#trapped behind his (camera's) eyes...

[draconicaceart]

Here's my piece for the Counter-Pale Resistance zine! The song used is "Von" from the anime "Terror in Resonance" though the original song is sadly not on youtube. The covers of the song on youtube are still very good if you'd like to listen to them.

Please consider checking the project out; everyone worked really hard on it. And a hearty thank you to @de-fanzine-cpr-pale for organizing everything. The zine looks amazing!!

[sixeyesonathiel]

satoru insists on being your lock screen.

like actually insists. he’s made it his personal mission, his divine right, his sacred duty as your overly clingy, stupidly hot husband. the moment he sees your screen light up with anything that isn’t his face—your cat, a flower, a quote graphic—he gasps like you’ve just committed adultery in 4k.

“...a sunset? a sunset?” he blinks at you like you’ve betrayed every vow. “is the sun a pretty man with ocean eyes? no. do you kiss the sun goodnight? no. do better.”

instead of letting it go like a normal person, he floods you with selfies. hundreds. different lighting. different angles. thirst traps with his shirt pulled up to flaunt the sin that is his eight-pack. mirror pics where he’s flexing. ones where he’s pouting. one where he’s fake crying. him stuffing his mouth with mochi. him dramatically sobbing with a caption that reads, “you used to love me.”

and the worst part? he’s sending all of this while sitting beside you. phone angled down, giggling like a schoolboy, thinking he’s being slick while your inbox explodes. you’re already overwhelmed when you see it.

sandwiched between selfies and spam, a very accidental mirror pic. last night. you, bent over the bathroom counter, absolutely ruined, face flushed, mouth open in a silent gasp, while satoru stands behind you grinning like a menace, very much still inside you. you scream. you hit him. he yelps but laughs, no shame, no apology. “oopsie~” and “you looked so good, though.”

he doesn’t stop even as you glare. now he’s negotiating. bartering. one lock screen slot for a back massage. five minutes of home screen privilege if he orders your favorite takeout. a full 24 hours if he lets you pick the movie and doesn’t complain even once. he even pulls out the big guns—puppy eyes, soft voice, a breathy, “baby… do it for love.”

you roll your eyes, say no, but you’re already folding. he casually shifts on the couch, hand propping up his jaw just right, profile lit perfect by the golden hour. “what about now?” he says, voice all smug, like he doesn’t already know he’s stupidly pretty. “i’m moisturized. glowin’ like your man should. tell me that’s not lock screen material.”

and in his defense? your face is everywhere on his phone. lock screen, home screen, widget rotation. polaroids of you tucked inside his clear case—some with your cheek squished to his, one with your wedding bands on display. siri responds only to your voice. his notifications banner still reads “i ❤️ my wife.”

his favorites bar? just your contact and his camera roll. album names include: “my baby 🫶,” “hot wife hours,” and “the loml fr.” he’s got slow-mo videos of you laughing, candid shots he took while you were sleeping, a live photo of you on your wedding day spinning in your dress. even that pic you told him to delete? it’s buried in a hidden folder titled with a heart emoji and he opens it like it’s the damn grail.

it’s not even a bit—he just genuinely thinks you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. so really, is it too much to ask for one lock screen in return? balance, baby. harmony. fairness in marriage.

you hold your ground for a solid ten minutes. you really do. arms crossed, phone untouched, lips pursed like you’re not even thinking about giving in. but then he starts pulling out the big guns—his stupidly pretty face all soft and glowy from your skincare, his voice low and coaxing like he’s seducing you into sin (he is), whispering, “just a day, baby. for me?” as if it’s not his lifelong mission to conquer your lock screen.

you scoff, bratty and unmoved. “you want me to advertise you on my phone? why don’t you get a billboard?”

“because,” he says, smug, “my wife’s wallpaper real estate is more valuable.”

you shouldn’t cave. you really shouldn’t cave. but then he kisses your cheek, trails down to your jaw, murmurs something sweet and stupid that melts your last nerve. you grumble about being weak for hot idiots, scroll through the absolute onslaught of selfies he sent, and pick the one where he’s grinning—smug, shirt slightly askew, and your lipstick still stamped on his jaw. it’s criminal how good he looks. you fight the urge to bite your lip and sigh like it’s the biggest burden of your life as you set it as your lock screen.

he gasps like he’s just been proposed to. dramatic hand to his heart, eyes glassy, voice warbling as he says, “i’m your lock screen. me. your husband. this is the greatest day of my life.” and then he traps you—physically. throws his whole weight over you on the couch like a human weighted blanket, peppering kisses across your face with alarming speed. “you can’t leave now,” he mumbles into your neck, “this is your new full-time job. cherishing me.”

you groan, swatting weakly at him, but it’s no use—he’s clinging like a damn koala, legs hooked around you, arms locked tight. “satoru,” you wheeze, “get off—” but he just shushes you, smug. “nope. consequences of loving me. should’ve picked the cherry blossom jpeg.”

and because he’s him, he spends the next hour being insufferable. changes your passcode to your wedding anniversary (“for security and romance”), and sets calendar reminders titled “admire husband” three times a day. “any attempt to change it will be met with a lockscreen tax,” he warns, grinning. “one kiss per pixel replaced. i will collect.”

[prlssprfctn]

Metgala had passed once again, and I can't stop thinking about how badly the Batsiblings would judge every look they see. Bruce Wayne taught them to style themselves and be dolls, NOT for this.

Dick, throwing chips in TV: Go, Kylie, go! Give us nothing!

Tim: As the most fashionable sibling out of all of us, I can't stress enough how this pains me.

Stephanie: Be fr, Cass is the most fashionable one, lol.

Damian: Not to appear as Drake's supporter, but Brown, I know that you are not joining us to judge this humiliation ritual, when you wear violet converses with yellow capri pants.

Duke: This year's topic, and the way they handle it, offend me personally. Like. Please. Cassandra, nodding: You would... Slay. Jason: God, I will slay these idiots with my sword, WHAT IS THIS? Another black suit?!

Everyone: *dead silence for a whole minute* Dick, swallowing: That is surely not what I think it is. Jason: I am starting to shoot in a minute. Tim, closing his eyes: I am speechless. Bruce Wayne on their screens, who was invited to the Metgala, but was suggested by the PR-team to wear the most boring outfit, so people would still perceive him as a bimbo with no thoughts behind his big blue eyes: *waving at the camera* Stephanie, scrolling her phone: Oh, that's not a thirst trap edits with this look on my timeline that I see. Everyone: *terrified screech*

[sugarwarachan]

random horny thoughts about bllk men - pt 1

(･ω･)つ andy's notes: still trapped in horny writer block jail!! every single one of them is a menace - mdni

characters: itoshi sae, michael kaiser, isagi yoichi, shidou ryusei, itoshi rin, barou shoei

cws: nsfw, smut, all characters 18+, f reader, s/d undertones to some of these but nothing specifically outlined, can sae be his own warning, masturbation, predator/prey kink, dirty talk, consensual filming, breeding kink, creampie, edging, oral m receiving, lingerie kink

when he catches you pleasuring yourself, sae enacts a very specific form of punishment. he pulls you to the edge of the bed, crouches down, and inspects your pussy up close, humming under his breath with stern disappointment that sends a bolt of arousal through your belly. “you couldn’t even wait an hour for me?” he abruptly pushes you away. “go on then if you’re so desperate. let’s see if you can actually get yourself off.”

kaiser likes to chase you down the streets of his hometown. his legs quickly close the distance; he can hear your strained panting, see the flash of fear in your eyes whenever you turn your head to see how close he is to you. he maneuvers you into a corner easily, using his body to cage you in further. your heartbeat races under his palm; he squeezes tight and laughs when you gasp. "told ya I'd find you, sweetheart."

isagi has a hidden album of videos you’ve made together that he revisits whenever he’s away. he’s gotten really good at filming, angling down to his cock sliding in and out while your embarrassed little squeaks sound off camera. “yoichi, it’s too loud,” he hears you say, followed by his own reply, “I know, baby, this slutty fuckin’ pussy of yours always gets so talkative when I film her. wonder why that is?”

shidou has the nastiest breeding kink known to man. he doesn’t think of it in terms of knocking you up—although when he has your legs folded behind your head, he thinks fucking a little brat into you might not be so bad—he just loves stuffng creampie after creampie into you. the milky ring that forms around his cock when he’s plugged inside your cunt makes this man go fucking feral.

he won’t admit to it, but rin loves it when you edge him. it’s the fourth time you’ve brought him close to orgasm with your tongue and fingers alone and he’s panting and whining on the bed. his hands tangle in your hair, mouth open in a mixture of pleasure and pain. he can’t stop his hips from snapping forward, searching out release along the warm column of your throat. every whimper and moan sounds like it's being dragged from his lips until finally, finally, you hear him say, "please let me cum."

barou loves to see you in lingerie, but has a terrible habit of shredding every piece you own the second he sees it on your body. he's a big guy and he's usually considerate with his size and strength around you (until he isn't swoon), but with those tiny little scraps of lace barely covering your nipples, what else do you expect from him? always makes up for it by taking you shopping for new sets, but inevitably ruins each piece.

2025 © all works belong to @sugarwarachan. do not repost, translate, or steal any of my works. reblogs and comments always appreciated my lil bbs <3

[skyrigel]

Actually obsessed with the idea of helping Simon take thrist traps of himself and cam videos.

He's hot, he's so damn hot and it should be evident enough from his audios going viral, his soft grunts and groans when he's deep in your cunt, all those filthy whispers meant for you making horny viewers out there touching their dripping holes and fisting their cock, but you knew how to spice it up even more, taking those black images with 'backshots with Mrs. Riley audio' and 'eating out Mrs. Riley' even further.

While you would love to put camera on his flushed out face, grunting as you moved your hips over his hard dick, throbbing and twitching inside your warm folds—fucking yourself in best illusion but infact it was Simon's grip on your waist doing most of the work, pumping you over his cock, milking dry— still a mask for him because Simon was yours, and the world wasn't good enough to see what you just could.

Setting the camera in front of him, his legs spread apart and unbuttoned shirt with his full abs and every hard muscle on display. His face hidden behind the mask but the lust, crave in his eyes as you moved around in lingerie was very much visible.

You start the live cam, crawling on your knees with the back of your head to camera, settling between his legs and hearing his breath getting heavy, ragged, and absolute catastrophe. Then with teeth opening that zipper, and Simon moans, his throat exposing with red lipstick perfect within every inch — they're about to hear real noises very soon.

Masterlist

[kekewrites]

Tw. dark content, noncon, obsession, toxic, possessiveness, abandonment issues, sloppy blowjob, throat fucking, manipulation, size kink, overstimulation, name calling (cock-sleeve/warmer/bitch), multiple creampies, cunnilingus, slapping (baby slap though), baby-trapping, angst(?), coercion, dead dove do not eat

***

Thinking about being the manager of a yandere!Idol

You found him wandering in the streets, empty eyes and blank expression on his pretty face. If you didn't look hard you might've missed his tall figure. Being a newbie, you were finding it hard to recruit people but as you were about to go home, you caught sight of his attractive yet hopeless face.

The first time you approach him, he was wary and suspicious of you. Naturally so. But you persevere, introducing yourself as an agent recruiting handsome guys like him in the streets for a chance to become a trainee and become an idol.

"Fuck off. Scram."

That was the first words he said. Harsh. But he was all bark and no bite, like a puppy being defensive. After scuffling for a few minutes you managed to give him your card and phone number, convincing him to at least try.

Then a week later, he called and said yes. His voice was low, hesitant—like he didn’t fully believe in what he was doing, but was too tired of the streets to keep saying no.

You met up with him that same evening, in the same place you first found him. He looked cleaner, but still lost. You took him in without question, gave him food, a place to sleep, and most importantly, a reason to wake up.

For the first few days, he barely spoke. He just slept, ate, and stared at the ceiling like he was trying to remember who he was. You didn’t push. You just stayed nearby, gave him space, but made sure he knew, he wasn’t alone anymore.

Weeks turned into months. Slowly, he started coming back to life. You took care of him, through the bad days when he’d lock himself in his room, through the training sessions where he’d collapse from pushing too hard, through the nights he’d wake up in a cold sweat and pretend he was fine.

And you were always there. With water, with snacks, with a shoulder to lean on.

You watched him grow. From that broken boy on the street into someone who sang with soul, danced with fire, and spoke to crowds with a confidence he never had before.

He became an idol. And every time he stood under the lights, every time fans screamed his name, he always looked for you in the crowd.

Because you didn’t just recruit him.

You saved him.

And that’s when it went wrong.

At first, it was subtle. His smiles came more often when you were around, his tone soft and sugary. He’d cling to your side during breaks, crack jokes, brush your hair out of your face with that charming little smirk. You thought maybe he was just grateful, maybe he was trying to show affection in his own awkward way. After all, he’d been through a lot.

But then, it turned into something else.

He started showing up unannounced. Hovering around your office when he had no schedule. Getting visibly annoyed when you spoke too long with other trainees or staff. The sweet words never stopped, but they started feeling… off. Like they were laced with something heavier. Something darker.

The possessiveness crept in like a slow poison. At meetings, he’d glare at anyone who tried to sit next to you. He'd interrupt your conversations, redirect your attention, cut in with sharp remarks masked as jokes.

You tried to keep it professional, gently reminding him of boundaries, of roles, but he didn't like that.

"Why are you always talking to him?"

"Do you really need to be with them all the time?"

"I'm the reason you’re even doing well now, aren't I?"

And you saw it, in the way other staff avoided him, how they started whispering when he walked by. He was getting harder to work with. More demanding. More unpredictable.

But in front of cameras? He was perfect. The golden boy. Smiling, dazzling, every fan’s dream. But behind the scenes… the boy you once saved was slowly becoming someone else. Or maybe this was who he had been all along, buried beneath the brokenness.

And now, you weren’t sure if you had saved him…

Or created something you couldn’t control.

As his fame skyrocketed, managing him became nearly impossible.

He was everywhere, magazine covers, variety shows, drama cameos. His schedule was packed from sunrise to well past midnight, and you were running yourself ragged trying to keep up. But more than the logistics, it was him. His moods became harder to predict. Some days he was gentle, clinging to you like he used to when he was scared. Other days, he’d snap, throw things, or go cold for no reason.

You were still new to the game. Everyone could see you were trying your best, but it wasn’t enough, not for the industry, and definitely not for him.

The company made the call.

“We think it’s best to assign him a senior manager. Someone with more experience managing top-tier idols.”

They dressed it up as a strategic decision. And honestly? You agreed. Things had gotten too messy. Your once-close relationship had turned into something twisted, confusing, and emotionally draining. You told yourself it was for his own good, that maybe distance would help him reset.

“I’ll still be around,” you told him, forcing a smile. “But someone else will be taking care of your day-to-day.”

He stared at you. Didn’t say anything for a long while. Just stared.

Then, softly, too softly, he said, “You’re leaving me.”

You shook your head. “No. I’m just stepping back. This is better for you. For both of us.”

But he didn’t believe you. You could see it in his eyes. Something in him snapped that day, not outwardly, not immediately but you felt it. Like a quiet storm gathering behind the clouds.

You thought giving him space would help him unwind. Hoping he can finally indulge in the fame he had, probably get a secret girlfriend

You didn’t expect it to be the thing that finally made him unravel.

***

After that, you finally left.

Your first real break in years. You cashed your paycheck, packed your bags, and disappeared for a while, far from rehearsals, stress, and the boy you once pulled off the streets. It felt… weird at first. Empty. But you told yourself it was needed. Long overdue.

You didn’t keep in touch. Not because you didn’t want to but because it felt like the cleanest way to let go. Still, everywhere you went, there he was. His face lit up LED billboards with that same smile the one from when he had just debuted. Back when things were simpler. Sweeter.

You’d stop and stare sometimes, stuck between nostalgia and guilt. Wondering where it all went wrong. Was it the fame? The past he never healed from? Or… was it you?

But even through the ache, you hoped he was doing better. Independent. Stable. Happy. He wouldn’t have a hard time finding a girlfriend, not with that face, that charm, and a fanbase that worshipped the ground he walked on.

You were walking home from a quiet dinner one night, city lights buzzing around you, when you passed another ad of him huge and perfect lighting up the side of a building. You paused without meaning to, lost in your head.

That’s when your phone rang.

You didn’t even check the caller ID. Just answered, out of habit.

“…Hello?”

Silence. Then a voice you hadn’t heard in what felt like forever.

“I missed you.”

You froze.

And then, a shadow stepped up behind you.

A cap pulled low, sunglasses covering most of his face but you knew. You felt it.

He leaned close, his breath warm against your ear.

“You think you’re gonna escape from me?”

Your heart dropped.

Before you could react, he grabbed your wrist, firm, but not violent. Still, it sent your pulse racing. People were around, but no one looked twice. Just a couple under the lights.

“Wait—what are you doing?!” you whispered, trying to pull away.

He smiled, too calm, too practiced.

“Let’s talk. Somewhere quieter.”

***

He didn’t say a word as he dragged you through the maze of streets, only tightening his grip whenever you slowed down. You wanted to pull away, to yell, but something in his silence kept you frozen.

Eventually, he led you into a sleek hotel, one of those high-end discreet places celebrities used when they wanted to disappear. You were too stunned to resist, your mind racing with every step.

The elevator ride was silent.

He pushed the door open, guided you inside, and shut it behind you with a soft click. The curtains were drawn. City lights barely filtered through the fabric.

He finally let go of your wrist and walked ahead, pulling off his cap and tossing it to the couch, glasses following. You watched as he ran a hand through his hair, agitated, pacing the room like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“I looked for you,” he finally said, voice tight. “Every day.”

You said nothing. He turned to face you.

“Why didn’t you call? Text? Anything?”

“It wasn’t my place anymore,” you answered softly. “We needed space. You needed to grow.”

He laughed bitterly. “Grow into what? A product?”

You flinched.

He stepped closer. “So that’s all it was, huh? A business deal? Get the pretty boy off the streets, polish him up, sell him to the world then cut him off once he gets too hard to manage?”

You swallowed, your voice barely above a whisper. “It was never just business. I cared about you. But things got—”

“Complicated?” he snapped. “Yeah. You left when things got complicated.” His voice cracked, the anger just barely covering the hurt underneath. “So your life with me,” he said, slower this time, like each word hurt, “was really just a job?”

You took a step forward, your chest tightening.

“No. It was real. I-I just... you changed.”

“And you didn’t?” he whispered, eyes shining with something fragile anger, betrayal, desperation. “You walked away like I meant nothing.”

"You matter to me—"

“That’s what it felt like. You gave me everything, then took it all back the second I started needing you too much.”

“I didn’t take anything back,” you said, stepping back instinctively. “I was trying to help you. You were becoming... unstable. You needed someone more experienced. I just wanted you to be okay.”

His hands balled into fists.

“Okay? I was only okay when you were there. You made me." His voice rising with desperate anger. In a flash, he grabbed your wrists and dragged you towards the bed, forcing you down onto the plush mattress. Before you could react, he climbed on top of you, straddling your waist and pinning your arms above your head.

"G-Get off me..." you gasped, struggling beneath him. But he was too strong, too determined. His eyes burned into yours, wild and unpredictable.

"No," he growled, one hand still gripping your wrists while the other tugged at his belt. "You don't get to leave me. I won't let you."

He yanked his belt off and tossed it to the side. Then his fingers were at your pants, popping the button and dragging the zipper down. You tried to close your legs, but he forced them open, settling himself between your thighs.

"No, wait-" you started to protest, but he silenced you with a brutal kiss, his tongue invading your mouth, claiming you. His cock was hard and insistent against your stomach, and you knew he wouldn't stop.

"Please," you whimpered when he let you catch your breath. But it was a lie and you both knew it. He'd never listened to your pleas before.

"Shut up. Shut up... Shut up."

He grabbed your hair and pulled your head back, forcing you to look up at him as he undid his jeans and shoved them down just enough to get his cock out. It bobbed in front of you, angry and hungry and so fucking hard.

"Open," he commanded, his grip on your hair tightening painfully.

You hesitated, your lips pressed firmly together. He cursed and slapped your cheek lightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to sting.

"Open your fucking mouth," he snarled.

Tears stung your eyes at the sharp crack against your cheek, but you parted your lips just as he slammed forward, shoving his cock past your teeth and into your mouth. He didn't wait for you to adjust, just started fucking your face with hard, brutal thrusts.

Hurts... He's hurting me...

You choked on his cock, gagging and sputtering as he forced himself deeper and deeper down your throat. Saliva flooded your mouth and spilled out over your lips as he used your mouth like a fuckhole, grunting and groaning above you.

Why is he always... mad at me?

He fucked your face hard and fast, not caring about your comfort, only chasing his own pleasure. Tears streaked down your cheeks as you gagged and choked around him, your throat constricting around his pistoning cock.

He used your mouth ruthlessly, slamming into your throat and pulling out just long enough to catch his breath before plunging back in.

You knew he wouldn't stop until he was satisfied, until he'd emptied his balls down your throat. All you could do was try to breathe through your nose and pray it would be over quickly.

Mine. Mine.

He chanted it desperately under his breath, eyes glazed over with lust and obsession as he continued to viciously fuck your face. His hips slammed against your chin with each brutal thrust, your neck bulging obscenely each time he hilts inside you.

"Gonna...fucking...ruin this...cunt of a mouth..."

