult to handle. Powerful but uncontrollable.

They wanted a pilot who would be a beast on the battlefield and a loyal dog on base. And who else would be a more ideal test subject than him?

Vortex was being very rude that day, even by Vortex standards. Yelling and swearing and throwing things around. Kept saying that no shitty lab could make him “a fucking puppet.”

Scratching the stitches on his head until he started leaving a trail of blood behind him.

He went on a mission.

And never came back.

The reports said it was all the monsters' fault. That Vortex was unstable. That the accident had nothing to do with the new technology. But it was nevertheless suspended.

Swindle is both bitter and amused by this. Vortex would eat the same monsters for breakfast any other day. The bastard was unkillable.

“Oh my god” says Blurr “I'm so sorry to hear that.”

He says something else. Probably comforting. About how Vortex died protecting people, maybe. About Vortex being a hero.

“Vortex,” thinks Swindle, ”loved life. He loved adrenaline and danger and pain and thrill and fear, but he never wanted to die. They did something to him. Something that made him go over the edge.”

Vortex got his head in the trap and ripped it off to escape it.

Swindle knows him and the others are next. And knows that no one but themselves can help them.

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

Blast Off seems...very quiet. He could never stop complaining about Vortex before. Yelling about the garbage. Resenting the unmade bed and the cigarette ashes.

Vortex's bed remains unmade.

Blast Off regularly cleans everything up, but never wipes away the little circles of ash from the places where Vortex used to put out cigarettes on the furniture.

Onslaught puts his hand on Swindle's shoulder and squeezes. Not hard. Just enough for Swindle to register the gesture as important.

Standing nearby, Blast Off lights a cigarette and leans on Onslaught.

“Ons told me about your plan. I want to join in.”

“What kind of plan? Can I get involved?” inquires Brawl.

Onslaught sighs.

“Repeat after me - I don't know, they don't tell me anything.”

“I don't know, they don't tell me anything.”

“Good job” nods Onslaught “From now on, every time they ask you any - listen. Any! Question about us, you will answer them with this phrase.”

“Got it,” grins Brawl.

Swindle smiles.

“Gentlemen, it's time to violate all that is written, and rewrite all that is violated.”

__________________

Blurr lazily takes his eyes off the phone. He's wearing a racing suit and tons of hairspray. He's shiny and gleaming like a fine collectible figurine that should be on the shelf of an expensive exhibit. He's also bored.

“Sorry buddy, the interview is long over, if you have any questions you'll have to pay for the session.”

Swindle smiles.

“How about one tiny little question?”

Blurr makes funny big eyes.

“SWINDLE!!! I haven't seen you in a thousand years! You...oh I didn't recognize you haha sorry. Nice coat. You quit being a pilot?”

Swindle proudly adjusts his glasses. He's wearing a brand-new, ironed shirt that's exactly his size. Nice neat tie, expensive coat. Swindle isn't surprised Blurr didn't recognize him immediately. Sometimes he looks in the mirror and doesn't recognize himself. After all those years of wearing the pilot's uniform, he felt almost attached to it. And yet here he is.

“You could say I moved.” he winks snarkily, “Up. All the Mechs you see on the streets now are my Mechs~”

Blurr completely forgets about his phone.

“REALLY?? Oh man congrats to you!”

“Thanks” nods Swindle ”You want something to drink? I'm buying.”

———————-

Onslaught adjusts his tie. It's still, years later, a little strange to see him in a uniform instead of a pilot's suit.

“You do realize it's going to be hard to find a person like that, right? We need someone famous enough to be effective and dumb enough to want to save mankind instead of sunbathing on a yacht.”

Swindle adjusts his glasses and leans back in his chair.

Someone outgoing so they can quickly befriend all the right people. Handsome enough to have their face printed on a poster. Smart just enough not to say too much. And not associated with Mecha program so they can't be accused of trying to get promoted through their acquaintances.

Someone who already has everything but still willing to put themselves at risk for the cause.

“You know, I think I have a possible candidate.”

#maccadam #tf mecha universe #mecha writing #mecha kef writing #mecha bs writing #mecha cbc writing #Blurr #Swindle #Onslaught #Vortex #Brawl #Blast Off #this one is kinda Swindle centric #I just wanted to give more context for his friendship with Blurr:)#Also some Vortex lore

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kxsagi · 2 months ago

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Can you please make a hc of blue lock 11 with a reader who is an exchange student and their family is basically a host for the 3 years of readers school? Omg I wonder how'd they'll deal with that🫣🫣

“𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰��𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨”

a/n: some might be out of character/not canon and i apologize 😓

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, nagi seishiro, otoya eita, yukimiya kenyu, karasu tabito, bachira meguru, chigiri hyoma, niko ikki, gagamaru gin, mikage reo, hiori yo, barou shoei

isagi yoichi

the moment you arrive, isagi’s mom greets you like you’re her long-lost child. full-on apron, cookies, and “sweetheart, are you hungry?”

isagi tries to play it cool but nearly knocks over a vase when you smile and say his name with your accent.

you quickly become the golden child of the household. his parents adore you. they’re always like “why can’t you be more like her?”

he’s so stressed.

you help him study for school and he helps you with japanese, except half the time you catch him staring at your mouth when you pronounce things wrong.

one night you’re wearing pajama shorts and brushing your teeth, and he walks past the bathroom, sees your legs, and promptly runs into the wall.

tries to hide his feelings until his mom says, “you know, you’d make a cute couple,” and he short-circuits on the spot.

his little cousin saw you two giggling and drew a picture labeled “isagi’s wife.” he’s still recovering.

itoshi rin

rin’s family? normal. rin? not emotionally equipped for this.

when you show up, he avoids eye contact and just mutters “room’s down the hall.”

his older brother sae walks by, raises a brow, and just goes “... good luck.”

rin has a system. a routine. a silent household. then you walk in with your foreign snacks and your cheery little “good morning!” and it’s all downhill.

you catch him watching you dance around while making eggs. he denies it to this day.

he keeps buying your favorite snacks “just because they were on sale,” but they never are.

his mom loves you. invites you to help cook. rin accidentally says “thank you” to you instead of her and chokes on his rice.

one day you fall asleep on the couch with your head on his shoulder. he doesn’t move for three hours. not even to use the bathroom.

nagi seishiro

you move in and within the first hour he’s like “can i nap in your room?”

his mom is an absolute saint. she keeps asking if you’re comfortable and if nagi is being too lazy (he is).

nagi gets attached too fast. follows you around the house like a sleepy cat.

you teach him slang from your country and he starts using it in the most inappropriate situations.

like “yo that’s fire” about a math test.

he accidentally sees you in a face mask one night and thinks you’re a ghost. goes into cardiac arrest. wakes up his mom.

he gets a little jealous when you get friendly with some neighborhood boys and mumbles “don’t like that” under his breath.

tries to impress you by scoring goals at the park. ends up tripping on the ball and says it’s your fault for watching him.

otoya eita

the moment you show up, he leans on the doorframe with a smirk and says, “i didn’t know foreign girls were this cute.”

his mom adores you. his sister adores you. his grandma’s ready to knit you a sweater.

otoya? in hell.

flirts with you constantly, but you’re unfazed, and it drives him nuts.

you steal his hair ties and his hoodie once, and he lays face down on the floor for ten minutes.

makes you breakfast once, shirtless, like it’s a romcom. burns the toast. still acts like it was seductive.

one day you walk in wearing his oversized hoodie and he just deadass says “i’m gonna marry you.”

accidentally says “babe” instead of your name. pretends it was a joke. it was not.

yukimiya kenyu

this man’s family has taste. they have scented candles. fancy dinner. classical music at breakfast.

yukimiya greets you like a prince: “welcome to our home. i hope you’ll be comfortable.”

you trip on the rug and he catches you bridal-style. moment one.

his mom invites you to spa nights. his dad debates art with you. he teaches you skincare routines with extreme intensity.

once you walked into the kitchen in an old t-shirt and his jaw dropped like you were on a runway.

you catch him posing in the mirror and he’s like “it’s for my mental clarity.”

gets flustered when you compliment him. “you look good today.” visible lag in system.

literally gets pouty when you don't notice his new cologne. he 100% wears it for you.

karasu tabito

his mom welcomes you with open arms and a giant plate of food.

his dad is chill. and karasu? chaotic big brother mode activated.

teases you constantly: your accent, your height, your choice in cereal – nothing is safe.

but threatens to fight a guy in your class when he hears someone called you “foreign girl” like it’s an insult.

his mom starts calling you her “bonus daughter.” karasu tells everyone you're the "family's favorite now."

has a secret soft spot for when you say his name gently. tries not to show it.

once you fell asleep on his shoulder and he pretended to be annoyed but didn’t move for two hours.

brags to everyone at school that you live with him. “yeah, she’s kinda obsessed with me.” he gets kicked for that.

bachira meguru

bachira’s house is a vibe. weird posters, odd trinkets, and like, randomly hanging up abstract art that only he can explain.

he greets you with a high-energy “LET'S GO! YOU’RE HERE! LET’S PARTY!” and immediately drags you to play soccer in the yard.

his mom’s just as chill as he is. she hands you a plate of food like she’s been waiting for you to get hungry.

bachira’s motto: “let’s make the weirdest memories!”

at 2 AM, he convinces you to help him paint his nails. it’s a disaster.

you catch him mimicking your accent to “improve his language skills,” and it’s honestly more terrifying than cute.

he constantly sneaks in unnecessary touches. he’s like “nah, i was just trying to help you out” when he’s accidentally on your lap.

tries to cook for you once. it’s a mess. he hands you a bowl of noodles he made, and the noodles are like… stuck together. “it’s art, okay?”

one day you fall asleep on the couch with your head on his shoulder, and he lowkey takes a picture to show off to his friends.

chigiri hyoma

chigiri’s family is super chill. dad’s got a fancy job, mom’s super organized, and his older sister follows you around, asking way too many questions.

you’re immediately like “wow, this is classy” but then chigiri starts making weird noises to entertain his sister, and you’re like, okay, this is not what i expected.

chigiri gets flustered every time you compliment him. “stop, i can’t concentrate,” he says as you casually mention he’s good at soccer.

one time you’re just chilling in the living room, and he walks by in a t-shirt and sweatpants and he’s suddenly the most attractive person you’ve ever seen.

he denies he’s into you, but when you’re both playing video games together, he gets a little too competitive and ends up sitting way too close to you on the couch.

he lets you borrow his hoodie. you almost faint because it smells like him. tragic.

at a family dinner, he tries to be the perfect son but you catch him sneaking a french fry from your plate. “hey, don’t judge me, i’m hungry.”

lowkey panics when his mom calls you “her new daughter.” he’s like, “no no, she’s just staying for three years. not like that…”

niko ikki

niko’s house is quiet. like… eerily quiet. the kind of quiet where you feel bad walking too loudly on the hardwood floors.

his parents are polite but very hands-off. they give you space, and niko follows suit, but not out of rudeness. that’s just how he is.

when you arrive, niko gives you a curt nod and simply says, “welcome.” that’s it. no wild greetings, no over-the-top gestures. and honestly? it’s kind of comforting.

the guest room is perfectly tidy. stocked with extra pillows, a reading lamp, and a little sticky note on the desk that just says: “make yourself comfortable. – niko.”

niko doesn’t hover, but you’ll catch him glancing over his manga when you walk into the room, like he’s curious but too shy to say anything.

sometimes you’ll sit next to him while he plays handheld games and he won’t say a word, but he won’t leave either.

the first time you compliment his gameplay or mention you like anime too, he literally stiffens. straightens back. pauses game. “… really?”

he starts recommending titles to you through sticky notes, or leaving them conveniently open on the coffee table.

eventually, he starts talking more, quietly, but warmly. about small things, like how to use the rice cooker, or what time the house gets loud because the neighbors vacuum daily.

one night, you wake up to find him in the living room watching anime with headphones. he sees you and takes them off. “you can join me, if you want.”

his affection isn’t loud, but he’ll wait for you after school, cook extra rice, and walk on the side of the sidewalk closest to traffic. he doesn’t say why. he just does.

and his parents? after three months, they start treating you like you’re part of the family – quiet dinners, warm nods, and the occasional “we’re glad you’re here.”

gagamaru gin

gagamaru’s family is straight-up chaotic. it’s loud, even though his parents are extremely chill, and the house is filled with weird art projects and half-finished DIY projects.

you immediately hit it off with his mom, who teaches you all the “good gossip” about gagamaru’s childhood.

gagamaru acts tough, but once you get to know him, he’s a big teddy bear. he tries to act like a “cool older brother,” but ends up giving you some really questionable advice.

once you hear a weird noise at night and go investigate. you find gagamaru trying to “reorganize” the kitchen… at 2 AM.

he insists on helping you with everything, but his idea of “help” is just him eating your food and giving you compliments.

random gagamaru fact: he 100% still wears his childhood pajamas when he’s at home.

you once get into a heated argument about whose snack is better, and he’s so passionate about it that he throws a bag of chips at the wall.

his family starts asking you if you’re sure you don’t want to marry him. “he’s a good catch.” gagamaru chokes on his drink.

honestly? probably the most fun house to live in because nothing is ever boring.

mikage reo

reo’s family is fancy, and by fancy, i mean the type of fancy where everything looks perfectly polished, the plates are fine china, and everything is “just so.”

his parents immediately recognize you as a special guest. they treat you like royalty, which is both flattering and terrifying.

reo is a softy for you, even though he tries to play it off. “i’m just being polite,” he’ll say, but he’s literally making your favorite drink every morning.

you walk into his room once, and it’s like… the room of a true rich kid – velvet sheets, a bookshelf full of books on money, and his perfectly organized clothes.

reo’s mom gives you a quick rundown of their house rules, and one of them is that “reo never finishes his dinner.” reo gets very flustered when you finish his portion.

he buys you a cute necklace and tries to play it off like it’s nothing. you thank him and now his entire family is like “oh, they’re totally dating now.”

tries to style your hair once and it ends in an absolute disaster. both of you end up laughing, and his parents are watching the whole thing.

hiori yo

you could tell the moment you entered hiori’s home: it was beautiful, polished… and a little too perfect.

his parents greet you with smiles that don’t quite reach their eyes. “we expect greatness from those who live under this roof,” his father says.

hiori’s standing behind them, quiet. unreadable. he nods at you gently, then helps you carry your bags inside.

your room is pristine. everything feels like it belongs in a catalog. hiori knocks on your door before you can even unpack. “if you need anything… just let me know.”

you slowly learn that hiori’s the kind of person who notices everything: you like warm tea in the morning? he’ll make some before you’re up. you study better with music? he shares his playlist.

his parents are polite, but distant. hiori rarely speaks to them at meals, and when he does, it’s measured. practiced. but with you? he’s quieter, but real.

you catch him reading on the balcony after practice, hair still wet, eyes far away. “you ever feel like your life’s not really yours?” he asks one evening.

when you’re cooking together (because he’s really good at it, to your surprise), he opens up a little more. “i used to think being the best was all i had to offer,” he says, “but lately… i think there’s more.”

he teaches you things without making you feel dumb. soccer, math, even how to tie a scarf properly. he’s got this wise, old-soul energy that makes you feel calm around him.

over time, he starts laughing more. soft, rare laughs that make your heart flip. and he starts walking into your room without knocking, only when he’s sure you’re alone, though.

his parents start commenting on how much happier he seems. his mother pulls you aside once and says, “thank you for being here. it’s… different now.”

and hiori? he thanks you in his own way, through gestures, little notes left on your notebook, the way he waits up when you’re late, and the way he listens. really listens.

“you make this house feel like a home,” he says one night. then looks away, ears pink. “... just thought you should know.”

barou shoei

barou’s family is no-nonsense, and he’s the golden child, which means you are immediately in the spotlight.

his mom does not play when it comes to manners. “you better treat her well, sho.” barou literally turns into a different person when his mom’s around.

you catch him randomly flexing in the mirror and get awkwardly complimented about his “perfect physique.”

one time, you definitely tease him about being a king, and he just glares, but then in a lowkey way starts acting like he’s your personal bodyguard.

you think barou is cocky, but the second you show up wearing his team jersey (just to try it on), his entire mood changes.

barou’s mom loves you. barou? not so much when she starts asking you about your future together.

every time barou tries to “show off” in front of you, he ends up doing something embarrassing, like tripping over his own feet.

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munsonsmixtapes · 1 month ago

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Make it Steamy

Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!reader

A weekend at a cabin with your best friend, Simon makes the both you decide to take your friendship to the next level.

cw: MDNI (18+) fingering, oral (f receiving)

You let out a sigh of relief when you enter the cabin you’re going to be sharing with Simon. He brushes past you as he comes in behind you, holding your suitcases that he insisted on carrying. Tension between the two of you was high the entire car ride and you’re wondering if being here alone will finally cause everything to crack and you wonder who will be the first to break.

You’re sure it’s probably going to be you. You’ve been feeling this way about Simon for so long and you think this is going to be the weekend where you finally make a move. You wonder if he feels it too. You see the looks he gives when he thinks you’re not looking. His hand was on your thigh the entire way up here so that has to mean something, right?

While he sets your bags in your rooms, you decide to take yourself on a tour, checking the place out. Simon booked the reservation and wouldn’t tell you anything so it’s all a surprise. Considering how spacious and nicely decorated the whole thing is, you just know that it had to cost a pretty penny even though it’s not very big.

You make your way through the kitchen where there’s a sliding glass door that leads out onto a deck. Your eyes see nothing but the giant hot tub and you let out a sigh at how good that would feel on your aching muscles. Your job has been stressing you out and you can literally feel the knots in your shoulders.

And you can’t help but let your mind wander, letting yourself think about Simon joining you in the hot tub, straddling his waist and-

“I’ve got some bad news,” he says, pulling you out of your dirty thoughts and you’re so startled that you feel like cold water has just been poured on you.

“What is it?” You ask, turning to face him and he has that face that lets you know that you’re not going to like what he’s going to say.

“There’s only one bed.” You resist the urge to bite your bottom lip, fighting off the smile when you hear those words. You’ve shared a bed more times than you can count so you don’t see why this is any different. He’s been acting weird the entire day and you can’t figure out why.

“So? We share a bed all the time. I missed your snuggles.” Simon normally loves sharing a bed with you. He loves that you let him hold you, but this time, it’s different. Seeing you in that tank top and short shorts is making his brain short circuit and if he’s around you for too long, he’s afraid of what he’s going to do.

