#while also having to pretend not to be married for real

[shintaru]

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Synopsis ~ Y/N goes on a blind date with a guy who has a huge ego 🤢

A/N ~ this is my first blue lock fic if it’s too ooc I’m sorry I just got really excited to write one as I was catching up on the first season. I haven’t read blue lock in over 3 years so there is a lot I don’t remember. AHH HE IS SO FINE!

You’re sitting waiting at the restaurant that you didn’t want to go to in the first place but your cousin Anri insisted that you go on a blind date. She promised to set you up with a nice man your whole family has been in your case about when you’ll get married and when they’ll be receiving grandchildren. You’re not interested in dating, marriage or having children. You were only going on this date so they would ease up on you.

“Hopefully he’s a jerk so I can leave and have an excuse to reject him” you think to yourself. A y’all oddly skinny man sits across from you. You eye him up and down wondering what Anri saw in him. Why would she pick him as your blind date? He has this creepy vibe to him. He seems like the type to not care if he hurts anyone’s feelings. He clearly isn’t your time; you can’t stand nonchalant careless men.

“I’m Jinpachi Ego” he says, interrupting you from your judgmental thoughts that were wandering moments prior. “Ego? My cousin works for you… is that why she set me up with you?!” You ask. “She wanted me to do you a favor,” he replies. “She what?!” As if I’m doing your skinny ass a favor” you reply back gritting your teeth staring at him angrily. You can’t believe the nerve of this bastard.

“Fuck off” he replies. “What the fuck is wrong with him the you?” You felt like the vein in your forehead was going to pop and he was laughing hysterically at your reaction. “I said fuck off” he repeats him self. “Go fuck yourself asshole” you shout throwing the menu at him standing up heading towards the restaurants exit. “Enjoy your meal” you shout turing to look at him while giving him a middle finger.

Which only makes him laugh even more. “Interesting” he says smiling at you in asusment. The restaurant went silent for what felt like an eternity as you were exiting the establishment. The only sound that could be heard were a few gasps and occasionally whispers. You recall your cousin saying he was a nice man… “What a joke, nice my ass” you thought to yourself. You call a cab over and open the door preparing to get in when a long slender hand stops you by grabbing your wrist.

“Hey what the fuck is your problem?” You say while yanking your wrist out of his hold. “I’m… sorry” he says. “What was that?!” You reply. “Don’t make me say it again…” he says. He lets out a big sigh before placing his hand on his face and continuing “Anri will give me an earful if she finds out so let’s pretend like it was a good date” “I have a better idea” you say smiling.

“Pretend to be my boyfriend” you say looking up at him confine up with the perfect plan. “No” he says. “What? Why? It’s a good idea! Anri will leave us both alone if she is under the impression we are dating! It’s not like you’ll be my real boyfriend.” You say trying to convince him. “She will find out it’s pretty obvious we aren’t a couple” he says laughing. “What’s so funny?!” You ask him.

“I just can’t see you being in a relationship with that personality” he says continuing to laugh at you. “Oh really ?! You’re one to talk, yours is worse” you reply. “I have plenty of people wanting to date me” he says. “Yeah right and I’m married to Noel Noa it’s good to have some confidence but don’t lie” you say scoffing. You notice the mentioning of Noel’s name caught his attention but he doesn’t question your taste. “I’m not lying” he replies. “If you’re not lying then why am I on a blind day with you and not someone else” you ask.

He doesn’t say anything making you laugh in victory for the first time tonight. “Also I could be in a relationship. I just don’t want to be in one” you reply to his statement from earlier. “Yeah right” he says, mocking your response from before. “I can!” You say again. “Prove it” he says. “How the fuck can I prove that if I’m single?” You ask before you let him respond you pull him into a kiss by wrapping your hand around his tie and yanking him closer to you.

You pull away after you're satisfied and seeing the expression on his face was priceless. “HAHAHAHA you should see the look on your face!” You say while laughing. He quickly goes from being caught off guard back to his normal obnoxious self. “That doesn’t prove anything,” he says. “Maybe it doesn’t but it was worth it” you reply. He offers to give you a ride home while saying “I agree to your terms, meet me at blue lock during my lunch break and we will discuss the conditions” he says while getting in his car. “Jeez he makes it sound like a contract” you thought to yourself while you hop into the passenger's seat.

[varpusvaras]

Out of seemingly nowhere, Miles Edgeworth starts to have dreams of someone he has not met in eleven years. It turns out, though, that what he thought were merely dreams were something else entirely, and now he and his estranged childhood friend have to pretend that their marriage is real and not just a drunken mistake, all the while trying to solve a crime, become friends again, and get a divorce. Easier said than done, especially with Phoenix Wright making it very difficult for Miles to not fall in love.

[miametropolis]

the fact that david tennant married the woman who played his daughter on the TV still haunts me occasionally (this is nothing against georgia, we love georgia) but the thing that makes me sit up at night in a cold sweat is the fact that his FATHER IN LAW is the fifth doctor. imagine your fucking father-in-law is Doctor Who. anyways.

[roobylavender]

you know what would automatically change my hatred to love for sasusaku? If their genders were reversed. Majority of the reason why I hate sasuke and sakura relationship is because the type of environment and the culture I grew up in where it's been fed to women since basically birth to always be faithful to her man no matter how terrible he treats her, even after marriage. The pharse, "Just be patient and he will change", infuriates me to another level. Seeing sakura chasing after sasuke throughout the series after numerous rejections and an attempted MURDER on her by him made me roll my eyes so hard like girl just move the fuck on omfg. And even after their "marriage" sasuke's treatment towards her doesn't get better lmao, leaving her alone with a whole ass child to take care by herself?? BYE sakura's patience for him is outmatch cus I would've divorced his ass for that. Though, the more I mature, little by little I begin to understand the complexity of their relationship after putting my gender issues aside for a second and look deep into them. And especially now, after reading your perspective on their whole relationship, it really did made half of my hatred go away and understand the relationship wholeheartedly. Like yeah, I absolutely love the trope of one person saying they don't deserve the other person's love but the other person keep loving them anyway, that stuff makes me giggle and swing my legs in the air and shit. It's just that the only way this trope would work for me if the person loving them has enough self-respect for themselves AND if it's a girl in the former & the guy in the latter. And honestly, I found naruto being borderline obsessed with sasuke annoying too but the reason why I can digest it more well is because naruto can go head to head with sasuke without backing down. Like, I wanted to see at least ONCE sakura having a heated argument with sasuke, or punch him in the face in the series. I feel like sasuke deserves a punch from her at the very least 🤷🏽‍♀️

Sigh, I really did wanna love their relationship and their journey to love (that scene of him catching her when she was about to fall and then having that iconic eye contact had me feeling butterflies ngl) since it has all the tropes I love but the execution is just so...

i mean if it helps any i absolutely hate post-canon and that's where my primary divide with most sasusaku fans lies 😭 i'm not sure if you read the blue-plums post i reblogged but it's a good dissection of why exactly it fails as a conclusion to both their individual arcs and their relationship arc generally. the post-canon we see is a direct answer to what sasuke's and sakura's dreams are at the start of the series, but the problem with this is that sasuke and sakura are nowhere near being the same people at the end of the series as they were at the start. generally, i don't think post-canon really takes the individual arc of any character into much account. its primary goal is maintaining the status quo with a slight veneer of friendship power draped over it for aesthetics. but nothing at the root is changed despite every traumatic development the characters were relentlessly subjected to. resultantly, you're left with a portrayal of sasuke as a neglectful father who glorifies the lone-wolf hero trope, which goes against everything he could possibly have learned from itachi; and you're left with a portrayal of sakura as someone content to keep house despite the bulk of her character arc being grounded in her ability and desire to take initiative not only at home, but abroad. it's not true to who either of them is by that point and, even more than that, it's a disservice to everything they've put themselves through for the sake of the love they were vying for. so while i love sasusaku as it progresses up through 699, i tend to wholeheartedly ignore whatever comes after and relegate that instead to either my own imagination or blue-plums's in her fics

what i will say about the naruto and sakura distinction is that a lot of people are more comfortable with how sasuke reacts to naruto bc they believe what naruto is doing is right. it's kind of like: if the only thing sasuke will realistically respond to is violence then obv naruto can resort to that violence without dwelling on it too much. but if you think about violence in the context of sasuke's entire life, it's not actually helpful at all beyond its ability to physically bring him to a grinding halt. even when naruto finally breaks through to sasuke, it's not the violence that makes things click for him. it's the words he says after, and it's the words he's always said before that that have stayed in sasuke's mind. violence, in contrast, is a poisonous thing for sasuke bc it's the only thing that has defined the parameters of his entire life. it robbed him of every person he cared about prior to his meeting team seven, and inevitably it intimidated him into seeking out more violence once he realized that he was incapable of saving the new people he'd come to care about as well. everything, at the root, was driven by sasuke's traumatically-exacerbated response to love and loss. the idea of losing naruto and sakura to the hands of anyone else was unbearable. so he decided that he'd rather have killed them himself. it was absolutely irrational. but a twelve year old child put through that kind of successive, relentless trauma was never going to think rationally, and certainly not after being exploited by people like orochimaru and obito (and to an extent itachi) in turn

all of this to say: there is of course a gendered aspect to the fact that sakura's response to sasuke is markedly not violence. but i also think people sort of refuse to dissect her response any further and esp in context of the narrative itself. despite being the hallmark of rationality within the team and perhaps even the series, sakura was inevitably always driven by the value she placed on humanity. it would've been so easy and rational and "right" to kill sasuke bc he was an insurgent, a terrorist, a danger to public safety, etc. but sakura knew it was more complicated than that. even without knowing about the intricacies of the uchiha massacre she'd been a witness to his suffering and struggle and helplessness. she was as much unable to kill him bc of her love for him as she was unable to kill him bc she knew it wouldn't be right. bc really, what would it solve. sasuke being written off or dying would accomplish nothing bc he would become one more person in the long line of victims to nationalism and the military-industrial complex. while naruto's desire to retrieve sasuke was driven by his love for him it was also driven by the fact that he was stubborn and relentless and refused to give up on people. if you won't believe in yourself i'll beat the belief into you. it's a very shounen-esque trait. in contrast, sakura's desire to retrieve sakura, while also driven by her love for him, was significantly driven by her ability to see that sasuke needed help. in fact, that's all she ever wanted him to get: help. and it would be one thing for this to be an isolated desire but when you read it in context of her own goals as a medic and a mental health professional, her unwavering belief in sasuke is a lot more striking. she was the only person in the entire narrative who never resorted to violence as a solution to sasuke's problems. and she was angry, to be sure. much as she loves him the struggle to bring him back and convince him that he was worthy of love and healing left her emotionally exhausted. but they're also children at the end of the day. she could've been angry at him, or naruto could've been angry him, and in the end none of it would've mattered in the face of knowing they'd finally gotten through to him. he had a smile on his face, he didn't have an arm anymore, and for the first time in his life he met a loss with utter peace and content. it was a thing of miracles after six years of relentless grief and sorrow, and nothing else could've been on their mind.

at the end of the day, team seven's love for sasuke isn't rational. the farthest thing from it, really. but that's what makes it so radical in context. if love in naruto was only ever meant to be rational then hardly anyone would survive. love was always written as an act of defiance and for however subtle the depiction sakura exemplified it

[alygator77]

──little things like this

a/n. just something small i felt like writing 🫶🏻 what i imagine grocery shopping with satoru would be like.

cw. domestic fluff. dad! satoru. husband! satoru. and just... satoru being satoru. also, he's missing you (like, a lot).