He was breathing hard, sweat dripping down his face, lost in his own manic pursuit of release. He needed this, needed to take back control, to reclaim you. You had left him, abandoned him, but now...now you were his again. His to use, his to ruin.

Always wanted...to fuck this...painted whore mouth...of yours...

He could feel his balls tightening, his climax building from the base of his spine. He was going to come, going to fill your belly with his seed, mark you from the inside out. You were going to choke on his cum, swallow it all, and maybe then you'd understand. Maybe then you'd realize you belonged to him, and him alone.

"Fuck! Take it all, you...cock sleeve!"

His fingers tightened in your hair, yanking your head back even further as his hips slammed forward one last time. He hilts inside you, his cock pulsing and jerking as he started to come, flooding your throat and mouth with string after string of hot, thick cum.

Manager... Manager. Manager. I fucking love you.

He groaned long and low, his eyes rolling back in his head as he emptied his balls inside you. His cock jerked and spasmed as he pumped load after load of semen directly into your stomach, your throat bulging obscenely.

"Fuck!" he roared, his voice echoing in the room. "Fuck, yes! Take it all, you fucking...cock warmer!"

He held you in place, forcing you to swallow every last drop, his grip on your hair almost painfully tight. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he pulled out, his softening cock slipping from your abused lips with a wet pop.

He collapsed next to you, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling. You turned your head to the side, gasping for air, your throat sore and raw. Tears and saliva and his own essence coated your face.

"I...I'm sorry," you whimpered, voice hoarse. "I didn't mean to leave you. Please...forgive me..."

He turned to look at you, his expression unreadable. But his eyes, ah his eyes...they were haunted, desperate. Lost.

"Forgive you?"

He reached out and grabbed your chin, forcing you to meet his intense gaze. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip, smearing his own cum back into your mouth. You flinched at the taste, but he held you firm.

Forgive you?

His other hand slid down your body, over your breasts, your stomach, to cup your mound possessively. He squeezed, fingers digging into your tender flesh.

"You'd have to do more than that if you want me to forgive you. I won't let you go again. Ever."

H-Huh?

Before you could catch your breath, he yank your hips up and pulls down your pants and panty. You felt the cool air on your exposed ass and pussy.

"No, wait-" you started to protest, trying to crawl away. But he grabbed your hips in a bruising grip, pulling you back onto his still-hard cock. He rubbed the thick head up and down your slit, coating it in a mix of your spit and his own cum.

"Shut up," he snarled, voice ragged with lust and desperation. "Stop fucking fighting me. Stop resisting!"

With one brutal thrust, he slammed forward, spearing your cunt on his throbbing shaft. You screamed at the sudden intrusion, your walls clamping down around him like a vice. He was too big, too hard, splitting you open.

Hurts... He's being... cruel.

"Fuck!" he roared, starting to piston in and out of your helpless pussy. "Take it! Take my fucking cock!"

He set a punishing pace, the obscene sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. Each thrust jolted you forward, your tits swaying beneath you. Tears poured down your face as he used you, brutalized you, his hips slamming against your ass with every stroke.

But then, he slowed. His grip gentled, fingers kneading your ass almost lovingly as he rolled his hips into yours. He leaned down, lips brushing the nape of your neck, breathing raggedly against your skin.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he murmured, voice hoarse. "So tight. Like you were made for me..."

He peppered kisses along your shoulder blades, his touch almost tender. You shuddered, confused, not understanding the sudden change. He rocked into you, each thrust measured, deliberate, like he was savoring the feeling of your tight cunt gripping his cock. Fuck, so fucking perfect.

"Manager... You're mine, ok? No one... No one can touch you but me!"

But just as suddenly, he changed again. His hips started moving faster, harder, the room echoing with the slap of skin and the creak of the mattress. He hooked an arm under your waist, hauling you back onto every stroke, forcing you to take every fucking inch.

"Yes, fuck!" he bellowed, sweat dripping onto your back. "Gonna...fucking ruin this pussy. Gonna make it mine."

He was panting harshly, his rhythm faltering. You could feel him growing even harder inside you, his cock throbbing erratically against your battered walls. You knew he was close, that he was going to come again.

But then he paused, buried deep inside you, cock pulsing urgently. He gripped your hips, fingers sinking into your skin hard enough to bruise.

"Gonna...fucking...knock you up," he growled. "Breed this cunt. Pump you full of my fucking seed."

You shook your head frantically, a strangled cry escaping your lips at the thought. "No! No, please...don't..."

He ignored you, starting to move again, thrusts growing more intense, more desperate. "Yes," he hissed. "Yes, gonna make you...mine. Gonna keep you...swollen with my child..."

His voice rose with each word, until he was nearly screaming. You could feel his cock jerk and twitch, his climax approaching. He was going to do it, going to come inside you, maybe even...

"Take it!" he roared. "Fucking take it, you bitch! Gonna...fucking...breed you!"

He slammed into you with a last, brutal thrust, his cock erupting deep inside your unprotected womb. You screamed as you felt the hot flood of his seed gushing into you, painting your insides with his come. He groaned long and low, body shuddering, emptying himself inside you.

He panted against your neck, sweat-soaked and sated.

"Manager... You won't be able to run away from me now."

You lay still beneath him, tears leaking from your eyes, a sense of dread washing over you.

He rolled you over, cradling you against his chest, your tear-stained face pressed to his sweat-slicked skin. His arms wrapped around you, holding you so tightly you could barely breathe.

Tilting your chin up, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your heart clench. Gone was the wild, crazed look from before. Now there was only a solemn, almost reverent expression on his handsome face.

"Manager, you're the only one for me," he murmured, voice low and intense. "My heart, my soul... it all belongs to you. Don't leave me again, alright? All the luxuries, all the fame and wealth... it's meaningless without you here with me."

His thumb brushed over your cheek, catching the tears that still leaked from the corners of your eyes. He leaned in closer, forehead pressed against yours, breath mingling with your own.

You want to refuse. Want to push him away, but you're eyes gets blurry with tears, getting overwhelmed. Why you?

He pressed open-mouthed kisses along your neck, your shoulder, your spine, worshipping every inch of your skin like the devoted disciple he claimed to be. Tears leaked from your eyes at the tenderness of his touches, the heartfelt sincerity in his tone.

It's like the old him...

But even as you lost yourself in the gentle glide of his lips, you could feel the desperation radiating off him in waves. This calm, this tenderness...it was a fragile thing.

He's always been such a fragile boy.

His hands roamed your body with a hunger that was almost painful in its intensity. He was trying to memorize you, to burn every dip and curve into his mind.

He hitched your leg up over his hip, opening you to him. You could feel his cock, already hard and ready again, nudging against your thigh, making you freeze.

He... He's still ready?

He was insatiable, this man. He would never be satisfied, would never have enough of you.

His eyes were wild again, pupils blown wide with renewed lust. He notched himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pushing demandingly at your folds.

"Feel this, Manager?" he whispered hotly, pinching and rolling your nipples between his fingers. "Feel what you do to me? How much I just want to... Fuck you, need you..."

"I-I'm still sore... Please, I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that and just let me in your cunt, ok?"

He surged forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust. You cried out, back arching off the bed, your nails digging into his shoulders. He was so deep, so hard, stretching you in ways that made you see stars. He's deeper this time?

"Wah... Your cunt still so tight, you're squeezing me dry~"

He started to move, hips rolling into yours with a force that shook the headboard. Each thrust punched the air from your lungs, left you gasping and mewling beneath him. He was lost in the heat of you, in the way your cunt gripped him.

"Tell me you need it, Manager," he urged, his cock slamming home and stilling, pulsing urgently inside you. "Tell me you want this... want me... as much as I need and want you!"

He pumped harder, faster, chasing his pleasure, his release. The room filled with the crude slap of skin against skin, with your choked cries and his grunts. He was going to come again, you could feel it in the erratic jerk of his hips, in the way his cock pulsed and throbbed inside you.

"Fuck!" he roared, slamming into you one last time. "Fuck, Manager, fuck!"

"N-no! Don't do it inside again!"

You bit your lips, muffling your ecstasy as you felt the hot rush of his come flooding your womb, your own orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your vision swam, your body shaking with the force of it.

He's gonna come inside... I'll get pregnant at this rate...

And then, with a long, guttural groan, he was coming again. His cock erupted like a fountain, pumping spurt after spurt of his hot cum deep into your hungry womb. The sensation was too much... too intense... and you felt yourself plummeting into oblivion, the darkness claiming you as his release seemed to go on and on.

The last thing you heard as you drifted off was his ragged voice, panting your name like a prayer.

"Manager... Manager... Manager! I love you! I love you! I fucking love you!"

***

You stared up at the ceiling, the memories of the past playing out like a movie reel in your mind. You could see him there, a young and nervous pop sensation, gripping your hands tightly as you offered him words of encouragement and support.

"You've got this," you had said, squeezing his fingers reassuringly. "Go out there and give them the performance of a lifetime. They're waiting for you."

"Okay," he nodded, squaring his shoulders with newfound determination. "Okay, Manager. I can do this. With you by my side, I can do anything."

He stepped out onto the stage. The crowd had gone wild, their screams and cheers a tangible force that seemed to lift him up and carry him forward. He had shone under the hot lights, his voice ringing out clear and strong, his movements confident and sure.

And you had watched from the wings, your heart swelling with pride and love as you beheld the man you had helped to create. He was more than just your client, more than just your star - he was your greatest achievement, your crowning glory. You had taken a scared and scrawny boy and molded him into a god among men, a king among the elite.

But now, as you lay there in the dim light of the bedroom, you could feel the weight of that responsibility crushing down on you. It was your fault, after all, that he had become this twisted and broken creature, this monster who would dare to touch you without your consent, to hold you against your will.

His arms tightened around you, crushing you against his chest, his breath hot and heavy against the back of your neck. He was saying all the right things, murmuring all the right words, but you could feel the dark intent behind them. The gentleness was a lie, a mask he wore to hide the cruelty that lurked beneath.

"Shh, it's alright," he cooed, his lips brushing your ear. "Don't cry, I'm here now. I'll always be here for you, no matter what."

But you didn't want him here. You didn't want his comfort or his affection or his twisted version of love. You wanted him to let you go, to release you from the nightmare that had become your life. You wanted to be free of him, to run until you couldn't run anymore, to disappear and never be found again.

But you knew it was impossible. He would never let you go, would never allow you to leave him. He needed you too much, depended on you for his every breath and his every heartbeat. And as long as you remained by his side, as long as you stayed in his life… he would never stop hunting you, never stop pursuing you until he had claimed you completely.

It was a bitter realization, a cruel twist of fate that left you feeling hollow and empty inside. You had once believed that you could save him, that your love and your guidance could be enough to keep the darkness at bay. But now… now you knew the truth. You knew that you had been the one to nurture the seeds of his madness, to feed the flames of his obsession until it had grown into an all-consuming inferno.

And so you lay there, trapped in his embrace, tears leaking down your face as you prayed silently for a miracle, for some way out of this nightmare. But deep down, you knew that there would be no miracle, no divine intervention to come rescue you from the man you had once called your star.

You had been his manager, his guide, his friend… and his downfall. And now, you would bear the consequences of your choice for the rest of your days.

With a sob catching in your throat, you closed your eyes and surrendered to the darkness, praying that when you opened them again… you would be somewhere, anywhere else. But far away from here, and far away from him.

Though, you only have yourself to blame.

You were the one who scouted him after all~

Stupid manager.

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #28

Danny Fenton stormed into the Daily Bugle building like a man possessed, camera slung over his shoulder, sneakers squeaking against the linoleum. His black T-shirt was on inside-out, his jeans had something suspiciously green on them (was that ectoplasm? Probably), and he looked two seconds away from spontaneous combustion. “I GOT THE SHOT!” he howled across the bullpen, startling at least three interns into dropping their coffees.

From behind a stack of papers that looked like it could topple and kill him at any moment, Peter Parker popped his head out like a whack-a-mole. His brown hair was tousled from stress and probable head scratching, and his sharp brown eyes narrowed like a cat spotting a laser pointer. “What shot?” he said, voice dripping with suspicion.

Danny slapped a photo onto the nearest desk, narrowly missing someone’s lunch. It was a pristine, perfectly lit shot of Phantom — that is, himself — battling some ugly sludge ghost over Times Square. Midair. Lighting perfect. The skyline behind him dramatic as hell. He looked like he belonged on a propaganda poster for ghost superheroes.

Peter’s nostrils flared.

J. Jonah Jameson himself, like a vulture sniffing out fresh blood, materialized from his office with the speed of a man half his age. “FENTON! MY BOY!” he bellowed, grabbing Danny’s shoulder with a grip that felt like being caught in a bear trap. “THIS is what I’m TALKING ABOUT! Parker, you see this? This is journalism!”

“I take great shots!” Peter barked defensively. “Better than this amateur!”

“You take shots of that masked menace Spider-Man standing still like a mall Easter Bunny!” Jameson roared. “Fenton here got the flying ghost punk throwing a goddamn ghost punch! Action! Drama! Fear! It’s what the public wants!”

Danny tried very hard not to preen like a smug cat. Peter looked like he wanted to throttle him with the camera strap.

Danny leaned over Peter’s shoulder with all the subtlety of a Mack truck. “You know,” he whispered, “maybe if your subject actually moved once in a while instead of just posing for you, you’d have better material.”

Peter gritted his teeth so hard Danny could practically hear them shattering. “Maybe if your subject wasn’t a literal glowing neon sign with no sense of stealth, your photos wouldn’t look like paparazzi shots from a concert.”

“Oh, is that why my shots sell and yours just gather dust in the bargain bin?” Danny chirped.

“Screw you,” Peter said sweetly.

“Boys!” Jameson barked. “Less flirting, more photos!”

Danny and Peter exchanged murderous glares, which lasted exactly until Jameson stomped away and slammed his office door so hard the windows rattled.

“I hope Phantom drops you off a building,” Peter muttered.

“I hope Spider-Man webs your face to a moving bus,” Danny hissed back.

Neither of them knew that later that night, Phantom and Spider-Man would be perching on a water tower together, eating street tacos and gossiping about the villains they’d fought that day.

“You’re kidding,” Phantom — aka Danny, in his ghost form, white hair glowing faintly under the moonlight — said, laughing so hard he nearly fell off the water tower. “Green Goblin threw a pumpkin bomb at you? Seriously?”

Spider-Man, legs dangling off the edge like a kid on a swing set, groaned into his mask. “It wasn’t even Halloween. I don’t even get thematic consistency. And he monologued for like twenty minutes about being the ‘spirit of mischief’ or some crap. Like, bro, get new material.”

Danny howled with laughter, clutching his stomach.

“And what about you, Casper?” Spider-Man teased, nudging him with an elbow. “You and that sludge monster. Heard it made Times Square look like a Nickelodeon Kids’ Choice Awards slime zone.”

“It tried to eat a hot dog cart,” Danny said, still giggling. “I had to bribe it with a corn dog just to get it off the vendor.”

There was a long, comfortable silence as they sat there, munching on tacos, the city sprawling out beneath them.

“Hey,” Spider-Man said after a moment, “you ever feel like… weirdly lucky? Like… we’re the only sane people in this town?”

Danny snorted, accidentally inhaling some shredded lettuce. He coughed violently. “Oh, God, no. I’m the most unhinged person I know. You’re just enabling me.”

“Glad to be a bad influence,” Spider-Man said solemnly, bumping his shoulder.

They grinned at each other, the best of friends, utterly oblivious that by day they were mortal photographic enemies ready to commit homicide over who got the front page.

The next day, Peter and Danny both showed up to the Bugle at the exact same time, both slamming their best new action shots onto the desk with the kind of passive-aggressive force that cracked the laminate.

Jameson, sipping what smelled like pure battery acid from his coffee cup, squinted at both photos. One was Spider-Man in a perfect mid-swing action shot, muscles taut, city blurred behind him. The other was Phantom blasting a giant ghost in the face with a green energy blast, looking like an angel of vengeance with glowing eyes.

Jameson looked up at both of them. “I’m putting them both on the front page,” he said gruffly.

Danny and Peter stared at each other in horror.

“Joint credit,” Jameson added gleefully.

“WHAT?!” they shouted in perfect unison.

“I’M NOT SHARING A BYLINE WITH HIM!” Peter shrieked.

“HE STILL USES AUTOFOCUS!” Danny screamed.

“I’LL AUTOFOCUS YOUR FACE!”

“I’LL SHOVE A CORN DOG UP YOUR–”

“OUT!” Jameson roared. “OUT, BOTH OF YOU, BEFORE I THROW YOU OUT!”

They bickered all the way down the hall, accidentally knocking over a filing cabinet, a poor intern, and somehow setting a potted plant on fire.

Later that night, Phantom showed up to their usual rooftop hangout with two burritos and a soda.

“You will not believe the jackass I had to deal with today,” Danny said, dropping dramatically next to Spider-Man. “This punk at my job thinks he’s better than me just because he’s been there longer or whatever. I swear to God, if I wasn’t trying to maintain a secret identity–”

“Bro,” Spider-Man said sympathetically, handing him the soda. “I feel you. There’s this guy at my job too. Cocky little bastard. Thinks he’s so great because he got a few good shots of you.”

Danny nearly choked. “Of me?”

Spider-Man nodded. “Yeah. Just because you are a little flashy, everyone thinks it’s hard to get a decent shot of you. Like, no offense. All that brat needs to do is just stand there with a camera for five minutes and he’ll get praised by our boss.”

Danny felt personally attacked but chose to let it slide. “Sounds rough, man.”

Spider-Man peeled off a piece of his burrito. “Maybe we should swap workplaces. You go deal with my guy, I deal with yours. Mutual destruction.”

Danny smirked. “Tempting. But I don’t think I could survive two minutes without punching Parker in the face.”

Spider-Man nearly dropped his burrito. “Wait. Did you just say Parker?”

Danny froze. “Uh. No? Maybe? Shut up.”

Spider-Man leaned closer, suspicious. “Do you work with Peter Parker?”

“Do you?” Danny shot back.

They stared at each other.

“Wait,” Danny said slowly. “You know him?”

Spider-Man shrugged. “Yeah, kinda. I work…in the vicinity.”

Danny narrowed his eyes. “So you know he’s an annoying, smug, camera-hogging little–”

Spider-Man laughed nervously. “Haha, uh… yeah… he sucks…”

Danny glared at him, not buying it.

Spider-Man cleared his throat. “ANYWAY. Uh. You know what else sucks? Ghosts. Ghosts suck. No offense again.”

Danny laughed and threw a chip at him. “None taken, Webhead.”

Meanwhile, across town, Peter was already spiraling internally.

“Oh my God, my best ghost buddy is probably best friends with my biggest work rival.”

“Oh my God, my best ghost buddy IS my biggest work rival.”

“Oh my God, I am the problem.”

The true chaos didn’t erupt until the annual Bugle Staff Picnic.

Danny showed up late, sweating through his T-shirt, sunglasses perched on his nose, and a single bag of chips as his contribution. He was halfway through dodging Karen from Accounting’s attempt to set him up with her niece when he froze.

Peter Parker was across the lawn. Talking animatedly to someone. Gesturing. Laughing.

Laughing exactly like Spider-Man.

Danny’s soul left his body.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no, no, no.”

Peter turned. Their eyes met across the sea of coworkers.

Danny saw realization dawn in Peter’s eyes at the exact same time.

Both of them mouthed a silent “OH SHIT.”

Peter dropped his burger. Danny dropped his chips.

They sprinted toward each other at full speed. Everyone else thought it was some dramatic teenage romance moment and started cheering.

“What the hell!” Danny whispered-hissed as they collided behind a conveniently parked hot dog cart. “You’re Spider-Man?!?”

“What the hell!” Peter whispered-hissed back, grabbing Danny’s collar. “You’re Phantom?!?”

They stared at each other in horror.

And then, slowly, devilish grins spread across both their faces.

“You know,” Danny said thoughtfully, “we could use this.”

Peter leaned in conspiratorially. “Team up?”

“Ruin everyone’s lives?” Danny agreed.

“Front page domination,” Peter said.

“Partners in crime,” Danny added.

They shook on it, sealing a blood pact of chaos neither the Bugle nor New York City would ever recover from.

J. Jonah Jameson watched from his office window, sipping his coffee suspiciously.

Something told him he was about to have an aneurysm before the summer was over.

[navybrat817]

Love drunk Bucky! What about a drunk reader?

Yes, we've seen drunk!Bucky in Pretty Girl. A drunk reader could be fun.

Your Girl

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: You're very vocal about wanting Bucky Barnes.

Word Count: Over 1.7k

Warnings: Drunk reader with no filter, drunk confession, dirty talk, humor, slight feels, talk of consent and communication, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Hope you lovelies enjoy. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

“Raw. Next question.”

You sipped your drink, the room going eerily silent. It was the quietest it had been since everyone gathered in the lounge for some drinks hours ago. Pairs of eyes stared at you with a mix of fascination and shock as your words hung in the air.

Just moments ago, Clint had been going through his phone and showing everyone candid photos he managed to snap of everyone. Most of them were hilarious, but the most recent one wasn't hilarious at all. It was clearly hot based on your reaction.

“What did she say?” Steve whispered to break the silence.

“You heard what she said. Everyone heard it,” Sam whispered back, giving you a quizzical stare. “How many drinks have you had?”

You held up a finger followed by another couple. “Like this many. And water. Hydration is so important.”