He wants to pull you close, to feel every inch of your naked body, to bend you over the counter and-

“Hello, Simon?” You wave your hand in front of his face and he shakes his head, reluctantly bringing himself out of the delicious daydream he’s been having for days. If only he was able to stop thinking with his cock. Then maybe he’d actually be able to be around you and not have to constantly go to the bathroom to adjust himself. He’s debating taking a shower and putting on some loud music so he can jack off to get it out of his system.

“I think I’m gonna get in the hot tub if you want to join,” you tell him as you make your way to the bedroom to change. You don’t have to ask him twice. He makes a beeline for the bedroom and you’re already in the bathroom, surely getting changed. He wonders what little number you’ve packed this time, if you’ll let him take it off of you.

You stand in the mirror, the bright purple bikini looking a lot better on you than it had in the dressing room. You’ll wonder if he’ll like this one, if it will be left floating in the water as you ride him. Part of you wonders if you should just take a cold shower instead to make yourself a less horny mess.

You come out of the bathroom, feeling more confident than ever as Simon’s eyes catch on you, slowly moving over your body and your skin burns under his gaze. He looks like he wants to eat you alive and you think you might let him.

He stands there, frozen and you make your way towards him, batting your eyelashes like you have no idea what you’re doing even though you can clearly see the outline of his cock in his swim trunks.

“How do I look, Simon?” You ask and his mouth goes dry, all the words he’s ever known fleeing from his head. You look so good, so much so that he’s close to bending you over the bed beside you and having his way with you.

“Fuck,” he rasps, his eyes moving down to the tops on your breasts. God, what he would give to be able to reach out and touch them.

“You can touch me,” you tell him, your voice soft as you arch your back ever so slightly. “You can touch me any way you want.” You grab hold of his hands and rest them on your waist, your mind racing with all of the dirty things he could do with just his fingers.

He doesn’t even care that you’re calling the shots-he actually prefers it. He loves being told what to do, knowing that he’d do whatever command fell from your pretty lips. He’s so in love with you, needs you so badly that he’ll do whatever he needs to in order to please you.

He’s hypnotized, feeling dizzy as you stare up at him, his eyes now shifting to your lips that he so desperately wants to know the taste of. But he decides he won’t let himself until you tell him to. He just doesn’t want to overstep, to do something that you don’t want even though you’re looking at his lips too.

“Maybe we should get in,” he gulps, jerking his thumb in the direction of the hot tub and you wordlessly take his hand and lead him that way.

You feel like you’re on a high. You’ve somehow made Simon nervous and you kind of like it, that you were able to completely disarm him with just a few words. You wonder what he’d do if you straddled him in the hot tub, if he would let you fuck him right there. Your mind swirls with all of the possibilities as you both get in, the water bubbling as you sit across from each other.

The tension is palpable and you can’t help but smirk at the fact that he looks like he wants to eat you whole but he’s restraining himself, holding onto the edge of the bench so hard that his knuckles are white.

You don’t even last five minutes before you’re making your way over to him. You straddle his lap, each leg landing on each side of his thighs as you wrap your arms around his neck. His hands hesitantly land on your waist. You stare at each other, both of you thinking about all of the nasty things you want to do to each other but neither of you are willing to make the first move even though you’re staring at each other’s lips again.

“Kiss me,” you whisper and he does as you command, not holding back, pouring out everything he’s feeling for you into this kiss. It’s hungry, and desperate as you both take exactly what you want from each other. It’s teeth clinking and hands in hair, filthy moans.

You can feel hard he is underneath you and you grind against him as a way to tease him. He looks like he’s about to bust and before you can even register what’s happening, he’s carrying you inside, lips still attached as he takes you to the bedroom.

Once inside, he sets you on your feet, his lips moving down to your neck, kissing his way down your body until he’s on his knees. He goes to untie your bikini bottoms, letting them fall to the floor as he brings his fingers up to your cunt, moving them back and forth in a teasing manner and because you just need some relief, you grab hold of his wrist and shove his fingers inside you, moaning loudly at the sensation and Simon swears he’s going to bust right there.

“Fuck,” you whine, when he begins to pump harder and harder, seeing how easily you’re able to come undone just from his fingers. Your fingers dig into his shoulders as you hold onto him for dear life, feeling your legs already turning to jello.

“So tight,” he groans, his fingers moving at an even more rapid rate. “Let me fix that for you.” He keeps going, watching you as he fingers you, eating up your pretty moans and the way your throw your head back because of how good it feels.

He’s hard beyond belief and despite how badly he wants to get inside you, he wants to taste you even more. He wants to watch you writhe as he eats you out, to fuck his face the way he knows you will, you scream with pleasure when you eventually come, his name falling from your lips.

He watches you orgasm, his ego even bigger because all he used was his fingers. You’re so close to falling to the floor so he pulls his fingers out and steadies you, making sure to lick his fingers clean before he does so.

“Can I eat you out?” He asks, and you look down at him, your eyes darkening as you do so. “Please.” He’s begging now and you never thought you’d ever get to see Simon Riley in this position.

“How about it sit on your face?” You ask and he’s on his feet in an instant, throwing himself onto the bed and you join him, kneeling beside him as you take off your bikini top and throw it to the side.

Simon can’t help but stare at your bare chest, your hard nipples, wondering how someone can be so beautiful. He swears that you’re more beautiful than he imagined, the star in all of his late night fantasies. But even those can’t compare to what’s happening now.

You lean over and press your lips to his and he can’t help but think about how natural this feels, how he could kiss you for hours and never get bored. This could be what you do for the rest of the night and he wouldn’t complain.

He’s so in love with you and he wonders how you would respond if he told you the truth. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to sleep with anyone else after tonight, not that he wants to. You’re it for him and he wants to spend the rest of his life with you if you’ll let him.

You pull away before he’s ready then move up by his head, swinging one leg over and before he knows it, you’re sitting on his face and he doesn’t need to be told what to do. He begins at your clit, teasing it with his tongue and just that makes you moan loudly, the sounds almost pornographic and he pulls it into his mouth, giving it a rough suck.

You must like that because you’re riding his face now, the prettiest sounds falling from your mouth as you do so. His hands move your ass, giving it a squeeze which makes you squeal and Simon can’t help but be amused by that. He then begins to knead, desperate for something to do with his hands.

You grab hold of the headboard in front of you, as he bites down on your clit, going at it like a man starved and and you can’t help but think that this is the best head you’ve ever received and don’t think you’d ever let anyone do this after tonight.

Once his mouth moves down to your slit, you already know that you’re going to come again, it’s rapidly approaching and the three words that have been on the tip of your tongue for years are blurted in a breathy confession as you reach yet another orgasm and as soon as the words are out of your mouth, your eyes widen, realizing what you’ve just said.

You’re quick to climb off of him and his expression matches yours, his eyes just as wide as he takes in the words, really letting them sit. The silence is deafening and you’re silently begging, pleading for him to say something.

“I meant what I said,” you’re quick to say, not wanting him to think it was just because of the orgasm he just gave you. Before you can even overthink, he smiles, and matches the way you’re sitting, getting on his knees as well.

“I love you too,” he smiles as a hand reaches up and cradles your face in his hands as he pulls you into a kiss that’s nothing but teeth and giggles because of how happy you both are. “So fucking much.” His swimsuit is off in an instant and he lays you down on the bed, fully intending on showing you just how much.

You stay like that the rest of the weekend, tangled up in the sheets, whispering just how much you love each other between giggles and sharing stories of when you first fell for each other. The weekend is nothing like you anticipated but you can’t say you’re upset with that. This is everything you ever wished for and exactly what you’ve been wanting your entire life. Needless to say you’ve both earned it.

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley cod #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost smut #ghost cod x reader #cod ghost #ghost cod #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley smut #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x fem!reader

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rina-sakai · 16 days ago

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INCEPTIO ఌ︎. 𝗶'𝗺 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝗻 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘆𝗼𝘂

❪ 我有喜欢的人了❫ inceptio. latin. meaning - beginning or start ✉︎ 박성훈 ⌯⌲ 𝗳𝗲𝗺!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

⚬ 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 ⨾ for a better read, i recommend listening to the hidden love soundtrack

⚬ 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘦 ⨾ my first writing on this blog! yes, this is an ultra-slow burn. if you recognize some similarities to hidden love, that is what inspired me. sunghoon is soo~ duan jiaxu coded that i knew i had to write this idea asap! feedback is always appreciated (•̀ᴗ•́)و

⸝⸝ you hadn't meant to fall in love with park sunghoon, your older brother's best friend. but somewhere along the lines of his sweet personality and devastating smile, you did.. and you fell hard.

❝ fluff , angst , skinship ❞ ⨾ my catalogue

the first time you met park sunghoon, you were 14.

you sat on the living room couch, legs tucked under your body, as you absentmindedly sketched into your notebook. you hummed out the soft tune of your favorite song, your head slowly bopping to the memorized rhythm. it was quiet, peaceful even, with your entire family gone for a bit.

until the front door swung open with a loud creak.

your mind barely registered the loud voice that belonged to none other than lee jaemin, or jae as your brother liked to be called. you sighed as you mentally prepared to tune out whatever nonsense he was going to say. but then you heard a voice you didn’t recognize.

“i’m telling you, she’s into me,” jae exclaimed dramatically, tossing his bookbag into one of the dining room chairs. “did you see that look she gave me?”

“i doubt that,” the unfamiliar voice scoffed. “you sat in her seat and knocked her bag onto the the floor.”

you paused, lowering your notebook to the couch cushion, peeking over the armrest to get a better look. you could barely make out his figure as he and jae laughed about something stupid your brother said.

you sighed, letting your head flop down on the armrest.

their voices grew louder as they approached the stairs. you sat up quickly and grabbed your notebook, pretending to write in it.

“there’s my little sister,” jae told the boy. “say hi to my friend, little demon.”

you lifted your head, ready to throw a remark his way, but your voice died as you made eye contact with his friend.

your mind blanked.

he looked beautiful, no.. that was too mild. he looked angelic. his dark hair gently splayed over his forehead, his lips pulled into a small smile, revealing a slight dimple.

“i’m sunghoon.” he raised his hand in a wave.

you nodded stiffly. your 14 year old brain short circuiting.

“don’t be rude little demon, say something back.” jae grumbled, looking at you annoyed.

“shut up, you silly dog,” you scoffed, throwing your pencil at him.

“didn’t i tell you to stop calling me that?” he rubbed his head in the spot where the pencil hit him.

“didn’t i tell you to stop calling me little demon?” you replied back, your eyebrows furrowed in annoyance.

from the corner of your eye, you noticed sunghoon watching the two of you, amused.

jae mumbled something incoherent and turned to sunghoon, “let’s go.”

you watched as sunghoon followed him up the stairs. right before turning the corner, he turned and looked at you, analyzing. then, as if he didn’t, he turned his gaze away and left.

you met park sunghoon for the second time right after you had just failed your algebra test.

you walked in the house, your teachers’ words ringing in your ears as you slid your shoes off.

“yn, tomorrow after school, bring your parents. i need to have a small chat with them.”

you scoffed at the memory, dropping your bag onto the dining room chair. this wasn’t the first time your teacher called for a meeting with your parents.

you can practically hear their disappointment echoing in your head. again? you failed algebra again yn?

from the kitchen, you could hear the sounds of your brother, the game system, and someone else. probably sunghoon.

since your first meeting, he had come over a few times, but you never crossed paths. you were always in your bedroom, studying for the very same algebra test that you had just failed.

it wasn’t your fault, you had tried. but it was like your mind blanked every time tests came around.

you sat down at the dining table, your mind coming up with a million scenarios of how to get out of your parents going to see your teacher.

“i have to go to the bathroom.” you heard your brother’s voice say. his footsteps echoed through the silence of the house now that the game system was off.

more footsteps could be heard, only this time, they were coming towards you.

you looked up, just as sunghoon walked into the kitchen. he gave you a small smile and nod.

he looked just as gorgeous as when you first met him. the sleeves of his white button-up were rolled up to his elbows. his hair slightly messy as if he had been running his hands through it.

then, an idea came.

you slowly turned to him, watching as he moved around the kitchen sink like he belonged here.

“are you busy tomorrow?” you blurted out, your eyes flickering away before they could meet his.

he turned to face you, his eyebrow raising. “why are you asking?”

you graoned, putting your face into your hands. “i need a favor, a really big one.”

that seemed to interest him as he put the cup down on the counter, “like what?”

“i need you to pretend to be my brother.” you mumbled into your hands.

he paused for a moment, “don’t you have a brother?”

you let out a sigh, “i failed my algebra test. again.”

“ah,” he said, his eyes slightly widening, a flicker of sympathy passing through them.

“my teacher wants me to bring my parents. but i lied and said they had to work.” you told him.

you glanced at him to make sure he was still listening. “if i ask jaemin, he’ll just tell our parents.” you added.

“how do you know i won’t tell?” he tilted his head, crossing his arms over his chest.

you paused for a moment, you didn’t know if he would tell or not.

“what time is the meeting?” he added, looking at you.

“i get out of class at 3… so maybe 4?”

he nodded, then stepped closer. he grabbed a random paper off the table and scribbled his number on it.

“my number,” he said. “call me before the meeting and i’ll let you know if i’m free.”

before you could say anything else, jaemin’s loud voice called for sunghoon.

sunghoon gave you one last glance before walking out of the kitchen, leaving you in the silence.

your brain screamed at you for trusting park sunghoon. he was friends with your brother, of course he was just like him.

you groaned in frustration as your call went to voicemail for the fifth time.

it was 3:45 and sunghoon had yet to show his face, let alone call to tell you that he couldn’t make it.

after the sixth call you finally gave up. you stood up from the bench and smoothed your school skirt out, the rocks crunching under your flats.

you sighed in defeat, already preparing another lie for your teacher about why the meeting had to be postponed.

your parents were going to kill you if they found out.

“stupid idiot couldn’t even show his face,” you muttered to yourself, kicking the rocks in your path.

“who’s the stupid idiot?”

you jumped slightly at the voice beside you. there he stood, park sunghoon, in all his infuriating beauty. his bookbag hung lazily over one shoulder, his hands tucked into his pockets.

you looked at him for a moment, a wave of relief (and slight embarrassment) passing through you.

“why didn’t you answer the phone?” you asked, frowning.

he stepped closer, took out his phone and tapped the screen. it was black. “it died on the way here,” without warning, he slipped your bookbag off your shoulders to carry it himself. “let’s go, we’re almost late.”

you didn’t move for a moment, too caught off guard, then your brain finally caught up and you hurried after him.

the meeting went well.. well, as good as you can expect it to go for someone who had failed three algebra tests in a row.

you and sunghoon exited the building, a slight skip in your step. “thank you, i promise to pay you back in the future.” you told him sincerely.

he raised an eyebrow at you. “don’t think you’re off the hook because it was me and not your parents or brother.”

your shoulders slightly slumped, and your lips pushed into a pout. “algebra is really hard. i studied for three weeks and still failed.”

sunghoon turned his gaze forward. “i’ll take you home and make sure that jaemin helps you from now on.”

that incident was two years ago.

a few months after that, sunghoon and jaemin had went off to university together near the inner city leaving you home by yourself most of the time.

somewhere between the lines of sunghoon visiting during school breaks, and the small gifts he'd casually bring you (like the keychain hanging off your backpack), you fell for him.

at first, you thought it was harmless. just your silly, seventeen year old brain mistaking his kindness for something deeper.

you convinced yourself it would pass, he could never see you as something more than lee yn. lee jaemin’s little sister.

now you laid on the floor, sprawled out as you lazily wrote in your notebook. your feet lightly swinging in the air behind you and your pen occasionally stopping as your thoughts drifted.

your brother and sunghoon were back home for their final school break before they graduated.

a few nights ago, you overheard them talking about their post-graduation plans.

jaemin, unsurprisingly, was going to work as a video game developer. it made sense to you since he spent all his time lazing around on games all day.

but your heart ached when you heard sunghoon say that he accepted a job in his hometown, hours away. he'd be leaving once graduation rolled around.

your thought trail was broken by the loud footsteps of the two boys in question. jaemin and sunghoon emerged from the stairs, casually chatting as they made their way to the front door.

their chatter was cut off by your mother.

"where do you think you're going?" she asked, wiping her hands down on a towel to rid them of oil.

“uh, we were just going to get some hot pot.” jaemin said, scratching the back of his head sheepishly.

sunghoon quickly averted his eyes the moment her gaze landed on him. "i'm in the middle of making dinner, jaemin." she said flatly.

jaemin shifted uncomfortably. despite being twenty-two years old, he was still scared to disobey his mother.

silence hung between them before she finally sighed.

“you can only go if you take yn.” she replied.

jaemin’s eyes widened as he immediately protested. “no, mom.. it was just supposed to be us and our friends.”

she held up her hand to silence him, “you’re taking yn. end of discussion.”

jaemin groaned, turning towards you. "get up little demon. we're going to get hot pot."

you looked up from your notebook, eyes flicking from jaemin, to your mom, and finally landing on sunghoon. his expression was unreadable, but then, he smiled. just a bit.

your chest squeezed as you looked away and stood up.

you tucked your notebook into your bag, then glanced at jaemin. “are you paying?”

“n-”

“yes.” your mom cut him off. he whipped his head around towards her ready to protest again, but her glare quickly quieted him.

jaemin rolled his eyes, “yes, i’m paying. now go change, you have 5 minutes.”

the dinner was more awkward than you imagined.

the car ride there had been filled with jaemin ranting about how you better not embarrass him tonight.

whatever that meant.

you sat squished between your ever-annoying brother and the boy who made your stomach twist in knots.

you poked at a steaming slice of beef on your fork, lifting it to try and cut it.

“that’s too big for you to eat.” sunghoon said, his calm voice rang through your left ear. he reached over, without hesitation, and began cutting the meat.

you blinked, your heart skipping just slightly as he cut the beef in half, then in thirds, before neatly placing the bite sized portions back on your plate.

"thank you," you murmured, cheeks warm as you picked up a slice to eat.

he gave you a soft smile and nod then turned back to the boy across from him who was ranting about some fantasy game that was just released.

but your mind stayed on sunghoon.

more specifically, the fact that he was graduating in a mere 3 months, and then moving hours away.

would he still see you? would he still make contact and buy you gifts?

"yah, little demon, let's go. i'm taking you home," jaemin looked at you as if you were a gnat that he couldn't get rid of.

you scoffed, rolling your eyes, "i told you to stop calling me that, silly dog."

jaemin opened his mouth, ready to throw another insult. but one of the other boys there (one you definitely forgot the name of), threw his arm around jaemin's shoulder.