You should’ve known better than to bring him.

It was supposed to be a quick trip—milk, eggs, veggies, rice, soy sauce. Easy. You had dinner planned and everything. His favorite—the one he always says you make better than anyone. The one he begged you to cook the first night he stayed over, back when you were still figuring each other out in that too-small apartment with the broken stove and mismatched bowls. He used to sit barefoot on the counter, freshly showered, stealing bites before you could plate anything.

But now?

Now you’re married to Satoru Gojo, and he’s pushing your daughter through a grocery store like it’s the highlight of his week—sunglasses shoved into his windblown white hair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a smug grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He’d just come off a string of missions, barely enough time to breathe between them, but when you mentioned needing to grab a few things, he immediately offered to come. Said he missed you. Said he wanted to do “normal stuff.”

Which might’ve sounded sweet, sure—until somewhere between produce and frozen foods, he completely veered off-script. And now, fifteen minutes in, your cart is a sugar bomb. Sour gummies. Five flavors of Pocky. A jumbo bag of marshmallows no one in your household has ever requested.

Though here he is, your husband, pushing your cart with one hand, lighting up in pure joy at every little treat you come across through the aisles.

“Satoru Gojo…” you deadpan as he reaches for a pack of cookies. “That is not on the list.”

Clicking his tongue, he holds them up like a sacred offering.

“Buuut… neither were you,” he hums, batting those ridiculously pretty blue eyes. “And yet—best thing I ever brought home.”

Narrowing your eyes, he smirks.

“’toru…” you sigh. “I really don’t think we need more sugar in this cart.”

Tilting his head, he pretends to ponder. “Need? …nah,” he tosses them in the basket anyway. “But, deserve? Absolutely.”

Rolling your eyes, you turn back to the list on your phone. You have… what—three items checked off? You’re pretty sure Satoru has added at least seven more. And, he seems to be multiplying his haul by the minute.

As you make your way down the next aisle, your daughter’s delighted squeal draws your attention. Glancing over your shoulder, there is Satoru—holding up two bags of candy to her like a game show host.

“Mmkay princess… choose wisely,” he whispers, low and dramatic. “Red or blue. You get one.”

Babbling, her little hands reach forward, grasping for the blue one.

“Ahhh… strong choice,” he nods, handing it over. And then, with zero shame, he drops the red bag into the cart behind her back.

“Ahem…” you squint, and he straightens. “You said one?”

“What? She picked hers,” he says, all innocence, sliding his sunglasses down onto the bridge of his nose. “This one’s mine.”

You groan, laughing despite yourself, as he resumes pushing the cart—now like it’s a racecar, swerving down the aisle while your daughter giggles.

“Please don’t teach her to shop like you,” you call out.

“Too late~” he sing-songs, vanishing around the corner, muttering under his breath, “Drifting into dairy… snack thrusters engaged…”

You sigh—but there’s no real frustration in it. Just warmth. Familiarity. Love.

Because sometimes you forget—you’re not in that cramped apartment anymore, counting coins and comparing brands. Not since Satoru. You still catch yourself reaching for the cheapest option, still instinctively scan barcodes and double-check price tags. But he never even looks. He just fills the cart like it’s second nature. Like full shelves and soft snacks and mochi picked on a whim are things you deserve.

You’re still learning how to live like this—where love doesn’t feel like a debt, and money isn’t something to fear. And even though he could buy out the entire store without blinking, he still treats picking out snacks with you like it’s the most important thing he’ll do all week.

Shaking your head, you turn back to the list. Soy sauce. You still need soy sauce for his dinner.

But as you round the corner, you don’t find the aisle you’re looking for—you find him instead, crouched in front of the freezer, elbows resting on his knees, two tubs of ice cream in hand.

Why is he studying them like he’s trying to defuse a bomb? He looks… entirely perplexed.

“Satoru…” you step up beside him, brow raised. “You good?”

“Oh. Yeah.” He doesn’t look up. “Just, uh… evaluating options.”

Glancing down at the tubs—matcha and black sesame—you fold your arms.

“Umm… you evaluating them for fun, or is this, like, an actual crisis?”

“Mmm… crisis is a strong word,” he mutters, still avoiding your gaze. “It’s just… strategy. Y’know. Ice cream strategy.”

Crouching down beside him, you rest your hand on his knee.

“Uh-huh…?”

There’s a pause.

Then, he sighs through his nose. “Alright… fine. I… couldn’t remember which one you liked more,” he admits. “I thought it was matcha. But then I remembered that one week you wouldn’t touch it, so now I’m stuck here like a dumbass, spiraling in the frozen aisle…”

You try not to laugh. “You’re spiraling over ice cream?”

“I’m spiraling because it’s you,” he huffs. “I wanted to surprise you… thought maybe we could stay up late and eat it in bed like we used to?”

Your teasing slips away, replaced with something soft.

“Oh… Satoru.”

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but there’s something in the way his voice lowers when he speaks again.

“I just… dunno. It feels like it’s been forever. Between missions, work, parenting—you’ve been running around nonstop. I just wanted tonight to feel kinda normal again. After dinner—after the princes goes to bed. Just… us? Even if it’s just ice cream.”

You watch him for a beat—your husband, who can bend reality, stand at the edge of the world, and still get hung up over picking the right tub of ice cream for you.

“I… like them both,” you mumble, bumping his shoulder gently against yours. “So why not both?”

He exhales like it physically relieves him. “Oh, thank god.”

You both stand, and without hesitation, he tosses both tubs into the basket.

“But… don’t go picking at mine and then pretending you didn’t like that flavor, okay?”

Grinning, you step ahead of him.

“Oh, I will steal yours. That’s marriage, babe.”

With a quiet laugh, he falls into step behind you.

“Brat.”

By the time you reach checkout, your cart holds three kinds of mochi ice cream, a suspiciously large bag of seaweed snacks, and absolutely no bread. Your daughter’s holding her bag of candy like it’s a stuffed animal, fussing while you try to scan it, and you’re juggling a reusable bag, along with what’s left of your patience while she begins to cry.

Noticing your frustration, Satoru slips in, insisting on scanning everything himself—for you. But when the self-checkout machine beeps loudly, his brows furrow and he pouts.

“The fuck? I did scan the damn carrots…” he mutters, narrowing his eyes, fumbling with the touch screen. “Don’t gaslight me... stupid thing..."

You sigh, somehow his presence makes the monotony feel… warm. And though this ‘quick trip’ has become what feels like an all-day event, you can’t deny how much you have also missed this man.

Outside, the air is soft with the promise of evening. Your daughter’s nodding off in her car seat, still hugging the candy bag like a teddy bear. Satoru loads the bags into the trunk with a proud little huff, dusting off his hands like he’s accomplished something huge.

“See?” he says, flashing a grin as he climbs into the passenger seat. “Told you grocery shopping as a family would be fun.”

You glance at the receipt. Then at him.

“You spent more in the snack aisle than on actual food….”

“I live off sugar and love. You know this.”

You roll your eyes, laughing under your breath as you slide into the driver’s seat. But as you buckle your seatbelt and glance down at the grocery list again, your heart sinks a little.

Did you…? Fuck.

You forgot the soy sauce.

Exhaling slowly, your gaze drifts over to Satoru in the passenger seat—slouched comfortably, eyes closed, perfectly content. The fading sun glows across his face, catching the edges of his smile.

“Y’know… I was gonna make your favorite tonight.”

His eyes open slowly. “Oh yeah?”

You nod. “But… we forgot the soy sauce.”

"...oh." He grimaces, genuinely. “Shit… I really thought I grabbed it,” he scratches the back of his head. “Want me to run back in real quick?”

You pause, then look at your daughter sleeping in the rearview mirror. Her gentle snore. The quiet hum of the car. The warmth in the air.

“No…” you murmur. “It’s fine.”

“You sure?”

You look at him again, and it hits you—not the ice cream, not the dinner. Little things like… this. Him. Her. This whole imperfect evening.

“Yeah… let’s get takeout,” you say, shifting the car into reverse. “We'll cuddle in bed. Split some ice cream.”

He smiles again, slow and warm.

“Deal.”

[lovebugism]

Thunderbolts prompt: fake dating with them oh my lordy

ty for requesting :D below you will find four separate blurbs for the thunderbolts (bucky, yelena, john, and bob), each with their own separate summary and warnings! enjoy!!

BUCKY BARNES X READER — you pretend to be bucky's wife to help his image during the election (friends to lovers, pre-thunderbolts but also kinda canon divergent | 0.8k words)

Bucky Barnes never lets go of your hand. He never stops smiling either, at the sporadic camera flashes that threaten to blind him while the elevator doors squeak to a close. Only when the two of you are finally alone, away from the leering eyes of the press, can Bucky take his first good breath of the evening. Only then does he let go of your hand.

You migrate to opposite sides of the small lift and bathe in the welcome silence after a too-long night of shaking hands and people pleasing. Bucky sighs and tips his head back against the wall. “I’m sorry about this,” he mumbles beneath the ding-ing elevator. “Again.”

Despite the ache in your feet from a long night in heels, you manage a small, tired laugh. “You don’t have to keep apologizing, Bucky— Valentina put me up to his, alright? Not you.”