“Hold on. Back to what you said a second ago.” Clint turned the phone toward him with a raised brow and slowly turned it back toward you so you could see it again. “You know that’s a picture of Barnes, right? Not some model or actor?” he asked.

Bucky Barnes, the beefy super soldier who was trying not to shatter the bottle in his metal hand as he watched the scene unfold before his eyes. Clint managed to snap a photo of him when he removed his shirt after a recent workout, which begged the question of why he was taking the photo to begin with. Bucky wasn’t looking at the camera since his eyes were shut, but his parted mouth, slightly messy hair, and sweat shining off his torso made him look like a thirst trap. The sweatpants only made the picture that much hotter.

“Yeah, I know. He’s hot. We all know he’s hot,” you shrugged. “And I said what I said.”

Bucky audibly exhaled. You had a penchant for being very honest with the team which they appreciated. If someone asked for your opinion or thoughts on something you didn’t hide how you felt. You were careful not to be cruel if you disagreed with anyone, but you still led with honesty. Alcohol didn’t change that.

So, if you said you thought Bucky was hot and you wanted him to fuck you raw, you meant it.

Clint exchanged a quick glance with Natasha before the redhead nodded to the spot beside you. The spy looked like she was having a hard time not smiling. “And you know he’s sitting next to you, right?” she asked.

You downed the rest of your drink and shrugged again. “Yeah, I know. And I’d let him fuck me raw. Every day. Twice on Sundays,” you said unapologetically as Steve coughed. You swung your head toward Bucky with a sultry smile and leaned in a little closer. He smelled your perfume before you sat down tonight, but now the sweet smell combined with your natural scent was making him dizzy. “You’d fuck me raw, right? Maybe fuck me from behind so you can get nice and deep.”

The bottle shattered which only made you smile more. Bucky’s nostrils flared and everyone backed up a few inches, except for you, the newest member of the team. The person who loved to leave little treats and snacks for him to make sure he ate throughout the day. The same person who made a show of bending over and stretching in front of him whenever you two worked out together. The only one who seemed to get a real smile out of him since you showed up like a shining beacon of happiness and sass.

And now you were telling him you want him to fuck you. Raw. He thought about it, of course- how wet and snug you’d feel around his bare cock, how you’d take him like a good girl. He pictured you sobbing his name and squirming as he pinned you down and brought you over the edge again and again. Licking his lips, he imagined the taste of your arousal on his tongue and wondered if he could make you squirt. He sure as hell wanted to try.

Bucky heard Thor’s footsteps, but didn’t take his eyes off you as the God of Thunder took a seat. “Clearly, I’ve missed something.”

“I said I want Bucky to fuck me raw,” you said without missing a beat.

Bucky bit back a groan. He was two seconds away from throwing you over his shoulder like a caveman and taking you away from everyone. There were so many filthy things he wanted to say and do to you…

And your bluntness didn’t seem to bother the blonde. “I thought you two were already having relations. With how close you two-”

“I’m sorry. Did you just say ‘relations’?” Clint asked. “Relations.”

“Is that not what they’re discussing?” Thor asked, taking a sip from his flask. “Though if there is no protection there is the risk of procreating, but they would have beautiful offspring.”

You leaned in a bit closer, but Bucky gripped your arms to move you away from his spot. “I don't want the glass to cut you.”

“You're so thoughtful. And amazing,” you smiled. He adored your smile. “And if a breeding kink is what you’re into, actually breeding me or not, I’m all for it. I’m wet just thinking about it.”

Thor laughed and held up his flask. “That’s the spirit.”

Bucky’s cock twitched in his pants. “I know you’re wet. I can smell it,” he all but growled. He inhaled so deeply he could actually taste it, and he wanted more. And if he could smell it, Steve could smell it.

“Okay then.” Clint removed his hearing aid. “I think I’m done.”

Steve jumped up when his best friend glared at him. “I think I’m done, too,” he said, not wanting to face Bucky’s wrath even though it wasn’t his fault he also had heightened senses.

“Let’s go, boys. I think these two should talk without us,” Natasha suggested, hauling Sam up by the arm and giving both of you a wink. “Be good, okay?”

“No promises,” you replied in a sing-song voice.

“Shouldn’t they get a room? I’m just saying,” Sam said as Natasha dragged him away.

“Breed her well, Barnes. Make us proud!” Thor shouted. Steve hauled him from the room, too, with Clint hot on their tail.

“Alone at last,” you giggled. If you were at all embarrassed, it didn’t show. And now that the two of you were alone, the tension skyrocketed. “You know, this isn't how I pictured saying any of this, but here we are.”

“Here we are,” he said. He couldn't believe you wanted him, but you did.

“I hope I didn’t make you feel uncomfortable or weird. I’d never want that.”

“That’s the last thing I feel,” he exhaled, still gripping your arms when you finally moved into his lap and straddled him.

“Good,” you smiled, leaning in for a kiss.

As much as he wanted to feel your lips against his, he stopped you. And as much as he wanted to tear your leggings away and have you then and there, but he couldn’t. “I’m not fucking you. Not tonight.”

The playfulness slipped from your eyes. So did the smile from your face. “Oh. I thought…” you breathed, looking away and quickly blinking. God, he hoped there weren’t tears in your eyes. “You don’t actually want me, do you?”

Bucky hadn’t meant for his words or stopping the kiss to come across as rejection, but that was exactly what happened. “That’s not–”

“Oh, my God. I ruined everything, didn't I? Why did I open my mouth?” You sniffled and tried to move away, but he wouldn't let you. “Six months of friendship and crushing on you and I-”

“Hey. You didn't ruin a thing.” Bucky gripped your chin with tenderness he didn’t think he was capable of anymore, and his heart broke when he saw the tears swimming in your beautiful eyes. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone in my life,” he admitted, brushing a tear away that fell. “But you’ve been drinking, and that means you can’t fully consent, and I will not take advantage of you, no matter how you say you want me or this. I respect and care for you too much for that.”

HYDRA took consent away from Bucky for a long time, and it was one of the worst feelings in the world. He’d hate himself for doing anything with you without your full consent. He wouldn’t be the kind of man who did that. The man you deserved would be the one who properly took care of you in and out of bed.

And he’d be the best man for you if you let him.

“So, you do want me?” you asked, your voice uncertain.

“I did say more than anyone else, and I meant it,” he replied. You had to believe him. “But our first time should happen when you're sober.”

However you wanted your first time to be, he'd make it happen. He'd make love to you or fuck you or both. As long as there was clear consent and communication, he’d give you everything you needed and more, and he knew you'd do the same for him.

The smile you gave him repaired the cracks in his heart. “You’re a good guy, Bucky,” you said, snuggling against him. “And it isn’t just sex I want, but, well, I do want to have sex with you.”

“You’re adorable,” he chuckled and rested his chin on your head. “And I know. It isn't just sex I want either.”

Bucky wanted to take you to bed, but he also wanted to take you out on dates. He wanted to make you laugh and smile, wipe your tears and comfort you when you cried, and be the one you confided in. He wanted to be your man, and he wanted you to be his best girl.

“I wanna be yours,” you sighed as if you read his mind, his heart skipping a beat. “Can I be your girl?”

“Yeah.” He closed his eyes when he kissed the top of your head. “You can be my girl.”

And tomorrow once you were sober, he’d officially ask you to be his girl.

Happy Moanday, lovelies! Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[amirasainz]

Hey, can write one where rbr!reader and Ollie prank the grid and tell them that Ollie accidentally got her pregnant. Maybe they all have different reactions. Pretty please♥️

Enjoy reading and send some requests!!!

I am currently obsessed with writing driver!reader, so maybe some requests for her or similar to this story.

-xoxo babygirl 💜

The greatest prank of all times

The sun had barely risen over the paddock when Y/N and Ollie, full of mischievous energy, hatched their plan. Both young, vibrant, and constantly on the lookout for some fun to break the tension of race weekends, they decided it was time to pull a lighthearted prank on their fellow F1 drivers. It wasn’t often the grid got to see the two of them in action, but today was going to be different.

Y/N, the youngest driver on the grid and a star for Red Bull Racing, teamed up with Ollie. They had been best friends for years, their bond often the source of harmless trouble. This time, however, they were aiming for something bigger—a prank the grid would never forget.

They booked a small, private room in the Red Bull hospitality area. It was cozy, with just enough space for a couch, a table, and a couple of chairs. Perfect for their "serious" conversation. Hidden cameras were expertly positioned around the room, capturing every angle without raising suspicion. They’d already tested the setup earlier in the morning, making sure every tear and every frantic gesture would be caught on film.

The story was simple yet effective. Y/N would pretend to be distraught, eyes puffy and red as if she’d been crying all night. Ollie would play the role of the nervous boyfriend, pacing the room, wringing his hands, and muttering apologies under his breath. The "problem"? Y/N was "pregnant," and they didn’t know what to do.

To make it believable, they sent text messages to each driver on the grid, tailored to their personalities:

"Hey, I really need to talk to you. It's serious. Can you come to the Red Bull lounge? Please don’t tell anyone."

One by one, the drivers were lured into the trap.

Y/N and Ollie ran through the scenario a dozen times before anyone arrived.

"Okay, so you’re crying, and I’m like, ‘I don’t know what to do!’ And then maybe I sit down and put my head in my hands?” Ollie suggested, pacing the room.

“Yeah, yeah, and I’ll be like, ‘I’m so scared!’ and then just stare at them for help. They'll definitely freak out!” Y/N added, barely suppressing a laugh.

----

The first text had already been sent, and the countdown began. Y/N dabbed her cheeks with a damp tissue, smearing her mascara slightly to complete the "crying" effect. Ollie threw on a hoodie and deliberately messed up his hair, making himself look as if he hadn’t slept.

"Alright, camera rolling?" Ollie asked, glancing at the monitor hidden behind a stack of Red Bull merchandise.

"Rolling," Y/N confirmed, grinning despite herself.

The door creaked open, and the sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway.

“Showtime,” Ollie whispered, shooting Y/N a conspiratorial wink before slumping into character.

The first victim was about to walk in.

----

The door opened slowly, and Lewis stepped into the room, his presence immediately filling the small space. His usual calm and reassuring demeanor was evident as he scanned the room, his eyes softening when he saw Y/N with her head in her hands, shoulders trembling as if she were crying. Ollie, meanwhile, was pacing frantically, his hands running through his hair like a man on the verge of a breakdown.

"Hey, hey, what’s going on?" Lewis asked gently, closing the door behind him. He moved toward Y/N, lowering himself to her level on the couch. "Y/N, are you okay?"

Y/N sniffled dramatically, her face buried in her hands. She peeked at Ollie from the corner of her eye, who nodded ever so slightly, signaling her to go ahead.

“It’s— it’s bad, Lewis,” she whispered, her voice shaking.

Lewis immediately placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, his tone soft and full of concern. "It’s okay. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out together. Just breathe, alright?"

Ollie let out a shaky sigh, his pacing picking up. "I messed up, Lewis. I really messed up."

Lewis glanced between the two, his brows furrowing. "What happened? You two are scaring me."

Y/N wiped her eyes dramatically, hesitating for a moment before blurting out, "I’m pregnant."

Lewis froze, his expression blank for a second as he processed the information. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out immediately. The weight of the news settled over the room like a thick fog.

Then, he took a deep breath, his face softening once more. "Okay. Alright," he said, nodding slowly. "First of all, it’s going to be okay. Both of you, calm down. We’ll figure this out together."

He turned to Y/N, his voice gentle and steady. "Y/N, does anyone else know? Your parents?"

Y/N shook her head, biting her lip. "No. We don’t know how to tell them. I don’t even know what to do," she mumbled, her voice cracking.

Lewis exhaled, leaning back slightly as he processed the situation. "Alright. Here’s what I think. You need to talk to them. They’ll be shocked, sure, but they love you. They’ll want to help."

Y/N gave a small, hesitant nod, while Ollie finally stopped pacing, standing awkwardly by the couch.

"But listen, Y/N," Lewis continued, looking her directly in the eyes, "this is your decision. Whatever you want to do, it’s your choice, and no one else’s. Don’t let anyone pressure you into anything, alright?"

She nodded again, sniffing.

Lewis then turned his attention to Ollie, his gaze serious but kind. "And you, Ollie. You need to ask yourself something important—do you want to be a dad?"

Ollie gulped, glancing at Y/N before muttering, "I—I don’t know. I mean, I want to be there for her, but I’m scared."

Lewis placed a hand on Ollie’s shoulder, grounding him. "That’s natural. But if this is happening, you need to be ready to step up. Support her. Be a team. This isn’t just about you anymore."

Ollie nodded, looking genuinely thoughtful, even as he fought the urge to crack a smile at how seriously Lewis was taking it all.

"Listen, both of you," Lewis said, his tone resolute. "Whatever happens, I’m here for you. You’re not alone in this. I’ll help you figure things out, no matter what you decide. You can call me anytime, alright?"

Y/N let out a small sob, hiding her face again to disguise her laughter. It was Ollie who couldn’t hold it in any longer. He burst out laughing, doubling over as the tension in the room snapped like a rubber band.

Lewis looked utterly confused. "Wait—what’s happening?"

Through her fake tears, Y/N managed to choke out, "It’s a prank! We’re joking!"

The realization dawned on Lewis, and he leaned back, his mouth falling open in disbelief. Then, he started laughing, shaking his head. "You two… are terrible. I was ready to call your parents!"

Y/N and Ollie were in hysterics, tears of laughter streaming down their faces.

Lewis stood, hands on his hips, a bemused smile playing on his lips. "I hope you know, you’ve got a prank coming your way now."

Even as they laughed, they knew they’d never forget how kind and supportive Lewis had been.

----

The door opened, and Charles stepped into the room, his brow already furrowed with concern. "Y/N? Ollie? What’s going on?" he asked, his voice edged with worry as his eyes darted between them.

Y/N sat curled up on the couch, her head down and shoulders shaking as if she’d been crying for hours. Ollie, meanwhile, was pacing like a trapped animal, muttering under his breath. The atmosphere in the room was heavy, and it immediately put Charles on edge.

“Y/N,” Charles said softly, stepping closer. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

Y/N sniffled dramatically, peeking up at Ollie, who gave her a quick nod to go ahead. She hesitated, biting her lip, and finally whispered, “It’s really bad, Charles.”

Ollie stopped pacing and ran a hand through his hair, letting out an exaggerated, shaky sigh. “We… We don’t know what to do, man.”

Charles’ expression shifted to alarm, his hands fidgeting nervously as he crouched down to be at Y/N’s level. “Okay, okay. Just tell me. What happened?”

Y/N took a deep breath, her voice trembling as she finally said, “I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, it looked like Charles had been struck by lightning. His face went pale, his eyes wide as he stared at them in disbelief. “You’re… pregnant?” he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

Y/N nodded, her lip trembling, while Ollie looked down at the floor, rubbing the back of his neck like a guilty schoolboy.

Charles sat back on his heels, visibly struggling to gather his thoughts. He rubbed his face with his hands, exhaling shakily. “Mon Dieu,” he muttered. “Okay… Okay.”

After a moment of silence, he stood, trying his best to mask his panic with determination. “It’s… It’s not the end of the world, okay? It’s hard, yes, but we can figure this out. You’re both so young, but… we’ll make it work.”

Charles looked at Y/N with genuine sincerity, his voice soft. “If you need somewhere to stay, you can live with me. Both of you. My home is open to you.”

Y/N sniffled again, nodding while biting her lip to suppress a smile.

“And… And I can help, financially, emotionally—whatever you need,” Charles continued, pacing now, his hands moving expressively. “This is big, but you’re not alone. You’ve got me, okay?”

Ollie looked up, his face a picture of fake anguish. “Thanks, Charles. That means a lot.”

Charles stopped pacing and turned back to them, his eyes glassy with emotion. “Listen,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. “I know this is overwhelming, but it’s also… it’s also something to celebrate.” He gestured between them. “New life. That’s something beautiful. Scary, yes, but beautiful.”

Before either of them could respond, Charles stepped forward and pulled them both into a hug, holding them tightly. “You’re going to be okay. Both of you. I’ll make sure of it.”

Y/N buried her face in his shoulder to stifle her laughter, while Ollie awkwardly patted Charles on the back, barely able to contain his own giggles.

“Charles,” Y/N finally said, her voice muffled.

“Yeah?” he replied, pulling back to look at her.

“It’s a prank,” she blurted out, a burst of laughter escaping her.

Charles froze, his jaw dropping as the words sank in. “Quoi?”

Ollie was already doubled over with laughter, and Y/N followed suit, tears streaming down her face—not from crying but from laughing so hard.

Charles stood there, his face a mixture of shock, betrayal, and relief. “Are you serious? You… You scared me to death!”

Y/N gasped for breath, still laughing. “I’m sorry, Charles! We couldn’t resist!”

Charles shook his head, a small smile breaking through his initial disbelief. “You two are unbelievable. I was ready to start building a nursery for you!”

As the laughter died down, Charles joined in, shaking his head at their antics. “You’re lucky I love you both. But you’d better watch out, because revenge is coming.”

-----

Oscar opened the door, his brow furrowing at the sight in front of him. Y/N sat on the couch, her head buried in her hands, and Ollie was pacing again, his face a picture of distress. The room was thick with tension, and Oscar could immediately sense that something was wrong.

“Oi, what’s going on?” Oscar asked, his voice laced with concern as he stepped in, looking between the two of them.

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes red and her face a mask of fake sadness. She hesitated for a moment, waiting for Ollie’s silent cue. Ollie stopped pacing and gave her a nod.

Oscar stood there, completely bewildered, trying to make sense of what he was walking into. He looked at Y/N, who took a deep breath and said, “Oscar… I’m pregnant.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Oscar just stared at her, his mind struggling to process what she had said. His face drained of color, and his eyes flickered over to Ollie, who was now standing silently, looking every bit the panicked figure.

“Wait… what?” Oscar whispered, taking a small step forward.

Y/N nodded slowly, and Ollie let out a shaky breath, as if the weight of the situation had just hit him all at once.

Oscar sat down on the arm of the couch, placing his head in his hands, clearly shaken. The room was silent except for the faint hum of the ventilation system, and it felt like time had slowed down.

“I— I don’t know what to say…” Oscar murmured, still processing the shock.

After a few moments, he lifted his head and looked at them both, his voice more steady now, though tinged with concern. “Look… whatever happens, everything’s going to be fine, okay? You two are family, and you’re not in this alone. I’ll help you. I’ll be here for you.”

Oscar’s voice cracked slightly, but he quickly gathered himself. “You don’t have to go through this by yourself. I’m here, I promise.”

But then, his expression softened as he looked at them, his eyes filled with honesty. “But... to be real with you, I’m not sure I know how to help. We’re all so young, and maybe... maybe we should talk to someone who knows what they’re doing. Maybe we should ask Mark for help, someone who’s an adult and can guide us.”

Y/N and Ollie both stared at him, and for a moment, the sincerity in Oscar’s voice seemed to bring them back to the gravity of the situation.

“But…” Oscar continued, his eyes softening as he looked at the two of them. “I’ll go with you. I’ll support you. We’ll figure it out together, okay? Because no matter what, we’re friends. And that means we stick together. You don’t have to face this on your own.”

Y/N was on the verge of tears, not from distress but from holding back laughter. She could see the genuine concern in Oscar’s eyes, and despite everything, it made the prank feel all the more heartwarming.

Ollie, too, felt a rush of gratitude for his friend’s unwavering support, even if it was all based on a huge misunderstanding.

“Oscar,” Y/N said softly, her voice full of emotion, “thank you. I swear we’ll make it up to you for scaring you like this.”

Oscar blinked, clearly still trying to make sense of everything, when suddenly the tension snapped. Y/N burst into laughter, and Ollie followed suit, unable to keep it in any longer.

Oscar’s face went from concern to confusion to disbelief. “Wait... What?!”

“It’s a prank!” Y/N managed to gasp between laughs. “We’re just messing with you!”

Oscar’s expression froze, and for a moment, he was completely still, trying to comprehend what was happening. Then, his eyes narrowed playfully, a grin slowly breaking through his initial shock.

“You two… I’m going to get you back for this,” Oscar said, shaking his head, though a smile tugged at his lips. “I was ready to become a dad! What are you doing to me?”

Y/N laughed even harder, wiping tears from her eyes. “We thought you’d be the one to react the most seriously, and we weren’t wrong.”

Oscar chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you got me. But seriously, next time you prank me, you better make sure it’s not something that serious. I almost had a panic attack.”

“I’m sorry, Oscar!” Ollie said, still grinning. “We promise we’ll make it up to you!”

Oscar leaned back in his chair, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “You better, because I’m never trusting either of you again.”

The room was filled with laughter, the tension of the moment finally broken, and despite the craziness of it all, they knew their bond as friends was stronger than ever.

----

The next one who walked in was Carlos, his usual easygoing demeanor replaced with concern as he noticed the tense atmosphere in the room. Y/N sat on the couch, head down, and Ollie was pacing, his hands nervously running through his hair. It was clear something serious was going on, and Carlos immediately felt a knot form in his stomach.

“Hey, what’s going on? You guys okay?” Carlos asked, his voice filled with genuine concern.

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes red and tearful, but there was a flicker of mischief in them that Carlos didn’t notice right away. Ollie, on the other hand, was pacing with purpose, his face scrunched up as if he were carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“Carlos…” Y/N began, her voice shaky. “I… I’m pregnant.”