"jae, we haven't had time to catch up."

just as jaemin turned away, you felt something warm gently land on your shoulders. your gaze turned from jaemin to the boy next to you.

sunghoon was already looking at you. his eyes were soft, focused, and for a split second, it was like the outer-world didn't exist.

"it's cold outside and you didn't bring a jacket." he said firmly. his hands already adjusting the jacket to your frame. his arms gently brushing against your neck as he adjusted the collar.

you felt your cheeks heat up at the contact. your brain mocked you. he's just being nice yn, you're nothing more to him than jaemin's sister.

your voice came out quieter than expected, mainly due to the close proximity that was making your head fuzzy. "what about you?"

he was wearing a long, dark blue shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and tailored black slacks. his hair was neatly parted, his specs sitting perfectly on the bridge of his nose.

"don't worry about me yn, i'll be fine." he assured you, tucking your hands into the pockets of the leather jacket as if it was second nature.

you followed the others out of the restaurant, your slow pace barely catching up to them. you half expected sunghoon to walk away after he gave you his jacket, but he continued walking next to you.

the cold air hit you, and you couldn't help but feel guilty for forgetting your jacket at home.

you glanced at him, brows knitting. "are you sure you're okay without your jacket?" you asked again.

he laughed softly, a sound that made your chest tighten. "i'm fine yn. i'm a grown man, i can handle the cold."

you nodded slowly, allowing your gaze to fall back to the twenty year olds in front of you. your brother hand his friends were laughing playfully, loud and chaotic as usual.

but beside you, walking in comfortable silence, was sunghoon.

and his presence alone made you feel warmer than any furnace or jacket ever could.

jaemin barged into your room, his face twisted with irritation.

it was the last day of their break from school and the boys wanted to spend it at the movie theater. but fate was not on lee jaemin's side today.

"take yn," your mother told him simply, not even sparing him a glance.

jaemin scowled, but he knew better than to argue. once your mom said something, that was law.

"it's been thirty minutes," he groaned, crossing his arms. "hurry up before the movie starts."

"stop whining silly dog," you muttered, adjusting the final ribbon around your space buns. "i'm almost done."

he sighed dramatically as you stood up from your vanity and smoothed your skirt down. you caught your reflection and let your gaze look around your outfit.

you took your time, wanting to look pretty. not for sunghoon. definitely not.

"let's go," you said, stepping out of your room and down the stairs.

this was going to be a long day for him.

your eyes scanned the room, looking for the boy that had been occupying your thoughts a lot lately (more than you'd care to admit).

sunghoon was already waiting for the two of you, leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets. his gaze met yours the second you appeared, his lips curling faintly.

"you look nice."

it was casual, said just as a passing comment. but your heart couldn't help but flutter. you knew he was just being polite, though it still meant a lot.

"your skirt is too short." jaemin muttered, stopping beside you and adjusting the hem.

you rolled your eyes, "we're going to be late, remember?"

you moved past him, hurrying towards the car. jaemin grumbled something about "teenage rebellion phases" as he followed you out of the house.

sunghoon was the last to leave, wordlessly picking up your jacket from the back of a chair, before exiting the house.

the theater was already full of people when the three of you arrived. jaemin led the way towards the ticket kiosks where their friends were already gathered, laughing about something.

you lagged behind them, close enough to not get lost but far enough to not hear their conversation.

like sixth sense, sunghoon realized that you weren't walking beside him or your brother.

he glanced around, his eyes doing a double take when they landed on you. he quickly made his way over to you, your gaze finally landing on him.

"it would be smart of you to stay close to the group before you get lost."

"i'm not a kid sunghoon," you said, crossing your arms over your chest. "i'm not going to get lost."

he gave you a soft, amused scoff, "still. i couldn't see you from there."

he reached for his wallet, "come on."

you blinked. "what?"

he nodded towards the concession stand, "you want it right?"

you nodded.

you followed him to the stand, your heart thudding in your chest. jaemin and the others were busy trying to figure out how to work the ticket machines. silly dog, can't even figure out how to buy a ticket.

when the worker approached, sunghoon ordered the snacks for both of you. before you could protest, he handed over a few bills.

you reached into your purse and held out your hand, "wait, here."

he glanced towards your outstretched hand. then back to your face, "no."

"sunghoon, take the money. i can pay for myself."

"i don't need it." he smiled, patting your head softly. "use it to buy yourself something nice."

you sighed in defeat shoving the money back into your bag.

when the popcorn arrived, he took the bucket without a word. "they're waiting, let's go."

and just like that, he was walking beside you. like he always did.

inside the theater room, you found yourself sandwiched between sunghoon and jaemin.

the movie started, you all silently watched it, with jaemin occasionally whispering something funny to you or jake. you had finally remembered his name.

"sorry, i hope i'm not late." a girl whispered as she approached you all. she was gorgeous. glossy hair, long legs, radiant smile, and probably around their age too.

"you didn't miss much," sunghoon told her, moving over slightly to make space.

you watched his expression soften, the corners of his mouth lifting a little more than usual. it was a different kind of smile, warmer, more familiar.

nothing like the small or casual ones he aimed at you.

she sat down next to him, and you couldn't help the jealous feeling coming over you.

of course someone like him must have someone like her. she's pretty, his age, and already has something going for her.

you blinked hard, trying to rid the tears. your gaze ripped away from them, turning your attention back to the screen. but everything felt blurry. your brain began mocking you. he was never looking at you like that, and he never will.

from the corner of your eye, sunghoon shifted. then something landed on your lap.

you glanced down. your jacket.

when you looked at him, he was focused on the movie again.

you slowly slipped your arms into the sleeves, letting the jacket engulf your body. it smelled faintly of him.

but even with the flutter of warmth in your belly from the gesture, your chest still ached.

it doesn't mean anything, you reminded yourself, curling into the seat.

he has someone and i'm just lee jaemin's little sister.

you gnawed on your bottom lip, eyes bouncing between your test scores and the pristine list of universities laminated on your wall. each name stared at you like a challenge. untouchable, prestigious, distant.

summer had finally arrived, but instead of feeling free, you were suffocating under the weight of applications, exams, and deadlines. three months. only three months to prove yourself, and not mess it all up.

a sharp knock broke your train of thought.

your gaze shifted towards the door as it slowly opened.

jaemin peeked his head inside, then fully stepped into your room. "mom finished making dinner," he said, his voice lacking it's usual mocking tone. he walked towards you curiously.

without asking, he leaned over your shoulder, his gaze landing on the papers sprawled out on the desk. you expected him to say something sarcastic or biting, but he just let out a hum of understanding.

"don't stress yourself out too much," he flopped down on the small plush couch next to your desk. "you'll do great."

you let out a breath, your voice slightly shaky, "what if i don't get into any good schools?"

this was the fear that had been plaguing your mind for weeks on end, taunting you. you kept your gaze on your test scores, too embarrassed to meet his eyes.

jaemin paused for a moment, then he leaned back. "you will." he said firmly. "you're really smart, and those schools would be lucky to have someone as talented as you."

his words eased over you like sunday morning. the tension in your shoulders dropping slightly. jaemin wasn't usually the comforting type. but right now, he meant every word.

"thank you, jae." you said sincerely.

he nodded, then stood up, stretching his limbs. "let's go eat dinner little demon."

you rolled your eyes but couldn't help the small laugh that escaped. "way to ruin the moment."

"just doing my job," he grinned, disappearing into the hallway.

it was rare for the two of you to share moments like this: quiet and meaningful. no bickering, no teasing, just.. love.

you sighed and closed your books. you could worry about this at a different time.

the dining room was bathed in soft lighting and the smell of a home cooked meal. for the first time in months, the entire family was at the table. no one rushing off, no half-eaten plates left to rot, no strained silence.

your father put some grilled meat onto your plate, the tongs clicking against the ceramic. "eat more yn," he said to you. "you've been stressing about your studies too much."

you nodded, mumbling a soft thank you.

as the meal went on, your parents chatted to your brother about his upcoming work. you listened quietly, watching the way your mothers eyes crinkled in pride, and your father lean in for more details.

do they ever worry about me this way? maybe they did. they just showed it differently.

that night, you laid on your back, staring at your phone screen. you scrolled absentmindedly through your messages, your thumb stopping at one conversation in particular.

sunghoon.

he still messaged you. he still sent little gifts in the mail to your house. and you were polite, so you always responded. because you didn't want to seem ungrateful.

but every message seemed to twist a the knife into your heart. let it go yn, he has a girlfriend.

you couldn't stop replaying the image of the girl from the movie theater. the way he had looked at her. smiled at her. the soft tone in his voice that was never directed at you.

you weren't sure if she was really his girlfriend. but the thought alone had planted a seed in your mind that was too deep to uproot.

you shut your phone off and stared at the ceiling.

it's nothing, you reminded yourself again. stop being stupid and get over it.

but the ache didn't go away.

your hands lifted to shield your eyes from the harsh sun-rays beaming down onto you. the day of sunghoon and jaemin's graduation had come.

you clutched two bouquet's of flowers and two notecards to your chest. lee jaemin and park sunghoon written respectively on each of the cards.

you hadn't asked your parents why sunghoon's parents never showed up. you just assumed they were too busy, or maybe they never came to things like this.

your parents guided you to a gathering area in the parking lot where families waited eagerly for their graduates. the air buzzed with pride and excitement.

a girl about your age stepped to your parents and greeted them. they embraced her fondly, it made you furrow your eyebrow. who was this girl?

“this is our daughter, yn.” your mother introduced. “yn, this is park yoona, sunghoon’s sister.”

you blinked, stunned momentarily. sunghoon had a sister?

he'd never mentioned her around you. not once. you looked over at her. wide eyes, gentle smile, pretty in a calm way. you gave her a polite smile and nod, and turned your gaze back towards the front doors of the graduation hall.

you couldn't let go of the fact that he had a sister.

a sweet charming girl, park yoona seemed like. you shouldn't have felt anything about that, but it touched a sensitive spot within you. it made your chest twist. is this how i look to him? like you're just a girl that reminded him of his little sister.

it all started clicking into place. the head pats, the gentle teasing, the way he always looked out for you. the tone that he spoke to you in always warm but never too serious.

you'd been delusional to think it might have meant more.

the doors burst open, and cheers erupted as the graduates poured into the courtyard. your heart thudded when they landed on them.

no, him. park sunghoon.

he looked different. lighter. laughing with jaemin, his arm thrown over your brother's shoulder. his smile reached his eyes in a way that you hadn't seen before. he was't composed, or collected like he usually was. he was just alive, and glowing under the bright sunshine.

it made something inside you pang.

yoona was the first to break away from the group, stepping ahead and throwing her arms around her brother. you watched his face soften even more at the sight of her, a gaze full of fondness. a gaze you recognized easily.

the same look he gave you. you felt sick.

you held onto that look, like it was proof of something. proof that maybe you weren't just lee jaemin's little sister to him. but he looked at his sister in that way too.

the moment passed, your parents and you finally catching up to yoona. you forced a smile as you handed jaemin his card and flowers. he grinned and slung an arm around your shoulder, ruffling your hair.

"are you going soft on me?" he joked. "never." you shot back instantly, your lips softly curling into a smile. jaemin let you go to greet his other graduate friends.

then, your gaze landed on her.

the girl from the movie theater.

she was standing next to sunghoon, laughing at something he said. the familiar feeling of jealousy bubbled up into you. watching as he looked at her with fondness.

you looked away sharply, biting the inside of your cheek.

“who’s that?” you turned your head to yoona standing on your left. yoona followed your gaze, "min harin," she said. "i think her and my brother are dating, but i'm not really sure."

the uncertainty should've given you some hope. maybe they aren't dating. but it didn't. because the seed of doubt had already sprouted into a plant and was burying it's roots deep into your mind.

you nodded, sitting down onto the bench next to her. you kicked your feet aimlessly in front of you. the bouquet and envelope sat heavy in your lap.

you couldn't bring yourself to walk up to him. not like this. and definitely not with that girl around.

eventually your parents beckoned you over, and yoona followed close behind.

you trailed behind the rest of the group, as always. partly because you tended to walk slow. mostly because your heart felt like it was dragging along the pavement.

then you felt the familiar warmth next to you. you didn't have to turn your head to see who it was.

“are you not going to greet me?” sunghoon asked, his voice soft and teasing like usual. and while it would've made your heart flutter any other time. today it felt like nails on a chalkboard.

your hand tightened around the flowers. “i didn’t want to interrupt your conversation.”

he clicked his tongue, “shame. i was really hoping to introduce you to my friend.”

“she’s been wanting to meet you since the day at the movie theater a few months ago.” he added.

your heart tightened. she probably was a sweet girl, but you couldn’t handle speaking to her, knowing she had something you so desperately craved.

you forced your hand out to pass him the flowers and card. “my parents got you these.”

you didn't mention the small gift still in your backpack. sat perched beautifully in a clear plastic box with an icy blue bow wrapped around it. the one you spent weeks saving for, and even longer picking out.

the gift you couldn't bear giving him now. it felt pathetic. so you kept it, tucked into your bag.

he took the card and flowers, he inspected them for a while, then he handed the flowers back to you. "i don't really like flowers. you keep them."

you nodded, biting your lip to keep it from trembling.

you turned back towards the group. jaemin and yoona were bickering about something stupid. you barely heard it.

but sunghoon's gaze? it never left you. it lingered for a moment too long.

then with a small smile, he turned away.

the party was lively, too lively for your tastes. graduates, families, and students all gathered to celebrate the end of a chapter, and the start of a new one.

you sat in the corner, alone. your dress feeling too tight around the waist. your feet ached from the heels you regret letting your mother put you in, and your slick ponytail throbbing against your scalp like a punishment.

the party was a joint celebration for jaemin and sunghoon, hosted by your parents. naturally, they were the center of attention, surrounded by their friends and fellow graduates, laughing.

everything felt too loud.

you stared down at your cup of water, the condensation pooling under it. you wanted to have fun, you really did. but your chest felt heavy as if your heart was folding in on itself.

you tried to blink away the thoughts of sunghoon, but it echoed louder. you're such a lovesick idiot.

the chair next to you scraped against the floor.

you looked up at the person, making eye contact with park yoona.

she looked effortlessly beautiful, adorned in a black dress and matching heels that clicked against the marble flooring. she sat down, her gaze sweeping over the room.

"you look like you're having the time of your life." she teased, her eyes twinkling.

you let out a small laugh, "yeah, can you tell? i'm at my peak." yoona smiled at you but it faded into something softer.

"are you okay?" she asked. "i know we haven't known each other that long, but i'm down to listen."

the words shattered something inside you.

and before you knew it, you were talking. telling yoona all about the crush you had on sunghoon.

you told her about the ache. the wondering. the way it felt as if a knife twisted in you every time your eyes met his. you were cautious enough to not tell her any details that could reveal who it was.

and when you finished, cheeks hot, throat dry, she looked at you, then the dance floor. she stood from her seat and held her hand out to you.

you looked at her like she was crazy. "i just poured my heart out to you, and now you want me to dance?"

"it's a party," she stated simply, her hand clasping yours. "don't let a stupid boy ruin your night. this is your brother's graduation, remember?"

you hesitated, but then tightened your fingers around her hand. she pulled you up from your seat, and dragged you to the dance floor.

you let yourself go, just for a while. you let the music wash away all weight off your chest. you laughed with yoona in a way that you can't recall. for the first time in weeks, you felt happy. no deadlines, assignments, university applications, or park sunghoon.

just you, yoona, and the music guiding your off balanced steps.

eventually, you got tired and sat down in a chair, the adrenaline fading. you found a chair near the edge of the dance floor, watching yoona dance with a group of girls.

then a voice spoke to you. "hi, is it okay if i sit here?"

you turned your head, your breath catching when you realized who it was.

mae harin.

you nodded, your throat suddenly dry. she took the seat beside you. for a moment, it was silent. then she asked, "you're jaemin's little sister, right?"

another nod.

"i wanted to meet you that night... the night at the movie theater." she clarified. "but sunghoon told me you seemed upset and that it probably wasn't the right time."

"what would he know?" you muttered a scoff. that made her laugh, light and amused. "your remind me of jaemin."

you glanced at her, then let out a small laugh of your own.

talking to harin was easy, strange as it was. she was warm, funny, and pretty in that effortless, grown-up kind of way.

eventually her friends whisked her away, leaving you with a quiet you tried to avoid.

after speaking to her, you finally understood why sunghoon liked her so much. she was just like him. mature, composed, radiant.

you were just a naive seventeen year old girl clinging to a fantasy. he'd never see you in that way.

not when harin existed.

the moon was out, high in the night sky, as the venue began to empty. you noticed that sunghoon wasn't with jaemin, but you didn't think it mattered that much. they didn't always have to be together.

"i need to pee," you told your parents.

they nodded, and continued on to the car. your mother telling you to be quick.

you walked back into the venue and around a corner, you didn't know where the bathroom was so you were wandering aimlessly.

your eyes landed on two figures in front of you, and your chest tightened harshly.

right in front of you, stood mae harin and park sunghoon. his hands around her waist, hers around his neck. their lips locked in a kiss so natural, so intimate, it make your heart implode.

your body moved before your brain could catch up. you turned crashing right into a cleaning station. the cleaning supplies dropped from the cart, echoing through the empty hall.

they pulled apart instantly, heads turning.

sunghoon's eyes widened as they landed on you. "oh, shit— i'm.. fuck." your words sputtered.

sunghoon quickly approached you, concern in his eyes. "are you okay—" he reached for you, but you quickly stepped back.

"i'm fine," you said, too quickly. "i think i just walked in the wrong direction to the bathroom." your voice was slightly shaky.

"i'm going to go now."

and then you left before either of them could stop you.

you walked back to the car. your teeth pierced into your bottom lip as your hands clenched.

inside the car, you sat rigid, your mind replaying the moment over and over, taunting you for still having hope that you could be with him.

you refused to cry. not here. not yet.

but your chest ached like someone had ripped your heart out.

now it was undeniable.

it was just a silly little crush.

and you had no one to blame but yourself.

END PART 1

divider credits: @cursed-carmine

#enhypen x reader #enhypen #enhypen writers #enha x reader #enha imagines #enha fluff #enha angst #enhypen angst #enhypen sunghoon #park sunghoon #sunghoon #enhypen fluff #rinasakai

350 notes · View notes

clarkeysbedchem · 2 months ago

Text

you got me nervous

next part

george clarke x fem reader

summary: you’re chris’ younger sister who has a crush on his best friend. you’ve spent the past two years hiding your feelings from him - until you all end up in a club for your brothers birthday.

masterlist | main masterlist

It was Chris’ birthday, and the club was buzzing - sweaty bodies packed wall to wall, lights flickering in a wild fashion, and the bass thumping so loudly into your body that you could feel your bones rattling.