“No, I know, I just…” he trails off with an awkward chuckle, loosening the knot in his tie with two fingers. “I just know you’d rather be anywhere else in the world than here, you know, with me. I know how boring these things are, trust me.”

He tilts his head to flash you a tight-lipped grin, ocean eyes dark and weighed down with a visible fatigue. You give him a much more apologetic look in return.

“Actually, I’m kinda happy I’m here,” you correct and avert your gaze. “I know Valentina did all… this,” you wave your hand vaguely between the two of you. “But if pretending to be married helps you get elected, then I’m happy to do it. I seriously think you could do some good— like, world-changing good, so… I wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else.”

Bucky’s chest warms with an unfamiliar feeling. Something fuzzy, like television static or crackling embers — the kind of feeling he only gets whenever he’s holding your hand. It feels strange now, not to be touching you after spending a whole evening at your side.

He flexes his flesh hand and tries to ignore the ache while the numbers on the elevator continue to rise — 27th, 28th, 29th… 

“I know neither of us wanted to be here, but… Out of everyone Valentina could’ve picked, I’m glad it was you.”

“I’m sure you are,” you quip, trying not to be as vulnerable as you feel. “Considering her first idea was pairing you and Walker to go on, like, pretty public missions together.”

Bucky’s face screws. “No, it wasn’t...” he groans.

“Yeah. Like, saving kittens out of trees— Real serious stuff.”

He makes a pained, grumbly noise in his throat. “Well, now I’m extra glad it’s you.”

The two of you exhale soft laughs and stare ahead at the closed doors before you; more specifically, at the bright red numbers above them — 41st, 42nd, 43rd — praying silently that they’ll slow down.

“And even though Valentina did all those for show… You know, the whole married Avengers thing…” Bucky trails off and clears his throat, trying to find the words to say. “Every time we kissed, every time we pretended to be in love… It was real to me. It was always real to me.”

You exhale a heavy breath. Like his words have physically punched you in the stomach. 

“And if you don’t feel the same way, I get it. Okay? I do,” Bucky rambles, preparing himself for an inevitable rejection. “But when all this dies down, whether it gets me elected or not, I’d like to take you out on a real date.”

“No press?” you ask, peering at him from beneath your lashes.

Bucky shakes his head in agreement. “No press.”

“Even if you don’t get elected, and all of this ends up being for nothing?”

“Well, it… wouldn’t have been for nothing.”

You exhale a breathy laugh. “You know, despite what Walker says about you, you still know your way around women, Sergeant Barnes,” you quip beneath the ding of the elevator. 

Bucky’s brows furrow in confusion as the elevator doors whir open. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he calls to the back of you as you step out onto the fifty-third floor.

He doesn’t follow you — equal parts because he feels like his feet are glued to the floor and because his real room is a floor above the one Valentina booked for Mr. and Mrs. Barnes. 

You flash him a look over your shoulder, eyes dolled up and magnetic like a siren’s gaze would be. “It was real to me, too, Bucky,” you murmur, so quietly he barely hears it, then remove every ounce of vulnerability from your being. “Now, do you wanna come in for a night cap or what?”

You walk off before he can answer. Bucky catches the closing door with his vibranium hand and rushes to follow behind you.

You share a bed that night, like many nights before, but this time with the knowledge that everything will be different when you wake up the next morning.

YELENA BELOVA X READER — yelena wants to show her parents that she's doing okay after the death of her sister, and recruits your help to do so (friends to lovers, post-thunderbolts | 1k words)

Yelena Belova’s trying to prove that she’s okay. Alexei and Melina were worried that Natasha’s passing had ruined her, which it had — and that a life without her sister had left her all alone, which it did. But, in an attempt to stave off the weepy conversations and squishy-eyed gazes, Yelena decided to bring a companion to the family dinner. 

You were her teammate, first and foremost, and the only one she could tolerate long enough to pretend to date for a night. And, besides, you were too soft for your own good to deny her of anything.

You were too perfect a choice, turns out, ‘cause her parents end up taking to you like a third daughter.

Yelena groans with her head in her palms when Alexei returns from the bathroom, modeling his original Red Guardian supersuit like he does every time they visit Melina’s country house. The spandex gear was created in the early eighties and smells like it, too. The thing gets tighter every time Alexei shoves on it, but he wears it with a bright smile on his bearded face anyway.

“Still fits!” you exclaim kindly from the kitchen table as the older man poses in the doorway.

“I told you it would!” Alexei slurs in his deep Russian accent. “Forty-one years old, this is! Can you believe it?!”

“Yes, I can,” Yelena mumbles into her shot glass before swallowing its golden brown contents in one go.

You shake your head with a polite smile. “You don’t look a day over thirty, Alexei.”

“Oh, you flatter me,” the man chuckles from the depths of his round stomach, then deflates with a realization. “Ah, drisnya— I forgot the, uh… the…” He trails off, motioning vaguely around his head as he searches for the English word. “The helmet. I just— I ruined this whole thing…”

Melina smiles at the pouting man she used to call her husband (and still does, on occasion). “No, you didn’t, my love,” she coos, voice low as honey. “You look great.”

Alexei shakes his stubborn head, swiping a calloused hand through his long, greying locks. “No, I have— I have to do it all over again. Just… wait. Wait here, da?” he scurries back down the hall, searching for the helmet he’d left behind.

Melina deflates with a sigh. “We’re going to need a lot more alcohol than this,” she mumbles, rising from the table and taking the half-gone bottle of whiskey with her.

“Maybe something a little stronger?” you quip.

The older woman smiles down at you. “Now, you’re speaking my language, solnyshko.” 

You wait until she’s left the room to lean over to Yelena, “What’s sul-nish-co?” you whisper.

“It’s solnyshko—” she corrects in perfect Russian. “—And it means sunshine.”

You smile, warmed by the term of endearment. “That’s nice…”

“Don’t get used to it,” Yelena scoffs and takes another shot. (Her tenth, or maybe hundredth of the evening).

Your brows furrow at her words. You flinch slightly, like they’ve physically pained you in some way. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means this isn’t real,” she says, motioning wildly between your bodies. “But those idiots think it is, and they’re getting attached— which means they’re going to wonder why I don’t keep bringing you around— which means I didn’t solve any problems, I just made a new one.”

She points an accusatory finger at you. You blink back burning tears.

“You invited me here, Yelena… I don’t deserve the blame for this…” You turn to your own shot glass, which has been sitting on the table ahead of you for some time now, and finally find the courage to take it. “…Whatever this is.”

Yelena watches with an apologetic look in her eyes as you down the whiskey in one swallow. She can’t help but smile softly to herself when you grimace at the bitter taste.

“You’re right. It’s not your fault. I’m sorry,” she mumbles, so quiet you barely hear it, as she rakes her fingers through her chopped, box-dyed locks. “They’ve just been so worried about me since ‘Tasha died… I wanted to prove to them that I still had someone who cared about me. Even if it was just pretend.”

You smile at the sullen Russian girl. “It’s not pretend, Yelena. You have people who care about you— The entire team would’ve shown up if you asked them.”

Yelena gives you a knowing look in return, doe eyes shadowed with smoky liner.

“Well… Maybe not Walker,” you correct yourself, gaze flitted to the ceiling. “Or Ava… Or Bucky— But Bob definitely would’ve been here, and you know it!”

“Exactly,” the blonde girl says with a soft, gravelly laugh. She fails to meet your piercing gaze and fidgets nervously with her empty shot glass instead. “You’re the only one who cares enough to pretend to like me.”

You feel her tense when you put a soothing hand on her denim-clad thigh. She peers at you beneath her lashes with a shy ocean gaze, chest warming something fierce when you smile. “It’s not pretend, Yelena…”

She falters, unable to tell if your words are some kinda confession or if you’re still just being nice. Her eyes dart across your features, like she’s looking for an answer inside them. Before she can find one, Alexei stumbles in from the bedroom.

“I thought we agreed, no PDA,” the grown man whines, still in his too-tight suit but now sporting the matching helmet. “It’s nasty, ‘Lena, I can’t stomach it.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t stomach you,” the girl retorts instinctively.

You smile in the face of their banter. “You were right, Alexei— It definitely needed the helmet.”

“I told you!” the man exclaims, voice booming as loud as his wide smile. “I told you it made the outfit better— In your face, ‘Lena!”

Yelena shakes her head, but can’t help but smile to herself. 

She figures she could get used to this.

JOHN WALKER X READER — john takes care of you after a mission gone wrong, like the doting husband he's pretending to be (enemies to lovers, pre-thunderbolts, cw for mentions of injuries | 0.8k words)

John Walker is just trying to survive — or, at least, that’s what he keeps telling himself. Valentina pairs the two of you on a mission nothing short of life and death. “You’ll draw less attention as a couple,” the woman smiled, passing you an envelope with a forged marriage license and two golden wedding bands inside. “Trust me. You guys are pros at this— What could go wrong?”

The answer to that question was easy: everything.

It was good until it wasn’t. John posed as a business exec Monday through Friday, nine to five, where he would then return to his ‘house’ in the suburbs with a cold beer and a home-cooked meal waiting for him. White picket fence, rose garden, backyard with a pool — the whole nine yards. As far as he was concerned, the only problem was having to share it with you.

You pretended to be his housewife. You went to book clubs, pilates, and over-priced grocery stores, all in the name of fitting in with the rest of the Stepford wives around you. While John got close to the bigshot CEO that Valentina wanted dead, you played nice with his wife — pretty, a little stupid, and satan reincarnate. 

It went on like that in an unforgiving cycle. You received intel in the name of petty gossip and found ways to busy yourself until Walker got home; you had parties, get-togethers, and barbecues to blend in with the community, pretending to love each other all the while.

It was nothing short of your own personal hell. 

The mission was inevitably a success, though not without a couple casualties. You and Walker managed to make it out with a couple scrapes, a few bruises, and only a single gunshot wound — which isn’t so bad, all things considered. 

You think you’re taking a bullet to the stomach much better than your faux-husband is.

“Jesus Christ, you’re a fucking idiot,” John mumbles under his breath as he stitches your weeping wound with careful hands. 

He only managed to stop panicking when he got you to the safe house. Before then, you thought he might cry. You would’ve made fun of him for it if you'd stayed conscious long enough on the ride here.

“Wow,” you scoff, tilting your heavy head against the pillow to glare at him. “Your bedside manner is impressive, Walker. Truly.”