Carlos froze in place, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut. His eyes widened in shock as he tried to process what he had just heard.

“Wait… what?” Carlos stammered, his mind struggling to catch up. “Y/N… you’re… pregnant?”

Y/N nodded slowly, her face a picture of fake sadness. Ollie stopped pacing, his eyes wide as he looked at Carlos with a mixture of fear and guilt.

Carlos began pacing himself, running his hands through his hair, trying to make sense of the situation. “This... this is big, Y/N. You’re so young, and Ollie too—this is really serious, you know? You guys… this wasn’t planned, right? It was careless.”

He paused, looking between them with concern, his voice rising with panic as he spoke. “You’re too young for this, both of you. What were you thinking?”

Y/N’s expression faltered, her lip trembling as she struggled to hold back a smile. Ollie, too, looked down, feeling the weight of the words as if they were truly being scolded.

But when Carlos noticed how devastated they looked—how broken and unsure they were—his steps faltered. He immediately stopped pacing, his hand lowering from his forehead.

“I’m sorry,” Carlos said quickly, his voice softening as he turned toward them. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m not mad. I was just… shocked. I didn’t know what to say at first. I didn’t know how to react.”

Y/N looked up at him, her expression vulnerable, and Ollie shifted uncomfortably, his eyes meeting Carlos’ for the first time in what felt like forever.

Carlos took a deep breath, stepping closer to them, his gaze softening. “Listen, I’m still shocked. You guys are so young. I wasn’t expecting this. But I will help. I will be there for you both.”

Y/N’s lip quivered as she looked at him, taking in his words. Carlos kneeled down in front of them, looking each of them in the eyes. “I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know how to help exactly. But I’ll be there. We’ll figure it out together. But…”

He paused, his face showing his own uncertainty. “I still can’t believe you’re pregnant, Y/N. You’re so young… this is a huge thing to take on. But… if you need anything—anything at all—I’m here. I’ll support you.”

Ollie let out a shaky breath, still looking down at the floor. “We’re scared, Carlos. We don’t know what to do, and we didn’t know who else to turn to.”

Carlos reached out, putting a hand on Ollie’s shoulder, then turning to Y/N with a reassuring smile. “You’re not alone in this, okay? You’ve got me. But seriously, maybe we need to talk to someone who can help us more. We’re too young to know how to navigate all this, you know? We need to talk to someone who knows more about this.”

The sincerity in his voice broke through the tension, and Y/N finally let out a small, relieved breath, though her face was still full of fake distress.

Carlos stood up and took a step back, wiping his hand over his face. “And I’ll help you talk to your parents if you need me to. We’ll figure it out together, I swear. But… I really didn’t expect this.”

Y/N couldn't hold it in anymore. She and Ollie both burst out laughing, and Carlos stood frozen for a moment, his mouth falling open in shock.

“Wait, what?!” Carlos exclaimed, his eyes widening in disbelief. “Is this a prank?”

Y/N wiped the tears from her eyes, still laughing. “It’s a prank, Carlos! We were messing with you!”

Carlos’ face slowly shifted from confusion to a mixture of shock and relief. He took a deep breath, shaking his head in exasperation. “You guys are unbelievable,” he said, the tension melting away as a laugh escaped him. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“I’m so sorry!” Ollie said between fits of laughter. “We just had to do it to you!”

Carlos sighed dramatically, but a smile tugged at his lips. “You two are insane. But seriously… next time you want to pull a prank like this, maybe make it a little less… real.”

Y/N and Ollie just grinned, still laughing. “We’ll make it up to you, promise.”

Carlos shook his head, chuckling, though he couldn’t help but feel a little bit of pride. After all, the two had truly pulled off a masterclass in pranking him—he’d almost believed it.

“You better make it up to me,” Carlos said with a playful grin. “And by the way, when you two start planning your real life decisions, let me know. I’ll give you actual advice then.”

----

Max strode into the room, his sharp eyes scanning the tense scene in front of him. Y/N sat curled on the couch, her head buried in her hands, while Ollie was pacing frantically. Something was clearly wrong, and the heavy atmosphere hit Max immediately.

“What’s going on?” Max asked, his voice firm and direct.

Y/N sniffled but didn’t answer, and Ollie froze mid-step, turning to look at him with wide, uncertain eyes.

“Max,” Y/N whispered, her voice shaky and small. “I… I’m pregnant.”

The words landed like a bomb. Max’s face immediately shifted into a mixture of shock and disbelief. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out as he processed what he’d just heard.

“You’re what?” Max finally said, his voice sharp.

“Pregnant,” Y/N repeated, her voice trembling.

Max stared at her, his eyes narrowing as the weight of the situation settled in. “You’re kidding, right? This is some kind of joke?”

Ollie shook his head, his voice low. “No. It’s real. We don’t know what to do.”

Max took a deep breath, his hand dragging over his face as he tried to contain the storm of emotions swirling inside him. “You two are too young for this! How could you be so careless? Do you even realize what this means?”

Y/N flinched at his words, her lip trembling as she fought to keep her composure.

“You’re just kids,” Max continued, his voice rising slightly. “Do you even know what it takes to raise a child? This isn’t just some small mistake—it’s life-changing!”

Y/N let out a shaky sob, and Max immediately stopped. His harsh tone softened as he saw how devastated she looked. In an instant, he crossed the room and knelt in front of her, pulling her into his arms.

“Hey, hey,” he said gently, wrapping his arms around her and stroking her hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.”

Y/N buried her face in his shoulder, her fake tears muffled by his jacket. Max’s hold tightened as he whispered, “It’s going to be okay. I’ll help you figure this out.”

He glanced up at Ollie, his expression hardening. “And you,” Max said sharply, his tone like a scolding parent. “You better be ready to step up, Ollie. You can’t leave her to deal with this on her own. She needs you to be there for her.”

Ollie nodded quickly, trying his best to look apologetic. “I will, Max. I swear.”

Max sighed, shaking his head. “Stupid teenagers,” he muttered under his breath before pressing a kiss to Y/N’s forehead. He pulled back slightly, looking down at her with a mix of worry and determination.

“You’re not alone, Y/N,” Max said softly, his hand still stroking her hair. “We’ll figure it out. But… I can’t believe you two let this happen.”

Y/N sniffled again, barely able to keep the giggles bubbling up inside her from escaping. Ollie bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing at the sight of Max in full protective mode.

Max looked between them, his brow furrowing. “What?” he asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.

“It’s a prank,” Y/N blurted out, laughter finally breaking free.

Max froze, blinking as the words sank in. “A prank?” he repeated slowly, his voice dangerously calm.

Ollie nodded, unable to stop himself from laughing now. “Yeah, Max. It’s a prank.”

Max pulled back, his expression a mixture of relief and exasperation. “You two are unbelievable,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Do you have any idea how much you scared me? I was ready to adopt the baby myself!”

Y/N and Ollie were laughing uncontrollably now, the tension in the room replaced with giddy energy.

“I’m sorry, Max!” Y/N said between giggles. “We couldn’t resist!”

Max stood, crossing his arms as he looked at them both with mock severity. “You two are going to pay for this,” he said, though the small smile tugging at the corner of his lips gave him away. “And don’t expect me to believe you next time you cry wolf!”

Y/N grinned, wiping fake tears from her eyes. “We’ll make it up to you, Max. Promise.”

Max shook his head, his smile finally breaking through. “You better. And next time you prank someone, don’t make it about something that serious. My heart can’t take it.”

----

Lando strolled into the room with his usual carefree energy, a playful grin on his face. He immediately noticed the tension in the air, but instead of worry, his first instinct was humor.

“What’s going on? You two look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he joked, his bright eyes darting between Y/N and Ollie.

Y/N glanced at Ollie, who gave her a subtle nod. Taking a deep breath, she looked at Lando, her voice trembling. “Lando… I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, Lando just stared at her, his grin frozen on his face. Then, he burst out laughing, clapping his hands together. “Good one! You almost got me there!”

Y/N and Ollie exchanged a quick look before Y/N shook her head. “Lando, I’m serious. Ollie’s the dad.”

The laughter immediately died on Lando’s lips, his smile fading as he looked at them both. “Wait… what? You’re serious?”

Y/N nodded, her face the picture of fake distress.

Lando’s playful demeanor shifted in an instant, his brow furrowing as he processed the situation. “How did this happen? I mean, I know how, but… you guys are so young. What were you thinking?”

Ollie shifted nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “We didn’t plan this, obviously. It just… happened.”

Lando sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. “Alright. Tell me everything. I need to know exactly what’s going on before we figure out what to do.”

For the next few minutes, Y/N and Ollie stumbled through their fabricated story, trying their best to keep their composure as they watched Lando’s serious expression. Once they were done, Lando sat back in his chair, his arms crossed as he nodded slowly.

“Okay,” he said, his tone surprisingly calm and measured. “Here’s what we’re going to do. First, tomorrow morning, the three of us are going to the doctor. We need to make sure everything’s okay with you and the baby, Y/N.”

Y/N blinked in surprise, not expecting Lando to take charge so quickly.

“After that,” Lando continued, “we’ll go to your parents. Both of you. I’ll come with you when you tell them. They’ll need to know, and you’ll need their support.”

Ollie opened his mouth to protest, but Lando raised a hand to stop him. “No arguments. They’re your parents, and they’ll want to be there for you—even if they’re mad at first.”

Y/N and Ollie exchanged a glance, both trying to hide their surprise at how practical Lando was being.

“Once that’s done, we’ll find a place for you two to live together,” Lando said, his voice growing more determined. “Somewhere big enough for a nursery but close to me so I can help if you need anything.”

Ollie gaped at him. “Lando, that’s… a lot.”

Lando ignored him, already deep in thought. “We’ll design the baby’s room together. I’ll help you pick out furniture, decorations, everything. And I’ll go with you to every appointment if you want me there. I’ll even help with the baby when they’re born. Diapers, bottles, sleepless nights—you name it. We’re in this together.”

By now, Y/N was struggling to keep a straight face. Lando’s level of commitment and detail was far beyond anything she’d expected.

“Lando,” Y/N said, her voice wavering with emotion, “that’s… really sweet of you.”

Lando turned to her, his expression softening. “You’re my friend, Y/N. And Ollie, you too. You’re not doing this alone, not if I can help it.”

Ollie scratched the back of his head, looking both grateful and overwhelmed. “Wow, mate, I didn’t think you’d have a whole plan ready.”

Lando shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Well, someone has to keep a cool head in this situation. And honestly, it’s kind of exciting in a weird way. A little scary, yeah, but exciting too.”

Y/N’s lip trembled as she tried to hold back her laughter, but it was too much. She burst out laughing, clutching her stomach as the tension in the room broke.

“Lando,” she said between giggles, “it’s a prank! We’re not actually having a baby!”

Lando’s jaw dropped, and he stared at them both in disbelief. “Wait, what? You’re kidding me, right?”

Ollie joined in the laughter, shaking his head. “Nope. It was all a prank. We wanted to see how you’d react.”

Lando slumped back in his chair, letting out a groan. “You two… I can’t believe I fell for that. I was already planning your entire future!”

Y/N wiped away tears of laughter. “You were amazing, though! You had everything figured out!”

Lando sighed, shaking his head, though a small smile crept back onto his face. “Yeah, well, don’t expect me to go all out like that again anytime soon. You’ve officially used up your prank privileges.”

The three of them laughed together, the air now light and full of warmth. Despite the prank, Y/N and Ollie couldn’t help but feel touched by how quickly Lando had stepped up to support them, proving just how much he cared.

----

Fernando entered the room with his usual composed yet curious demeanor, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the scene before him. Y/N was curled up on the couch, "crying" into Ollie’s shoulder, while Ollie looked up at Fernando with an expression of guilt and desperation.

“What happened?” Fernando asked, his voice calm but laced with concern.

Y/N sniffled, pulling back slightly from Ollie’s hold to look at Fernando. “I… I’m pregnant,” she whispered, her voice shaky.

Fernando froze for a moment, his sharp gaze flicking between the two young drivers. His silence stretched for a beat too long, making Y/N and Ollie exchange a brief, worried glance.

Then, to their utter surprise, Fernando’s face broke into a wide, genuine smile. His entire demeanor shifted, radiating warmth as he stepped closer to them. “That’s wonderful news!” he said, his voice filled with excitement.

Before either of them could respond, Fernando leaned down and wrapped them both in a strong, reassuring hug. “Congratulations, both of you,” he said, his tone so heartfelt that it momentarily disarmed the pranksters.

When he finally pulled back, his expression softened as he noticed how “scared” they looked. Without missing a beat, Fernando sat down on the couch between them, motioning for Y/N and Ollie to sit closer. He gently pulled Y/N to his right side and Ollie to his left, placing a comforting arm around each of them.

“I know you’re scared,” he began, his voice soothing and steady. “But this is going to be one of the most beautiful experiences of your lives. A new life, a part of you both, is coming into the world. You’ll love that child more than anything else—more than racing, more than winning.”

Y/N’s “tears” slowed as she listened, her heart softening at Fernando’s words despite the prank. Ollie leaned in slightly, his nervous energy fading as Fernando continued.

“You’ll get to watch them grow up,” Fernando said, his eyes shining with a rare tenderness. “Their first steps, their first words, the way they’ll look at you with so much love and trust… There’s nothing like it. And you’ll give them the world because you’ll want nothing but the best for them.”

Fernando paused, smiling warmly at the two of them. “This isn’t something to be afraid of. It’s something to celebrate. A child will bring you joy, purpose, and a love you never knew was possible.”

For a moment, Y/N and Ollie could almost see the future Fernando was painting for them—a cozy home filled with laughter, the small hands of a child reaching for theirs, and the kind of love that could make anything possible.

Ollie cleared his throat, his voice quieter than usual. “You really think we could do this?”

Fernando squeezed his shoulder, his smile unwavering. “I know you can. You’re strong, both of you. And you won’t be alone in this—you’ll have each other, your families, your friends… and me. I’ll be here every step of the way if you need me.”

Y/N glanced at Ollie, her resolve wavering under the weight of Fernando’s sincere encouragement. Finally, unable to keep up the charade any longer, she let out a small laugh.

“Fernando,” she said, wiping her fake tears away, “it’s a prank.”

Fernando blinked, his smile faltering as he processed her words. “A prank?”

Ollie nodded, a sheepish grin on his face. “Yeah… we wanted to see how you’d react.”

For a moment, Fernando just stared at them. Then, a deep laugh rumbled from his chest, and he shook his head in disbelief. “You two are unbelievable! You had me going for a moment there.”

“We’re sorry,” Y/N said, her voice still tinged with laughter. “But honestly, your reaction was so sweet.”

Fernando chuckled, leaning back against the couch. “Well, when it does happen someday, you’ll know exactly what I think about it.”

Ollie grinned. “Thanks, Fernando. You were amazing, honestly.”

Fernando waved a hand, still smiling. “Just promise me one thing—when you pull your next prank, make it a little less heart-stopping for me, okay?”

The three of them laughed together, the warmth of Fernando’s words lingering long after the prank had been revealed.

----

Yuki walked into the room, his usual curious and slightly mischievous energy in full swing. “What’s going on?” he asked, looking at Y/N, who was hunched over, fake crying into her hands, and Ollie, who looked awkwardly guilty while pacing the room.

“Yuki, we need to tell you something,” Ollie began, his voice serious.

Yuki blinked, glancing between them. “Okay… What is it?”

Y/N sniffled dramatically, wiping her “tears” with her sleeve. “I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, Yuki just stared, his head tilting slightly to the side. “Huh?”

“I’m pregnant,” Y/N repeated, trying to sound exasperated but sad.

Yuki squinted, his confusion only deepening. “Wait, like… for real? Or are you talking about some kind of food baby? You ate too much sushi or something?”

“No, Yuki!” Ollie interjected, his hands on his hips. “She’s actually pregnant.”

“Oh,” Yuki said, nodding slightly, but his expression was still blank. “Okay… so, um… what do you want me to do about it?”

Y/N let out a frustrated sigh, looking at Ollie for help. Ollie sat down beside her, trying to maintain the act. “Yuki, it’s serious. Y/N is having a baby, and I’m the dad.”

This only seemed to confuse Yuki more. He blinked rapidly, his eyebrows knitting together. “Wait, you’re the dad?”

“Yes, Yuki,” Ollie said slowly, as if explaining to a child. “I’m the dad.”

Yuki’s brow furrowed further as he processed this information. “Okay… but who’s the dad?”

Ollie groaned, rubbing his temples. “Me. I’m the dad, Yuki.”

Yuki looked genuinely puzzled, glancing at Y/N and then back at Ollie. “But… how? You’re, like, just… Ollie.”

At this point, Y/N let out a frustrated laugh, breaking character. “Yuki, what do you mean, ‘just Ollie’? How do you not get this?”

Yuki shrugged, looking completely unbothered. “I don’t know. It’s just weird. Are you guys pranking me or something?”

Y/N and Ollie exchanged a glance before collapsing onto the couch across from Yuki, utterly defeated. “Yes, Yuki,” Y/N said with a sigh. “It’s a prank.”

Yuki’s face lit up. “Oh! Okay! That makes way more sense.” He stood up, stretching casually. “You should’ve just said that from the beginning. Anyway, I’m going to get a snack. Let me know if you need help with, uh, whatever.”

With that, Yuki walked out of the room, leaving Y/N and Ollie staring after him, dumbfounded.

“He didn’t get it at all,” Ollie muttered, shaking his head.

“Nope,” Y/N agreed, slumping back against the couch.

From down the hall, Yuki’s voice echoed back to them. “You guys are weird!”

----

Franco stepped into the room with a concerned expression, immediately sensing something was off. His eyes darted between Y/N, who was "crying" into her hands, and Ollie, who was pacing nervously with a hand in his hair.

“What’s going on?” Franco asked, his voice laced with worry as he moved closer. “Are you two okay? Did something happen?”

Y/N sniffled dramatically, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes—an excellent fake cry performance. “Franco… I’m pregnant.”

Franco froze, his eyes going wide. He opened his mouth to say something but immediately closed it again, clearly unsure how to react. “Wait… are you—like, seriously? For real?”

Ollie nodded solemnly, stopping his pacing. “Yeah, and… I’m the dad.”

“Oh, my god,” Franco breathed, his hand coming up to cover his mouth. He took a step closer to them, his nervous energy bubbling over. “Okay, uh… okay. Are you happy? Are you scared? Sad? I—I don’t know how to feel right now. What about you guys?”

Y/N hiccupped, pretending to be on the verge of another sob. “We don’t know what to do, Franco. We’re so young…”

Franco immediately crouched down in front of her, his hands hovering nervously as if he wanted to comfort her but wasn’t sure how. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he said quickly, his tone soft and motherly. “Deep breaths, Y/N. Deep breaths. It’s going to be okay. You too, Ollie—deep breaths.”

Ollie blinked in surprise. “Franco, you’re the one freaking out.”

Franco ignored him, pulling a chair close and sitting down, his knee bouncing anxiously. He clasped his hands together, his knuckles turning white as he tried to gather his thoughts. “Alright, listen. This is big. It’s huge. But we’re going to figure it out. You’re going to figure it out.”

He glanced between them again, his gaze softening. “Look, this is scary, but it’s also… kind of amazing, right? A new life! But—wait, no, sorry, I don’t want to freak you out more,” he added quickly, shaking his head. “Are you happy about this? Or scared? Or both? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. Oh god, I’m not helping, am I?”

Y/N bit her lip to keep from laughing, shaking her head. “No, Franco, you’re helping,” she said, her voice quivering with fake emotion.

Franco exhaled in relief, reaching over to pat her hand awkwardly. “Okay, good. That’s good. So, uh… first thing’s first: don’t panic. Take deep breaths. Have you thought about telling your parents? Or… no, no, wait, one thing at a time. I’m sorry, I’m just…” He ran a hand through his hair, visibly flustered. “I’m freaking out for you. But you’re going to be okay, I promise.”

Y/N and Ollie exchanged a quick glance, barely holding back their laughter as Franco continued to fret over them like a worried parent.

Finally, Y/N couldn’t take it anymore. “Franco,” she said gently, reaching out to touch his hand.

He looked up at her, his face a mix of concern and determination. “Yeah?”

“It’s a prank,” she said, unable to hold back a laugh.

Franco blinked, his brain taking a second to catch up. “A… prank?”

Ollie nodded, his grin sheepish. “Yeah. We just wanted to see how you’d react.”

For a moment, Franco just stared at them, his jaw slightly slack. Then he let out a groan, leaning back in his chair and covering his face with his hands. “Are you serious? You two put me through all that for a prank?”

Y/N burst out laughing, reaching over to pat his arm. “Franco, you were amazing. Seriously, you were so sweet.”

Franco peeked at her through his fingers, a small, embarrassed smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, well, next time maybe prank someone who doesn’t care as much.”

Ollie clapped him on the shoulder. “You care too much, mate. But that’s why we love you.”

Franco groaned again, though his smile lingered. “You’re both lucky I love you too. But don’t ever do that to me again!”

The three of them laughed together, the tension melting away as Franco finally relaxed, shaking his head at the duo’s mischievous antics.

----

The press conference room was abuzz with the usual pre-event chatter. Reporters settled into their seats, armed with notebooks, voice recorders, and cameras, ready to pepper the drivers with questions. But the atmosphere shifted when Y/N and Ollie walked in.