And then there was George.

Chris' best mate, who also happened to live with him. The flatmate that was usually sprawled across the sofa like he owns it, always laughing a little too loud, and wearing that damn smirk that somehow manages to be annoyingly hot. The one who never looks at you quite long enough for you to know if it's in your head, or if he knows.

Tonight, he's in black. Black tshirt, black trousers, black rings on his fingers that you definitely shouldn't be noticing, and that same cocky look that had been messing with your head since you first met him.

You’ve already messed up twice - once when you bumped into him trying to get to the bar and literally apologized to the wall, and again when he asked you how your classes were going and you forgot how to pronounce your own degree.

You’re tried so hard to be cool, to be a one of those normal pretty girls that were always flocked around him, even when he keeps looking at you.

And it’s not like he’s looking at everyone. It's you. Only you.

Chris is off somewhere in a tangle of mates and shots, and you’re left standing near the back booth, fiddling with your bracelet, pretending you're not checking to see if George is still across the room.

Spoiler: He is.

And now he's walking toward you, all slow and confident, like the kind of trouble that knows it’s going to be forgiven before it even begins.

“Hey,” he says, way too close to your ear - you blame the music, but his voice still sends a shiver down your spine and made your face burn, “You okay?”

You nod with a gulp,“Yeah. Just needed a breather.”

George leans against the wall beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, and it’s almost enough to short-circuit your entire nervous system. You swear the temperature in the club jumps ten degrees when he inches closer to you. Your sense overwhelmed by the smell of his cologne, or maybe it's just him.

“You're quiet tonight,” he says, head tilted like he was studying you.

You almost let yourself speak before thinking, almost letting a clever quip slip past your lips, to flirt back with him. To finally act like you’re not the quiet, overthinking little sister of his best friend.

But all that comes out is a laugh that dies halfway through, “Just tired.”

“You sure?” His eyes flicking to your lips just long enough for you to notice, "You seem off."

Your pulse spikes, and you felt your chest tighten for a moment as your breath shook involuntarily. He was far too close now, his finger barely ghost over your wrist like he’s testing the water - You didn’t pull away.

“You look good,” he says, his voice low, “You’ve almost got me nervous to move.”

That was enough for him to gain every ounce of your attention. Your eyes snap up to his, your heart thudding against your ribs.

“Why would you be nervous?” you whisper, more breath than voice.

George laughs softly, not pulling back, “Because you’ve been driving me mad all night.”

You blink, “Me?”

His fingers trace up your arm, slow and almost lazy, like he’s memorizing the shape of you, “Yeah, you. The way you look at me like I’m off limits. The way you keep pretending like I don’t consume your every thought.”

You swallow hard wanting to turn away from him but it was impossible. Your breath hitched in your throat as his hand settles on your waist, warm and solid. Every nerve of your body standing on edge.

“I’m not gonna do anything you don’t want me to,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your skin just under the hem of your top, “But if you do want something…”

He leaves it hanging, lets you fill in the rest.

You lean in, finally finding your voice - just barely, “Please kiss me.”

He does. God, he does. Like he’s been waiting as long as you have.

And for the first time all night, you stop trying to be perfect. You stop trying to be quiet. You just feel.

When his mouth meets yours it felt like a secret - soft at first, almost hesitant, like he’s checking to make sure this isn’t just some alcohol-fueled mistake. Like he's giving you a chance to pull away.

You don’t.

You kiss him back like you had been storing this up for years, because you have. All those almosts, all those what-ifs - they’re pouring out of you now, warm and desperate.

You fist your hands in the fabric of his shirt, and he exhales sharply against your lips, like the tension’s finally snappish for him too.

His hands are on your waist, fingers splayed like he’s trying to restrain himself, like he needs to feel that this is real. Your back was pressed into the wall of the booth, music vibrating through the floor, yet all you can hear is the sound of your own breathing and the faint sound George makes when your teeth catch on his lower lip.

“Fuck,” he mutters, pulling back just an inch, forehead resting against yours, “We probably shouldn’t be doing this here.”

“Then stop,” you say, breathless.

He huffs a laugh, “That’s not a real suggestion, is it?”

“Not in the slightest.”

George lips catch your again - rougher this time, less careful. One of his hands slides up your back, curling around the back of your neck like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

Your head spun in the best way. This feels like a free fall – terrifying but exciting. Like every breath you had held every time he walked into a room could finally be let out.

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he says against your mouth.

You laugh, the sound shaky, “Try me.”

“I didn’t think I could,” he admits, “Chris would kill me.”

You pause, blinking up at him, “You’re thinking about my brother right now?”

“Briefly. I’m not proud.”

You snort, and the tension breaks for a moment, leaving something lighter behind - giddy and dangerous. You’re still tangled together in a dark corner of a club, but it suddenly feels more intimate than any bedroom ever could.

George trails a finger down the side of your neck, voice softer now, “You always look at me like you’re trying not to. Like I’m gonna catch you.”

You shrug, cheeks burning. “And yet you did.”

His expression shifts into something deeper and it flickers in his eyes,. His thumb brushes your jaw, “So now what?”

“I don’t know.” You bite your lip, “We keep this quiet?”

“For now.”

“And maybe…” You lean in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Maybe you kiss me again before I start overthinking everything and ruin it?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

His hands tighten around your hips, pulling you flush against him, and this time the kiss is all heat. No nerves. No hesitations. Just want.

You knew it was reckless. You knew it would. e complicated. You know you’re going to have to face your brother eventually, and that George probably won’t be able to sneak around forever.

But right now? Right now, in this dark corner with your heartbeat echoing in your throat and George’s hands on your body like you’re made of glass - It was worth it.

You can barely hear the heavy beat anymore. Everything else fading away - the flashing lights, the crowd, even the distant echo of Chris’s drunken laugh somewhere across the room. All you feel is George. His hands, his mouth, the way he’s pressing you back into the booth like he can’t get close enough.

And just when your lips trail down to his neck, just when his fingers tangle in the hem of your shirt, you hear it - “Oi, George!”

You both freeze.

Your felt your heart drop as George stiffens against you, letting out a quiet curse under his breath before pulling away just enough to peek over the booth's edge. You can feel your pulse pounding in your head.

“It's just Arthur,” he says, trying to play it cool - though his voice is lower, rougher now, “He hasn’t seen us.”

You don’t move, still pressed against the booth wall, trying to catch your breath and not look like you were about to let your brother’s best friend get to third base in public.

George leans in again, voice warm against your skin, “Don’t look so panicked. You’re not the one who has to explain to Chris why his little sister’s lipstick is smudged down my neck.”

Your hand flies to your mouth, “Shit, I-”

“I’m not complaining.” He grins, eyes dark and teasing, “You should see the look on your face.”

You shove his shoulder, and he catches your wrist, kissing the inside of it before reluctantly letting you go.

“We’ll pick this up later,” he promises.

taglist: @jamiekluivert @reidyourpalms @roc-haze @whisperturnedecho @graceln4 @dopeysunflowers @super-gay-for-u @bethorwhateverr @livvymd @lilyyxoii @4ngelrealm @kiyoomology @canyouseethesainz

#george clarkey #chrismd #george clarke #arthur hill #italianbach #arthur frederick #willne #isaac smith #chris dixon #will lenney #george clarkey x reader #george clarke fics #george clarke x reader #clarkeysbedchem

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blairxbear · 4 months ago

Text

Hit with a Villain’s Sex Quirk & They NEED You NOW!

UA Part 1 / UA Part 2 / Pro Heroes / Villains

(All readers are aged up, UA students are now Pro Heroes)

They’re desperate, aching, and the only thing that can ease their suffering… is YOU

Featuring Aged Up: Izuku Midoriya, Shoto Todoroki, Tenya Ida, Denki Kaminari, Mirio Togata, Hanta Sero, Koji Koda, Mashirao Ojiro

Izuku Midoriya

Poor baby is a mess.

The second the quirk hits him, his knees buckle, breath shuddering as an intense wave of heat rushes through his body.

Face turns bright red as he realizes exactly what’s happening.

Tries to fight it. Tries to use his mental discipline to control himself, but the more he resists, the worse it gets.

His entire body is burning, throbbing, aching for you.

Finds you, trembling, pupils blown wide.

“P-Please, Y/N, I—I need you—I c-can’t—”

The moment you touch him, even slightly? He whimpers and loses control.

Begging. Absolutely begging.

“Please, I need— I need you—”

Shoto Todoroki

Instantly overwhelmed, but tries to keep his composure.

His ice side flares up instinctively, trying to counteract the intense heat pooling in his core.

Fingers twitch as he clenches his fists, shaking with need.

Voice is low, strained.

“Y/N… I need you. Right now.”

Doesn’t waste time. The moment he has you, his hands are gripping your waist, pulling you against him.

Burns hotter than ever before.

“You’re the only one who can fix this.”

His usual calm demeanor? Gone. He’s needy, desperate, possessive.

Tenya Iida

Panics. Completely panics.

The quirk hits him hard, making his entire body tense and throb with unbearable need.

Tries to rationalize it, but every second that passes makes him more desperate.

Glasses fog up from how hot he feels.

When he finally gets to you, he’s struggling to breathe properly.

“Y-Y/N… this is… most improper, b-but I— I c-can’t hold back—”

Sweating, panting, barely holding himself together.

When you pull him close, his entire body shudders.

Absolutely worships you, murmuring apologies even as he ravages you.

Denki Kaminari

Short-circuits immediately.

The second the quirk hits, he gasps, his knees nearly giving out.

Pupils blown wide, electricity crackling around him.

Absolutely shameless about it.

“Fck, babe, I—I need you, like, now. Like, RIGHT now.”*

Grabs onto you the moment he finds you, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

Can barely focus on anything except how much he NEEDS you.

Completely desperate, whimpering in frustration whenever you tease him.

“N-No teasing—please, I c-can’t—”

Mirio Togata

Grins at first, but the moment the heat floods his system, his cocky confidence vanishes.

His whole body trembles as he exhales shakily.

Eyes darken with pure, raw hunger.

When he sees you, he immediately pulls you against him, burying his face in your neck.

“Y/N, sunshine, I—I need you. Right now.”

Barely able to restrain himself.

His usual playfulness is completely gone.

Can’t stop touching you, whispering how much he needs you.

“You’re the only one who can help me, baby.”

Hanta Sero

Groans the second the quirk hits him.

Leans against the wall, head tilted back, struggling to breathe.

Body feels like it’s on fire, and the only thing on his mind is YOU.

When he finds you, his hands are on you immediately.

“Babe, I— I need you. Fck, I need you so bad.”*

Usually a tease, but right now? He’s all need.

Voice is rough, strained, full of desperation.

Presses you against the nearest surface, begging for relief.

Koji Koda

Poor baby is overwhelmed.

Goes completely red, hands trembling as he grips the nearest surface for support.

Can’t even form proper words at first—just breathy little gasps.

Finds you, looking utterly wrecked, eyes full of need.

“Y/N… please… I—I can’t handle this alone…”

The moment you touch him, he shudders so hard he almost collapses.

So gentle, even in his desperation.

“Please… I need you. So much.”

Mashirao Ojiro

Tenses up instantly.

Tail flicking wildly, his whole body buzzing with need.

Breathing heavily, his muscles flexing as he tries to fight the effects.

Fails miserably.

Grabs onto you the second he sees you, hands tight around your waist.

“I— I need you, baby. Right now.”

Doesn’t even care where you are.

Growls when you tease him, pressing his body harder against yours.

“No teasing, babe. Not now. Please.”

So needy, so rough, so desperate.

Ko-fi / Masterlist

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l1v-jzn · 2 months ago

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unspoken — geum seong je

it starts like a whisper you don’t quite hear. A moment that holds its breath.

you’re standing near the hotel window, the rain tracing lazy lines down the glass behind you. The city outside is blurred, smears of gold and crimson light in the storm. The lamp glows low behind seong je, haloing his hair like something celestial. His windbreaker hangs off one shoulder, collar askew, exposing the curve of his throat where his pulse stutters under skin. he’s looking at you like he’s drowning and you’re the air. And then he steps closer.

you feel the heat before his hands ever touch you. His fingers ghost your hips, light as fog, and his forehead brushes yours as he breathes you in.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet. But you don’t. You lift your chin just enough, barely a nudge. And his lips find yours. It’s soft, at first.

his mouth is careful, savoring. He kisses you like a question, and you answer with your fingertips curling into his shirt. He tastes like cigarettes and blood, and when your lips part slightly, he inhales like he wasn’t expecting that. Like you just short-circuited his entire nervous system.

his hand finds your jaw—firm, steady—thumb brushing the edge of your mouth like he wants to memorize the curve.

the second kiss is deeper. Messier.

a quiet groan rumbles from his chest, low and wrecked, and suddenly he’s pressing you back against the window frame, the cold glass biting at your shoulder blades while he burns in front of you.

your fingers slip under his windbreaker, tracing his waistline, and he shudders. His hands flatten against your sides, sliding under your shirt, just the pads of his fingers against bare skin, drawing lines no one else will ever be allowed to touch.

his kisses grow greedy. Not rushed. But hungry. Like he’s been starving for years and just now realized what he needs.

he breaks the kiss only to drag his mouth across your jaw, to the hollow of your throat, where he pauses, breathing hard.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he says, lips brushing your skin with every syllable.

“I want to,” you whisper, breathless, wrecked.

he meets your mouth again, harder this time. Teeth, tongue, sighs swallowed between tangled breaths. His hand slides to your lower back, pulling you impossibly closer. You feel everything: the tension in his shoulders, the heat rolling off him, the tremble he tries to hide when your nails drag lightly down his spine.

the room spins. All you know is his mouth, his hands, and the way he kisses you like the world might end if he stops.

i knew i needed him when i saw him in whc2, I was like "RAW NEXT QUESTION" every single time he appears on the fucking screen 🥀💔

#weak hero class 1 #keum seongje #geum seong je #wolf keum #keum seongje x reader #geum seong je x reader #wolf keum x reader #weak hero class two #weak hero x reader #whc1 x reader #whc2 #whc1

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callmebyyourcallsign · 9 days ago

Note

ANOTHER REQUEST 😛

bob floyds reaction to seeing pilot!reader in normal clothes for the first time instead of whatever uniform they wear, and maybe it’s the start of a crush?? idk your writing is magic lol 🫶

thankk yewwe 🫶😵‍💫 you’re so sweet omg!! i love this idea sm

Bob’s never seen you like this before.

He’s used to the uniform, tan drab or flight suit, boots laced tight, hair tucked away, dog tags glinting when the sun hits just right. That’s where you exist in his head, on the tarmac, in the ready room, up in the air where you belong.

But now you’re standing across the parking lot, waiting for him by the diner, and he swears his heart just about forgets how to beat.

You’re in jeans. A soft, worn-in tee. Sneakers with scuffed soles. Hair loose, framing your face. And you’re smiling at him, easy, warm, like this is nothing. Like you don’t know you’ve just short-circuited his entire nervous system.

Bob fumbles with the bouquet of flowers he brought for you, nearly dropping them. He pushes his glasses up, like that’ll help, like clearer vision won’t make him even more flustered.

“Hey,” you call, like it’s normal, like you don’t look like that.

“H—hey,” he manages, voice cracking just enough to make him want to sink into the asphalt.

You grin wider, stepping closer, hands tucked into your pockets. “You good, Floyd?”

He clears his throat, tries for casual, fails miserably. “Yeah. Uh. Yeah, just—didn’t recognize you for a sec.”

Your brow quirks, amused. “That so?”

“Yeah,” he says, gaze flicking to your mouth, your eyes, back to your mouth. His ears burn. “You—uh—you look real nice.”

You tilt your head. “Thanks, Bob.”

He wonders if you can hear how fast his heart’s going. Wonders if you always look like this under all that gear. Wonders how he’s supposed to get through dinner without giving himself away entirely.

And as you start toward the diner together, side by side, he can’t stop glancing over, can’t stop thinking.

I’m in so much trouble.

#tgm #top gun maverick #bob floyd #bob floyd x reader #ask

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xiao-come-home · 1 year ago

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Even MORE pre-release Boothill. Please bear with me im doing my best,, slightly sug/gestive in one paragraph 🤸‍♀️

I've read somewhere that Boothill short-circuits when he's embarrassed AND I STAND BY IT. 1000%. I am here to spread this like a disease. His system is definitely able to process his emotions, but when you do something that makes his heart skip a beat, he freezes in his spot, his cheeks gain the most beautiful scarlet color... And then you hear the worst combination of malfunctioning robotic noises, AND then sparks fly off of him. Might have to wait a few minutes until he comes back...

Boothill might look like he's calm outside, but he just FEELS the blue screen coming when things get too heated with no break whatsoever or too much fluids go past the protective metal plates. His body stops in place, is absolutely unresponsive, and his eyes flash blue.

Don't worry though, your Boothill has a restart button, right in the middle of his upper back, hidden by his half-vest (or.. whatever that is). He might overheat a little bit though, so be careful not to give yourself unnecessary burns.

In rare cases when his blue screens get REAL bad, you have to stick a USB drive he gave you in those special slots he has on the left side of his hips to bring him back.

Boothill most definitely does not sleep, but gets recharged by electricity or fuel instead. Perhaps that's the reason for the hole he has on his back? Either way, it gives you an opportunity to "plug him up", which he hates, despises even, to hear from you when he feels low on energy (he still wants a goodnight kiss btw).

Boothill swallows bullets. He also spits them out when needed.. usually, he's very careful not to spit them into your mouth when you kiss, but gravity betrays him on his worst days.

Boothill probably works like Siri or Alexa when battles leave him a bit too wounded. You might wonder about something, say it out loud, and then Boothill just can't stop reading the first thing that came up on Google.

"What's the best recipe for carrot cake?"

"2 cups (260g) all-purpose flour, 2 teaspoons baking soda, ½ teaspoon fine sea salt—" Boothill gasps and covers his mouth, "1 ½ teaspoons ground cinnamon, 1 ¼ cups (295ml) vegetable oil, 1 cup (200g) granulated sugar—"

He just can't stop.

#he can't stop and neither can i #honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #boothill hsr #boothill #boothill x reader #.headcanon #spoiler: ive never eaten carrot cake in my life and the recipe isn't first in Google search but i promise he really does this #hoyoverse told me this in a dream

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seumyo · 4 months ago

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Idia never thought he’d be the type to have a muse. Inspiration wasn’t something he sought—it either struck at odd hours between gaming marathons or never came at all. You, on the other hand, were the complete opposite.