John’s face twists with a palpable irritation. “You don’t get to make jokes right now, alright?” he grouses, snipping the remaining thread from your sutures.

You laugh despite the stinging in your side. “Why not? I think now’s a perfect time, honestly—”

“Because you almost died!” John shouts over you. 

“What the fuck do you care?”

“Uh, because we’re married,” he monotones like it’s obvious, flashing the wedding ring on his left hand, now stained with your blood. 

“No, actually, we’re not—” You wince when you try to sit up. John reaches for you on instinct, helping you prop yourself on the pillows he’s piled beneath you. “—And I’m totally divorcing you when we get home. Just, by the way.”

“Trust me. The feeling’s mutual,” he deadpans, towering over you as he wipes the blood from his hands on a towel. “But we’re probably gonna be stuck here awhile. Valentina’s not getting in a hurry to send any backup, so…”

“What a fucking bitch…” you sigh and tip your head against the bedframe.

“We only have to play husband and wife for a few more days. Think you can handle that?”

“It wasn’t so bad…” you shrug, eyeing John with lidded eyes as he rounds the mattress to the right side — which had, over the course of eight months, become his side. He sits down gingerly, careful not to make any sudden movements that might hurt you. You melt into his warmth on instinct, leaning your shoulder against his broader one. “…Until you got me shot, anyway.”

“Hey, you did that yourself— No one asked you to protect me.”

“Sorry for saving your life, you idiot.”

“I’m a super soldier!” he laughs. “I can take a hit! You can’t!”

“I think I took it pretty well, actually,” you scoff, face screwed in offense.

“Yeah…” John sighs despite himself. “You kinda did.... Just don’t let it happen again.”

“But I like watching you dote on me,” you joke, tilting your head on his shoulder to see him better. 

Your noses nearly brush at the proximity between you, which would border on romantic to virtually anyone else. But, for the two of you, it’s your job — and you’ve gotten used to playing your role to perfection. Being close to him now is like muscle memory. 

“You don’t have to almost die for me to take care of you,” John chuckles. “You know that, right?”

You shake your head. “No, actually. I didn’t.”

“Well…” John shrugs. “Now you do.”

It’s just as much of an admission of love as the blood on his hands from patching you up, or the bullet fragments in your side from shielding him from gunfire. All the rest of it goes unsaid.

ROBERT REYNOLDS X READER — you and bob pretend to date because it's easier than trying to convince everyone you're just friends (friends to lovers, post-thunderbolts | 1.2k words)

Robert Reynolds didn’t want to be alone, and neither did you. The decision to attend Valentina’s wedding together was as mutual as it was unsaid, just like most of the time you spent together. 

You haven’t been apart since the day you found him in New York. At first, it was just babysitting — making sure he didn’t turn half the city into a shadow again — but then you grew rather fond of his company. And eventually, neither of you could stomach being without the other. So you never were. Ever.

It was all completely, utterly, and unequivocally platonic, but the rest of the team convinced themselves otherwise. After a year or more of constant prying, it just got easier to let everyone else believe what they wanted. And, besides, pretending to have a boyfriend got you out of a ton of unwelcome social interactions. 

The team wants to get a beer after a mission that totally drained your social battery? Oops, sorry, I have to get home to Bob before he thinks I’m dead.

Old acquaintances from high school want to hang out with Bob now that he’s quote-unquote famous? I wish I could, but my girlfriend’s super sick. Maybe another time?

You and Bob were best friends and nothing more. But sometimes pretending otherwise had its benefits.

“Isn’t wearing black to a wedding bad luck?” Bob mumbles as you enter the elaborate dining hall side-by-side. (Valentina’s wedding had only two rules: all guests must wear black, and absolutely no kids.) It made Bob nervous, as most things tended to.

“It’s her fourth marriage,” you shrug. “It’s basically a funeral, anyway.”

You’re bombarded on entry by Alexei, who by the looks of it, had already pre-gamed in the Avengers Tower before coming.

“Ah! It’s the lovebirds!” he shouts, voice booming over everyone else’s. He turns to a total stranger passing by and motions to the two of you. “Aren’t they cute?” he asks the strange man, who just gives him a weird look in response. Alexei smiles anyway. “See? He agrees with me.”

“I don’t think he does…” Bob murmurs sincerely.

“It’ll be your turn next, eh?” Alexei chuckles, hitting the boy hard on the shoulder. Bob flinches under his tattooed hand despite being the most powerful Avenger the world’s ever seen. “Getting married. Being all… married.”

Bob hesitates, looking to you for an answer ‘cause he’s never been the best liar. You just smile, like it all comes too naturally to you. “Only if you promise to officiate the wedding,” you croon and wrap your left arm around Bob’s right one.

Alexei’s smile ebbs into a look of shock. His eyes go soft around the edges, filling with tears at the kind gesture.

“There would be no greater honor—” he tells you, Russian accent deep in his throat as he takes a step closer. He holds Bob’s wrist in one hand and yours in the other, shaking them for emphasis. “—Than uniting the two of you in marriage.”

You realize how seriously he’s taking it and start to flounder. “Well, you’ll be the first one we tell, Alexei,” you mumble awkwardly and slide your hand from his grip. “I promise.”

You’re dragging Bob away before the man can go on another half-drunken rant about a faux relationship and a wedding that will never happen.

You weave through the bustling crowd, hands instinctively entwining to stay together. 

“Do you think anyone would notice if we left?” Bob mumbles, nervously adjusting his tie with the hand not holding yours.

You look around, then shrug. “I don’t think I care.”

You end up sneaking into the kitchen before cocktail hour even starts, stealing a tray of sweets on your way to the wine cellar. Bob trails behind you like a lost puppy, distantly fearful of getting caught (because his omnipotence has yet to cancel out his perpetual anxiety.)

He paces back and forth while you try to pry the cork out of a vintage Merlot.

“I’m starting to feel bad,” Bob blurts suddenly, sweaty hands wringing into knots.

“Why?” you scoff with your mouthful, chewing through a tart chocolate-covered strawberry. “It’s just wine. No one will even know it’s missing—”

“No. About… lying to everyone.”

You freeze with half a strawberry still wadded in your cheek. “Oh…” you mumble, then swallow the rest of it down. You adjust the wine bottle between your anxious hands and stammer for a response. “Do you wanna… Do you wanna stop?”

The concept of stopping is slightly foreign to you. You've gotten so used to pretending to date him that sometimes you forget you're not actually dating.

Bob pauses his pacing to shift his weight on his feet. He shakes his head and answers honestly, “No. I don’t wanna stop, I just… don’t wanna lie.”

It’s a confession, albeit a vague one. He eyes you with a wide, attentive gaze and prays you get the hint. He can tell, by the sudden fearful look on your face, that you do. 

Your eyes flit to the ceiling as you smack your lips against your teeth, as though deep in thought. After a moment or more of silence, filled only by the distant swelling of violins, you nod. 

“Okay,” is all you say as you spin on your heel and turn away. You can’t face the vulnerability, so you choose to pick your battles and search for a cork screw for the impossible-to-open wine.

“O-Okay?” Bob stammers, nearly stumbling over himself to follow behind you.

“Yeah,” you shrug. “I mean, we were already kind of doing it, so… We’re basically halfway there anyway, right?”

Bob’s sigh of relief comes out like a laugh as he leans against the counter beside you. “I just… I didn’t think it’d be that easy,” he chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest in a feeble attempt to still his racing heart. “I would’ve asked you out forever ago if I did.”

The cork exits with a low, smoking pop. You inhale the scent of bitter grape as you bring the heavy bottle to your mouth. “How long have you been planning this?” you wonder with a laugh before taking a lengthy sip.

“Not long,” Bob insists with a shy shrug. “Maybe about… a year?”

You nearly choke on the dry wine. “So… Since we met?” you press, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“Uh—” Bob trails off, voice an octave higher than usual, as his eyes dart to the ceiling. He tries to do the calculations in his head, but the days have all blurred together since the Sentry Project. All he knows is, at the very least, that he’s been in love with you since the day he met you. “—Yeah. That sounds about right.”

“Here,” you blurt, offering him the too-expensive bottle of wine in your hand. “I think you need this more than I do.”

You can’t help but falter at his admission — that all the time you spent together wasn’t just pretend. Not entirely. 

Every time you held hands in front of the team, cuddled on couches during movie nights, pretended to make out beneath the blankets so that whatever unfortunate team member was sent to recruit you for an early morning mission would leave the two of you out of it — some of it was actually real.

You can rest easy now knowing that you weren’t the only one who’d somehow fallen in love along the way. 

It was all Bob’s fault, really. 

But he’s more than happy to take the blame.

[lassiie]

HACKER!STEPBRO HEESEUNG - TRAPPED.

The one where your antisocial stepbro pretends he's not obsessed—while secretly hacking you, jerking off to your secrets, and discovering about your desire. He’s obsessed… And you'll use it.

BEST TO READ IN DARK MODE FOR EFFECTS

CONTENT ↠ nsfw! mdni!, smut, angsty toxic Heeseung, obsessive, psychosexual dark vibes step bro Heeseung, stalker heeseung, if I can't have you no one can typpa heeseung, deep voyeurism kink, needy/pervy/manipulative reader, strong depiction of fantasies, sexual tension, consensual edging, p in the v, overstimulation, , light choking, public act, bad behavior's reader.

WORDCOUNT ↠ 9k (not proof read enough.. damn...)

Was literally obsessed with those two songs when writing this : https://open.spotify.com/intl-fr/album/4OFZVvqlg84Czl7td7XddK?si=rakigTTnSJyY8CnPyp8A7w

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Heeseung barely glanced up the first time you met.

Not when your mom introduced you, her laugh sharp and grating over the clink of designer glassware. Not when she called you her little angel, like she hadn’t spent the last decade ignoring your existence—like a piece of cloth begging to be brought back just because it’s trendy now. And definitely not when you smiled at him like you actually meant it.

He just slouched further into his hoodie—hood up, sleeves covering half his hands like armor. Said something that might’ve been “hey,” but it sounded more like: I don’t give a shit.

You smiled anyway. Quiet, composed. Like you didn’t notice he hadn’t met your eyes yet, hadn’t even registered the color of his irises. He had a good face, for sure. And a nice name. Heeseung. Hee—seung.

Let’s try not to forget it…

He’s Heeseung—the one who doesn't match the luxury flooring or manicured smiles. Heeseung, who looked more interested in his phone screen than the pricey piece of steak he’d just been served.