Y/N’s eyes were red and puffy, as though she’d been crying for hours. Her shoulders were hunched, her body language radiating nervousness. Ollie, on the other hand, had an almost frantic energy, his leg bouncing as he sat down next to her. Yet, he kept a hand on her back, rubbing soothing circles and leaning in every so often to whisper something comforting.

The other drivers on the panel—fully in on the prank—exchanged knowing glances, some biting their lips to keep from laughing. Lewis had to clear his throat and look away, Max pretended to be overly focused on his water bottle, and Lando barely managed to keep a smirk off his face.

It didn’t take long for the reporters to notice that something was off.

“Y/N,” one of them finally asked, leaning forward, “are you alright? You look upset.”

Y/N sniffled audibly, looking down at the table as though gathering herself. Ollie leaned closer, whispering something inaudible, which only seemed to make the situation more curious.

Another reporter jumped in. “Ollie, is everything okay with Y/N? You seem… tense.”

The tension in the room became palpable as reporters shifted in their seats, sensing a story. Finally, Y/N lifted her head, her voice shaky as she spoke. “We… we weren’t planning on talking about this today, but…” She paused, looking at Ollie, who nodded solemnly.

Ollie took over, his voice steady but filled with a faux nervous edge. “Y/N and I… we just found out she’s pregnant.”

The room erupted.

Gasps, hurried whispers, and the frantic clicking of cameras filled the air as reporters scrambled to process the bombshell.

“What does this mean for your career, Y/N?”

“Ollie, how are you going to support her through this?”

“Did Red Bull know? What’s the team’s response?”

Y/N buried her face in her hands, and Ollie leaned closer to shield her from the barrage of questions, murmuring fake reassurances like, “It’s okay, we’ll get through this.”

The other drivers played their parts to perfection.

Fernando leaned forward with a supportive nod. “We’re here for them, of course.”

Charles shook his head solemnly. “It’s a difficult situation, but they’re strong.”

Lando, biting his lip to keep from laughing, muttered, “Yeah, we’ll all be there for them.”

Max, perhaps enjoying the chaos a bit too much, smirked and added, “It’s a bit shocking, isn’t it? But these things happen.”

The questions only grew louder, reporters tripping over one another to get their takes. But then Y/N, who had been trying to “compose herself,” let out a small snort of laughter. Ollie followed suit, and within seconds, both of them were doubled over, laughing uncontrollably.

The reporters froze, staring in confusion. “What’s so funny?” one finally asked.

Lando couldn’t hold back any longer, bursting into laughter. Fernando chuckled, Charles shook his head with a grin, and even Max let out an amused huff.

Y/N finally managed to speak through her laughter. “It’s—it’s a prank! We’re not pregnant!”

The room went silent for a moment before an uproar of disbelief and groans erupted from the reporters. Some laughed along, shaking their heads, while others looked like they’d been played harder than ever before.

Ollie grinned, leaning into the microphone. “Sorry, we couldn’t resist. The reactions were too good.”

The other drivers laughed harder, with Fernando adding, “You should’ve seen your faces!”

Within hours, clips from the press conference flooded social media, from Y/N’s dramatic performance to Ollie’s earnest act and the reporters’ chaotic reactions. The prank went viral almost immediately, with fans and media outlets alike praising the creativity and humor of it all.

“Y/N and Ollie: F1’s Ultimate Pranksters” trended worldwide, with the prank cementing itself as one of the most memorable moments of the season. Even the reporters, though initially annoyed, couldn’t help but laugh at themselves once the dust settled.

[littlegochu]

12 rounds │ jjk 18+

“Lose the fight, win me. That’s the deal.”

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: boxer jungkook, toxic but addicting, established couple

rating: 18+, smut

synopsis: He loses the fight. Unfairly. Publicly. And the only thing stopping him from snapping is her—barefoot on the balcony, refusing to be shut out. She doesn’t coddle him. Doesn’t flinch when he’s cold. She pushes back. And when the silence finally breaks, it turns into something they both understand better than words—heat, desperation, and a need to feel something real.

-

The crowd roars around you, but your eyes don’t leave him.

Jeon Jungkook. In the ring like he owns it—shirtless, sweat-slicked, muscles cut and coiled with every movement. His jaw is locked, knuckles already bloodied, and the way he moves is pure venom. Focused. Cold. Dangerous.

And yours.

You’re standing near the front row, VIP badge barely needed when everyone already knows who you are. Cameras flash your way, whispers trail behind your back—“That’s his girl.” “They’re so hot together.” “How the fuck does she pull him?”

You ignore them. You’re not here for the attention.

You’re here for him.

He hasn’t glanced at you once since the fight started. You don’t expect him to. That’s how he is when he’s locked in—ruthless, silent, unreadable. You fell in love with that part of him and hated it all the same.

But you know he felt you walk in. Felt your gaze when it landed on him. He always does.

You catch the way his shoulders roll back when the second round ends—his back glistening with sweat, muscles twitching beneath bronzed, tattooed skin. He’s a walking sculpture, wrapped in rage and breath and heat. The kind of body that’s earned—not gifted. The kind that could ruin you without even trying.

You’ve seen him like this before. Too many times. But it never gets old.

Jungkook in the ring is another version of him entirely. More vicious. More beautiful. Like a storm trapped in a body. That controlled fury in every punch, the precision in every dodge, the restraint that only you understand because you’ve seen what it looks like when he lets go.

“Finish him!” someone yells, and you catch the glint in Jungkook’s eye.

He’s tired. You can tell from the way his footwork staggers for half a second—no one else would notice it, but you do. He should’ve had this guy knocked out in the second round, but the ref was too slow on the break call, and the other guy got a cheap shot to the ribs.

Dirty hit.

You grit your teeth, arms crossed under your chest, diamond bracelet glinting under the arena lights. You look good tonight. Too good. Cropped jacket hugging your waist, heels tall enough to look down on half the men here. Your makeup’s untouched even after hours.

Jungkook always says you look like trouble. And that’s why he likes you.

And even though he’s locked in—throwing punches, tasting blood—you know he saw you. You know he saw the way your lips parted when he ducked under a hook. The way your hand wrapped tighter around the bar railing when he landed a left.

He fights like he knows you’re watching.

The bell dings for the final round.

He exhales, shoulders tight.

And even though he hasn’t looked at you once, his jaw ticks like he’s holding back everything he wants to say.

He knows this isn’t going to be clean. You both do.

-

You feel it the second the final bell rings.

And you know—before the ref even lifts the wrong hand—that it’s about to be bullshit.

The other guy’s arm is raised.

The crowd erupts in boos. Furious, stunned. It’s not even subtle. Everyone saw the illegal shot. Everyone saw Jungkook dominate the first four rounds. But the judges? The commission? Bought. Blind. Doesn’t matter.

Your heart drops.

Jungkook doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. His jaw is tight, lips parted, chest rising slow like he’s trying not to explode. Blood trickles from his brow, sweat carving paths down his torso. His taped fists hang at his sides, and for a full five seconds, he just stares at the ref.

Then he turns. And you’re already moving.

Security parts before you like instinct. You walk in heels like they’re made for the mat, your blazer hugging your waist, hair still perfect, not a drop of emotion on your face—except for what’s in your eyes. Fury. Devotion. Fire.

He sees you immediately.

And that’s when he finally breathes.

His gloves are already off, tossed to the side. Tape loose around his wrists, knuckles bruised and red. He walks straight into your space like a magnet, and before you can say anything, his hand catches your hip, dragging you in.

Your arms go around his neck like instinct. His body is hot and hard and shaking.

“Don’t say anything,” he mutters against your ear. His voice is low, dark. Controlled the way dynamite is controlled—right before the fuse is lit. “Not here.”

You nod, forehead pressed to his. “I’m not.”

His other arm wraps around your lower back and pulls you flush against him. It’s not soft. It’s not delicate. He holds you like a claim, like possession, like he wants every camera watching to see exactly where he finds peace. His scent hits you immediately—leather, sweat, the faint echo of his cologne, spiced and sharp and familiar.

“Fucking rigged,” he mutters, voice cracking with restraint.

You tilt your head and stare up at him. Even angry, he’s beautiful—his lip is split, his cheek swelling, but his eyes are dark and locked on yours like they haven’t seen anything else all night.

“You should’ve knocked him out,” you say quietly.

“I tried.” His jaw flexes. “Didn’t want to kill him.”

You smirk, just barely. “Pity.”

His lips twitch. The smallest hint of a smile—there and gone.

Then he leans down.

A quick kiss. Messy and sharp. His bottom lip tastes like blood. Yours smudge gloss onto his. It’s not sweet—it’s public. It’s loud. It’s a declaration. His hand slides down to your ass, gripping without shame as he pulls you tighter, and you feel his exhale shake against your mouth.

Let them all see.

He’s not hiding anything.

Reporters shout both your names. Cameras flash in waves. A mic’s shoved toward your face, and a voice slices through the noise.

“Y/N, thoughts on the decision tonight? Do you think Jeon Jungkook was robbed?”

You don’t break eye contact with him as you reach up and gently fix a strand of damp hair from his forehead. His hand stays wrapped around your waist like a cuff.

Then, to the cameras, your voice comes out steady and clear—

“Wasn’t a fair fight.” Your tone is cool. Confident. The exact opposite of the storm you’re holding down inside. “But that’s okay. We’re not done.”

Jungkook hums low in his throat like he agrees.

He lets go of your waist just long enough to lace your fingers together, holding your hand as he steps down off the mat. Security tries to hold back the press, but he doesn’t give them a choice—he walks you through the chaos like it’s his runway, like the world owes him a moment of silence.

-

You don't need to look at him to feel it. The shift.

He’s still holding your hand, but his grip has changed—firmer, tighter, a little too close to a fist. The crowd is screaming, cameras flashing, everyone clawing to get a glimpse of him. Of you. Of you two.

But Jungkook doesn’t care about the noise anymore.

He walks you out of the arena like he’s dragging a ghost behind him. Silent. Stormy. The win stolen right out from under him, and the only thing keeping him from knocking out someone on the way out is the weight of your hand in his.

He lets you in the limo first. His touch on your hip is automatic, firm, but there’s no softness in it now. No teasing squeeze. Just pressure.

The door shuts behind him with a hard thunk.

And he goes still.

The moment feels longer than it is. The silence isn’t peaceful—it’s thick. Suffocating. Like the air’s too heavy to breathe.

He sits across from you. Shirtless. Shoulders wide, bruised, skin glinting with the last remnants of sweat and blood. His jaw is locked, his brows drawn. The cut above his brow has stopped bleeding, but there’s still a smear on his cheekbone. You know he’ll refuse to get it cleaned up until the morning.

His phone buzzes. He checks it with a flick of his eyes. Then declines the call without a word.

You sit still.

Waiting.

Watching.

The engine hums beneath your feet, and outside, the crowd disappears. The tinted windows block out everything, but inside the car, the silence only gets louder.

“You’re not gonna say anything?” you ask quietly.

He doesn’t answer.

You try again. “That decision was bullshit.”

Still nothing.

You cross your legs, lean into the seat. “Cool. So you’re doing the sulking-in-silence thing tonight.”

He exhales through his nose. Slow. Measured. Controlled. That control scares you more than if he’d yelled.

You press your tongue to your cheek. “At least you looked good getting robbed.”

He finally moves—just his eyes. Sharp and dark, cutting across the seat to look at you like a warning.

You meet it head-on. “Don’t look at me like I’m the one who handed out the scorecard.”

“You don’t get it,” he mutters.

“I don’t get what?”

He leans forward, forearms on his knees, voice low and cold. “I worked for that fight. I fucking bled for that fight. And they gave it away like I was nothing.”

“You think looking good is enough to make that go away?” he says. It’s not cruel. But it’s sharp. Wounded.

“I don’t want to hear anything right now.” His jaw clenches.

You stare at him. “Guess I’m just for show, huh? Pretty thing to stand beside when you lose.”

“I didn’t lose.”

You pause. Quiet. “Then why do you sound like you did?”

His gaze flicks away. That’s the last thing he says.

He leans back, hands rubbing over his face once, then through his damp hair. The seat creaks under his weight. You watch him closely, waiting for him to break the silence.

But he doesn’t.

He shuts down completely.

The ride continues like that—heavy, wordless. The distance between you stretched by everything he’s not saying. You’re still in your heels, still in your perfect blazer, still looking like the girl every guy wants to steal. But he doesn’t reach for you.

Doesn’t even look.

You fold your arms and turn to the window.

Fine.

If he wants quiet—he’ll get it.

-

The elevator opens to the quiet luxury of the penthouse—glass, marble, soft lighting, the city glowing below like it has no idea the man standing in this hallway just got robbed of a win that bled months of preparation.

Jungkook walks in first. No word. No glance.

You follow behind, slower. He leaves the door open for you, but doesn’t wait. His duffle hits the floor with a dull thud, water bottle in hand before you’ve even unzipped your jacket. His back is to you when you step inside, and it stays that way.

You toe off your heels by the door, your body still humming from the adrenaline of the arena. But he doesn’t even look.

The silence follows you through the living room like a shadow. You sit on the edge of the couch, slowly undoing your blazer buttons, waiting—hoping—he says something first.

He doesn’t.

He twists the cap off the water bottle. Drinks like it’s a chore. His jaw tenses with every swallow, throat bobbing, chest rising and falling too quickly.

Still no words.

You exhale. “You’re really not gonna talk to me?”

He caps the bottle. Tosses it on the kitchen island. Then turns around—but his eyes don’t meet yours.

Your voice drops. “You’ve been quiet since we left. You gonna keep doing that all night?”

“Don’t,” he mutters, walking past you.

That’s all he says.

Don’t.

You stand slowly, arms crossed. “You don’t get to snap at me like I’m the one who made the call.”

He doesn’t even slow his steps. Just walks straight to the balcony, opens the glass door, and steps outside.

You blink. “Are you fucking serious?”

No response.

The door shuts behind him with a cold finality.

You stay frozen in the living room, lips parted in disbelief, hands curled at your sides.

He’s done this before—gone quiet when shit gets under his skin—but this? This feels different. Sharper. Like he’s not just mad about the loss. He’s mad about everything. The fight. The cameras. Himself. And maybe even you, though he won’t admit it.

You walk to the balcony door, stop just short of opening it. He’s out there with a cigarette between his fingers, leaning against the glass railing, the glow of the city painting his skin in soft gold and silver. Shirtless. Silent. Alone.

Smoke curls from his mouth as he exhales. His hair’s still damp. His knuckles are red and scraped raw. He presses the cigarette to his lips again, breathing in slow like he’s trying to stay sane.

You stare at him through the glass.

Your chest rises, falls. But you don’t go out there.

Not yet.

Because if he wants space, if he wants to stand out there and pretend like you didn’t ride for him all night, then fine. Let him.

You walk back to the couch, arms still crossed, jaw still tight, sitting down like you’re done talking until he starts.

And in the silence, the distance stretches like a fault line between you.

-

The cigarette’s almost done.

You watch from the couch, pretending not to care, but every time you look up, he's still out there. Still silent. Still leaning on the glass railing like the weight of the city might drag him over it.

And you’ve had enough.

You rise slowly. Quietly.

The balcony door opens with a soft click, and the air outside hits you—cool, sharp, but nothing compared to the chill in his silence. The wind brushes your skin. You walk barefoot onto the balcony, arms folded, steps deliberate, slow.

Jungkook doesn’t look at you. Not right away.

You stop beside him, close but not touching.

He exhales smoke without a word. The wind pushes his hair back from his face. His profile’s cut in moonlight—high cheekbones, the edge of a bruise on his jaw, lips still red from the fight, or from you. His chest rises, slow and tense.

You stand still.

The silence stretches between you, long and bitter.

And then you speak—softly, just above the wind.

“You gonna be quiet forever?”

His jaw clenches, cigarette between his fingers. “Depends.”

“On what?”

He flicks the ash over the edge. “On whether or not I say something I’ll regret.”

You look at him, long and level. “You already did.”

That makes him finally glance at you. A flash of guilt crosses his face, but it disappears just as fast. He drops the cigarette in the ashtray beside him and leans back against the glass, arms crossing loosely over his chest.

“I’m tired,” he mutters.

You nod once. “I know.”

“I’m angry.”

“I know that too.”

He looks at you now. Really looks. “Then why are you out here?”

Your lips twitch. “Because you always act like the world’s ending when you lose. Like I’m supposed to stand back and let you implode.”

“I’m not imploding.”

“You’re not talking.”

“Same thing, isn’t it?”

You pause. “Not with you. With you, silence is worse.”

He looks away again.

You hate how beautiful he looks like this—quiet and bruised, still burning. You can see the fight still living in his shoulders, in the way he breathes, like his lungs are too full of everything he didn’t get to say in the ring.

You step closer, slowly. Until your shoulder almost brushes his arm.

“You don’t have to talk,” you say softly. “But you don’t get to shut me out like I’m the problem.”

His eyes flick to yours. And for a second—just a second—you see it. The crack. The thing underneath all the silence.

He reaches out.

Fingers graze your wrist. Light. Hesitant.

Then firmer.

His hand wraps around your wrist, tugging gently until your front touches his side. His head dips toward you, forehead resting against your temple, his eyes closed like he’s just too tired to keep carrying all that weight by himself.

“I don’t know how to lose,” he whispers.

You press a hand to his chest. His skin is warm. His heart is pounding.

“You don’t have to,” you murmur back. “Not when I’m here.”

He doesn’t say anything.

But his hand slides to your waist.

Not tentative this time. Firm. Certain. The kind of touch that says he’s done pretending you’re not exactly what he needs.

He exhales into your neck—warm, shaky. “You wore that just to drive me crazy, didn’t you?”

You smirk, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “I always dress for war.”

His fingers tighten, pulling you flush against him. Your chest meets the bare heat of his torso, and for a moment, you both just breathe—his nose grazing your cheek, your fingers curling into his shoulder. The bruises on his skin don’t scare you. If anything, they only make him feel more real. Less like a symbol. More like your man.

The one who bleeds, and breaks, and still tries to keep the world on his back.

He turns his face, mouth finding yours in the dark. And it’s slow this time. Not sharp. Not angry. Just deep. Needy. His lips part against yours like he’s tasting relief, like kissing you is the only thing that makes him feel like himself again.

He kisses you like he lost something out there and found it the second you walked onto the balcony.

Your hands tangle in his hair. His body presses you gently against the glass. You gasp softly into his mouth when his palm moves lower, finding the backs of your thighs, lifting—just enough to make your breath hitch.

“I need you inside,” you murmur, voice low. “Now.”

He doesn’t answer. Just takes your hand and pulls you in.

You follow him through the dark, quiet penthouse. No lights on. No music. Just your footsteps, your breathing, the sound of his body so close you can almost feel him without touching.

He stops in the middle of the living room.

Turns.

And kisses you again—harder this time.

Your back hits the couch. He leans over you, not breaking the kiss, hands roaming with more heat, more pressure. Like all the silence from earlier is pouring out now in the way he touches you. Desperate. Focused. Controlled in only the way he is when he’s about to lose it.

His mouth leaves yours to trail down your jaw. Your throat. Your collarbone. Every kiss is a vow. A bruise. A surrender.

You pull him closer.

Because this is what it always comes down to.

Not the fight.

Not the anger.

But this— The way he breathes when he’s on top of you. The way his body fits against yours like it’s home. The way he falls apart when you touch him like he’s not invincible.

And for once… he lets you hold him without flinching.

No more silence.

Only skin, and sighs, and everything he doesn’t know how to say in words.

Your back hits the couch cushions and his weight follows immediately—solid, heavy, demanding. His knee parts your legs without hesitation, and you open for him like muscle memory.

His mouth is back on yours, but different now. Gone is the slow burn. This is messier. Breathless. All tongue and teeth. He kisses like he’s punishing you for showing up. Like he’s mad it made him feel better.

Your head tilts back and you moan against his mouth. His hand wraps around your throat—not choking, just holding. Grounding. Possessive. His thumb brushes your jaw as his other hand pushes your dress up roughly, bunching the fabric around your hips.

“Fuck,” he growls into your mouth. “Look at you.”

You gasp when his palm slides up your inner thigh, fingers dragging, slow and firm, like he wants to take his time even though you both know he won’t. His touch is hot, calloused, and so familiar it makes your chest ache.

You grab his wrist, breath hitched. “Don’t tease.”

He smirks, but it’s darker now. “You don’t get to make demands.”

His fingers slip past the edge of your underwear, and you jolt, legs twitching. He grunts when he feels how wet you already are, dragging his fingers through you, slow at first—just enough to feel how badly you want it.

“Fuck, baby…” His voice is low, wrecked. “You like it when I’m angry?”

You stare up at him, lips parted, breathing hard. “You like pretending you’re still in control.”

That makes him snap.

He pulls your underwear down roughly, doesn’t even bother taking it off fully—just pushes it past your knees and spreads your thighs with both hands. You feel the heat of his breath as he looks at you, not touching, not yet.

“You’ve been testing me all night,” he mutters, sliding two fingers into you without warning.

You arch off the couch with a sharp gasp.

His fingers curl immediately, dragging against that spot you hate how fast he finds. His thumb presses down on your clit, slow circles that contrast the way he fucks you with his hand—deep, rough, unrelenting.

You grip the cushions, eyes fluttering. “Jungkook—”

“I said don’t talk,” he growls.

He leans in close, nose brushing your cheek. His breath is hot, his words even hotter.