You were effortlessly poetic, weaving words together like they were spun from moonlight and ink. You had a way of finding beauty in things he never noticed about himself, piecing together metaphors and prose that made him sound like something out of a fairytale.

A writer who’s ultimate weapon is a pen and paper.

You write like a poet who can never run out of words.

Effortlessly so.

The first time you showed him one of your poems, he had expected it to be about something grand and abstract—love, nature, time. Instead, it was about him.

It wasn’t grandiose or overly sentimental. It was simple. Soft. A quiet sort of admiration captured in careful lines—how his hair burned like foxfire in the dark, how his voice curled around words like an autumn breeze, how the glow of his screen reflected in his yellow eyes like constellations trapped in glass.

He had read it once, then twice, then a third time, his heart hammering so hard he thought it might short-circuit his entire nervous system.

God, it’s like reading a declaration of love from years ago.

“I-I… um… wow…” he had stammered, his fingers twitching at his sleeves. “You… wrote this?”

You simply laughed.

“Of course I did. Who else would I write about?”

He didn’t know how to answer that.

So instead, he drew.

A few days after your conversation, that is.

Idia had always been good at art—sketching was second nature to him, a quiet hobby he indulged in when he needed to clear his head. But now, every idle doodle, every sketch in the margins of his notebooks, was of you.

The tilt of your head when you peered into his screen. The way your eyes softened when you looked at him. The delicate curve of your fingers as you held your pen, lost in thought.

He didn’t show you at first. It felt too raw, too personal. Like, if you saw it, you’d know just how much space you had carved into his thoughts, how easily you had settled into his world without even trying.

Maybe that was the point.

To show you how much you meant to him.

But then, one evening, as you sat together in his room—you’re lost in your writing, your boyfriend sketching absentmindedly—you caught a glimpse of his notebook and gasped.

“Is that me?”

Idia tensed, his fingers twitching as if to slam the book shut. But you had already leaned over, your gaze locked onto the pages, your eyes wide as you traced the lines of your own face on the paper.

“You’re insane,” you whispered, your voice filled with awe.

“This is amazing.”

He hunched his shoulders, his hair flickering between shades of pink and blue. “It’s not a big deal…”

“It is to me.”

Your fingers brushed against his, and Idia felt the warmth of your touch settle deep in his chest.

“You write about me,” he muttered, his voice quiet.

“I guess… this is how I write about you.”

You smiled, nodding. “Then I guess we’re even.”

His heart pounded, his fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie.

“Y-Yeah… even…”

But you weren’t done looking. You turned the pages slowly, taking in every sketch. Some were detailed, inked carefully with soft shading that made your features stand out, while others were simple pencil sketches, quick and loose. Some had little notes scribbled in the margins—things like Her smile was really pretty today or I think she’d like this outfit—and the further you flipped, the harder it became for Idia to breathe.

“You’ve been drawing me this whole time?” you asked.

Idia swallowed hard, feeling like his soul was about to eject from his body. “I-I mean… you’re… I like drawing you.”

You hummed, shaking your head. “No one’s ever drawn me before,” you admitted. “And definitely not like this. It’s like a commissioned self-portrait.”

He ducked his head against his desk. It’s all too much for him, and yet, he yearns for more.

“Well… no one’s ever written about me before either.”

You reached for your notebook and flipped to a page filled with fresh ink. “I wrote something new,” you told him. “Do you want to hear it?”

Idia hesitated, but he nodded.

You took a breath, then began reading.

Your voice was steady and soft, weaving words like magic.

You spoke of constellations hidden in the depths of golden eyes, of firelight that flickered and burned but never consumed. Of hands that danced over sketchbooks, creating entire worlds with nothing but ink and quiet devotion. Of a boy who lived in shadows and blue-tinted neon, who never realized he shone just as brightly as the screens he spent hid behind on.

By the time you finished, Idia was gripping his sketchbook so tightly his knuckles were almost turning white.

“…T-That’s—” His voice cracked, his throat dry. “That’s… about me?”

“Of course, Idia.”

His mind was racing, his chest aching with something he didn’t know how to name. He didn’t understand how you saw this side of him—a version of him that is raw—in ways he had never expected. And for once, instead of wanting to hide, he wanted to let you see more.

Slowly, hesitantly, he reached for his pencil and turned to a fresh page. “C-Can I draw you again?”

Your smile grew, and you leaned into his side, your fingers resting over his. “Only if you let me write about you again.”

Idia let out a shaky breath, his heart pounding.

“Deal.”

But somehow, he knew he would never stop drawing you. Even if time catches up to him and he could no longer hold a pencil. There will always be a way for him to draw his muse.

Just as he knew you would never stop writing about him.

Two halves of the same story—lines and words, ink and paper, art and poetry intertwined.

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aleksatia · 4 months ago

Text

You're at his place. Pre-relationship stage. Taking a shower, you decide to have a little fun—entirely his fault, by the way. But… how could you forget to lock the door? Of course, he walks in at the exact wrong (or right?) moment. What happens next? 😈😱🤭

My sketches ended up a bit longer than what I usually write. The question is—how decent is my English? (It’s not my native language.) I’d love to write a midi or even a maxi, but right now, I’m not too confident in my skills.

🍎🚀🏋️ Caleb – "You're Actually Gonna Kill Me, Pip-Squeak"

Caleb walked in without a second thought, his fingers tugging at the zipper of his uniform, his boots moving over the tile in the familiar rhythm of a man who lived in motion.

He was halfway through his question, something about his damn flight log, when he saw you.

And his entire system crashed like a fighter jet hitting turbulence.

A strangled noise escaped his throat—not a gasp, not a groan, but something more like a hiccup crossed with a yelp. His ears turned bright red first, then his neck, then his face, color flooding upward like a thermometer about to burst. His limbs seemed to forget how joints worked, his body suddenly all awkward angles and frozen panic.

It was disastrous. Catastrophic. Mortifying.

His heart didn't race—it stuttered, tripping over itself like his brain tripping over thoughts. He didn't feel heat so much as he felt like he'd been ejected into the atmosphere without a pressure suit, simultaneously burning up and unable to breathe.

Because there you were—drenched, flushed, utterly lost in pleasure, oblivious to the fact that you weren't alone.

And him?

He was dying.

The way your back arched beneath the stream of water, the way your lips parted on a breathless sound that hit him like a goddamn missile to the chest, the way your fingers trembled, the way your body—

Fuuuuuck.

He didn't clench his fists—his hands actually flailed, one grabbing at the back of his neck while the other patted frantically at his pockets as if searching for emergency protocols that didn't exist. His pulse didn't roar in his ears so much as it zigzagged erratically, matching the chaos of his thoughts.

And then—you shattered.

A sharp gasp, a tremor rolling through your limbs, the kind of pleasure that stole the breath right from your lungs, leaving you wrecked, undone—

And completely unaware of the fact that you had an audience.

Caleb felt none of it.

Because he was too busy having what could only be described as a full-body short circuit, his brain officially offline, all systems failing simultaneously.

And that was the exact moment he realized he needed to get the fuck out.

Now.

He turned so fast he nearly tripped, nearly walked into the door instead of through it, nearly left without remembering to breathe.

By the time he made it to the bedroom, his body was vibrating with nervous energy, every single system in fight-or-flight mode with no enemy to confront except his own catastrophic embarrassment.

And Caleb? Caleb needed to do something before he lost his goddamn mind.

So he dropped to the floor.

And started doing push-ups.

Hard. Fast. Like his life depended on it.

One. Two. Three.

Fuck.

His arms burned, his core tensed, sweat already breaking out along his skin—but it was better than the alternative.

Because the alternative was thinking about what he had just seen.

The alternative was acknowledging how fucking hard he was, how tight his flight suit had become, how his body was screaming for something that had been denied for far too long.

He squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth as he pushed through another round, determined to sweat this out of his system.

But then—

"Caleb?"

Your voice. Soft. Confused.

His entire body seized.

And in that exact moment, he knew.

He was so screwed.

His arms gave out.

He hit the floor with a heavy, humiliating thud, his forehead pressing into the cool tile, his entire body refusing to function like a normal human being.

Silence.

Then—footsteps.

And then—your feet were right in front of him.

He slowly, painfully, lifted his head.

You were standing above him, wrapped in a towel, skin still damp, still flushed, still the living embodiment of everything that had just wrecked him.

Your eyes flicked over him—sweating, panting, looking like he'd just run a marathon inside your bedroom.

"Are you—" You gestured vaguely at the floor, brows furrowed. "—doing push-ups?"

Caleb blinked. Licked his lips.

And, because he was apparently determined to make this situation worse, he said—

"Working out."

You stared at him.

He stared back.

And somewhere in the universe, a god was laughing at his suffering.

"—You decided to work out in my bedroom?" you asked flatly.

He pushed himself up onto his knees, breathing hard, trying desperately to look like a man who wasn't dying inside.

"Yeah." His voice was rough, wrecked, a fucking disaster. "Needed to burn off some energy."

Your gaze flicked over him again—at his sweaty mess of a body, at the way his muscles were visibly tense, at the way he refused to meet your eyes for more than half a second.

"You're acting weird."

"No, I'm not."

"You are definitely acting weird."

He let out a strained laugh, dragging a shaky hand through his hair.

"Yeah. Well. Must be the altitude."

You narrowed your eyes.

"Caleb."

His jaw locked.

You took a slow step forward. "Did you—"

"Nope."

"…See—"

"NOPE! Didn't see anything." He shot up to his feet so fast he nearly lost his balance, pointing at you with zero confidence, zero stability, zero chance of making it through this conversation alive.

"Didn't see a damn thing. I walked in, realized I was in the wrong place, and I left."

Your arms folded.

"Then why are you sweating?"

"I told you, I was working out!"

"In my room?"

"Yeah!"

"You hit the floor like you lost the will to live."

"That's just my face!"

"You're breathing like you just had a near-death experience."

His lips parted. His eye twitched.

And then, just when you thought he couldn't look more like a cornered animal, your gaze drifted lower—

To the very obvious, very undeniable, very tragic outline of his problem pressing against the fabric of his flight suit.

Your lips parted.

His entire soul left his body.

Caleb squeezed his eyes shut, his hand scrubbing over his face, dragging down to his jaw, and finally—finally—

He groaned.

Long. Rough. Wrecked.

"Fuckin’ hell, Pip-squeak." His voice was pure suffering. "You're actually gonna kill me one of these days."

🩺☃️👓 Zayne – "The Scientific Method, Apparently"

The door swung open with effortless ease, his movements precise, automatic—just another task in the relentless march of routine. His mind was elsewhere, dissecting case files, treatment plans, the intricacies of molecular degradation in Protocore patients.

And then, he saw you.

His analytical mind cataloged the scene instantly—temperature, humidity, body position—a clinical assessment that lasted precisely three seconds before his brain simply... stopped.

A statistical anomaly. A total system failure.

For the first time in a very, very long time, he had absolutely nothing to say.

His pupils dilated slightly. His fingers twitched at his sides.

Because you didn’t know he was there.

And yet, he could see everything.

The way your back arched beneath the steady pulse of water, the way your lips parted on a breathless, broken sound. The way your fingers trembled, moving over slick, flushed skin with a kind of helpless need that made his jaw tighten in ways he was absolutely not going to analyze.

He did not move.

Did not clear his throat.

Did not announce his presence.

Instead, he just stood there, and—completely against his will—felt his entire body react.

Heat coiled in his spine, sharp and insistent, something visceral curling low in his stomach. His pulse kicked up, a slow, heavy thrum beneath his skin, and when his gaze drifted lower, he was unpleasantly aware of just how little control he had in this moment.

Annoying. Inconvenient. Predictable.

And then, you came.

Right there in front of him.

His fingers twitched again. His breathing went perfectly silent, a conscious effort at regulation. But his body wasn’t regulated. It was tight, hot, a slow burn of frustration and something far more dangerous.

Zayne had spent his entire career maintaining impeccable control—over his body, his emotions, his mind. But standing here, watching this, a deeply inconvenient realization settled into his bones.

He was so incredibly screwed.

Your eyes met his.

Shock. Horror. Disbelief. A textbook example of "Oh my god, what the fuck" played out in real time.

Zayne exhaled, slow and measured.

Then—he smiled.

Lazy. Knowing. Absolutely infuriating.

"Well," he murmured, voice deceptively even, "that was… educational."

Your entire soul left your body.

He reached up, fingers sliding over the silk of his tie, adjusting it with obscene patience, as if marking the conclusion of his observation, as if filing away his findings for later review.

"I’m almost impressed," he continued, as if this was some casual afterthought, "but your breathing pattern could use some work. You keep holding your breath. Not ideal for long-term endurance."

Your face caught fire.

His did not.

Instead, he just tilted his head, eyes gleaming with something wickedly smug.

"My office," he said, gaze lingering for a moment longer than strictly necessary. "Ten minutes."

And then, without another word, he turned and walked away—far too aware of just how difficult that was going to be. In every possible way.

🧜‍♂️🎨🐚 Rafayel – "A Brushstroke Away"

The door creaked open, and he stepped inside like he belonged there—because, let’s be honest, he kind of did.

His mind was tangled in a half-finished painting, a battle between color and shadow, between chaos and control. But all of it—all of it—disintegrated the second his gaze landed on you.

And just like that—he forgot how to breathe.

Oh.

Well, this was interesting.

A slow, lazy grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, fingers flexing at his sides as his artist’s brain caught fire. Not lust. Not at first. Inspiration. Colors bled behind his eyes, unbidden, uncontrolled—the gold of candlelight against damp skin, the way water kissed every curve like a lover, the sheen of heat on your collarbone, the stray droplets tracing the delicate dip of your spine.

He should leave.

He absolutely should.

Instead, he stayed.

Because how could he not?

You were a living masterpiece.

He watched as you turned, stretching with lazy, unaware indulgence, fingertips pressing idly into your shoulders, tilting your head under the water, exposing the curve of your throat like a careless offering to a watching predator.

Mischief curled in his gut.

Oh, this was tempting.

Not just the sight of you—no, that was its own kind of agony—but the delicious, forbidden idea of pressing a hand to the fogged glass, of murmuring something sinful just to see you startle, to watch your skin flush for an entirely different reason.

Would you gasp? Would your breath catch? Would you curse his name, flustered and furious, or would you bite your lip, pulse jumping, a shiver betraying you?

The possibilities were endless.

And then—you sighed.

Not in frustration. Not in exhaustion. In something soft, warm, content—a sound that slipped under his skin like oil paint on canvas, soaking deep, impossible to erase.

And just like that—he lost the game.

His fingers twitched, his own body answering in ways he really didn’t have time to unpack right now. Heat coiled, heavy and hot, something annoyingly persistent pressing against the constraints of his pants. Well, fantastic.

He rolled his eyes at himself, exhaling slow and controlled, dragging a hand through his hair in frustrated resignation.

This was not the time.

With one last lingering glance, he stepped back, slipped soundlessly through the door—and left you none the wiser.

Later That Evening...

The scent of oil paint curled through the dimly lit studio, mingling with the distant hum of the city outside.

Your fingers ghosted over the canvas.

Over the impossible painting.

The one that should not exist.

Your face wasn’t visible—and yet, you knew.

Your stomach flipped, heat curling low, sinking deep, the weight of realization pressing into your ribs.

He had painted you.

Had captured that moment with such aching precision, such devastating intimacy, that your skin still burned, still tingled with the phantom sensation of his gaze.

"You found it."

His voice—low, smooth, too damn close.

Warm hands slid over your waist, a slow, deliberate drag of fingers that knew exactly what they were doing.

You exhaled sharply, your head tipping slightly as heat crackled between you, thick, unbearable.

"You were there," you whispered.

His lips brushed your ear. "I was."

A slow inhale—his breath against your skin, his fingers tightening just enough to make your knees weak.

"You should have said something," you managed, voice softer than you intended, barely a sound.

A quiet hum rumbled in his chest, his nose trailing along the curve of your jaw, slow, teasing.

"And ruin something so perfect?" His lips finally touched skin, a barely-there graze that sent a violent shiver racing down your spine.

"You—" your voice caught as his hands moved, trailing lower, firmer.

"You looked exquisite," he murmured, voice dipping lower, darker. "Like a vision I should never have been allowed to witness."

His lips brushed your pulse—lingering, feeling the way it pounded beneath his mouth.

"And yet," his voice was barely a whisper now, each word deliberate, molten, "I was."

Your breath shuddered.

His teeth grazed your skin, a slow, deliberate promise.

"And now, Cutie," he exhaled, his fingers finally slipping beneath the hem of your dress, a whisper of heat against your thigh—

"Tell me… did you think of me again?"

⭐️⚔️☀️ Xavier – "A Flicker in the Light"

He stepped inside without thought, the quiet murmur of his music still pulsing in his ears, his mind occupied with calculations, reports, and a dozen unfinished tasks. The shift in temperature barely registered—warm, humid air pressing against his skin like an afterthought. His hands were already moving, reaching for his cuffs, adjusting the crisp edge of his sleeve, his focus still half elsewhere.

Until it wasn’t.

Until you.

His first reaction wasn’t shock. Wasn’t arousal. It was assessment.

How much had you noticed?

His pupils contracted slightly against the steam, filtering out distractions, recalibrating the room. His brain clocked angles, escape routes, probability factors before his body had even begun to process what he was looking at.

And what a sight it was.

The way the dim glow of the light kissed your skin, highlighting the delicate rise and fall of your breath. The faint prickle of goosebumps that chased the lingering heat along your arms, the subtle tightening of your nipples against the cool air, a response so instinctive, so unguarded, that it sent something sharp and insidious curling low in his stomach. The slow, absentminded way your fingers grazed over your collarbone, down your ribs—trailing lightly, thoughtlessly—completely unaware of the fact that you were no longer alone.

His stomach tensed. Damn.

Heat curled low, insidious, something that burned slow rather than surged. It was unfair, really—the way his body betrayed him so easily, so completely, while his mind still lagged behind, stuck in logic, in planning, in the painfully unhelpful realization that he needed to move.

Because if you turned now—

If you looked at him with those wide, unsuspecting eyes—

If your lips parted in shock—

That would be a problem.

A flicker of light. A shift in air pressure. And just like that—he was gone.

***

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet.

The air carried the faintest trace of lavender and warm steam, the evidence of a moment now long passed. A moment you still weren’t entirely sure had happened.

And yet—something felt off.

Your fingers ghosted over the doorframe.