You—

You were different. And Heeseung noticed.

Because other girls—especially the daughters of his father’s revolving door of Stepford wives—always played the same game: almost flirty, too fake, self-obsessed, and excited to be part of the family.

You… you were calmer. Almost shy. Ashamed to even call your mom “Mom.” You were also interested in his presence—lightly tapping his foot with yours, giving him those apologetic doe eyes, like: Sorry that my shameless mom got a grip on your already-married dad just to milk him dry…

But it’s not like he divorced his mom for yours. And it’s not like you were the first one. Generally, the other step-siblings never asked about him. Never cared to know what lay beneath the hoodie-tortured-kid style he wore like armor.

You?

You looked at him like he was a person. Like you saw something he didn’t even believe was still there.

And with months—and then a year—maybe… you liked what you saw.

You asked questions. Not the fake kind. Real ones.

“You coded that game on your own?”

“You really won a national contest?”

“That glitch mechanic you added… did you write it from scratch?”

He wasn’t used to that kind of attention. Not anymore.

You leaned over his laptop one afternoon, wide-eyed, genuinely impressed. Your breath was warm on his shoulder, the scent of vanilla and soft detergent clinging to your hoodie—one he was almost sure used to be his.

“You’re kind of a genius,” you’d said, and smiled that smile. Soft. Easy. Like you weren’t afraid of him.

Because why would you be? You were always so nice and caring to him. You’d bring him a plate of food when his dad never cared to check even once. Leave Post-its with sweet pep talks before exams—ones that made him smile for the first time in a decade. Sit silently beside him after he got scolded for placing second on the honor board. Your hand, always soft and peach-scented, would stroke his hair like he wasn’t eight months older. And your eyes—so sweet when they met his.

You weren’t supposed to make him feel things.

And he wasn’t supposed to want someone like you.

But there you were. Not just prim—but infuriatingly so. You weaponized it. You made being stuck-up look like a goddamn virtue. All perfect posture and polite smiles. Still, something was off. Like how you made him open up to you, but never really talked about yourself—your life, your past. Always mysterious, always evasive when he got curious, always turning the tables on him.

You… you made him feel watched. Seen. Known.

And he didn’t like not knowing you back. Because he needed to know everything. It was pathological. Every variable that could disturb his life. Every secret.

And you—you were the unknown variable. The only one he couldn’t figure out.

And the worst part?

Heeseung couldn’t match you. He wasn’t good with people. Never had been. Getting you to open up? Never happening. He even got tense in crowds. Even if girls liked him, he couldn't maintain relationships beyond hookups. He could throw a punch, sure—but he'd rather let the other guy walk off with a smirk, too bored to bother.

But he was good at something: systems. Code. Surveillance.

So he broke the rules he’d promised himself he wouldn’t—with you.

He hacked your devices.

He shouldn’t have connected to them. Shouldn’t have hijacked your phone. Shouldn’t have hacked your webcam feed like it was just another game level to conquer.

It started innocent—ish. Really. Just some harmless digital snooping. New mother, new stepsister, weird vibes, potential threat to his peace and privacy—totally justifiable.

But your passwords were laughable. The kind of thing a middle schooler could crack.

Seriously. “Bookworm123”?

Please.

After all he was Mr. Cybersecurity Prodigy. Award-winning code monkey. VPN for his VPN, two-factor-auth god.

And he peeked. Just a little…

Your instagram private account, that your mom swore you didn’t have because “socials medias was too destructive for her future doctor of a child.”

Your spotify. Pinterest boards. You’re files.

like essays about behavioral neuroscience and a note named “journaling” : Plans. Rage. Angry rebellion written between textbook reviews. Your escape plan : college far away, control of your own life, zero influence from Barbie and her string of Stepdads. How you craved more. Your identity crisis, GPA fetishist, and how competitive you were to the point of mania. Basically, a mirror of Heeseung in the shape of someone who tried to play the hero of his narrative.

Then, it got worse.

Because curiosity became fixation. He was too deep for it not to be.

On sleepless nights, Heeseung discovered things he absolutely shouldn't.

That his straight A’s and volunteering hours stepsister — was actually sneaking off to frat party with her friends, just feel alive, get waisted and let some sophomore finger her.

The music you fall asleep to, your “fuck” playlist too — the one you wouldn’t admit to owning even under threat of death.

That habit of yours to flirt with strangers like you had a death wish or just want to be ruined so badly being jailed would be for your own good. 

That you send cropped pics, no face — just enough tits and thighs, to creeps then ghost them when they beg to meet, just to feel seen.

And he knew the kind of porn you watched on school nights, after wishing him sweet dreams. Earphones on, lips between your t-shirt collar like you’re scared someone might hear you in that big mansion. And what killed him is how fucking rough it is. Spit. Hair-pulling. Throat-fucking. Girls like you weren’t supposed to want that. Girls like you were supposed to blush and look away, like when he got too close. You’re supposed to be horrified at things like that — not get off to it at 1:38 a.m.

He discovered your texts with that secret boyfriend of yours. How badly he treated you—and how you let him, just to feel owned, loved. He knew when you snuck in those late-night FaceTimes, shirt half-off, hand between your thighs, playing the loyal girlfriend for him and his pathetic dick.

And Heeseung? He was obsessed with that version of you—the one he didn’t even dare to fantasize about, yet you handed to him on a silver plate.

Your self-care sessions got him hard under his desk. Got him jerking off to the way your fingers curled around your own throat in the dim hue of your bedroom, playing at power, pretending you didn’t crave being broken open.

You were too good at pretending. Sitting across from him, blouse crisp, smiling like a poetry award was the climax of your week.

What a goddamn lie.

But at least he’d seen you now. Most of you. And he understood better. Understood your issues. But something in him snapped.

Because this wasn’t just about obsession anymore.

It wasn’t about lust.

Or even protection.

It was about you.

And how you made him feel real again.

How you gave him a purpose.

You didn’t flinch when he glared. Didn’t avoid him at dinner. You just smiled, slid him your extra fries, and asked about the AI competition like it mattered. You looked at him like he was a person.

Not a project. Not a problem.

Not a hacker. Not a delinquent.

Not some mistake his father regretted.

And that… made you dangerous.

Because now you were a necessity. Something—someone—he cared about.

He did want to protect you.

But he also wanted to own you.

To erase the line between your bedroom and his. Between your thoughts and his access. Between your gasps at night and his name.

You weren’t supposed to get close.

You weren’t supposed to care.

And he wasn’t supposed to fall for you.

Fall for you?

...

But now what ?

You were the virus in his system.

The girl who said “good job” when he didn’t ask for praise. Who laughed when no one else did. Who touched his shoulder once—just once—and left him with a twitch in his fingers he couldn’t debug.

But you were a line of code he couldn’t rewrite. A live feed he couldn’t turn off.

And maybe, if he watched long enough—if he memorized every breath, every sigh, every single unguarded look—you wouldn’t disappear like the others.

Maybe, if he learned your pattern…he could break you open before you broke him.

And maybe, just maybe, you’d want him to. Even if it meant losing something. Even if it meant pulling you into the dark with him… and never letting you go.

Now you were sitting across from him. You spare him a glance while structuring your salad like a freak, with those doe eyes and he’s hard. Hard at a family dinner while they talked business.

Suddenly his breath catches your feet touching under the table. Like questioning, you good ?

Yeah it’s me, Heeseung. That sweet voice of yours haunting his head. 

His foot slides slower in between your legs mindlessly and when you almost jolt, he realizes. 

“gotta go sleep.” he blurred, rushing off the table. “Tomorrow is exam day.”

Fuck, he wants more. More of your secrets.More of you—the real you.

So he turned on your webcam, night after night, and your phone’s, and tab. like you were his favorite streamer, his favorite radio mc, the best sound to sleep. Like you wanted him to fantasise, think of it every night… 

You were stretched across your bed, laughing into your phone, wearing nothing but a tank and panties, circling your finger on your belly mindless. The way girls do when they forget they’re being watched.

You laid out your clothes for the next day like some little honor-roll princess—giggling when your friend called you a chaebol, and you shrug her off. 

But the way you lingered on the lace you never wear… the silk you only sleep on alone… the sheer pieces he has never seen— holding them up to your chest, slow movements like the reflection was his to tell you what to wear. It was fucking foreplay. You were a fucking siren, with your fucking hair finally down, and those dumb big scare glasses off. 

And him ?

Heeseung…

He was already crashing on the rocks. He was a black-hat addict no-full-blown cyber-pervert. rock hard, mindlessly stroking his bulge at the sheer form of you in unmatched underwears.

So innocent. So mine.

Some days later, you knocked on his door while your parents were off circling the globe, allergic to stillness and obligations. Your hair was tied up but messier than usual, cheeks sun-kissed, eyes almost red—like you’d cried.

God, if someone made you cry… I’d kill them.

You held two glasses of soda, dripping with condensation. No way you could deny you’d been pacing by his door for the last hour.

“What are you up to, genius? I’m bored,” you said, voice half-curious, half-something else.

Heeseung—fool, addict, liar—let you in. Let you get too close. Showed you things he shouldn’t because you asked with that look that made him feel like a god, not a glitch. But also made him wonder who had made you sad enough to want to change your mind.

Still, you smiled at his screens like they were art. Touched his keyboard like it was sacred. No step-sister had ever looked at him like that before—hell, no one actually had. Fuck, he needed to focus. Focus on you, not you.

“You really made all this?”

He nodded, trying not to smirk, trying not to shake. His fingers danced across the keys like a seduction.

“Wanna see something fun?”

A window blinked open. He typed some commands, and grainy footage appeared: the neighbor’s yard. Middle-aged man with hedge clippers, snipping bonsai like manicuring his soul.

He tapped more keys. Suddenly, sprinklers roared to life. The neighbor shrieked, dropped the shears, and bolted.

You burst out laughing, collapsing into him, palm against his chest. That sound—reckless, sweet—made something snap inside him. It wasn’t just pride. It was possession. You weren’t weirded out. You liked it. Liked him. Not the fake polite way. The way that made him want to caress your cheek and kiss those red eyes.

But he was a coward—or your strongest soldier, as he liked to call himself. One who wanted you close, for good, not some fling you’d regret like the others he barely tolerated. No, he wanted you for life—and he was in the perfect position, as long as your parents behaved.