“You sat through the whole fight looking like a fucking trophy. And now?” His fingers thrust harder, faster, obscene sounds filling the room. “Now you’re dripping for me. Soaked through and shaking.”

You moan, thighs closing around his hand. He forces them open again, pushing them down with his knee.

“Keep ‘em open,” he commands.

Your fingers slide up his back, nails dragging through the sweat and tension in his spine. He shudders from it, his mouth dropping to your neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark. You gasp again. His tongue soothes over it.

He groans low in your ear. “You want me to fuck you like I lost?”

You nod, dizzy. “Yes.”

“Like I hate everything but you?”

“Yes, Jungkook—fuck, yes.”

He pulls his fingers out, slick and shining, and you whimper at the loss. He pushes up onto his knees, breathing hard, undoing his sweatpants with one hand, eyes locked on your thighs like he’s about to destroy you.

When he pushes in, it’s fast and deep—too deep. You cry out, legs wrapping around him, nails digging into his biceps as he starts thrusting without mercy.

Every snap of his hips punches a sound out of your throat. He’s gritting his teeth, jaw clenched, eyes dark and fixed on the way your body gives under him.

“This what you wanted?” he pants, fucking into you hard enough to rock the couch. “Wanted to be the only thing I could feel after getting robbed?”

You nod, whimpering, trying to keep your voice from breaking.

“You are,” he snarls. “You fucking are.”

You’re not even sure what you’re saying anymore—just sounds, gasps, curses, his name. His name, over and over.

He slips one arm under your back, dragging you up against his chest so you’re nearly sitting in his lap, your legs wrapped around him. His rhythm doesn’t slow. If anything, it gets rougher.

Skin on skin. Bruising, breathless. His hand on your ass, your nails in his neck, teeth grazing lips between ragged kisses.

He’s not being gentle. And you don’t want him to be.

This isn’t careful. It’s not sweet.

It’s two people breaking at the seams and using each other to survive it.

His forehead drops to yours. His breath is hot, shaky, lips brushing yours with every thrust.

“I need you,” he murmurs. It’s not rough. Not this time. Just honest. Raw. “I need you, baby. Stay with me.”

You kiss him like a promise. Like you’ll never go anywhere.

Your orgasm hits hard—fast and full-body. You shake, fingers clenching around him, crying out his name. And he follows, growling into your neck, burying himself inside you with one final thrust that leaves you both breathless.

The only sound left is the way you both breathe.

Then silence.

Warm. Spent. Wrapped around each other on the couch, skin damp and hearts pounding.

And for the first time all night— He’s not angry. He’s just holding you.

authors note: comment and lmk what u think!

[snail-day]

This is Love, Right?

Part two of Can My Friend Join?

Next part: It's all your fault, isn't it?

Yan!SatoSugu x Reader

Sum: You're starting to grow used to Suguru, maybe evening learning to accept his love.

TW: Yandere Behaviors (Cameras, Obsession, Manipulation, trapping), Really toxic relationship, dubcon, oral (F and M receiving), Brief smut, Reader is going through it. SatoSugu (Just a warning in itself), Angst

WC: 4.7k

A/n: Listened to a random Mitski playlist and it lowkey made me depressed while writing this, expect some fluff after this one.

This is love.

You keep telling yourself that, don’t you?

Even as silent tears streak down your cheeks in the furthest bathroom—the one tucked away from the master bedroom, the one even Satoru’s Six Eyes can’t reach.

This is love.

The way Satoru leans down, his snowy white hair falling across his forehead in that effortlessly tousled way, pressing a fleeting kiss to your lips before heading out on a mission. His crystalline blue eyes, so striking they feel otherworldly, linger on you for a moment too long before he straightens up, a lopsided grin pulling at his lips. Suguru follows, his dark hair tied neatly back, though loose strands frame his sharp, beautiful face. He gives you a casual wave, the corners of his mouth lifting into a faint, teasing smile as he murmurs, “I love you.”

You’ve never seen Satoru happier than he’s been since Suguru joined your relationship. Happier than back when it was just the two of you, curled up on the couch, his long legs stretched across the cushions while you laughed at some cheesy anime. Back then, his laugh was unrestrained, carefree. The way his shoulders would shake, his hand coming up to push his blindfold up and wipe away a tear—it felt real.

You miss those days.

You didn’t cry as much back then.

But they love you, don’t they?

They still pay your tuition, still ensure your life is cushioned and cared for. Suguru, always measured and composed, suggested once, “Maybe you should switch to online classes.” His voice was soft, his tone coaxing. It made sense, didn’t it? His reasoning was sound: “There was a special grade curse at the school the other day. We just worry about you, baby.”

Suguru always seems so calm, his velvety voice soothing and warm yet guarded dark eyes giving him an air of quiet authority. You begin to find comfort in that. However, the weight of his presence feels heavy, suffocating even some days.

Satoru, on the other hand, radiates energy. His presence fills the room like sunlight—blinding, inescapable. His tall, lanky frame always seems so relaxed, but you know better. Behind the teasing lilt of his voice and his constant grin lies a man who rarely lets his guard down. The way he looms, leaning just a little too close, reminds you of the distance he refuses to let exist between the two of you.

They worry about you so much. Yet whenever you voice concern for them, they hush you. Suguru’s deep voice reassures you, as if he’s talking to a child, while Satoru’s lips curl into a too-bright smile, his hand patting your head like you’re something fragile.

They love you. They take care of you. It would be selfish to leave them, wouldn’t it?

And Satoru—he’s never been this happy.

He’s working less, smiling more. Suguru’s return has lifted a weight off his shoulders. He’s not carrying the burden of being the strongest alone anymore. You can see it in the way his smile softens when Suguru speaks, in the way his gaze lingers on him longer than it ever lingers on you.

And yet, you tell yourself:

This is love.

Still, you wonder… wasn’t Suguru supposed to be going to therapy? You think back to his promises—vague, half-hearted reassurances—but did he ever actually leave for a session? Ever join a voice call?

You don’t recall.

You try to push the thought away, like so many others. Ignore the red flags. Focus on the green.

The relationship has its moments. You’re growing used to Suguru.

Especially your drunk self—the one that gravitates toward him, curling up on his lap like a loyal dog, seeking out his touch and the warmth of his arms. He always accepts you, his large hands stroking your back or brushing through your hair with a tenderness that feels almost too loving, almost cruel. You wonder what side of yourself that is, the part that craves his affection so desperately, the part that lets the lines blur between love and dependency.

You might even say you’re learning to love him—or at least the version of him that exists in the quiet of the night. The version that pulls you close under the weight of darkness, his voice low and unguarded as he whispers, “I love you.”

It’s in those moments that he feels human, almost fragile. A man with calloused hands and a broken heart trying to mend himself through you.

And it’s hard not to wonder—are you really learning to love him, or are you simply surrendering to the inevitability of it all?

Satoru, though… he never used to cuddle at night. Even before Suguru entered the picture, he always sprawled out in his ridiculously expensive sheets, claiming restlessness from the constant hum of his cursed energy. He needed the space, he said, and you told yourself he deserved it.

Suguru, however—Suguru surprised you.

At first glance, he didn’t seem the type for soft affections, but you quickly learned otherwise. Every night, his arms would find their way around you, wrapping you in a firm but gentle embrace. His warmth seeped into you, grounding and comforting, as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. His lips would brush your skin with soft kisses, a tenderness you hadn’t expected from him.

Sometimes, his deep voice would murmur, “Sorry we came home so late,” heavy with sincerity. Other times, his words were more vulnerable, whispered just above a breath: “I love you,” spoken in the dark when he thought you were asleep.

It’s hard not to love him in those moments. Hard not to feel your resolve slip as his presence surrounds you. His breath fans against your neck, steady and warm. His rhythmic breathing eventually syncs with yours, as if his body is learning the cadence of your every inhale and exhale.

For those fleeting moments, you almost forget the cracks beneath the surface.

Other good moments were the intimate ones, the kind that left no room for doubt about how thoroughly they possessed you.

Suguru’s lips would meet yours in slow, deliberate kisses, his touch soft and coaxing, as Satoru’s tongue worked between your legs. The wet, obscene sounds filled the room, clouding your vision and overwhelming your senses. Satoru’s tongue moved with precision, his mouth relentless as he lapped at your cunt, delving deep until your mind felt as hazy as your breathless moans.

Suguru’s fingers never faltered, rubbing tight circles around your clit in perfect rhythm with Satoru’s ministrations. Their combined efforts dragged you over the edge again and again, your body trembling and giving in to the relentless waves of pleasure.

It became impossible to think of anything else—impossible to care about anything other than the bliss they brought you. Their hardened cocks stretched you beyond your limits, filling you completely, their stamina nearly too much for your quivering form.

Suguru would cradle your face in his hands, his dark eyes soft yet intense as he cooed sweet nothings. He’d murmur praises, soothing and possessive, as Satoru pressed the tip of his cock into your overstimulated, leaking cunt. The stretch made you gasp—a sound Suguru captured with his lips, his kiss slow, methodical, leaving you no room to shy away.

Satoru’s hands gripped your hips harshly, his long fingers digging into your flesh, ensuring you stayed exactly where he wanted you. You could already tell the marks would bloom into bruises by morning, a physical reminder of their claim. Suguru, ever attentive, would turn your face gently toward the camera, his voice a low murmur against your lips. “You’re such a good girl,” he’d praise, his thumb brushing your cheek before pulling you into another kiss.

When they were finally spent, when your body gave out completely, Suguru always carried you to the bath. His embrace was steady, grounding, as the warm water soothed your trembling form. You’d lean against his chest, your body limp, lulled by the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing.

Sometimes, Satoru would join, his tall frame slipping into the water beside you. Their voices would soften as they spoke over you, discussing mundane things or recounting their mission. Occasionally, a kiss would press against your temple—a fleeting gesture, tender and claiming all at once—as you drifted in and out of sleep.

For a little while, it felt like you belonged.

And then, when he thinks you’re asleep, Satoru murmurs, “I knew you’d come around.”

You’re never sure who he’s talking to—Suguru, the man who swore to eradicate non-sorcerers? Or you, the girl who’s finally learning to love the monster who holds her at night?

It’s in these moments that you find yourself slipping out of bed, mumbling an excuse to use the bathroom. Suguru always lets you go with a teasing “Come back fast, or I’ll come get you.” You never linger long enough to see if he’s joking.

Once inside the furthest bathroom, the one that feels like your only sanctuary, you clutch the edge of the sink and sob. Quietly, so no one hears. Until your knees give out and you’re on the floor, shaking and clutching yourself.

This is love. Right?

They loved you. So why were you crying in the bathroom?

Why did each love bite feel like a brand, etched into your skin with every lingering gaze in the mirror? Why did their cum, warm as it seeped down your thighs, burn like it was searing itself into you, a mark you couldn’t erase? Why did the blank, soulless stare of the camera lens feel like an accusation, making you flinch away from any piece of technology?

Before too long, you would wipe your tears, force a smile to your lips—steadying it just enough so it wouldn’t wobble—and return to Suguru’s waiting arms. His hum would vibrate against your back as his dark hair tickled your neck. He’d cradle you close, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

“Goodnight, baby,” he’d murmur, and you’d close your eyes, pretending his embrace felt like comfort instead of confinement.

But mornings brought their own discomforts.

You found yourself rifling through the master bathroom, searching the countertop with rising panic. Where is it? The nagging thought ate at you.

Satoru, brushing his teeth beside you, glanced over with those striking blue eyes. His tone was soft, almost too casual. “What’s up, baby?”

“I can’t find my birth control,” you admitted, the words trembling as much as your hands.

“Did you misplace it? You’ve been doing that a lot lately.” He walked over, his long arms wrapping around your waist. A kiss brushed the top of your head, his voice gentle but firm. “Go ask Sugu. He’s the one who organizes everything.”

So you did. Suguru was at the desk in the living room, working through a report. From over his shoulder, you could see the numbers—charge rates, payments for missions—enough to know your schooling costs barely amounted to a fraction of what they earned in a single week.

“Your birth control?” he repeated absentmindedly, his tone light, almost dismissive. “You’ve been misplacing that a lot, haven’t you, baby?”

His words felt condescending, like you were a child searching for a lost toy.

“Where is it?” you asked, voice still soft but with a growing edge of desperation. You were five minutes late—exactly.

“Ah-ah, no need for that tone, baby,” he chided, his eyes still glued to his paperwork. “Check the kitchen counter. Your purse? Maybe your school bag.”

It took thirty agonizing minutes of searching, panic simmering under your skin, before you found it—perched on top of the fridge.

You stared at it for a moment, unmoving. You would have never put it there.

Suguru’s behavior had become harder to ignore. There were moments when his touch lingered, his eyes softened, and his voice carried a wistful tone. He had baby fever—you could tell. Maybe it was tied to the twins he lost.

You’d asked him about them once. His face shuttered, dark and unreadable, and he didn’t respond.

You tried asking Satoru, but he had simply glanced away, his usual bravado vanishing for a moment too long.

You decided not to ask again.

Some questions weren’t meant to be answered. You had a sinking feeling the truth lay buried somewhere with the higher-ups, in a place you weren’t allowed to tread.

Suguru’s baby fever didn’t fade, no matter how much you tried to ignore it.

When the three of you went to the store, you’d catch that soft smile tugging at his lips whenever he saw a child. It wasn’t the type of smile he gave just anyone—it was warm, tender, hopeful. And it was always followed by a kiss pressed to your temple. A gesture you used to pull away from, but now, you found yourself smiling through.

Sometimes, he’d suggest wandering into the baby section, his tone casual, almost playful. “Just in case. Want to see what’s out there.”

The words always made your skin crawl.

Because no matter how innocuous they sounded, your mind couldn’t help but spiral. It always went back to the hidden birth control, the misplaced pills, and the monthly pregnancy tests he insisted on. He’d stand there, watching you pee on the stick, his arms crossed but his expression almost serene—waiting, anticipating. He wanted to know right away.

You tried to shove those thoughts into the furthest corner of your mind. Tried to convince yourself it was all harmless.

Satoru, by contrast, didn’t seem to care much for babies. He never lingered in the baby aisle and rarely commented on Suguru’s behavior. But he’d hum softly, his hand clasping yours, and flash you a loving smile.

You liked to think that as long as everyone else was happy, Satoru was happy.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

Occasionally, when they left for long missions, the apartment felt suffocating in its emptiness. You’d pad softly through the vast, cold space, the silence amplifying every creak of the floorboards beneath your feet.

Your eyes darted around, searching for the hidden cameras you knew were there. You weren’t sure where they all were, or when they liked to check the footage, but you’d found one blind spot: the hallway closet.

You moved slowly, deliberately, ensuring you didn’t do anything that might raise suspicion. Even though you were alone, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

All because they loved you.

Slipping into the closet, you nestled yourself on the floor, silky yukatas hanging above like a shroud. Your laptop glowed faintly in the darkness as you opened it and began your quiet rebellion.

You searched for apartments—something small, something within your budget. Each listing felt like a whisper of hope. You lingered on them, imagining the freedom they promised, before methodically deleting your browser history. Clearing the cache. Erasing every trace.

It was a silly idea. A foolish one, really.

But for a few stolen moments, it was yours.

It didn’t seem so silly after the heated argument with Satoru when he got home.

He was already overstimulated, frustrated, and teetering on the edge of losing his patience. Those moments were the worst—when the teasing lilt in his voice faded, replaced by something sharp and mean. His cerulean eyes, usually playful and glinting with mischief, turned cold and calculating, the glow of his Six Eyes adding an eerie sharpness to his gaze.

All he wanted was release. That was all.

“It shouldn’t be a big deal,” he said, his tone flat but brimming with expectation.

Except you weren’t in the mood.

“I’m sorry, Toru, I just—”

“I do everything for you, and you can’t even provide me with a little comfort?” His words came out harsh, the grin curling his lips into something too sharp to be soft. He stepped closer, his towering frame casting a long shadow over you. His presence always felt overwhelming—broad shoulders, perfectly sculpted face framed by stark white hair, and a lean body that seemed to hum with restrained power. You swallowed hard. Did he get taller?

“I just got off my period, so it’s—”

“It’s what?” His voice cut through your hesitation, his hands flexing as if he were trying to leash himself. “Come on, baby. Just a quickie. Or let me use your mouth.”

The fight drained out of you before you even realized it.

You ended up on your knees, the cold tile biting into your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from your flushed face. His long fingers twisted tightly into your hair, guiding your head as if you were nothing more than a puppet for his pleasure. His pale chest rose and fell steadily, the faint sheen of sweat on his skin catching the light, glinting like cruel punctuation to his earlier frustration.

The tip of his cock pushed past your lips, the stretch almost unbearable as he moved with slow, deliberate thrusts. His head tilted back, exposing the sharp lines of his jaw, tightening with every wet sound that filled the room. A low groan rumbled deep in his throat, vibrating in the space between you like a growl of satisfaction.

Your throat burned, gagging and gasping as you struggled to adjust. Your hands clutched at his thighs for balance, fingers digging into the hard, taut muscles beneath his impossibly smooth skin. His hips began to move with more force, his breaths growing heavier, the faintest smirk curling on his lips as he reveled in your struggle.

His moans grew louder, rougher, until with a sharp tug of your hair, he pulled out. Hot ropes of cum painted your face, the heat of it stark against your flushed skin. You blinked through the haze, barely catching your breath, the sting of humiliation bubbling up in your chest.

Before you could even reach for something to wipe yourself clean, the sharp click of a camera shutter echoed through the room.

You didn’t need to look up to know what he was doing. You could already imagine him grinning at the screen, tapping a few buttons with casual ease. You could picture the caption as clearly as if he’d whispered it into your ear:

"Our girl is so beautiful, isn’t she? <3"

The thought sat heavy in your chest, a mix of shame, anger, and something else you didn’t want to name.

And then, as if nothing had happened, Satoru turned sweet again.

He brought you a towel, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he wiped your face. “Come on,” he coaxed, his voice softening. He guided you to the bathroom, his fingers lacing with yours, and drew you into the shower.

Under the warm water, he washed your hair, his hands threading through your strands with care. His crystalline eyes softened as he began to tell you about his mission, his lips quirking into a small smile. From the counter, he produced a small box of mochi, your favorite snack.

“You’re everything to me, baby,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple. His arms wrapped around you, his broad chest pressing against your back. “I’m going to marry you one day. You know that, right?”

And just like that, the storm passed, leaving behind only his affection.. 

Your heart sank at the mention of marriage. With them, you knew they’d find a way to make it happen—the three of you, bound together, no matter how impossible it seemed.

After the shower, you slipped into bed, craving the comforting warmth of the sheets. It was a small solace, a fleeting moment where you could envelop yourself in something soft and familiar.

Satoru liked to cuddle during naps, and true to form, his lanky arms found their way around you. He pulled you close, his chest pressing against your back as he nuzzled into you. His kisses came next, peppered across your lips with deliberate exaggeration, loud and obnoxious.

You used to giggle when he did that. You used to squirm and laugh, batting him away as he grinned and pulled you closer.

But now, you stayed still, letting him press his kisses and settle into a nap with you.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d giggled like that. Or the last time you’d laughed at all.

On their next mission, you had exactly six hours.

Exactly six hours for a stupid idea. A fleeting thought. 

You’d planned this carefully, down to the second. When they asked where you’d be, you made some excuse about a doctor’s appointment. It was believable enough—Suguru always asked to see the summary of your visits when you got back, a habit you knew was less about care and more about control.

But this time, you lied.

There was no appointment.

Instead, you booked a one-way trip. Far, far away from Tokyo. Far enough that they wouldn’t be able to find you, at least not right away.

The States. It was the only place you could afford with the small stash of cash you’d scraped together over the years—birthday cards, Christmas cards, anything you’d managed to squirrel away without raising suspicion. You even bought a prepaid flight gift card, ensuring it couldn’t be traced back to you.

No suitcases, no sentimental keepsakes, nothing but the clothes on your back.

Before you left, you scrawled a simple note, placing it where you knew they’d find it. Just three words:

"I love you."

Ironic, isn’t it? 

As you sat at your terminal, the minutes ticked by with agonizing slowness. You told yourself a 14-hour flight wouldn’t be so bad. It was freedom, wasn’t it? The first real breath you’d taken in months.

But then, a familiar figure caught your eye.

Megumi.

He wasn’t alone—the other first-years trailed beside him—but it was Megumi’s gaze that stopped your heart. His dark eyes widened when they locked onto yours, a flash of recognition that made your stomach churn.

Your anxiety hit you like a freight train, crawling under your skin, seeping into your every bone as they walked past. Megumi glanced back at you one more time, his lips parting just enough to mouth the words: “I’m sorry.”

And then you saw it—his hand reaching for his phone, his fingers already dialing.

You didn’t have to guess who he was calling.

Your heart sank, but you told yourself it wasn’t his fault. You knew Megumi had his reasons—his own happiness to protect, his own precarious balance to maintain. He was trying to survive too, wasn’t he?

You understood. You really did.

But understanding didn’t make the fear any less suffocating.

You cried the entire car ride home, your sobs tearing from your throat, raw and uncontrollable.

Satoru didn’t even glance your way. His icy, dull gaze stayed fixed on the window, his jaw clenched so tightly you thought it might snap. The silence between you was deafening, broken only by your muffled cries and the hum of the car engine.

In the passenger seat, Suguru sat quietly, his expression unreadable. His hands rested on his knees, fingers drumming absently, as if the tension in the car didn’t weigh as heavily on him.