The smallest shift of energy, the faintest pull in your chest—like something had just been there, and yet, when you looked, the space was empty.

You frowned.

"Xavier?"

Silence.

Your gaze narrowed. Suspicious.

You turned toward the bedroom.

And there he was.

Sprawled out perfectly, suspiciously, on the bed. One arm slung lazily behind his head, the other resting lightly over an open book, his breathing so perfectly even that it immediately set off every internal alarm bell in your brain.

Sleeping.

Or rather—pretending to.

Your lips pressed into a thin line.

You took a slow step forward. Then another. Crossing the room until you were standing at the edge of the bed, arms folded, staring down at him with growing suspicion.

"Xavier," you said flatly.

Nothing.

Your gaze flicked to the book still precariously balanced on his lap.

A test.

With zero hesitation, you reached down—

Fast. Too fast.

Before your fingers even brushed the cover, his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist in a firm, unyielding grip.

Your breath caught.

His eyes snapped open.

Dark. Steady. Far too awake.

"Touch that," his voice was low, smooth, unreasonably calm, "and we’ll have a problem."

You blinked, pulse hammering beneath the press of his fingers.

"So you’re not sleeping," you muttered.

He exhaled through his nose, the barest flicker of a smirk tugging at his lips. "Observant as always, Princess."

You rolled your eyes, tugging at your hand. "Let go, Xavier."

His grip did not loosen.

Instead, his thumb brushed against your pulse, slow, calculated, considering.

His gaze flicked up. Sharp. Knowing.

"Tell me something."

You swallowed. "What?"

His head tilted slightly, the smirk deepening, dark amusement flickering in the depths of his eyes.

"When you called my name in the hallway just now—" He shifted, stretching ever so slightly, his body so unfairly relaxed despite the fact that you were burning.

His fingers flexed against your skin.

"Were you hoping I’d still be in the bathroom?"

Your breath caught.

His eyes gleamed.

"Or were you just disappointed when I wasn’t?"

🐦🖤😈 Sylus – "How Generous of You, Kitten"

He was already inside before he realized he shouldn’t be.

Not because of caution—he never gave a damn about rules. Not because of hesitation—Sylus didn't hesitate. Ever.

No, the realization came only when he saw you.

And just like that—his entire world tilted.

Something dark and violent snapped through him, searing, immediate, like a live wire hitting water. His entire body seized with it—an impossible, infuriating rush of heat so intense it made his jaw clench so hard his teeth ached. His vision blacked out at the edges, the pulse in his throat pounding, his muscles locking as desire—no, something far worse—slammed into him like a damn freight train.

The sound that left him was low, guttural—more growl than breath.

Possessiveness crashed into his ribcage, molten and unforgiving. His skin felt too tight, his leather jacket suddenly suffocating, his hands curling into fists at his sides as he forced himself not to move. Not yet.

Because oh, kitten, you had no idea.

The fogged glass blurred details, but not enough—not enough to spare him the sight of you.

Your hand slid lower, disappearing between your thighs, the other squeezing the soft swell of your breast, fingers rolling, teasing, your lips parting on a quiet, wrecked sigh. Sylus didn’t blink. His pulse slammed against his ribs, his cock hard and aching, body locked in place, trapped between fascination and pure, seething need. That hand between your legs? That should have been his. His jaw ticked, teeth grinding, vision tunneling to the way your fingers moved—slow, indulgent, unknowing. And fuck, if you only knew.

And then—you broke.

Your thighs tensed, a sharp tremor rippling through them as your breath hitched, your spine arching, muscles tightening with the unbearable, sublime release. A soft, shattered moan slipped from your lips—his name. Barely a whisper, barely a breath, but undeniable.

Sylus stopped breathing.

Heat slammed through him like a fucking bullet, brutal, consuming, rage and arousal twisting, fusing, detonating. His fingers curled into fists, his entire body wired tight with pure, vicious hunger.

Because that? That wasn’t just pleasure.

Fuck.

A sharp, helpless exhale ripped from his throat, his control snapping thread by thread. His entire body was torn apart, his nerves frayed, raw, his pupils blown so wide they swallowed color.

And you had no idea he was there.

You sighed, tilting your head, exposing your throat like a careless offering.

Sylus stopped thinking.

And stepped forward.

Right into the shower.

In full fucking clothing.

The heat hit him instantly, steam curling around him as water soaked through fabric, clinging, molding to every inch of muscle and tension and hunger.

You gasped—shocked, unguarded—whipping around so fast you nearly slipped. But he was already there, hands snapping up, caging you in before you could even think of escaping.

Cold glass at your back. The heat of him at your front.

A trap.

And Sylus? He wasn’t letting you go.

His breath brushed your ear, slow, mocking, entirely too knowing.

"Well," he murmured, voice dripping with amusement, "that was quite the performance."

Your entire soul left your body.

Panic. Embarrassment. Arousal so sharp it made your fingers tremble against his chest.

"Get out," you hissed, mortified, pushing at him with zero success.

He didn’t budge.

"Get out?" he echoed, mocking. "Kitten, you’re the one moaning my name in my own damn house—and you want me to leave?"

Your face burned.

"I was not—"

His laugh was pure sin.

"You were." His nose dragged along your jaw, lips hovering just close enough to make your skin prickle. "And if you're going to be so generous as to put on a show for me—"

His fingers trailed down, slow, deliberate, water slinking down your skin in their wake.

"—don’t you think I should return the favor?"

Your breath hitched.

His grip shifted, pressing you into the glass, wet fabric clinging between you, his body unyielding, a wall of tension and heat.

"I hate you," you spat, voice shaking from everything but anger.

He exhaled, long and slow, drinking in your frustration, your resistance, your reaction.

"You keep saying that," he murmured, his fingers skimming up, teasing over slick, sensitive skin, "but somehow—"

His thumb brushed your chin, tilting your face up, forcing you to meet his predator-dark gaze.

"—I never quite believe you."

You clenched your jaw. You would not give him the satisfaction of squirming. Would not.

His smirk sharpened, gaze raking over you like a conqueror surveying his territory.

"Tell me something," he drawled, voice thick, deep.

Your stomach dropped.

"Did you come thinking about my mouth?"

Your lungs stopped working.

His lips curved. Wicked. Unfair.

"Or was it my hands?" His grip tightened just slightly—just enough to make your thighs press together on instinct.

"Maybe," he exhaled, his lips barely grazing your ear, the hunger in his voice dripping through every syllable,

"…it was my voice?"

You wanted to scream. Wanted to shove him away.

More than that?

You wanted to know if he was right.

And that? That was unforgivable.

So you did the only thing you could.

With a sharp tug, you yanked your wrist from his grip, snatched the towel from behind him, and shoved it hard against his chest.

"Go to hell, Sylus."

He caught the fabric before it could hit the tile, shaking his head with a mocking sigh.

"Now, now, kitten," he murmured, watching you wrap the towel around yourself, too smug, too satisfied with himself.

"Run along," he said smoothly, stepping back just enough to let you slip past him, his voice velvet-dark, dripping in amusement.

But before you could make it through the door—before you could breathe past the goddamn tension clawing at your throat—

His voice followed you, low, ruined with restraint.

"…You really think I wouldn't walk into your shower?"

You froze.

Turned to glare at him.

And his smirk? It fucking disappeared.

Because he was wrecked.

The way his chest rose and fell too fast, the way his fists were clenched at his sides, his entire body tight with restraint, the way his pupils were blown so wide despite the smirk still clinging to his lips—

You had never seen him this close to losing control.

Never.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

And then, before you could push it—before you could push him—

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head like he was trying to snap himself out of whatever firestorm he had just walked into.

"Get out of here," he muttered, dragging a wet hand through his hair, turning away, jaw tight, voice strained in a way that sent something dark and electric through your bones.

"Before I change my fucking mind."

243 notes · View notes

thunderbolt-ing · 1 day ago

Text

Three Roommates and a Loft [3]

PREVIOUS | NEXT The One Where You Get Romanoff'd: A lifestyle adjustment, a bed-rotting intervention, a surprise guest, and a rebound roster. Yeah, you'll probably regret this later. Warnings: none, just pure silliness and slight (stupid) sexual innuendo. I'm sleep deprived when I'm writing this, so this is just pure crack. Word count: 6.6K (sorry for the mistakes, i dont proofread as you already know)

You were jolted awake at exactly 6:30 a.m. on a Sunday by the unmistakable sound of an old-timey trumpet muffly blaring through the ceiling, specifically, a World War II-era jump blues song.

🎵 He was a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way,

He had a boogie style that no one else could play,

He was the top man at his craft,

But then his number came up and he was gone with the draft,

He’s in the army now, a blowin’ reveille,

He’s the boogie woogie bugle boy of Company B! 🎵

There was only one possible culprit: Steve Rogers.

His room was directly above yours, and apparently so was his nostalgia-fueled alarm clock. The song continued at full volume for a solid two minutes before Steve finally got up and shut it off.

Unfortunately for you, that wasn’t the end of it.

Next came the footsteps. Then the light stomping. Then… counting… and grunting…?

Was he doing pushups? At six-thirty-five in the morning? On a Sunday?

You buried your head under a pillow and groaned. The realization settled slowly and painfully; the walls in this loft were way too thin. Adjusting to life here was going to take time and possibly noise-cancelling headphones. Or earplugs. Definitely earplugs.

Eventually, you managed to fall asleep again, though it was more like drifting in and out of consciousness while dreaming about WWII-era trumpets. Still, your body naturally woke up at your usual weekend time of 9:00 a.m., groggy but functional.

Noise was already filtering in from the living room—voices, at least two of them, mixed with the clatter of dishes and the unmistakable sound of someone being way too enthusiastic for a Sunday morning (suspects are either Steve or Sam. You’re leaning towards Steve).

You stared at the ceiling and sighed.

This was your life now.

With the weight of reluctant acceptance, you braced yourself for the horror of human interaction. You got up from your bed and mentally prepared yourself to walk out of your room looking like a witch who’d just crawled out of a bog. Your oversized t-shirt was twisted halfway around your torso, your hair was an unruly mess, and you were certain that your face bore the imprint of your pillowcase.

You didn’t even bother to make yourself look presentable. What was the point?

You needed caffeine. You needed breakfast. And most of all, you needed to not be spoken to until at least a cup of coffee had been fully consumed.

You sluggishly dragged yourself out of your room, your first stop being the bathroom. You just wanted to splash some water on your face and pretend to be alive. Instead, you opened the door to find a near-naked Bucky Barnes hunched over the sink, towel slung low on his hips, mid-shave.

Your brain short-circuited, but he didn’t flinch. He just met your stunned silence with a deadpan stare.

“Do you know how to knock?” he asked coolly, eyes narrowing like you’d just ruined his entire day.

You blinked, fighting the instinctive downward glance that, traitorously, happened anyway. It only made everything worse.

“Sorry,” you muttered, slamming the door shut as your heart pounded loudly in your chest. Your face burned with the mix of rage and embarrassment, and now, thanks to him, you were fully and disturbingly awake.

From inside the bathroom, you heard him mutter just loud enough to be heard:

“Unbelievable.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you snapped through the door, patience running thin with the lack of caffeine in your system.

“No thanks,” he called back flatly without missing a beat.

You were two seconds away from throwing the door open and escalating when Sam’s voice rang out from the kitchen:

“I told y’all to come up with a bathroom system.”

You huffed and stomped your way into the common area, still fuming.

Sam was at the stove flipping pancakes that were definitely a little burnt, but pretending not to notice. Steve was already seated at the newly placed dining table (thanks to your charitable donation), sipping coffee like this was a perfectly normal, drama-free Sunday morning.

“Hey, sunshine!” Steve greeted you as you stepped into the room, entirely too cheerful for someone who caused your 6:30 a.m. trumpet wake-up call. “How was your first night?”

“What is wrong with him?” you shot back, completely ignoring Steve’s question. “Does he not believe in getting dressed after a shower? Is that not a thing for him?”

Sam’s laughter echoed through the loft. “Wait—did you see him butt-ass naked?”

Steve choked on his coffee, but being Steve, he tried to play it off with a composed nod and a sip like nothing had happened.

You gave Sam a withering glare. “Toweled, but barely. It was an assault on my morning.”

Sam was practically doubled over now. “Man, you and Bucky are gonna kill each other before the month’s out.”

“Yeah?” you muttered as you poured yourself a cup of coffee. “Well, I’ll make sure I get to him first.”

“Doubt it,” Bucky said unenthusiastically, stepping into the room fully clothed this time.

“No one’s killing anyone,” Steve cut in with a chuckle. “We just need time to adjust. There are four of us now, it’s gonna take a little grace.”

You and Bucky locked eyes over your mugs. Clearly, there was no grace, only war.

——

After breakfast, the guys headed out for a Whole Foods run, arguing over oat milk versus almond milk as they disappeared out the door. You stayed behind, however, choosing to confront the disaster that the loft turned into from your move-in yesterday. So, with Japanese Breakfast on Sam’s speaker, you got to work.

You hauled your boxes to the center of the living room, then tore through them with the determination of a woman who was about to perform a miracle. Blankets, candles, books, and years of collected knick-knacks found their homes. A patchwork quilt over the chaise. A vase of bodega flowers on the dining table. Your Princess Diaries poster now hung proudly beside Bruce Willis, which perfectly summarized the loft’s new look.

In the kitchen, you replaced the single wooden spoon with actual utensils, alphabetized the spice rack (because who was stopping you?), and stuck a whiteboard on the fridge that read Weekly Chore Rotation — TBD in teacher handwriting. You almost changed your alphabet magnet message from HELLO ROOMIES to HELLO FUCKERS, but you figured you’d soft launch your personality and have them get used to the harmless kindergarten teacher first.

Perhaps you were getting carried away, but you even cleaned the entryway. Now there was a shoe rack, jacket hooks, and a key bowl because you weren’t a barbarian. You felt very smug about your work… until you opened the hallway closet and discovered the mini-armory.

Mounted neatly on the back wall was an array of throwing knives, each blade gleaming despite the dim light. Steve’s old, battered shield leaned against the corner, the once bright paint chipped and scratched raw to the vibranium. It looked like it had been through hell, probably had. Maybe he kept it for emergencies, or maybe out of sentiment. Above the shield, resting on a shelf, sat a worn military grade duffle bag with WILSON embroidered on the front. You didn’t dare to open it, something told you that it didn’t hold gym clothes.

And then, there was the bundle. It was tucked in the far corner, hidden enough that it could be overlooked. Before you could even begin to think about unwrapping it, keys jingled outside, and the front door swung open with a dramatic slam.

“Guess who survived Whole Foods!” Sam’s voice rang through the loft, followed by the telltale thud of grocery bags hitting the floor.

You quickly shut the closet door, forcing a casual smile despite your heart hammering in your chest. “Hey! So, who won the milk debate? For the record, I was team oat—”

“Hold up,” Sam cut in, eyes widening as he entered the living room. He gasped, hand clutching his chest theatrically. “Is that Amelia Mignonette Thermopolis Renaldi, Queen of Genovia next to John McClane?!”

You followed him into the living room with a shrug. “Don’t they look cute together?”

“Who the hell is that?” Bucky asked, breezing past with grocery bags and heading straight for the kitchen.

“Princess Diaries,” Sam and Steve answered in unison, though Steve was a beat slower and slightly more ashamed about knowing.

Steve bent to pick up the remaining bags, but paused as he took in the living room. His eyes did a slow sweep across the space before he broke into a pleased, golden-retriever grin. “You redecorated.”

“Holy shit, you did,” Sam added, spinning in place to look around. “No more hostage bunker, frat house adjacent. This place has… character now.”

“There’s a key bowl,” Steve noted in delight, pointing to the entryway like you’d just placed a national treasure.

“I’m ignoring this,” Bucky cut in from the kitchen. He scowled at the whiteboard magnetized to the fridge. “Weekly Chore Rotation? This is not elementary school.”

“Also, where are the tongs?” he asked, rummaging through the newly organized drawer with increasing irritation.

“The rusty ones?” You asked, joining him in the kitchen. “I threw them out before it gave someone tetanus, but don’t worry, I replaced them with new ones.” You opened the other drawer and showed him the new tongs.

Bucky turned to you, arms crossed. “So you’re in charge now?”

You smiled sweetly. “Someone has to be a functional adult out of the four of us.”

Steve chuckled as he dropped the last bag on the counter. “She’s not wrong.”

Bucky muttered something about “whiteboard dictatorships” as he walked off, but not before you caught him glancing at the newly filled bookshelf.

That was the closest thing to approval you were probably ever going to get.

——

Adjusting to your new life at the loft with three superhero roommates was… messy at best. The only man you’ve ever lived with before was Adam, and while that came with its own set of issues, chaos had never been one of them. Adam had been neat, predictable, and quiet. The exact opposite of the three men you now shared a loft (and very thin walls) with.

The loft wasn’t perfect. It was loud, unfiltered, and filled with clashing personalities. But oddly enough, it was exactly what you needed right now. You wouldn’t admit it out loud, not to them at least, but the chaos helped. It distracted you from thinking about Adam and from falling back into the life you’d walked away from.

Monday started off strong.

You were in the kitchen, half-asleep and clinging to your coffee before work, when Sam practically sprinted down the stairs looking like he’d already finished at least three marathons.

“Morning, miss girl,” he beamed, already reaching for your mug as if you didn’t need it to survive. “What’s your sign by the way? Wait—don’t tell me. You’re a Virgo aren’t you? You alphabetized the spices.”

You stared at him. You didn’t even get a word in before he declared you his ‘platonic soulmate’ three times and tried to convince you to join him on a sunrise run. It was 5:07 a.m.

Later that day, after work, you found Steve in the living room, utterly absorbed in The Great British Bake Off. You expected him to switch to something more macho when you sat beside him, but instead he turned to you with a frown.

“I just think he could’ve decorated that cake better…”

You blinked at him, unsure how to respond at first. “You know what, you’re right. It’s lacking something and the sponge looks dry.”

“You wanna make something better?”

“...Sure?”

By the end of the hour, you were in the kitchen covered in flour, while Steve was making frosting. You two were making something completely unrelated to the show, and the smell of vanilla filled the loft. Steve wore an apron that said ‘Be Patriotic & Kiss the Captain’ with an arrow pointing toward himself. You didn’t question it, but you had a sneaky feeling that Sam was the one who gave it to him.

Steve and Sam were surprisingly easy to get along with, but Bucky on the other hand, was the human equivalent of a locked door.

On Tuesday, he glared at you for leaving your clothes in the dryer.