Then your eyes met. Dangerous idea sparking. You dared him with your gaze, then dashed out of his room.

“Try it on my bedroom camera!” you shouted, disappearing down the hall, hoodie flapping like a flag.

Fuck. If only you knew he was already connected.

Moments later — Cam03: Her Bedroom Feed lit up.

You stood in front of the lens—he used to fuck himself to thoughts of you—starry-eyed as he purposefully reactivated the red dot, signaling it was on. Made a mental note to re-enable it later.

You waved. Smiled like sin. Mouthing: “See me?”

He choked. Because yes—he saw you. Always had. But now? Now you saw him.

Like you always knew.

You reached for your top, lifted the hem just enough to flash bare skin, then darted out of frame, laughing like it was a game.

His chest burned. Panic and arousal mixed in his bloodstream like a drug. Heeseung’s brain broke.

But he didn’t shut it down. He couldn’t. Instead, he gave in. His trembling fingers dimmed your room’s lights, shifting godspeed to soft pink. He knew it was your favorite. Knew too much.

Then he started your playlist—the one with soft beats, gentle melody, moonstruck, your favorite.

You paused in the doorway. Turned just enough for the camera to catch you again. Smiled with pure fascination, like a kid. You should’ve been afraid. But you weren’t.

You looked at the cam again, really looked, like he was the sweetest boy, and you didn’t care much what he was capable of—because it was him.

You walked back to his door, dripping sunlight and mischief.

“That was so cool,” you said, high-fiving him like your heart wasn’t thundering. Like you hadn’t just exposed the darkest part of him and come back wanting more. “Can you, like… track people? Their phones or whatever?”

Heeseung blinked. “I-if their GPS is on. Or if they ping the network.”

You tilted your head. Bit your lip. “…Wanna play hide and seek?”

He scoffed in disbelief, but there was a glint behind his eyes—half challenge, half thrill. Like he’d just been dared to play a game he already knew the rules to.

He grabbed his laptop. The mansion was too big. Too full of shadows, quiet corners. A maze of marble, high ceilings, inherited guilt.

Heeseung sat somewhere, a storm brewing behind his eyes.

You texted him: “find me.” One signal. One flare. Then silence.

He tracked you through your phone GPS—chose not to use the hallway cams, even though he easily could have. Something intimate, invasive, about watching your little red dot move on his map. Every time he walked to you was an ode to the game only you two could play.

Library.

“Checkmate. You’re here.”

“Wow! So you really can!”

West Wing.

“If I’m facing a mirror, it’s too easy… not even fun.”

“Fuck…”

Wine Cellar.

“If you’re trying to get drunk, pick the 2007 Bordeaux.”

You laughed.

The pool.

He stuck to the GPS. The red dot blinking. Stalling. Then disappearing.

You texted: “find me now.”

His screen dimmed like the whole house was holding its breath.

Heeseung’s pulse quickened. GPS cut out. No new pings. He tried again. Twice. Three times. Nothing.

Every nerve in his body was a wire of curiosity. The air heavy with chlorine and humidity as he stepped toward the pool deck, leaving his computer by the bar.

Then he found it—your phone, face down on the stone near the pool.

But you, where—

“Got you!” You leapt.

Laughter, bare legs, hoodie off. Heeseung didn’t have time to react before you crashed into him—both of you tumbling into the water with a splash that shattered the silence.

You surfaced first, grinning like a devil. “You can’t find me if I don’t want you to, huh?” you teased, flicking water at him.

Heeseung stared at you, laughing mid-cough. Clothes heavy. Hair plastered to his forehead. The water clung to your skin in a way that made his hands twitch under the surface. You floated closer then. Then reached out and hooked your fingers in his bangs, stroking them like you always did. Then tugging gently.

“How about I cut your hair?” you whispered, too close to him not to have his eyes linger on your lips. “We’re starting university soon. Can’t show up like some code-goblin, right?”

He snorted. But you two didn’t move. Just watched each other's souls for too long. Heart hammering. Skin burning. You were in his pool. In his arms now. In his system.

“Are you okay?”

He, with the most considering eyes a family member ever gave you. But you just nodded to his biggest displeasure. Something was wrong, yeah.

Actually, everything was wrong. And surely something was wrong with you. You felt trapped. In your studies, in your relationship, in these always-new families, in your boring unstable life. You wanted more. More attention, more love, more recognition, more freeness, just more…

You weren't special like Heeseung. You couldn’t clap your fingers and get that video back from your so-called boyfriend—he threatened to leak it if you ever thought of leaving him again. Couldn’t clap your fingers and make a scholarship appear on your forms for university, and couldn’t clap your fingers to make you go to your best choice without the biggest loan you can think about.

But it was better to tell him everything was okay. Because if you didn't fake it… you’d be dead by now.

And maybe it’s the weather, or his concerned look, or his trembling hands on your ribs—not too low, not too high. But it felt good being with Heeseung, even better seeing the way he looked at you—you really had a problem.

“Can you… like… if I ever asked you…”

“What?” He came closer, almost locking in his hands. “Tell me…”

“If someday I needed you, would you… like… help me if I have something very complicated to solve... like… you know, math.” You laughed it off like you weren't about to ask him to get that sextape back.

He nodded so obediently it hurt. Fuck, you had him in the palm of your hand without doing anything more than just letting him watch. Deny his ever-growing desire. Playing this game you caught him in.

Yeah… maybe you really were what your mom made out of you… sadly.

After that, Heeseung was like a man on a mission. He hacked every piece of info he could find on that deep shit. Until he found it… your complicated math exercise…

A tap of you and him. Filmed like you weren’t aware of it. Heeseung couldn’t find the courage to watch it…

Until he did.

And it was everything he ever fantasized doing with you.

I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him.

That guy needed to be out of your life.

Now.

He could frame him for anything he wanted. Crash his Tesla. His mind was spiraling as he bit on his nail, replaying that video again and again and again. Zooming on you.

I’ll protect you.

First, you needed an escape. Easy—that guy already cheated on you with so many girls, it was easy for you to catch him. So he wrote a fantasy he hoped you’d fall for. He drafted messages from your bf’s phone. A fake date. Something sweet, just enough like your boyfriend to pass.

“Meet me tonight baby girl. Just us. Let’s talk. 9PM. My room.”

“Baby girl…” you hated that name, but still couldn’t refuse him. And now Heeseung understood.

You saw it, and for a second, you believed. He watched you re-read it, then start getting ready—lip gloss, that fluttery dress, even that nervous little smile like it still meant something.

Meanwhile, your boyfriend was across campus, buried in someone else. Moaning her name. Careless, as always.

Heeseung watched it all—your hope fading when you opened that door, his betrayal, his choke. Your silence. Her grasp. One earbud in, one eye on every camera feed you both could offer.

You left the place in a rush, your phone starting to buzz as Heeseung watched every message your now-ex boyfriend sent you. You found yourself drifting in a club. You needed air, music, and drinks.

The music wasn’t even that good, your drink, not that strong. You didn’t plan to dance. And you didn’t plan for some no-brain guy with smooth hands to hit on you.

And you almost let him have his way near the bathrooms. Just to forget the sound of your phone. Forget that you had to go back to that guy until he decided he’d had enough or leaked the tape.

Almost.

Until Heeseung’s hand was on your wrist, showing up out of nowhere to pull you away.

“Heeseung?”

He got you out of the club, his hand digging into your wrist. The car ride was dead silent. Heeseung looked pissed. You were hollow, but not dumb. And you let him snap.

“What the fuck were you thinking?”

You didn’t answer.

“... Don’t you have a bf?”

Still silent. Tears welled up before you could blink them back, and Heeseung was at a loss for words. Yeah, it was that easy to shush him—crocodile cries easy.

“Stop crying…” he muttered, but he looked panicked now. Like your tears were acid on his skin. “Tell me what’s going on?”

Like he didn’t know.

But you had to play it well. Make him do it tonight, and no other night.

“He cheated…”

“Then leave him…”

“I can’t…” Hee looked at you with fake wonder. “He filmed me once… and…”

He nodded, enough to tell you you didn’t need to keep going.

When you got home, Heeseung took your hand before you stormed into your room, and he watched you—really watched—and got in a hug. Caressing your hair, getting closer to your ear, “I'll help you.”

You almost feared he could feel your smile. You detached your head with the saddest questioning expression.

“I’ll protect you,” he said, the heaviest stare he ever gave you.

You just nodded like you weren’t expecting much. When you actually wanted exactly what he gave you.

Back in your room, you kept re-seeing Heeseung’s expression. Almost mad, almost dangerous.

And you. You wanted more. You wanted everything—not just protection, but revenge. Revenge for the time you lost on that guy, for your virginity you couldn’t bring back, for the stress… for everything.

So you opened your laptop. Placed your phone next to it like it’s part of the performance. You know he’s watching.

You know.

Heeseung, on his part, got in his room ready to execute the next part of his plan when the ping of your camera alerts him. But tonight is not the night. After seeing you like that, he doesn't want to do that.

So he started to undress. Until—

“Heeseung?”

His head snapped to his monitor. WTF.

“You’re here, no? I mean, you’re watching.”

He almost fell on the ground, unable to walk straight to his computer.

What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What? What?

The webcam light doesn’t flicker on right away when you open it.

You look at your reflection. This webcam is better than the last time you used it. Wide-angle. Pretty high-def. You can see almost your entire room. Bed. Closet. Console. The mirror angled just right to show the bathroom.

God. You made it so easy for him.

You let your fingers lazily drift to your dress straps. In a slow reveal. You watch yourself in the camera—legs tucked just right to keep mystery intact. Eyes locked on the return. You open your—

“You like it when I do that?” You looked almost innocent doing it. What the fuck were you doing, Heeseung’s mind screamed. “You want more?”

Heeseung was stunned. Too many questions. Too many desires.

He didn’t even respond, his hand mindlessly disconnecting your camera’s red dot and reconnecting again like Morse.

“Then ruin him for me. Make him as ashamed as I was.”

You were pulling his obsession like strings. A puppet master in silk cloth. The light on the webcam flickered once again.

You smiled, slowly nodding. “Good night, Heeseung.” Shut it all down.

By morning, half the campus was infected with a juicy little virus: dozens of very compromising photos of your now-ex, including a special feature of him being pegged by none other than his mom’s best friend.

Iconic.

The breakup text? Already sent. Blocked him before your brain even had a chance to process.