Poor Ijichi-san gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, clearly caught in a situation he didn’t want to be in. He glanced at you through the rearview mirror—sympathy flashing briefly in his eyes—before he quickly looked away, the moment shattered by Satoru’s cold, piercing glare.

The car felt suffocating, like the air had been sucked out, leaving only the weight of your despair and the oppressive silence of the two men who claimed to love you.

Your brows furrowed in confusion as you watched the familiar sight of your apartment complex slip past the window. Panic prickled at the edge of your already frayed nerves, your grip tightening on the fabric of your clothes. A small sniffle left your nose, your voice coming out hoarse and broken.

“Where are we going, Toru?”

You turned your gaze to Satoru, hoping for an answer, for anything—but he didn’t look at you. He didn’t respond. His profile was cold, distant, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Your stomach twisted, guilt clawing at your insides. You must have hurt him. He always clung to your love like it was his lifeline. You must have broken that lifeline, snapped it in two with your attempt to run.

You shifted your gaze to Suguru, hoping for some clarity, but his face gave nothing away. His dark eyes flickered toward you for the briefest of moments before returning to the road ahead, his expression as still and unreadable as ever.

The car veered away from familiar streets, the urban sprawl giving way to the shadowy embrace of the woods.

Your chest tightened.

Every nerve in your body screamed as the car crept deeper into the forest, the tall trees looming like silent sentinels. Your mind raced with grim possibilities. Were they planning to leave you here? Like an unwanted dog, cast into the cold for daring to run away?

But then, just as the panic began to claw at you, your gaze caught the sight of something familiar—something that made your heart sink even further.

The tall, imposing torii gates emerged through the mist, their vibrant red striking against the muted greens and grays of the forest.

Oh.

The Gojo Estate.

“I don’t think I can trust you enough not to leave again,” Satoru said quietly, his voice uncharacteristically calm, almost detached.

He wasn’t usually the one to chide you—that was Suguru’s role. Suguru, who would dole out punishments with a sharp tongue or a chilling, parental tone, as though you were a misbehaving child. But now, Satoru’s words held a gravity that made your chest tighten.

“So,” he continued, his crystalline eyes fixed ahead, “I figured here, you could have a few more eyes on you. Maybe even enjoy it more. Who knows? You might even come around to the idea of being Mrs. Gojo or Mrs. Geto. Your pick.”

He smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“We already filled out the documentation. You’re married.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, the weight of them crashing into your chest. Your mind spun, unable to comprehend the sheer audacity of it, the sheer finality.

You felt chained.

Like a dog, tethered to their will, stripped of freedom, and locked away under the pretense of love.

They didn’t say anything as they walked you through the grand, silent halls of the Gojo Estate, and for that, you were almost thankful. The air was heavy with whispers and disdainful glances from the servants. A non-sorcerer? Their murmurs carried through the air, sharp and cutting, as though your very presence was an affront to their world.

When you reached the bedroom, Satoru’s hand guided you forward with surprising gentleness, his fingers brushing yours as though nothing had changed. He led you to the edge of the plush, sprawling bed, and you forced a small, trembling smile to your lips—a weak attempt at peace, at hope.

His bright eyes softened, and for a moment, you thought maybe, just maybe, you could reason with him.

But then his hands caught your wrists.

A light kiss brushed your lips, so soft you barely registered it over the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. The faint click of the cuffs was almost lost in the quiet, but the cold metal digging into your skin was impossible to ignore.

He stepped back, his expression unreadable.

It was Suguru’s voice that filled the air next, low and calm, like a lullaby that promised nightmares.

“You’re going to provide us an heir,” he said, his smile almost serene, even as your eyes widened in horror. “It was Satoru’s idea, actually.”

His smile deepened, almost teasing, as though he enjoyed the shock and betrayal etched across your face. “And you’re not leaving this room until you’re safe and pregnant.”

The words hung in the air, suffocating you.

Suguru’s tone carried a quiet, unmistakable happiness, as though this was something he’d always wanted. Maybe it was—he’d always longed for a child, hadn’t he? You turned your gaze to Satoru, searching for something, anything.

But all you found was the lovesick smile he gave Suguru.

Not you.

Your chest tightened as tears pricked your eyes, the overwhelming urge to scream, to sob, to lash out building inside you.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Instead, you sat there, the cold metal biting into your wrists, the weight of their love crushing the last sliver of hope you’d held onto.

You had grown numb.

Must be from all the love, right?

[lovebugism]

rockstar eddie punching the lights out of sleazy paps who try to take upskirt pics of you as you’re leaving the afterparty

ty for requesting! — rockstar!eddie defends you from the creepy paparazzi (rockstar!eddie universe, established relationship | 1.1k)

Post-show adrenaline rushes through your veins like ice-cold water. Your limbs go numb with it, hands trembling like leaves as you give your dressing room a last once-over. Beneath the heartbeat in your ears, you notice the screaming audience has gone slowly quiet — which usually means they’re rushing to the backstage doors. 

You have approximately one minute to get to the tour bus before a crowd starts swarming. 

Eddie, however, continues to lounge on the plush leather sofa like a king despite the ever-shrinking timeline. 

His leather pants sit low on his hips, enough to reveal the trail of hair on his stomach leading to the tight tanktop he wears under his leather jacket. His curls are wild and sticky with sweat. His eyes are glassy with alcohol and adrenaline, a couple of chocolate buttons lined around the edges with black eye-pencil.

He looks heavenly, an angel built for sin, but you don’t have time to admire him now. 

“C’mon, Eds. We gotta go,” you huff after you’ve checked all the drawers, effectively sweating beneath your faux fur coat.

“Wait. Hold on,” Eddie calls to your retreating form, unmoving from his spot on the sofa.

You freeze in the doorway. “What?” you call to him in an unenthusiastic monotone.

“Nothing…” Eddie lilts as his pink mouth curls into a crooked smile. “You just look really pretty tonight.”

You look hardly a thing like he’s used to — his quiet girl from Hawkins with an easily excitable temper, who was so talented that it bordered on annoying at times. You look less like a GAP catalog and more like a rockstar. Bold makeup, tight dress, thick fur coat, and rings on every finger. You look divine. Eddie doesn’t know how he got you.

Your eyes narrow into thin slits. “Just tonight?”

“Every night,” Eddie corrects.

“C’mon. We don’t have time for this,” you grouse with a roll of your eyes. 

Your high-heeled boots sound heavy on the thin carpet as you stomp over to the lazing boy. Your cold hands wrap around his wrist to pull him upward. Eddie trails behind you while you drag him out of the empty dressing room.

The crowd beats you to the backstage door.

The crew has long loaded your equipment onto the tour bus. Gareth and Jeff wait for you there, too, sufficiently protected from the mob swarming outside. It’s all blurred faces and camera flashes and grabbing hands. Everyone’s shouting so many different things at once that their words all run together in a dizzying drone.

Eddie ducks his head and leads the charge through the masses. He keeps his ringed hand tightly wound with yours as he rushes through the crowd with his face half-hidden in his hair. 

You last that way for no longer than a moment or more before your hand slides from his. Eddie’s head whips around to find you sloppily signing your name on posters with your face on it, band merch, and the top one woman’s scantily-clad chest. 

He hates when you stop for autographs in places as crowded as this. ‘Cause someone always gets too grabby or too pushy, and Eddie has to get mean.

The surrounding paparazzi start to close in — shouting your names, all eager for the best shot of you, and hoping for the cover of the following days’ magazine.

The roaring crowd gets in between the two of you. Eddie feels like his heart’s in his throat when you get trapped in the mob, still smiling politely and scribbling autographs to cover your panic. Eddie pushes his way through the people to get to you with a lot less gentility.

“Hey, back a little bit, would ya?” he shouts to the aggressive paps shoving their cameras every which way. 

Everyone’s screaming too loud to listen. 

He reaches you no more than ten seconds later, though it had felt like an eternity at the time, and spots a camera angled far too low to be casual. A man with a receding hairline and sweaty upper lip stands behind you and takes a number of flashing shots, blindly aiming under your dress for a view of what you’re wearing underneath it.

Eddie hopes to God you’ve got something on underneath it as he shouts, “Hey! Back up! Are you fucking crazy?” He grabs your wrist with one hand and shoves the pap backward with the other.

The older man stumbles back a step or two, but doesn’t get far with all the people crowded behind him. He pushes Eddie back with a hairy hand, seemingly on instinct. Eddie doesn’t realize his fist is throwing a punch until he feels the impact of the man’s jaw on his knuckles. 

His eyes widen in shock of himself as the crowd roars — in gasps and shouts and calls of praise. You cover your agape mouth with one hand when the paparazzo stumbles over himself and onto the ground. The mob parts to let him fall. No one helps him back up again.

Eddie feels a sharp and tingling ache rushing through his fingers as he tugs you through the horde and towards the tour bus. This time, you let him.

“Hope you guys liked the show!” he shouts, waving his ringed hand and effectively flashing his bruising knuckles. The fans erupt in a symphony of screams that you can hear long after the door to the bus has shut behind you.

An hour or more later, the story has made its way to damn near every news channel. ‘Eddie Munson Will Rock You,’ the headline reads over a picture of the rockstar mid-punch. 

The newscast plays the video on repeat in a number of different angles. The four of you, still dressed in your concert outfits, gather around the small square television to watch.

“Well…” Jeff sighs to break the silence. “That was quick.”

Gareth pouts from the mini dining table. “I can’t believe I missed it…”

Eddie crosses his arms over his chest and slumps beside you on the couch. “At least now everyone’s talking about this shit and not those pictures that asshole took of you.”

“You say that like you did it on purpose,” you quip with a playful glint in your narrowed eyes.

“I did, actually,” Eddie shrugs, obviously sarcastic. “‘Cause I’m a genius. Always thinking two steps ahead, sweetheart.”

“You’re an idiot,” you smile, rolling your eyes as you lean over to brush a kiss to his burning cheek. You linger against him and whisper in his ear, “Meet me in the bunks in five minutes.”

You rise from the plush sofa and saunter towards the back of the bus — dress swishing at your hips, fur coat bouncing around your arms. You catch Eddie’s heavy gaze over your shoulder and flash him a wink before sliding the door shut behind you.

Eddie’s glad those photos of you haven’t gotten out, but that doesn’t mean he can’t take a couple polaroids of his own.

[no-144444]

kind man- o.piastri

summary: the aftermath of the australian grand prix...

pairing: oscar piastri x fem! reader

a/n: ... silence.

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

Oscar was sure this was some kind of cruel lesson from the universe. He’d felt strong, ready, and competitive. He knew he could win it, he knew it could get himself up on that podium, to break that stupid fucking curse. 

And then the rain came. And the gravel. And the crowd all gasped. He could hear it all while he was desperately trying to get his stupid fucking McLaren off the grass. He genuinely wanted to scream. Andrea had told him one thing: If you win this, you’re number one. No more papaya rules. No more being Lando’s bitch. Oscar Piastri, Formula One World Champion 2025. 

And he’d pissed it away because of slick fucking tires, and a bad pit strategy. The headache that had been building in his head was throbbing now, he was exhausted, and he wanted- no, needed to be out of the car. 

But he still had a job to do, and he knew he had to at least make it into the points to make up for his mistake. 

He thought about every fan that had come up to him over the past few days, he thought about how his parents and family were watching, how his nation was watching him, and how he’d completely failed. He lost it in a gravel trap like a fucking rookie. 

The return lap was torture. He dutifully waved to the crowd before slotting in behind anyone who’d placed in front of him, and his head hung low as he exited his car. 

“I’m sorry mate,” Alex rushed up beside him. “Stellar drive though, congratulations,” he offered with a sympathetic smile that he returned as best he could. 

“Thanks,” he shrugged as he stood on the scales. He could feel the cameras on him, and the lump in his throat would just have to wait till later. He’d have to wait until he was safely in your arms, and then he could break down. You. 

Your first race, the first race you’d ever been to and he fucked it. 

He couldn’t even face you, or his family. This was so embarrassing. He was so ashamed. 

He looked up at the brightening sky and somehow, you were waiting at the barrier, a sympathetic look on your face. He picked up whatever strength he still had left and walked over. 

You didn’t ask. You didn’t pry. You simply pulled him into your arms and nuzzled into his neck the way he loved. You didn’t pity him. You didn’t need to. You knew his potential, and you knew he’d reach it. You’d always been that way, since the start, you were a steady supporter, never wavering, never confused at a result. Always there for him, through anything. 

“I was so worried,” you admitted. “I thought you were going to flip.” 

He shook his head. “Nothing was stopping me from finishing this race. I owe it to the home fans.”

You looked up at him and smiled. He could see that perfect glint in your eye, the kind that made him weak in the knees. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, yeah? I want you to be Oscar, not a racing robot.”

He chuckled. A real smile. Of course you pulled it out of him. “No promises.”

“Osc,” you whined, slapping his chest playfully. 

“Alright, alright,” he nodded. “I’ll be… nice.”

And of course you believed him, because he never really could lie to you. 

“Want to get out of here? Head home?” you offered. “I can argue with Zak?” 

He shook his head. “Lando won, and he deserves to be celebrated,” he shrugged. “I'll celebrate with the team for a bit and then I’ll head home with you guys.”

You stared at him, cupping his cheek. He had no idea what to expect next. Again, you just smiled and said. “You’re a kind man, Oscar. I hope you realise how wonderful that is.” 

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

mclaren masterlist

navigation for my blog :)

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

I’m switching it up here!

Would I be able to pretty please ask for Simon with wife! Reader and baby meeting the 141 for the first time???

His Little Shadow

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Wife!Reader

Warnings: Canon-typical injury mention, emotional hurt/comfort, softness, family fluff, mentions of trauma and recovery

Author's Note: I love this so much, I hope you enjoy this cute little story-

Summary: No one expected Ghost to have a family. Especially not one that looked just like him.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

Simon Riley was many things. But no one expected him to be a father.

The ballroom buzzed with quiet tension—stiff uniforms, gleaming medals, officers with unreadable expressions and heels clicked sharp against marble. A rare ceremony. A rare kind of recognition.

Simon “Ghost” Riley was being honored with the highest distinction their division could offer—akin to a Purple Heart. Not just for surviving an ambush, but for shielding an entire unit when the firefight turned into a trap.

He’d taken a bullet through the shoulder—clean through the muscle—and had shrapnel embedded in his thigh from the IED blast that followed. He’d been barely conscious by the time evac arrived, soaked in his own blood. The only thing that had kept him awake was the thought of never seeing his son again.

Today, though… he wasn’t alone.

None of the team expected what came next.

“Lieutenant Riley has requested his family be in attendance,” the announcer said. “Please welcome his wife and son.”

Soap, champagne halfway to his mouth, nearly choked. “His what now?”

Price’s eyebrows rose. “...Well, that’s new.”

Gaz slowly turned his head. “You're telling me Ghost has a family?”

The doors creaked open.

And in stepped you—a vision in soft blue, with kind eyes and a smile that warmed the room instantly. On your hip, a tiny boy clung to your shoulder, dressed in a miniature toddler suit. Curly blonde hair. Wide, shy brown eyes. Dimples. Freckles.

And in one chubby hand? A little stuffed ghost.

He squirmed in your arms the second he spotted Simon.

“Daddy!!”

Before anyone could react, he launched from your grasp with surprising speed. His little dress shoes tapped wildly across the floor as he sprinted toward his father.

Simon’s injured arm was braced in a sling, his leg stiff with a hidden brace, but he moved—kneeling just in time to scoop Tommy up in his good arm, holding him close like he was air.

“Hey, there’s my little lad,” Simon murmured into his son’s curls. His voice broke, just a little. “Missed you so much, Tommy.”

Tommy clung to him like he’d never let go again.

The room had gone dead quiet—a few camera flashes popped, but no one dared speak.

Soap’s jaw was on the floor. “He looks exactly like him.”

Gaz’s voice was a whisper. “Why is he so small? Why is he holding a Ghost plushie?”

Tommy peeked up from Simon’s shoulder, narrowed his eyes at the unfamiliar faces. A perfect mirror of his father.

“...Who’re they.”

His voice was barely a whisper.

You caught up, still smiling brightly despite the attention. “Friends, love.”

Price stared, flabbergasted. “You’re married.”

“For years,” Simon muttered, rubbing his son’s back. “Didn’t think it was important.”

“Didn’t think it was important?!” Soap looked personally betrayed. “You’ve got a wife and a baby Ghost—you’ve been holding out on us, mate!”

Tommy, utterly unimpressed, tucked his face back into Simon’s neck, clutching tighter.

And Simon? He just held him tighter, grinning behind the mask. “Doesn’t matter who knows now. Just glad they’re here.”

You rested a hand gently on Simon’s shoulder, smiling up at him with stars in your eyes. “He’s the strong one. Tommy and I just keep him grounded.”

Tommy peeked out again, holding the Ghost plushie up toward Soap in a silent offering.

Just for a second. A test.

Soap’s entire soul melted.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “I’m gonna cry.”

——

Later That Evening

Once the photos were taken, the speeches given, and the handshakes done, the team pulled Ghost aside—into a quieter lounge at the back of the venue.

Tommy was asleep on your chest now, soft and squishy in his tiny suit, still clutching the ghost plushie. Simon sat beside you, exhausted but settled—his bandaged shoulder stiff, his leg stretched out.

Soap paced like he didn’t know where to begin.

“You nearly died, and didn’t think to tell us there was a baby Ghost back home?!”

Simon arched a brow. “Didn’t see the point.”

Gaz gawked. “A baby Ghost! With your face!”

You laughed quietly, adjusting Tommy’s weight on your lap. “He does the stare too. Exactly like his dad.”

“He judged me,” Gaz said, dead serious. “He judged me in his sleep.”

Simon chuckled, leaning back against the sofa with his good arm over your shoulders.

Price looked at him with something like admiration. “You did good, Simon. You protected your men, and you built something for yourself. That’s rare.”

Simon glanced down at his son, then at you.

“I’d go through it all again,” he said quietly. “Just to get back to them.”

And he meant it.

You smiled and kissed his cheek, and the team politely pretended not to notice the rare display of affection from their masked lieutenant.

——

That Night

The hotel room was quiet.

Not the stiff, formal silence of the ballroom—but the heavy, comforting kind that only came after a long day. The weight of everything peeled away the moment Simon locked the door behind him. The suit jacket came off first, dropped onto the armchair. The medal still pinned to his chest glinted in the low light.

You were already barefoot, sitting on the edge of the bed with sleepy little Tommy leaning into your chest, ghost plushie tucked under one arm, thumb near his mouth.

His curls were mussed from being passed between strangers and teammates who all took turns marveling at Ghost’s mini-me. He’d tolerated them quietly. Watched them with that wide-eyed intensity he inherited from his father. Now he was worn out.

Simon crossed the room, slower than usual with the brace on his leg, the sling tugging his shoulder. But his eyes never left Tommy’s face. His breathing eased the closer he got.

He sat beside you with a quiet grunt, toeing off his shoes.

Tommy reached for him instantly.

“C’mere, little lad.”

The boy didn’t speak—just crawled into Simon’s lap, curled up tight, and pressed his face into his father’s chest with a contented sigh.

Simon leaned back against the headboard, good arm around Tommy, the plushie smushed between them. You curled in on his other side, laying your head on his shoulder, your hand gently tracing circles on his chest.

No one spoke.

There was no need to.

Eventually, Simon broke the silence, voice low and raw. “Thought I’d never see this again.”

“You’re here,” you whispered.

“I kept picturing it. When things got bad.” His thumb stroked Tommy’s back. “Not the ceremony. Not the medal. Just this. You. Him. A quiet room.”

You smiled softly. “Then let this be the first of many.”

Simon nodded. “I don’t want to keep it quiet anymore.”

“You don’t have to,” you said gently. “You never did.”

He looked down at Tommy, who had dozed off again, face relaxed and safe.

“I missed so much,” Simon said quietly.

You kissed his shoulder. “You’re here now. He knows you love him.”

Simon rested his cheek on the top of your head, breathing deep. “He’s the bravest little thing I’ve ever seen.”

“He gets it from his dad.”

“Nah,” Simon said, with a tired little smile. “Gets it from his mum.”

You laughed under your breath.

And in that room—just the three of you, wrapped in each other—Simon Riley finally let himself breathe.

Let himself believe.

Because his little shadow had waited for him.

And he’d made it home.

——

The Next Morning

The hotel breakfast lounge was warm with clinks of silverware and quiet voices. The team had gathered at a long table by the windows, plates half-full, coffee steaming in hand.

Then the doors opened.

Simon walked in, dressed down in joggers and a hoodie—sling still snug across his shoulder, brace hidden beneath loose fabric. And trailing behind him like a duckling?

Tommy.

Tiny pajama pants with cartoon ghosts. One sock inside out. A determined little frown. Juice box clutched in both hands.

He mimicked every step his father took. When Simon slowed, Tommy slowed. When Simon stopped to scan the room, Tommy froze beside him. A flawless copy.

The team collectively melted.

Soap whimpered. “He’s still following him.”

Gaz looked close to tears. “I swear he’s even got the pace down.”

Tommy spotted the table and leaned forward slightly like he was ready to sprint—but Simon held out a hand. “Walk, lad.”

Tommy adjusted instantly, tiny legs pumping just a bit slower.

The second they reached the table, Tommy pointed up at the seat beside Simon. “Up.”