On Wednesday, you got into a five-minute shouting match because he was using your shampoo.

On Thursday, he accused you of “hogging the hot water” like you’ve just committed crimes against humanity.

But on Friday, your shampoo was replaced with a fresh bottle, and when you walked into the living room later, he was reading your copy of Anne of Green Gables. You didn’t say a word. Instead, you just baked the cookies that Steve offhandedly mentioned Bucky liked. He didn’t say thank you, but the cookies didn’t last a day.

Midweek, the boys left on an impromptu mission. It was a quick recon, nothing too dangerous according to Steve, but the silence in the loft was jarring. You wandered around in your fuzzy socks, grading math quizzes with background noise from a sitcom rerun just to fill the void.

You actually missed the chaos.

They came back home a day later, exhausted and grumpy. You didn’t say anything, but you had grilled cheese and tomato soup ready for them. Steve muttered something about being “blessed,” and Sam dramatically asked that you platonically marry him (whatever that meant). Bucky just gave you a curt nod, which, in his language, might as well be a hug.

On Saturday, Steve and Sam insisted on helping you grade a stack of your kindergarteners’ spelling tests while eating cereal straight from the box.

“Why does this kid spell ‘banana’ like ‘bunahnuh’?” Sam asked.

“Gwen spells phonetically,” you replied, like it was obvious.

Steve, squinting through his reading glasses with a red pen in his hand, held up a paper. “What’s turlul?”

“Turtle,” you replied with a grin.

Then Sam, looking deeply concerned, held up your lesson plan. “You’re teaching them Romeo and Juliet with puppets?”

“What? They’re five and they love tragic romance.”

Steve chuckled. “New York kids… gotta love ‘em.”

The week ended with you, curled up on the couch, blanket over your legs, grading kindergarten science homework while Steve sat beside you, quietly sketching. Sam DJ’d badly from the kitchen while Bucky was silently fixing the crooked picture frame you meant to fix days ago.

“You hung this badly,” he muttered.

“I’ll fix it later,” you replied without looking up.

“It’s going to fall.”

“Aw,” you looked up and smirked at him. “So you do care.”

His lips twitched just a little, but you didn’t point it out.

Living in the loft was a mess, but it was home.

Your home.

——

Two months into living with the boys, a rhythm had settled in. It was morning coffees with Sam’s unsolicited astrology takes, quiet evenings grading assignments with Steve, and your usual snark-filled cold war with Bucky. Against all odds, the arrangement was working. And yet, even with all the laughter and distractions, the sinking feeling hadn’t gone away. If anything, the stillness between the noise made it even louder.

You missed Adam. Terribly and painfully, in spite of the hell he put you through. Some wounds didn’t announce themselves with aching pain, they crept in during the quiet, slipping through the cracks when you were doing everything to keep moving forward.

You thought you were hiding it well, smiling when you needed to, laughing when expected. But somewhere deep down, you had a feeling that the boys were starting to catch on.

It started with Sam. One afternoon after work, he appeared at your door without knocking, flopping onto the edge of your bed with a bag of chips and zero introduction. He didn’t pry or asked how you were, he just talked about nothing. He complained about the subway system. He argued about why almond milk was better than oat milk. He recalled the dream he had where Steve ran for mayor and lost to RuPaul.

Then Steve started stopping by too. He’d sit in the armchair in the corner, sketchbook in hand, half-listening to Sam’s ramblings and occasionally offering stories about old missions and silly anecdotes about his teammates. He talked about the Avengers often that you were starting to feel like you knew them, even though you hadn’t met any of them in person. Steve never asked what was wrong, he just stayed just like Sam did.

Bucky never set foot in your room, but the arguments with him stalled. The sharpness between you dulled just a bit. He still glared, still muttered under his breath when you used the last of the coffee, but he didn’t pick fights the way he used to. It was as if he didn’t want to add more weight to what you were already carrying.

At one point, the quiet sadness that had been simmering beneath the surface tipped into something heavier. A mini depressive episode, maybe. If you could even call it that. It crept in gradually at first and was barely noticeable, but soon your behavior shifted in ways the boys couldn’t ignore.

You started locking your bedroom door after work, claiming you were just tired. You bailed on loft game night more than once, always with a vague excuse about lesson planning or needing to grade your students’ assignments. Even when you didn’t have a stack of spelling tests to get through, you stayed tucked away in your room, lights dim with Pride and Prejudice looping in your TV just to feel something.

You stopped lounging on the couch. Stopped making dinner for the loft. Stopped bickering with Sam over his abhorrent snack combinations or baking with Steve for fun. You slipped in and out of the kitchen like a ghost, only entering when the coast was clear. You timed your showers to avoid Bucky, dodging eye contact in the hallway like it was a full-time job.

It wasn’t that you didn’t care. You did. It was that everything suddenly felt unbearable. Every noise, every conversation, every mundane task, it all felt too much.

The worst part? You didn’t even know how to explain it to yourself or the boys.

By the time the weekend rolled around, you’d all but vanished into your room. The door stayed closed, the lights stayed off, and not even the smell of Steve’s buttermilk waffles managed to lure you out.

Sam, in an attempt to get you to talk, slipped a piece of paper under your door:

Are u mad at me? Yes or no. Circle one pls <3.

You saw it, but you didn’t pick it up.

Later that evening, the three boys were sprawled on the couch, half-watching a terrible action movie and working through their respective takeout containers. The dialogue on the screen was awful, the explosions louder than necessary, but no one bothered to change the channel.

Then, casually, as if tossing in an afterthought, Bucky asked, “What’s going on with her?”

He didn’t look up from his food, he just stabbed a piece of broccoli with his fork. “Last night, she had this song on repeat. Something about a girl sitting in a restaurant, waiting or something. Played it for hours. I didn’t say anything. Kinda liked it.”

Sam froze mid-chew. Slowly, he lowered his chopsticks. “Wait. Was she playing Right Where You Left Me?”

Bucky shugged. “How should I know? I wasn’t paying attention. Her room’s next to mine, I just heard it.”

Sam immediately placed his food on the coffee table like it had become irrelevant. “Oh hell no. That’s the emotional paralysis anthem.”

Steve frowned. “You got all that from a song about… a restaurant?”

“It’s not about the restaurant, Steven, it’s about the metaphor,” Sam said, deadly serious. “It’s heartbreak, it’s what you play when you’re stuck. And she’s got it on loop? Oh, I’m gonna kill that Adam guy.”

“Who the hell is Adam?” Bucky asked, brow furrowing.

“Her ex,” Sam said, crossing his arms. “Steve and I met him briefly. Bad vibes, stank aura, absolutely zero stars.”

“Not a pleasant man,” Steve added diplomatically. “Didn’t seem to appreciate her.”

Bucky went quiet for a moment, then muttered. “Figures.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Figures what, Barnes?”

“Nothing,” Bucky replied, too quickly. He refocused on his takeout with exaggerated interest, stabbing the piece of beef in his plate half-heartedly.

Steve sighed and looked toward your room, his features softening. “I should try checking in on her again.”

Sam was already on his feet, grabbing the extra box of chow mein from table. “Nope. We’re doing this together. This is a group effort.”

Bucky didn’t move.

Steve glanced at him. “You coming?”

Bucky groaned, dragging himself up with zero enthusiasm. “Do I have to?”

“Yes.” Sam and Steve said in unison, leaving no room for argument.

Reluctantly, Bucky followed them down the hallway. Sam knocked first, rapping his knuckles gently against your door.

“I know you’re alive in there,” he called. “I can hear Mr. Darcy monologuing through the wall.”

No response.

Bucky shifted awkwardly. “Wanna insult me? Could be therapeutic. I’m an easy target and I used up all your conditioner again.”

Still nothing.

Steve gave the door handle a patient turn, but it didn’t budge. “We just wanna check in. No pressure.” Steve said, his voice low and gentle.

Sam held up the box of food like you could see it through the door. “We brought noodles… and poor emotional boundaries.”

“Speak for yourself,” Bucky muttered.

Steve side-eyed him. “You offered yourself up for verbal abuse two seconds ago.”

“I’m just trying to help!” Bucky snapped, crossing his arms.

Another beat of silence followed. Then, from inside the room, you spoke up, your voice muffled, “Is it chow mein or lo mein?”

Sam grinned triumphantly. “Chow mein.”

You shuffled to the door and creaked it open an inch.

“Fine,” you sighed. “But only because I’m hungry and you guys are loud.”

As you stepped back to let them in, Bucky was the last to follow, but not before glancing at your TV, the frozen frame of Pride and Prejudice paused on Darcy’s rain-soaked confession. He didn’t say anything, just slipped inside and quietly straightened the crooked calendar by your door as the others made themselves at home.

Sam looked around your room, eyebrows raised at the unmade bed, scattered tissues, and the lopsided stack of grading papers on your desk. “I love you,” he said as he handed you the box of chow mein, “But this is just… a mess, and I will be cleaning while we talk.”

You gave a weak laugh as he started picking up the empty cups on your nightstand like he lived in your room, too.

Steve sat gently on the edge of your bed, his tone soft. “I’m sorry you didn’t feel like you could talk to us.” His brows pulled together in concern. “I know we’re not… the best at this kind of thing, but we care and we want to help.”

You looked down at the box in your hands, fingers digging into the paper. “It’s not that I didn’t feel comfortable with you guys,” you said, voice tight. “I just didn’t know how to explain it. And honestly, it’s stupid. I’ve been crying over Adam.”

The words felt small and pathetic once they were out in the open. But the silence that followed wasn’t judgmental.

From the doorway, Bucky shifted his weight, arms still crossed tightly. His gaze stayed on the floor, then he mumbled, barely loud enough to hear. “It’s not… stupid.”

You glanced up at him in surprise, but he refused to meet your eyes.

Sam looked between the two of you with a knowing expression. “Well damn. If Barnes is offering moral support, then you’re officially at rock bottom.”

Bucky glowered at Sam while you flipped him off. “Whatever, Wilson,” you muttered in mock annoyance.

Steve smiled, looking relieved that they were somehow helping. “Why don’t you go and spend a day with your own friends?” He suggested kindly, his tone gentle. “Not us, you know, like… women. People who get it more than we do.”

“Sure! That’s cute,” You said dryly, bitterness bleeding into your voice. “Except all my friends were Adam’s friends, and when we broke up, he turned them all against me. They blocked me, every single one of them.”

“That motherf—“

“Okay,” Steve cut in quickly, shooting Sam a look before he could finish. “I’m calling Nat. She’ll know what to do.”

“Nat?” You echoed, confused. “Who’s Nat?”

“Natasha,” Steve clarified, pulling out his phone.

“You know… Natasha Romanoff,” Sam clarified further, seeing your confused expression. “Black Widow…? Come on, keep up.”

“Oh no, no, no,” You sat up a little, alarmed. “I am not meeting her like this. She’s going to think I’m a loser. I mean, she kills men for sport, and I’m here sobbing into my pillow over one. I’m literally crying over someone who owns a mug that says ‘Rise and Grind’, I am beyond pathetic.”

Steve raised his brow, but you kept going.

“It’s already embarrassing that you three know,” you muttered, tugging your blanket higher. “Just give me one more week of bed rotting and I swear I’ll bounce back.”

“You’ve been rotting,” Sam said bluntly. “We’ve hit the compost stage.”

“Advanced decay,” Bucky chimed in, arms still crossed. You shot him a glare. “Nat won’t judge.” Steve reassured, patting your shoulder gently. “She’ll understand more than we do.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “She’ll actually be gentle, like surprisingly gentle. You need someone who gets it, because if it were me? I’d just deck the guy and move on.”

You groaned, flopping back onto your bed dramatically. “If I end up crying in front of Black Widow, I’m changing my name and I’m leaving the country.”

“She cried during Marley and Me, you’ll be fine,” Steve reassured as he pressed Natasha’s contact on his phone.

——

The next morning, you shuffled out of your room in an oversized t-shirt and mismatched socks. Your only mission for the day: retrieve coffee without making eye contact with anyone.

You failed instantly.

All three of your roommates were seated around the dining table, and sitting casually among them, as if she hadn’t just completely caused your soul to leave your body, was her.

Natasha. Romanoff.

The Black Widow.

Former Assassin. Legendary Avenger. Threat to all men.

She was drinking her coffee from one of your ridiculous mugs. She wore no tactical gear, no combat boots, just jeans and a fitted black top, with a posture so immaculate that it made you stand up a little straighter.

Her red hair was braided loosely over one shoulder, and her gaze met yours the moment you entered. She didn’t smile, she didn’t frown, she just looked. It was as if she was quietly assessing whether you were dangerous or just a sad little mess Steve had guilted her into babysitting.

You, of course, chose to freeze like a deer in headlights.

Flattening your sleep-matted hair instinctively, you stood awkwardly in the doorway, wondering if you should apologize for daring to set foot in front of her presence. You didn’t understand why she was here. There was no way someone like Natasha Romanoff wasted time on strangers. She must’ve owed Steve big-time if she came to the loft immediately after he called yesterday.

“Good morning,” Natasha said smoothly, voice low and unreadable. It was a statement, not a greeting. Like a poker player declaring her turn. You stalled in real time, your brain shutting down in a panic. And then, you opened your mouth despite every survival instinct begging you not to embarrass yourself:

“Hi. Wow. Is being hot a requirement to be an Avenger because… damn.”

Silence. You could even hear the birds chirp outside.

Sam snorted into his coffee. Steve blinked slowly like he was rebooting. Bucky coughed to hide what suspiciously sounded like a laugh.

Natasha tilted her head, still expressionless. “Yes,” she said simply, and took another sip of her coffee. “That’s why Sam didn’t make the cut.”

Your laugh came out before you could stop it. It was your first real laugh in weeks, and it caught everyone off guard.

“Okay, first of all, I just didn’t sign the papers, Romanoff,” Sam shot back, pointing his fork at her like it was a weapon. “I was recruited! There were negotiations!”

“Yeah,” she replied dryly. “Negotiations to keep you off the roster.”

Steve hid a grin behind his coffee. Bucky didn’t bother hiding his smirk, though he kept eating like he wasn’t paying attention.

Sam turned to you with a hand over his heart. “I’m being dragged in my own home. Do something,” he said, turning to you with pleading eyes.

You dropped into an empty seat next to Bucky, grabbed a piece of toast, and casually stole a forkful of eggs from his plate. He shot you a look, brows knitting in mild disapproval, but he didn’t stop you.

“Not too much on Sam,” you said with a grin. “He’s an emotional guy. He cried during Paddington 2.”

“He went to prison!” Sam cried, throwing his hands in the air. “Why would you incarcerate a cute little bear who just wanted to make marmalade?!”

Steve nodded solemnly, like he was testifying in court. “It was deeply unfair.”

Natasha raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You’re all unwell.”

“This is my life now,” Bucky muttered, sliding the rest of his eggs your way with a resigned sigh. You beamed at the gesture.

Natasha took a sip of her coffee, eyes scanning you like she was running a background check. Then, finally, she nodded. “Okay. I like you. You’ve got potential.”

You blinked at her, your fork halfway to your mouth. “Potential for…?”

Natasha stood up from her chair, already grabbing her keys off the counter like this was a done deal. “Not sure yet, but you’re coming with me today.”

You choked on your eggs. “What—why?”

“Does it matter?” she said, already halfway to the door.

You looked around the table like someone might save you, but Steve just gave you a thumbs up and took another sip of his coffee. “You’ll be fine.”

“Fine or maybe dead,” you muttered. ‘What’s her idea of fun anyway?” you asked in a small, horrified voice as Natasha opened the front door.

“Get dressed,” Natasha called. “Ten minutes. I leave with or without you.”

Sam leaned back in his chair, grinning. “Congratulations. You’ve been Romanoff’d.”

Bucky, now taking back his eggs, gave you a flat look and a lazy wave. Then, with zero sympathy, he nudged your chair with his foot. “Go. Now.”

You groaned, already standing. “God help me,” you muttered, fast walking to your room like your life depended on it because with Natasha Romanoff waiting at the door, it just might.

——

Spending the day with Natasha Romanoff was nothing like you’d expected, but exactly what you needed. She didn’t drag you to brunch to get bottomless mimosas or ask how you were feeling. Instead, she tossed you into the passenger seat of a black Corvette Stingray, drove like every red light was a suggestion, and took you to an underground boxing gym in Brooklyn where she taught you how to properly throw a punch. You expected sympathy, but she gave you bruised knuckles and a protein bar.

Later, she made you walk through the city with her, mostly in comfortable silence, stopping only to grab overpriced lattes and people-watch like spies on a stakeout. At one point, she handed you a pair of sunglasses and muttered, “Put these on. We’re stalking your ex.” You tried to protest, but she was already leading the way, reciting tire-slashing tips like they were ancient wisdom. “Don’t worry,” she added coolly, “I’ll make sure there’s no trace.” You still don’t know how she found Adam’s car, but you did it, and oddly enough, it felt like therapy.

By the time you got back to the loft, your head felt a little clearer, your shoulders a little lighter, and for the first time in weeks, the tightness in your chest had eased. You didn’t feel fixed, but you finally didn’t feel like rotting for the foreseeable future.

Now, the five of you were sprawled across the loft’s living room, half-watching The Princess Diaries play on the TV. It was Sam’s idea, of course. He insisted that Bucky had to be cultured, and no one else had any other suggestions.

Steve sat on the floor with a bowl of popcorn, fully invested. Bucky was squinting at the screen like he was trying to solve a murder. Natasha, lounging in the armchair with her legs propped on the ottoman, glanced at you. You were pitifully curled up under a blanket with a bowl of ice cream. She gave you a once-over, then turned to Steve.

“She needs a rebound.”

Steve opened his mouth to say something, maybe to disagree, but instead he gave Natasha a thoughtful look and decided to keep his mouth shut.

You choked on your spoon. “I’m sitting right here.”

“Exactly,” Nat said coolly, not missing a beat. “You’re sitting, you’re sad, and you haven’t been laid in…?”

“Do not answer that,” Sam interjected, hands raised. “Please, I beg.”

Unfazed, Natasha went on. “You need someone pretty who’ll tell you your hair looks good and you know… absolutely ruin you in the best way.”

Your face flushed an alarming shade of red as you stared hard at the TV. “I need to get struck by lightning.”

“Whatever you do,” Bucky said flatly from the opposite end of the couch, “Do it at his place. I’m not hearing that.”

Sam gagged dramatically. “Can we not talk about her getting defiled during Princess Diaries?’

“Uh-uh,” Natasha cut in smoothly, already pulling out her phone. “No talking unless you’re volunteering, I need to focus.”