You didn’t see him all day. No dinner, no open door when you brought snacks. Nothing.

Maybe you really fucked up. Poor Heeseung, thinking you were innocent, only to find out you were just like everyone else—grey, messy, complicated.

But just before bed, your phone lit up. A note. Your password written clear on the screen.

You sat frozen, eyes flickering between the note that started typing on its own, and the webcam pointed right at you.

“I’ll always protect you.”

Then, an mp4 file popped up. Your lips curved into a shy smile.

You almost said something, but instead, you tapped beneath his words:

“Thank you, Heeseung. I don’t know what I’d have done if you weren’t there.”

The cursor blinked, paused—like he was thinking hard about what to say next.

“I protect what’s mine.”

Your eyes drifted to the webcam. “Am I?”

“Aren’t you?”

Your gaze dropped shyly, biting your lip to keep the smile from slipping out. Fuck, it was hot—this obsessive, protective boy who’d kill for you.

“I am…” you breathed, fingers playing with the thin straps of your dress.

“Maybe?”

Slowly, you peeled it off. No bra. No panties. Just you—bare, glowing in the soft light of your screen.

Heeseung’s side: panting mess. Trembling. Rock hard. Watching was always intense, but this? His brain shorted out. Every movement you made poured fuel on the fire in his chest—the way you loosened your hair, slid off your glasses, shy but teasing.

Your voice slipped through his headphones like a spell.

“Tell me what you want,” you breathed. “I’ll do it. As a thank you.”

He was nearly feral, watching you perched like a dream made just for him. But now you wanted him to take the lead. For once, you wanted control handed over.

And for a long, heavy moment, silence.

Then, a new line in your notes:

“Anything?”

You nodded, lips parting.

Another line.

“Touch yourself.”

“For me.”

You rose, heading for your bed.

Then:

“No. Here.”

You sat back down. Fully exposed. The chair never felt colder. The electricity on your skin was undeniable—the weight of someone watching, devouring every move.

You shivered. Something folded inside, vulnerable but not scared.

Then your screen flickered.

A video opened.

Porn.

But not just any porn. A girl like you—same frame, soft lighting. She was in a gaming chair, legs parted, cat headphones, a pink toy buzzing between her thighs. Moaning like she’d been waiting for eyes to watch.

You blinked. The message was loud and clear.

Your breath caught—not shocked, but challenged.

Back to the webcam—doe eyes, tempted. Your fingers traced lower, hips shifting, copying her exact position. Mimicry never felt so twisted.

You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers moved.

Heeseung watched like it was a live confession. Pupils dilated, chest heaving, gripping himself tight, trying not to explode too soon.

A message appeared:

“Slower.”

You obeyed, breath shaking, already slick with every stroke.

Another message:

“Fuck, you’re shaking.”

You were. Legs twitching, spine arching against the chair.

You never thought you’d go this far, but he was puppeteering you with his commands.

Then:

“I’ve never seen you like this. Fuck. I want to cum in you. In that chair. Just like that.”

You groaned, eyes fluttering shut, but forced them open—locking onto the lens like it was him.

Another message:

“I want you ruined. For anyone else. Say it.”

You moaned, fingers freezing.

“I’m yours,” you whispered.

“Say it again,” he typed.

“I’m yours, Heeseung.”

The pressure built—right at the edge—

Then:

“Stop.”

“Don’t cum.”

Your breath hitched. You froze mid-stroke, legs trembling.

Another line:

“I said stop. If anyone makes you cum tonight—it’s me.”

Your fingers hovered, shaking. The ache burned deep in your thighs, stomach taut.

But you stopped.

Because his word mattered more than your desire now.

Your screen blinked.

“Get your toy.”

You swallowed, nodded, reached into your drawer.

The vibrator was familiar—sleek, pink, faintly scented from your date-night oil. You rubbed it, coating it with your wetness, then slid it slowly inside, breath heavy.

Then the toy buzzed. Flickered. Came alive.

You gasped—he was controlling it.

Before you could say a word, it pulsed hard. Your body jerked, chair creaking beneath you. Your grip tightened on the arms as pleasure rolled through you like a whip.

“That’s it,” he typed. “Don’t touch it. Just take it.”

You moaned—too much, too fast—your body trembling, legs spreading without control. The sounds you made were filthy, desperate.

Heeseung’s fingers typed again.

“Grip the chair.”

You obeyed.

The toy buzzed harder, relentless and cruel.

“Look at the camera.”

Tears pricked, but you held his gaze—through that little glowing lens. Your thighs trembled, breath catching—

He knew.

He memorized every sound, every gasp, every twitch.

Your climax hit like an explosion—so fierce your back arched from the chair. Toes curled, lips parted in a silent cry.

If only you could hear it—the gasp, the groan, the shuddering moan from his room. Rooms apart, perfectly synced.

You collapsed back against the seat, chest heaving.

The toy powered down. The room fell silent but electric. Only the Notes app stayed open. One final line appears:

“I know your body better than anyone ever will.”

You smile, eyes rolling, calming yourself. You’re still catching your breath when your phone buzzes.

Unknown Caller.

You smirk. Answer it without hesitation.

Hee,” you whisper, lazy satisfaction dripping from your tone.

You hear him—shaky, panting, like the edge nearly broke him. “Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck… You’re so pretty. So fucking pretty. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

His voice is hoarse, frayed with restraint. You picture him—still burning from his climax, hand resting low, skin flushed.

“You drive me insane. Every breath you take, every moan...” He watches you lift your thighs, tucking yourself shyly behind them like a girl playing innocent. “It’s mine. You’re mine. Don’t you get it? I want you so bad I—fuck—I can’t even—”

You cut in softly.

“Heeseung,” you murmur, voice smooth like silk sliding over a blade. “I never said I was yours...”

Silence.

You lean in, sugar-sweet, doe eyes locked on the lens, like you don’t quite know what you’re doing.

“You think this makes me yours?”

He breathes hard. You swear you hear the tension in his throat—how he swallows that growl.

“Then what?” he whispers. “What do I have to do?”

You hum, hiding your face in your thighs, thoughtful. “I’ll know.”

Heeseung almost chokes. “You’re playing with me.”

You tilt your head.

“Of course I am, Hee. Isn’t that what you like? What we always did? Playing games.” Your voice softens, teasing, the tone that always breaks him. “You’re obsessed, Hee. But to own me?” you shake your head slowly. “You’ll have to do more than just watch me cum on camera.”

A pause. You let it hang, let it burn. Then, low and teasing:

“If you really want me,” you whisper. “Stop being a coward. Show me.”

His breath catches. You almost feel the stillness on his end.

Click.

You hang up.

Still smiling, you toss your phone aside.

“Good night, Heeseung,” you murmur to the camera before shutting everything down.

Heeseung hadn’t heard your voice in three days.

Not on the phone, not through the headphones, not even that little intake of breath when you tiptoe around your room late at night.

Three days.

Seventy-two hours of silence.

No webcam flickers. No Notes app replies. No little “good night, Hee” teasing him through pixels.

Nothing.

He tapped at your IP like a lunatic. Pinging dead signals. Checked your cloud for new files. Scraped your cache for cam logs, anything—anything—that might prove you were still playing.

But you weren’t. You’d shut him out completely. Blocked him, in every way that mattered—except the one that destroyed him the most: in person, you were still perfect.

Because in real life, you were still her.

Still the step-sister who sat next to him at dinner, nudging his arm, sipping from his glass like it meant nothing. Still in those stupid soft modest dresses that smelled like your vanilla lotion and innocence. Still saying his name in that sweet voice that didn’t match the girl who once whispered “I’m yours” for a night, while fingering herself in his favorite dress.

Still shy smilling in front of the parents, like he wasn’t slowly going fucking insane of you ghosting him in the cruelest way possible.

Heeseung clenched his jaw until it hurt. His fists, tighter. You were torturing him. Training him with your silence. Denying him touch, sound, ownership—making him feel like just another loser watching from a screen.

And worst of all? You liked it.

He could see it in the way you smiled at him when no one was looking. Like the devil behind a halo. Like the dom who knew her puppy would crawl the moment she said good boy.

You knew what you were doing. And you knew he was starving.

He watched you meet someone new through your messages—tracked him from his first DM. The second the guy sent a heart emoji, Heeseung had full access to his cloud, laptop, phone, and location history.

So when you showed up at that guy’s place in that same dress as that night, Heeseung went feral. watching you through the guy’s hacked MacBook camera. Front-row seat. 1080p. Wide angle. Clear sound. Perfect view.

You didn’t even try to hide untapping your phone camera, angling it for him. But he was already there.

He watched the way you swayed when you walked into the room. That skirt was short—barely legal. Hair done like you were on a mission to ruin him. Lip gloss like you were asking to be kissed. Or owned.

Heeseung’s fists dug into his thigh. You let the guy kiss you. Hands on your hips. Heeseung scoffed in fury. The guy went down on you and Heeseung leaned forward—eyes glued to your face smiling at him. Not for the man.

Only for him.

You mouthed his name, Heeseung, made that sound again—that sweet gasp that cracked every nerve in his body—and his hands were already down his pants before he even realized it. Stroking slowly. Angry.

Then the guy started fucking you. It was… pathetic.

You looked bored. Pretty. But not wrecked. Not how Heeseung would have done you—needed you. Not how you looked when he edged you, whispering commands through your notes.

He texted :

He’s not even close to making you cum.Why are you with him?Stop. 

Now. 

Please.

You didn’t stop. You got louder. Not for performance, because knowing hee was watching, unleashed you.

Heeseung’s hand stuttered. He bit down on his bottom lip so hard it bled. You were performing. For him, not the other guy. You had to be. And yet you didn’t stop when he begged you.

Heeseung didn’t drink. Didn’t smoke. Didn’t call a friend.

He texted one of the girls who’d been orbiting him since he entered university—some pretty, pouty girl with no idea what she was walking into.

She came fast. Obedient. Heeseung fucked her like punishment.

Shoved her onto his lap, dragged her skirt over her hips without a single word. Didn’t ask if she was ready. Didn’t even pretend to care. Just spread her thighs, lined himself up, and buried in—rough, silent, merciless.

She moaned his name, kissing his neck. Heeseung kept his eyes on the screen. Because on the monitor behind her?

You were still live. Fucking someone else. His airpods were in. And he was moaning your name under his breath.