Simon picked him up without a word, easing him into the chair and sliding over a plate of toast he’d grabbed from the buffet. Tommy nodded once, solemn, and took a bite like it was his mission for the day.

The Ghost plushie sat beside him, propped up like a teammate.

You arrived moments later, hair damp, carrying your own plate and smiling like you’d won the universe.

“Sorry—we had a toothbrush standoff. He won.”

Simon nodded. “Saluted me with it.”

Soap practically keeled over. “Stop. STOP. I can’t—he saluted?”

Price just smiled into his tea. “Loyal, that one.”

Tommy reached out mid-bite and rested one sticky hand on Simon’s wrist. No words. Just… connection.

And Simon? He let it happen like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because it was.

Because his little shadow was exactly where he belonged.

——

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[joemama-2]

contains: stepdad! gojo, pervy + mildly dark content, tw: stepcest

stepdad! gojo who first meets you at a dinner your mom arranged. sitting pretty by her side, polite and shy, but still regarding him as an intruder.

stepdad! gojo who doesn’t wait too long to move into your house. two toothbrushes turned into three, the toilet seat would now be left up from time to time, and no longer being able to walk around in a shirt with nothing under it but panties.

stepdad! gojo whose cock he feels twitch in his pants when you flinch and scoot closer to him after another jumpscare of the horror movie you’re watching.

stepdad! gojo who expertly hides his longing gazes, filthy stares behind his glasses or when your mom’s not looking.

stepdad! gojo takes a few of your panties from the laundry basket without you knowing.

stepdad! gojo who rubs a few out in the shower to the thought of your tight cunt wrapped around his cock. or pretending he’s using the bathroom right after you do, only to let the hot steam of your bath cling to his skin, invading his nostrils, all the while jerking off.

stepdad! gojo who imagines it’s you sucking his dick instead of your mom.

stepdad! gojo who finally makes the first move when your mom’s at work. trapping your body between the kitchen counter and his chest, large hands greedily feeling for every curve.

you squeal and try to push him away, yelling out “what are you doing?!”

he let you go, smiling and coyly apologizing. coming up with an excuse that he’s been sleep deprived and thought you were your mom.

you stomped upstairs, all the while eyeing him like he was a villain.

at least you know.

stepdad! gojo who slips into your room in the dead of night to pry your thighs open and finger your hole like it’s some sort of interesting artifact. you didn’t even wear panties.

“slutty,” he whispered in your ear, followed by two lengthy fingers plunging in.

stepdad! gojo who purposefully leaves the bathroom door cracked open when he’s towel-drying himself off, waiting to see if you’ll sneak a glance. when you do, he smirks knowingly, cock heavy and dripping.

stepdad! gojo who gets hard when you call him “Satoru” instead of “Dad.” the way your tongue flicks on that name? makes him think about how you’d sound choking on his length.

stepdad! gojo who fingers your panties when no one’s home, rubbing his cock between the soft cotton until he cums all over them—then folds them back into your drawer like nothing happened.

stepdad! gojo who stops knocking when he enters your room, catching you in compromising positions on purpose. and when he sees you with your fingers between your thighs, he just chuckles and says,

“need help, baby? daddy’s better with his hands.”

you scream and slam the door on him.

stepdad! gojo who “accidentally” leaves a bottle of lube and a thick toy in your top drawer—then waits for the moment you use it, ear pressed against your door late at night, stroking his cock to the soft whimpers spilling from your throat.

stepdad! gojo who starts testing how far he can go. Late-night back rubs turn into his hands dipping under your shorts, breath hot in your ear as he whispers,

“just helping you relax, angel. that’s what daddies do.”

stepdad! gojo who sets up hidden cameras in your room. he watches you undress at night, fingers sliding between your legs, and he cums all over himself before the video even ends. then watches again. and again.

stepdad! gojo who starts leaving your door open after late-night visits. letting you wake up soaked, stretched, aching—with no proof it wasn’t a dream… except the soreness between your thighs and the faint scent of him on your sheets.

stepdad! gojo who’s finally had enough of holding back when he comes home early one day from work. the first thing that welcomes him is an unfamiliar pair of men’s shoes by the door. then moaning. loud, loud moaning. and your bed creaking from upstairs.

stepdad! gojo who drops his keys the moment he hears it—your moaning. raw, breathy, desperate. it shoots straight to his cock. but then he hears another voice. male. and that’s when the heat flooding his body turns feral.

He doesn’t call out. Doesn’t ask questions. Just slowly climbs the stairs like a predator tracking prey, each step deliberate. Controlled.

And when he reaches your bedroom, he finds the door slightly ajar—and you, bent over the side of the bed, skin flushed, face pressed into the sheets while some pathetic boy fucks you from behind, his rhythm sloppy and fast.

Gojo’s jaw clenches.

He watches for a few seconds, silently. Unblinking. His cock throbbing with fury and something worse—jealousy.

The boy doesn’t notice him until it’s too late. A sharp, heavy bang echoes through the room as Gojo kicks the door open. You gasp, twisting to look, eyes wide and frantic.

“Out,” Gojo says, voice cold, unreadable.

The boy freezes mid-thrust, like a deer caught in headlights, stammering, scrambling to pull his pants up with trembling hands. You try to speak—try to cover yourself with the sheets—but Gojo’s stare pins you in place.

“Did I fucking stutter?” he says again, voice low, deadly calm.

The guy bolts, practically tripping over his own shoes on the way out. The door slams shut behind him, and now it’s just you and him. The silence is suffocating. Your breath is still heaving, cheeks burning with shame, but your thighs are wet, sticky, still trembling.

Gojo doesn’t say anything at first. He just stands there, watching you.

His tie is loosened. His hair is messy. His chest rises and falls slowly, too slowly for how unhinged his eyes look.

Then he moves.

One slow step. Then another. Until he’s standing at the edge of your bed.

“You let that little fuck touch you?” he murmurs, voice thick with something dangerous. “Let him use what’s mine?”

He doesn’t give you time to answer. Doesn’t want an answer. He grabs your ankle and yanks you down the bed until your ass is hanging off the edge.

Your gasp turns into a strangled moan when he slaps your pussy, already slick and twitching.

“You’re dripping,” he growls. “Pathetic little slut… liked being wrongfully fucked, don’t you?”

You shake your head—but your body betrays you. You’re soaking. Throbbing.

Gojo grins, slow and wide and cruel.

“Too fucking late. You wanted to act grown? Then Daddy’s gonna fuck you like you are.”

[ilovolderman]

Stealth Raccoons

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: During a chaotic mission, Sam’s on high alert and Natasha’s low-key helping you and Bucky keep your secret relationship under wraps.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating

A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". it doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12. thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

The mission was going fine. Until it wasn’t.

“Everyone stay in comms range,” Sam had said. “No hero moves,” Sam had said. “Stick to the plan,” SAM HAD SAID.

But now there were fire alarms blaring, half the base was flooding for reasons that were absolutely not in the briefing, and somehow you and Bucky were trapped in a side corridor while Sam and Nat were three levels up and getting increasingly annoyed.

Sam’s voice crackled over comms. “What do you mean you’re stuck in a broom closet?”

“It’s not a closet,” Bucky said tightly, scanning the door panel. “It’s a supply room. Very tactical. Very... moppy.”

You stifled a laugh behind your hand. “Tactical mop. For stealth cleaning.”

“You’re both impossible,” Sam muttered. “Can you at least not flirt during a breach?”

“We’re not flirting,” you said, far too quickly. “We don’t flirt,” Bucky added.

A pause.

Natasha’s voice cut in, bone dry. “That’s funny. You were making heart eyes while dodging tripwires like it was a romantic tango.”

You smacked your forehead on the wall. Bucky visibly stopped breathing.

Sam cut back in. “Wait—heart what? What do you mean tango? Are you saying there was—?”

Suddenly Bucky kicked the door panel.

It sparked. The lights flickered. A loud clunk sounded.

The door opened.

Bucky turned to you, nodding very seriously. “Tactical success.”

You gave him a look. “You just panicked and kicked the wall.”

He gave you a little grin. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Natasha hummed over comms. “You two gonna keep making goo-goo eyes or are you gonna join the rest of us before Sam has a stroke?”

“I’m fine,” Sam said through clenched teeth. “I’m just saying. They’re suspiciously in sync lately. You saw them backflip in unison last mission.”

You and Bucky exchanged a quick look.

You had, in fact, practiced that move. In private. After several accidental crashes and at least one rug burn incident that required aloe.

Bucky cleared his throat. “We’re just good at teamwork.”

Sam scoffed. “You were holding hands.”

“We were anchoring each other.” “That's a combat grip,” you added helpfully.

There was a pause.

“Combat grip?” Sam repeated flatly. “I’m going to throw myself out a window.”

Later, everyone regrouped in the main server room.  The plan was to download intel and leave quietly.

Naturally, something exploded.

Now the lights were out, alarms were blaring, and everyone was sprinting through dim corridors lit only by emergency red glow.

You and Bucky split off (again) to find the backup drive.

Sam’s voice came through comms, exasperated. “Why do they always get sent off together? Every time. It’s like Mission: Secret Couple or something.”

You nearly ran into a wall.

“Excuse me?” you said, trying to sound offended and not like your heart just plummeted into your boots.

Bucky made a face at you, whispering. “Secret Couple is a terrible code name.”

You whispered back “Sounds like a dating app for spies.”

He grinned. You grinned.

You did not kiss.

But only because the walls had cameras. And the last time you kissed near Hydra tech, it triggered an alarm labeled "UNSANCTIONED BONDING ACTIVITY."

Still not over that.

Sam was still talking. “—and it’s always like ‘oh no, we accidentally got locked in this romantic storage closet again,’ or ‘oops, my hand slipped and I caught them emotionally gazing!’”

Natasha: “Wow. Sounds like you’re really keeping detailed logs.”

Sam: “IT’S SUSPICIOUS!”

Three minutes later, you and Bucky were climbing a ladder inside a narrow, dimly lit vent shaft. You were going up first, carefully placing your boots on the creaking metal rungs. Bucky was right behind you, unusually quiet for someone who usually had a sarcastic comment locked and loaded.

You paused briefly to adjust your grip. That was apparently enough time for chaos to erupt over comms.

"Just got eyes on Y/N and Barnes," Sam’s voice rang out, suspicious and way too smug. "They’re in Vent Shaft 7, heading north—wait. Why is Barnes looking up like that? Why’s he—OH COME ON."

You froze, forehead hitting the wall with a quiet thunk. "SAM. Do not read into this."

"There was a pause," Sam insisted, scandalized. "A full, lingering pause. With a view, Barnes."

Bucky, completely unbothered, replied, "Just making sure the ladder’s stable."

"Stable my ass! You were looking up like it was art, man. That was a neck-tilt of appreciation."

Natasha cut in, her voice dry as a martini. "Sam. Be honest. Are you mad because you think something’s going on... or because no one’s ever looked at you like that in a vent shaft?"

"EXCUSE ME?"

"Just saying, maybe if you wore less tactical gear and more emotional availability—"

"I will not be emotionally manipulated by the Human Blade of Sarcasm and her two suspiciously hoodie-sharing raccoons."

"...Did he just call us raccoons?" Bucky asked.

"I think so," you said.

"Honestly? Not mad about it."

"You do share a hoodie!" Sam jumped back in. "I asked you if it was your combat hoodie, and you said ‘Don’t worry about it.’"

"I wasn’t lying. It is combat-rated. For cuddles," Bucky said with a smirk.

"Tacti-cuddly," you added.

"I hate this. I hate all of this."

Natasha, casually: "You know, now that I think about it, I did see them split a breakfast burrito this morning."

"YOU WHAT—"

"And I took a bite too. Maybe it’s a cult. A burrito cult. Ever think of that?"

"I—what—I—OKAY. Polyamorous burrito cult. That makes so much more sense than whatever secret relationship you’re all denying!"

"Honestly? That’s kinda got a ring to it," you said.

"Can we get jackets made?" Bucky asked.

"Only if I get to design the logo," Natasha replied.

"I will unravel this mystery. I will," Sam grumbled.

"Looking forward to it, Detective Wilson," Natasha said sweetly.

"This is worse than that time you all gaslit me about the mission in Madrid."

"That was an actual hallucination," you reminded him. "You took cold meds and fought a vending machine."

"It took my change and lied about it!"

"Let it go, man," Bucky said.

"I need a new team," Sam muttered.

"You need a nap," Natasha said.

"Or a snack," Bucky added.

"Or therapy," you chimed in.

"I AM FINE."

Bucky glanced up again—brief, but noticeable. You looked down at him, trying to hide your grin.

"HEY! I saw that! That was another lingering pause!"

"I was checking to make sure he didn’t fall off the ladder," you said, deadpan.

"She’s just a very responsible coworker," Bucky added innocently.

"You’re all terrible liars."

"Actually," Natasha said, cool as ever, "they’re great liars. That’s what’s so impressive."

"I WILL FIGURE THIS OUT!" Sam practically shouted.

"Of course you will," Natasha replied, too-sweet to be sincere.

You and Bucky shared a quiet look.

"Think he’s gonna try to set a trap?" Bucky asked.

"Absolutely. Wanna beat him to it?"

Bucky grinned. "Always."

After the mission ended, everyone was seated. Exhausted. Quiet. Sam sat across from you and Bucky in the quinjet, arms folded, staring like a detective in the final five minutes of a Law & Order episode. You sat a safe six inches apart from Bucky, the kind of distance that said “not officially” but definitely “definitely.”

Then his hand slid over to rest lightly on your knee. Hidden. Barely touching.

Natasha saw it instantly. She didn’t say a word. She just slid her sunglasses down her nose and gave Sam a look that said, “Don’t even bother.”

Sam sighed, rubbed his temples, and whispered to himself, “There’s something going on. I know it. I can feel it in my spleen.”

Natasha deadpanned, “Maybe it’s indigestion.”

You smirked. “Maybe you’re just emotionally constipated.”

Bucky chuckled softly. “Maybe the real secret romance was the friends we gaslit along the way.”

Natasha raised her cup of jet coffee in a mock toast.

Sam looked so tired. And still: clueless.

Minutes later, Sam’s head lolled forward, and his eyes fluttered shut. The tension in the cabin eased as he slipped into sleep, snoring softly—a rare, vulnerable moment.

You glanced at Bucky, who was watching you with that slow, fond smile reserved just for you. His hand tightened just a bit on your knee, and before you knew it, you leaned against him, your shoulder resting gently against his arm. The world outside the quinjet melted away.

Bucky’s breath was warm on your temple as he whispered, “Finally, some peace.”

You smiled, heart full, and whispered back, “Mission accomplished.”

Natasha, ever the perfect mix of sarcastic and warm, glanced over and quipped, “Well, at least someone’s asleep before Sam figures out what’s really going on.”

You and Bucky exchanged a glance, grinning.

The quinjet hummed quietly around you, a gentle lull beneath the stars streaking past the windows. Bucky’s hand never left your knee, and you let yourself relax fully into the warmth of his presence.

“You are falling asleep, aren’t you?” you whispered, leaning your head gently against his shoulder.

He turned his face just enough so you could see the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “That’s just cause I’m comfortable,” he murmured. “You make me feel like I can.”

You smiled softly, heart swelling. “Good. Because you’re stuck with me. No backsies.”

Bucky’s fingers brushed lightly over your skin, thumb tracing lazy circles. “I like the sound of that.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “Promise me something?”

“Anything,” he said, voice low and steady.

“Next time Sam starts spouting nonsense about ‘emotional indigestion’ or ‘gaslighting,’ you’re the one who tells him to shut it. I’m officially outsourcing emotional labor.”

Bucky chuckled. “Deal. I’ll be the designated emotional bouncer.”

You tightened your grip on his hand and sighed happily. “You know, I think this might be the first time Sam’s fallen asleep mid-interrogation. What do you think that means?”

Bucky laughed softly. “He’s finally met his match.”

From behind you, Natasha’s quiet humming floated through the cabin, sounding suspiciously like a victory tune. Sam’s soft snore was rhythmic now, peaceful — a rare break from his usual intense energy.

You nestled closer, your cheek resting against Bucky’s warm arm. “It’s nice. Just… nice. No secrets. No guessing. Just us.”

“Exactly,” he said, voice soft as a whisper. “I like this. I like you.”

You smiled wider, squeezing his hand. “I like you too.”

Natasha’s voice piped up from the back, light and teasing, “And somewhere in the world, Sam’s still clueless and probably crying softly about a burrito.”

You and Bucky exchanged amused glances, eyes shining.

Clueless, but perfectly content.

Later, after the mission, after the jet touched down and everyone went their separate ways, you were finally curled up on the couch, warm, clean, and almost asleep.

Then your phone buzzed.

“SAM ADDED YOU TO A GROUP CHAT.”

You stared at the screen. The chat was called:

“stealth raccoons + sam”

Of course it was.

You opened it.

[Group Chat: stealth raccoons + sam] Members: Sam, You, Bucky, Natasha

Sam: this is now the official mission coordination thread. i need updates. and accountability. and transparency.

You: That’s a lot of feelings for a mission thread.

Bucky: Yeah, usually those just say “Van’s here” and “We’re being shot at.”

Sam: y’all think this is a joke. but i see things.👀

Natasha: Oh boy. The eyeballs are back. Everyone run.

Sam: i’m just saying the hoodie-sharing the synchronized exits THE BURRITO

You: Bold of you to keep bringing up the burrito like it didn’t emotionally wound you.

Sam: IT WAS A BETRAYAL IN THREE BITES

Bucky: Still mad I didn’t get the last bite tbh.

Sam: AHA YOU ADMIT YOU SHARED IT

Bucky: …we all shared it, Sam. Team nutrition.

Natasha: Sounds like love. I mean… loyalty. Definitely loyalty. 👀❤️👀

Sam: I WILL CATCH YOU I HAVE CAMERAS AND INSTINCTS AND VIBES

You: Vibes aren’t admissible in court, Sam.

Bucky: Unless you’re Judge Judy.

Sam: i am the judge and the jury and the petty god of group chat receipts

Natasha: Petty God is a great title for your next mission report.

Sam: don’t act like you’re innocent in this you’re always mysteriously nearby when they “accidentally” disappear into unmonitored zones

Natasha: Oh no. You’ve discovered my side hustle. Secret couple bodyguard slash chaos enabler. (And I look great doing it.)

Sam: Y/N. Barnes. one day. you’ll slip.

You: What if we already did and you missed it?

Bucky: What if we never did and you’re spiraling for nothing?

Sam: what if i block both of you and live in peace

Natasha: You won’t. You live for this. Sam: you’re all MENACES

You: Menaces in love? 🤷‍♀️

Sam: i hate this group chat but i refuse to leave i must monitor

Bucky: Aw. He loves us.

Sam: I SWEAR ON MY WINGS THE TRUTH WILL COME OUT THIS ISN’T OVER

[Sam has changed the group chat name to: “Operation: Truth & Betrayal”]

You: Ok now it sounds like a reality show.

Natasha: Or a band. Dibs on drums.

Bucky: Y/N sings. Obviously.

Sam: YOU’RE DEFLECTING AGAIN I’M WATCHING YOU

You stared at the group chat for a long second, thumb hovering over your screen.

Sam had just renamed it, for the third time in twenty minutes. The man was unraveling in real time.

You locked your phone and exhaled a slow, amused sigh.

From the couch across the room, Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. Sam renamed the chat again?”

“Yep,” you said. “I think he’s having a dramatic monologue in the kitchen.”

“He’s gonna start drawing red string across the wall soon.”

You padded over and dropped down next to him, letting your head fall onto his shoulder with a quiet laugh. “We’re menaces.”

Bucky smirked. “Secret menaces in love. Very stealthy.”

You grinned, reaching for his hand. “He’s never gonna catch us.”

And somewhere, several rooms away, Sam sneezed violently—like the universe had just dared him to prove you wrong.

taglist: @svtbpbts @cupids-mf-arrow @whitewolfluvr @cece2608 @yehfitoormera @yesiamthatwierd@poodleofstardust @poodleofstardust @homeless-clown @kitasownworld @loversrocktvgirl2 @herejustforbuckybarnes @stormy-stardust @fallen-w1ngs @winchestert101 @f4d3d-st4rs @ultravioletter @xamapolax @theendofthematerialgworl @doilooklikeagiveafrack @fablehaven-rulez @theproblemisthatimnotfictional @winter107soldier@softpia @shakysif @lucyysthings @unadulteratedpastazonkpeach @surebutwhy @tmb510 @kaiari @totallynotabuckybarnessimp @quinquinquincy @tellybearryyyy @roxyym@starstruckfirecat @theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction @oliviaohanessian1 @arignipanja574 @creat0r-cat @katheriner1999 @kaiari@authoressskr @antisocialfiore @f-1-girlies-blog @ifilwtmfc @darkrock3t @navs-bhat @ravenswritingroom @lunawitchbitchraven@elfypineapple @smellybad @niceskyler @avengemepercy @crowleythesexydemon @bumblebeebutter @cjand10 @avivarougestan @parkers-gal

@coffelover13 @13c13 @samcortlandlivesinmyheart @pandcbarnes @rosieyama @iminyourceiling @lori19 @94namkooksworld @1000shipsnh @hughjackmanadict @ficmeiguess @beigesthatic @barnes70stark @rosylnsworld @rrosiitas @simp4f1 @vieenr0se @samanddeaninatrenchcoat