Before anyone could argue, she cast her screen onto the TV, replacing The Princess Diaries entirely. Sam let out a horrified gasp as the screen flickered.

“Nat! Princess Mia was about to give a speech!”

“Shhh,” Natasha waved him off. “This is more important.”

On the screen, three crisp photos appeared in a neat row.

“These,” she said, gesturing toward the candidates like she was presenting a PowerPoint presentation, “are all people we know. Which means they’re not losers… not really. Low emotional investment, good hygiene, passably good-looking. All solid rebound options.”

The screen displayed the following candidates:

Johnny Storm — Shirtless in a bathroom mirror, abs flexed, sunglasses on indoors. There was a 99% chance this selfie had originally been sent to someone else, or possibly everyone else. He looked like the human embodiment of a “wyd?” text at 2 a.m. “This guy? Really?” Bucky sighed, genuinely disappointed. “Slim pickings, huh?” “I’d steer clear with this one,” Steve added with a grimace.

Sébastien Noir — A S.H.I.E.L.D agent with a sleek black-and-white headshot, clearly pulled from a classified S.H.I.E.L.D file (because, of course, Nat had access to that). Dark hair and a darker smirk. Very French, very suave. “Could be the next James Bond,” Natasha said casually. “Or a complete poser,” Bucky muttered under his breath.

Matt Murdock — The Avengers’ lawyer. Crisp navy suit, tousled hair, holding a cane and leaning casually against a brownstone like he walked out of a Jane Austen adaptation if it was directed by Scorsese. “I like this one,” Sam said with a thoughtful nod, “Lawyers have money.”

After much deliberation and a fair amount of peer pressure, you begrudgingly settled on Sébastien Noir. Johnny had given you nothing but red flags, and you didn’t hate yourself enough to fall for a walking thirst trap with the romantic depth of a frat boy..

Matt Murdock, on the other hand, was too much. Too handsome, too smart, and too put together. You weren’t emotionally stable enough to be perceived by someone that kind, and to be honest, it felt borderline disrespectful to label him a rebound.

So… Sébastien it was.

Tall, French, and suspiciously charming, he felt like the safest terrible decision. There was a certain relief in choosing someone who came with low expectations and virtually no risk of actual feelings. If it all went up in flames, you could just blame it on ‘cultural misunderstanding’... or Natasha.

“Are you sure about this…?” Steve asked cautiously, like he might step in and offer a better alternative if you gave him even a hint of hesitation.

“Not really,” you admitted with a frown. “I feel like I’m setting feminism back a few decades.”

“That’s how you know you chose the right rebound,” Natasha nodded while typing something on her phone, probably texting Sébastien himself.

Bucky didn’t even bother commenting. He just sat there, slowly shaking his head like a man watching a car crash.

“What? No notes?” you asked him, raising an eyebrow.

“This is just… unbelievable,” He simply muttered, shoveling another handful of popcorn into his mouth like he was trying to eat away his disapproval.

“To your slut era, I guess,” Sam said half-heartedly, raising his beer before switching the TV back to Princess Diaries like nothing life-altering had just occurred.

——

Later that evening, on your way out of your room to brush your teeth, you caught a glimpse of Bucky standing by the hallway closet you jokingly dubbed the mini armory. The door was open, and dim light spilled out over the floor. He was unraveling a black bundle you vaguely remembered seeing months ago, back when you were just trying to store your cleaning supplies.

You paused in your room’s doorway, unsure if he’d want company.

The cloth slipped from his hands to reveal a silver prosthetic arm with a red star near the shoulder area.

“So that’s what it was,” you said softly, stepping out just enough for him to hear.

Bucky froze. His head turned slightly, shoulders tense. “You were looking around here?”

“I just thought it was a normal closet, okay?” you said quickly, holding your hands up. “I was just looking for somewhere to stash my Swiffer and boom… murder closet.”

That earned the smallest twitch of his lips. Barely.

“I should throw this thing out. Make room for your junk.”

You smiled just a little at the jab. “I don’t know…” You said, tilting your head. “I kinda think you should keep it.”

He gave you a look. “Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because it’s good to have a reminder of how far you’ve come,” you said, meeting his eyes. Then, with a wry twist of your lips, you added, “And also, maybe we can use it as a talking stick. In my class, we pass around this glittery baseball bat to stop the kids from yelling over each other. This could be our version.”

That earned you a real smirk this time, brief but genuine. “You’re weird.”

“Not the worst thing I’ve been called,” you said with a shrug, just as your phone buzzed.

You glanced down at your phone to see a text from Sébastien. Bucky noticed, and his smirk immediately faded.

“You’re going through with Romanoff’s idea?” He asked, crossing his arms.

“Why not?” You replied, shrugging your shoulders. “It could be fun.”

“You’re going to regret it,” he warned, putting his old prosthetic back inside the closet like he was wrapping up the conversation.

“Probably,” you called over your shoulder as you turned to the bathroom, “But at least I won’t be looping Pride and Prejudice in my room anymore.”

Bucky didn’t say anything, he just gave you one last unreadable look before retreating to his room and closing the door with a soft click.

—————————————————————————————————— End Notes: this was so dumb i cracked myself up writing this one. oh and for some reason, when i was writing this i kept imagining Sébastien (original character) as Sebastian Stan when he was the mad hatter in ONCE hashsdhasdhahdfh i need to sleep oh and i will be changing the summaries to look like friends episode titles because why not

tags: @projectjuvia @vibraniumavenger @mommymilkers0526 @iyskgd @pllwprincess @hiraethmae @b1pan1cg1rly @starstruckfirecat @soupiemeowmeow @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @cherrypieyourface @lasnych @okbutiambabygorl @herejustforbuckybarnes @ilistentotayswifttocope @s-sh-ne @ficmeiguess @alagalaska

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coralinnii · 1 year ago

Note

Congrats on reaching the 2.7 K followers milestone!! If it's okay to ask why specifically 2.7 K?

anyways I heard you were taking requests so I'll request something to celebrate with you :-D

I was wondering if you could do one where Idia, Kalim, Azul, Riddle rejects Fem!reader but ends up falling for reader after that, how would they react when they need to reject her and when the realization of them liking her back hits? (I tried to come up with an og idea but idrk if this one is actually good enough writing material :'-D)

‧₊˚✧ Waking up Too Late ‧₊˚✧

↳ Realizing their feelings for fem!reader after rejecting you

feat: Idia ❋ Kalim ❋ Azul ❋ Riddle genre: slight hurt/comfort, open ending note: no pronouns were used but reader is written as a female in mind, reader can be interpreted as Yuu!reader,

Question: Why specifically 2.7K? Well... I wanted to do something when I reached 2k but by the time I finished my initial wave of requests and WIPs, it already reached 2.7K ^_^" There wasn't a real rhyme or reason... I was just really late to the game

extra note: the joke in the start of Azul’s section doesn’t mean anything bad about him in general. It’s just Azul reminds me too much of myself during my younger days and I wasn't the biggest fan of myself back then.

Also, if anyone is wondering... I haven't stopped writing. I was just unable to find time for myself during the last 3 months because my classes and work didn't leave me time to do much outside of that. Seriously, I had assignments due on weekdays AND weekends! If none of you know who I am or didn't even realize I was gone... ignore me and have a good day ^_^

2.7K Followers Writing Event 2023

The Big Ooff

Regardless of Idia’s feelings before or after the confession, he rejected you in fear of change. He was content with the way things are, where he doesn’t have to worry about things like romance and relationships.

Idia can’t imagine being the main protagonist for anything. He’s not the cool main hero or the handsome prince that gets the pretty girl. That's for the extroverts with high charm specs (a.k.a not him). Afterall, when does the NPC ever win?

So when you, his friend and confidant, his solace and only exception, told him that you held feelings more than friendship…well, his system short-circuited.

While the two of you said it wouldn’t change your friendship, you still wanted time away from him to heal the hurt. Idia agreed that the risky emotional roll dealt some real backlash to both of you.

The Realization

Idia tried to deny it, but he started imagining an alternative universe where he did accept your confession that fateful day.

If he were to zone out during his level grinding sessions, he would vaguely envision himself in the same position, but perhaps with you lying next to him or even running your fingers through his flames. These daydreams would surprise him literally off the bed, his aforementioned flames burning a cute pinkish hue.

Some days when he’s browsing around online shops, he would occasionally encounter items that remind him of you.

Now, that in itself is not new but rather it was when he imagined how cute you would be if he got these items for you. Instead of your usual pleasantly surprised thank you, would you lovingly embrace him, maybe even kiss-!

Ortho was startled to see his brother suddenly falling off his gaming chair, with his hands suspiciously covering his face.

Crap, not only did he realize his feelings for you (which in hindsight probably was not surprising in the least), but he actually would like to be in a stupid lovey-dovey relationship with you.

His Next Moves?

Continues to deny everything. So what if he wants a relationship with you? He can’t handle this new step even with these newly realized emotions. Plus, he was the one who blew his own shot by rejecting you the first time.

So, he falls to his coping mechanism which is to deny everything and that he’s perfectly fine the way things are.

When the two of you returned to your typical routine, he tried to keep things the way it used to be, as the same with you.

Except it’s not quite the same.

You weren’t sure if you were being conscious or that it’s been a while since you two hung out, but you felt that Idia was slightly more…attentive you could say?

He would give you first bids of the better controller before picking anything himself. If you seemed the slightest bit uncomfortable while sitting, the blue-flamed senior would offer you a comfier spot on his bed and a blanket if you wanted, before sputtering that he meant nothing weird about it.

He says he’s fine, but Idia’s is in no way the usual closed-off, sometimes cocky genius you knew before. He’s jittery, more prone to shriek and burst into pink flames to any of your gestures, and according to his little brother his heartbeat is slightly faster than usual.

It’s weird…it’s like he actually acknowledges you as a woman…

Oh.

“Ahh, I seriously chose the wrong choice option. The story path…I wonder if I could still salvage a good ending…”

The Big Ooff

Kalim’s overly friendly nature, while harmless, is somewhat misleading and confusing to those around him. I mean, if someone threw a grand luxurious party for you, it’s easy to assume that you were someone special. Unfortunately, Kalim is simply just…too friendly. He would do this and more for just about anyone, no matter how special they may or may not be.

Nonetheless, you still wanted to tell him your feelings. You wanted to tell him how his smile and laugh hastens your heartbeat as you smile back. That you feel butterflies every time he extends his hands to you, coaxing you to dance with the boisterous Housewarden of Scarabia.

To everyone’s genuine surprise, the snow-haired student sincerely apologized to you, not able to return your feelings the same way. All of your friends and also Scarabia was so sure that their Housewarden thought differently of you, but news quickly spread that Kalim never thought about being more than friends with you.

The Realization

To clarify, Kalim never thought about being more than friends with anyone. He’s happy to have so many friends, what more could he possibly want?

But your words did shake him mentally. He never realized that you would feel this way for him. On days when he can’t keep track of the lessons at hand, his mind would doze off and wander back to your confession.

“Hastening heartbeat, feelings of butterflies, always wanting to smile when you do…”

The more he thinks about your love symptoms, he’s realizing how similar those feelings were to his own when he’s around you. It was why he would always try to find you in a crowd, or why he wanted to be your dance partner on any occasion. Sure, he’s happy to be around everyone, but he feels especially good when it's you.

The pieces are connecting, the clogs are aligning, and soon…

“JAMIL, I THINK I’M IN LOVE TOO!”

“IS YOUR LACK OF INTROSPECTION THIS BAD?!”

His Next Moves?

Man is now a fool in love. He has this goofy smile on his boyish face at the slightest mention of you. Everytime he thinks about you, he keeps attempting to buy one or two grand bouquets of flowers for you, each flower as beautiful as you, much to Jamil’s chagrin as the vice-Housewarden has to keep reminding him of a crucial fact.

“You two aren’t dating. Actually worse considering your prior actions.”

Jamil’s brutal but accurate words brought Kalim back to harsh reality as he realized his mistake in not realizing his feelings soon enough. But not one to wallow in the past, Kalim sought to tell you his feelings just as you bravely did before.

Whether I personally think if that’s a smart move is irrelevant

Whatever your response is to him, Kalim would fully respect your choice, prioritizing your comfort and feelings over his newly uncovered ones. Despite his well intentions and honest feelings before the realization, his carelessness hurt you and he needed to consider your healing process.

Kalim would still act like a love-sick fool, however. Buying beautiful trinkets because he thought of you but won’t push them onto you if you couldn’t handle the heavy sentiment (thank Jamil for that).

Though a little more sheepishly, he would still extend his hand to you hoping for a dance, small little gestures to make you smile even the slightest bit brighter…all this and more because “I like you” and nothing else.

Just because he’s slow in figuring things out, his feelings won’t change so easily. This special feeling of happiness, of love… he’s grateful that you taught him this whole new world.

"I’m a little much? Haha, sorry. I get really happy when I see you...It feels nice being in love with you.”

The Big Ooff

Please reconsider

Ahem. Azul has grown accustomed to your presence. Perhaps even look forward to it throughout his daily routine, even assisting you in whatever trouble you always seem to get involved in. Some would accuse him of favoritism, but Azul argued that he was simply a gentleman treating a lady right.

He’s too observant to not notice that these sentiments are somewhat mutual. He thought of you as too kind and generous as to spend your spare time helping him around the lounge or to keep him company when the Leech twins get a little much.

But he was surprised to learn that your feelings were deeper than he initially predicted. There was such sincerity in your voice as you confess your feelings that it shook Azul to his core and turned his human legs weak.

However, he still had so many aspirations he hasn’t reached yet, opportunities he can’t miss. He can’t afford to split his time for something like romance, something that didn't register to him as urgent in the first place. Love is all well and good, but success is better and more tangible.

He’s careful with his words, gratefully thanking you for your confession and complimenting you with a list of traits he admired about you.

But you should know Azul by now. He’s hyping you up before ultimately giving you crushing news. Like a company recruiter telling you weren’t chosen despite your apparent talents.

You knew this, but it still hurts to have your dynamic treated equivalent to that of a business relation.

The Realization

Azul understood you needed time away. Certain things were said that can’t be taken back and it’ll be a while before you two could feel comfortable around each other again.

During this time though, the Housewarden truly felt your absence. He feels it when someone else takes a seat in his office where you usually occupy, when his mealtime feels less fulfilling because you weren’t there to enjoy it with him, when his headaches get worse from stress and you weren’t there to lend a comforting hand.

This sense of void was like a stream of cold water slowly trickling into his body and mind until he felt heavy and almost drowning. What an odd sensation for a deep-sea merman.

His mind became cluttered. He can’t focus on his work when all he could think about is where you might be and what you were doing.

He reached his limit when he realized that he couldn’t even hide this internal conflict from Jade or Floyd when their keen eyes pick on every moment of his loss of focus, and they have an inkling as to the cause.

…Dear Sevens, he might have made a great miscalculation on his own feelings.

His Next Moves?

First off, he’s going to spend some time in his pot. He needs some personal time reflecting over his own obliviousness and self-sabotage.

Once that’s over, he now has to figure out how to remedy this. A plan to get back into your good graces after the blunder.

He is a greedy merman. If he’s going to do something, he wants the best outcome possible, which is you forgiving him and accepting him while forgetting the past even happened.

He’s read through countless relationship books, advice found online, and personal intel that his schoolmates were forced to generous enough to offer under an NDA.

He’ll use the knowledge he remembered from your confession to his advantage, highlighting the parts of himself that he knew you liked about him. He shows off his good side in hopes to reignite what attracted you to him.

If there’s anything to expose his intent with you, it’s the flush of his pale skin when you finally thanked him with that sweet smile he missed so much.

"I’m not one to lose an opportunity when within my reach. However long it takes, I’ll earn back what I’ve foolishly lost.”

The Big Ooff

Riddle was, in all seriousness, taken aback by your confession.

The studious Housewarden of Heartslabyul is definitely smart, but he’s just slightly lacking in the people-reading department.

To him, you were simply a very loving person. He thought perhaps you were on the shyer side but always worrying about his well-being, making sure he’s taken breaks and to enjoy himself between his duties.

You were still a little rambunctious as lately you seem at odds with Ace as you’re quick to smack and silence the mischievous redhead who seems to snicker more often than usual as of late.

Frankly, you left him stunned, his face similar to a deer in headlights. No textbook or lecture has prepared him to reply back to your sincere confession.

In the end, he rejected you while giving his full honesty. Silly things like love and relationships were subjects he never thought to consider in depth, and he wasn’t sure it was something he wanted at the moment.

He tried to explain the best he could, but you couldn't stop the aching feeling of your heart breaking.

The Realization

Your relationship with Riddle took a blow but it was not destroyed. Albeit some awkwardness here and there, life flows relentlessly as usual.

But that fateful day would occasionally sneak its way into Riddle’s mind during his spare moments to himself, recalling your determined face, coupled with his memories of your beautiful, clear eyes.

Nowadays, his heart would tighten, his throat would feel dry, and his breathing would be shallower whenever his thoughts sway towards you.

Spurred by these odd symptoms, he finally looked more into the topic of love. The more he delved into talks on relationships, seminars on emotional attraction, and even tropes from novels, the more it feels as though he’s going down a rabbit hole of new emotional discoveries.

For a while, the Heartslabyul dorm was on edge as they feared for their necks every time their terrifying Housewarden suddenly turned franticly scarlet out of nowhere.

Alone in Riddle’s room, surrounded by articles and books littered on his once pristine desk, Riddle found his conclusion; he’s in love too

His Next Moves?

Riddle isn’t actually sure how to approach you anymore. This whole “in love” experience is all too new to him. He couldn’t bring up this embarrassing topic with any of his peers, and much less with his mother (Sevens knows he doesn’t exactly want to replicate a relationship like his parents).

But he couldn’t handle the sudden sensations of nerves that occur every time he’s close to you. He can’t keep up constantly chastising himself internally for flinching every time he passes a tart or a teacup to you during Unbirthday parties.

He can no longer focus during his study sessions with you as he’s now fighting with himself as he dreams to hold your free hand or to brush a stray lock of hair from your endearing face.

Was it as difficult to deal with as it was for you? Was this the reason you decided to confess to him? But the thought of speaking to you about something so intimate invokes nerves in him that he couldn’t understand.

No, he should learn from your example. If the natural progression of his feelings should be clear communication between those involved, then he will face this challenge as confidently as he does with any other.

Prepare yourself, the stubborn Riddle has made a goal for himself.

“I admit my inexperience has hurt those I cherish. Next time, I will respond to your bravery in kind.”

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