The girl was clueless to much overwhelmed by his deep, rough trust. Riding him like she thought she was doing a good job for him to be so feral. 

Heeseung touched her the way he would have to you, controlling. forcing her in position trying to reach her deepest part, as he watched your hips roll on screen. Your nails dig into someone else’s back.

“Grippe my back. leave marks.” he ordered her.

He hiss, mouthing along with your sounds like a prayer.

“Fuck—Louder. Just like that... Just like that—fuck.”

The girl on his lap whimpered, “does it feel good, Hee?”

Heeseung stared at your body—your lips, your tits, your sweat-shined thighs.

“You’re so perfect,” he muttered. “Fuck—you…”

His climax came hard, violent. He choked your name on the exhale and came inside the girl like she didn’t matter—because she didn’t.

When the girl left, he stared at the screen for an hour. Watched you dress. Watched you check your phone. Smiling.

Not once did you reply to his messages.

You were killing him. Starving him. Making him beg. He slammed the laptop shut, chest heaving, hatred and love boiling into the same sick ache.

You were right. He was a coward. But not for much longer.

You found it on your bed. No card. No note. No sender. Just a black box, wrapped in a ribbon you never heard arrive. Inside: lingerie. Lace. Sheer. Decadent. Your exact size. Your exact taste. Lightly soaked in a scent you could recognize in your sleep—his cologne.

Your fingers trembled when you held it up to the light. No message. But then again, he never needed words.

Heeseung didn’t ask. He tried to command.

So, you didn’t text. Didn’t thank him. You just wore it.

That night, when the webcam light blinked to life, you were already sitting pretty in front of your laptop. Sheer fabric draped over your body like a sin begging to be confessed.

You leaned into the camera, eyes soft, voice sweeter.

“Goodnight, Genius. Hope uni’s not eating you alive.”

And then—

You logged off. Just like that.

Left him starving. You knew he’d pretend it didn’t affect him. He tried, bless him.

He texted the next day, like it was nothing. Invited you to his university party. Like this wasn’t war. Like he wasn’t already losing.

Of course, you went. Dressed in red. Not the lingerie—something sharper. Something that made his friends stare a little too long.

Heeseung barely spoke to you that night. Slipped back into his old self—like he hadn’t spent the week watching you like a man possessed. But he was in his element, charming his nerdy circle, and you were happy just watching him thrive.

Then, it changed.

He didn’t introduce you as his stepsister. That alone cracked the air between you. His hand found your back, fingers tracing lazy nothings while he laughed with his friends, eyes on you like you were art.

You liked seeing him smile. Liked knowing you made it easier.

And then—he excused you both. His friends wished you luck with admissions. So polite. So clueless.

He walked you up a narrow hallway, like it was nothing. A quiet corridor, half-lit.

Then he locked you in a hug.

And kissed your neck.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispered, hands already exploring.

“You too,” you murmured, smiling. “New haircut? You kept it long in the back. Looks good.”

“You said I should, so...”

You smiled harder, went in for a kiss—your first. His lips were maddening. Soft, sure, and hungrier than you expected. He kissed like he’d waited for years. Like he’d decided waiting was over.

"Untie your dress," he whispered against your mouth, voice low.

You raised a brow, smirking. “Thought you liked watching from afar.”

His jaw flexed. “Not tonight.”

You let the ribbon fall, letting the dress slip open. Underneath—his gift. His breath caught.

“You like it?” you teased.

He didn’t answer. He spun you, pressed you into the wall, and his hand was already between your thighs—finding you soaked.

His mouth brushed your ear, voice cracking with restraint.

“Fuck. You’re so wet for me. I’ve waited so long.”

“Say it,” he growled.

“What?”

His thrust was sharp—two fingers deep.

“Say you want me to ruin you. Say you like it.”

You whimpered, arching into his hand. “I like it when you ruin me.”

“Say it right.”

You licked your lips. “I want to be yours, Heeseung. Ruin me.”

His exhale was jagged—like something inside him broke.

Then came silence. Just heat. Breathing. Fingers moving in and out of you as he grinded against your body, shameless and reckless in a hallway anyone could walk into.

And just before you came—he pulled away.

“No,” he said simply. “Let’s go.”

“Home?”

“No. My room.”

His dorm was massive, dark except for the red glow of a snoozed monitor. His roommate was nowhere. Probably never real to begin with. You practically jumped on him. Messy kisses. Wandering hands. He kissed your neck, your shoulder, your back—and then—

Your hand brushed his desk. The monitors flared to life. And there you were—your webcam feed, glowing on the screen.

Recording. Your name as the file.

“You always make me watch,” he whispered, stripping you down to the lingerie. “Now watch yourself.”

He pulled you onto the bed, body still facing the screen.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, spreading your legs for the camera. “I’ve owned you since the first time you stepped into this house.”

On screen—your reflection trembled. Moaned. Melted in real-time.

He eased fingers inside you again while holding you in his lap, pinching a nipple until you gasped, breath tangled.

“I know what you fantasize about when you’re bored,” he whispered.

He started humping you, slow and heavy.

“I know what kind of porn you scroll past—then go back to.”

Thrust.

“I know which songs you loop when you touch yourself. I synced your playlist.”

You choked on a gasp.

“I know you changed your passwords, just to make me mad.”

His hand curled lightly around your throat.

“But I like it. I like when you pretend.”

He never slowed—just kept pushing you higher, mean and relentless.

And when you moaned his name?

He broke.

“I’m going to give you every twisted thing you’ve ever typed,” he growled. “Every fantasy you deleted. Every filthy draft you couldn’t finish. I’m going to make them real.”

Your climax slammed into you, shuddering through your bones—but he didn’t stop.

“I’ll tie you up in the library when no one’s looking,” he said, voice wicked. “Bend you over your best friend’s bed and leave a bruise only I’ll recognize.”

He laughed.

“I’ll make you cry my name with someone else inside you—just to remind you no one will ever ruin you like I do.”

You turned and kissed him, wild and unhinged.

He kissed back like a claim. Like he was branding your soul.

Then he grabbed you and threw you onto the bed. Reached for a condom.

You stopped him.

“It’s safe today, Hee. Do me raw.”

His pupils darkened. Something dangerous sparked.

He freed himself and dragged his cock against your wetness, teasing your entrance. You moaned each time the head kissed you. His smile was smug. Addicted.

“Heeseung. Please.”

He nodded—and slid in all at once.

You gasped, overwhelmed, stretched so good it hurt in the most perfect way.

He rocked into you deep and slow, biting your neck, lips pressed against skin he couldn’t stop worshipping.

Then he pulled you upright—still inside you.

“You like this position, huh?”

You nodded, dizzy, undone. He studied you like he’d been preparing for a test. He always aced those.

Then—his thrusts changed. Not faster. Just deeper. Harder.

“Hee—”

“Like that, yeah?”

You nodded again, mouth open, breathless at every delicious, punishing thrust.

He looked so fucking good like this—hair sticking to his forehead, lips parted, eyes glazed with need. You went for another kiss and he gripped your neck, slid to your hair, pulling until your back arched.

“Like that?”

“Yeah—yeah—fuck—don’t stop—”

He sucked your tits, relentless now, chasing both your highs. You clenched down so hard his groans turned ragged. He bit your nipple, then folded you in half, throwing your legs over his shoulders.

And then—he lost it.

He didn’t slow.

Not even as your body bucked under him, shaking.

He buried himself deeper, fingers biting into your hips, sweat dripping from his jaw as he fucked you like he wanted to unmake you.

The monitors kept rolling. Your name flashing on screen, over your own moans.

You reached for him—some desperate grasp for balance—but he pinned your wrists above your head, fucked you harder. One of your legs slipped off his shoulder, and he yanked it back up with a grunt.

“Keep it there,” he snarled, breath ragged. “Don’t move unless I say.”

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

You were already too far gone.

You felt yourself stretch around him again, again, again—your walls pulsing and fluttering with every brutal thrust. It was filthy, unrelenting, and it wasn’t enough.

Heeseung's voice was in your ear, low and wrecked.

“This how you like it?” he panted. “Getting used like this—getting ruined on camera for me?”

You sobbed a yes—high and gasping—and he growled. His hips snapped forward again, this time shoving you higher on the bed.

“Fucking take it.”

He leaned in, biting your lip, grinding deeper. The rhythm turned meaner—each thrust slamming into you with brutal precision.

“You like knowing I’ll replay this?” he whispered. “Jerk off to it when you’re not around?”

You moaned helplessly.

“Want you to. I want you obsessed.”

“Oh, I am,” he said. “You made me this.”

His rhythm stuttered—he was close. You could feel him twitch inside, groaning against your mouth.

Then—

He came.

Hard.

Buried deep.

His whole body went taut over yours, shuddering as he emptied himself, hips rolling slower, deeper. You felt the heat inside you, the stickiness, the way his cock throbbed even after the high.

And still—he didn't pull out.

He kissed your collarbone, your throat, lazily now. Worn out. Quiet.

The screen behind him kept glowing.

Your body was wrecked, your heart pounding against his chest.

He pulled you close, like he wasn’t finished. Like he never would be.

The next morning, the sun barely broke past his blackout curtains. You were still half-naked in his sheets when you heard his fingers tapping at his laptop. A fresh hoodie hung off his shoulder, hair a messy halo.

“Hey,” he said, voice rough with sleep.

You groaned into the pillow. “Already working?”

He smirked. “Coding clears my head. Better than coffee.”

You rolled over. He looked too good like this. Soft around the edges. Eyes warm.

“I wish you could come here,” he said. “To my university.”

You blinked, suddenly alert. He smiled, but it didn’t reach all the way. “You did apply, right?”

“…Yeah.”

He nodded like he already knew. “But you didn’t tell me…pfff.”

Your stomach turned, just a little, as you smirked. “I didn’t want you to be happy for something so unsure.”

“I know.”

Silence. He got back typing. 

“You really think I wouldn’t find out?” he said. “You think I’d just… let you leave somewhere else?”

You narrowed your eyes. “What did you do?”

He smiled. Shrugged. “Nothing you’ll ever be able to prove.”

Your heartbeat slowed. Thick. Smiling unsure.

“Heeseung...”

He stood, walking over. Calm. Barefoot. Still smelling like last night and wanting more.

“I didn’t touch your application,” he said softly. “But I might’ve nudged the scholarship committee. You’re exceptional, after all.”

You froze. “Why?”

“Because you belong here, in that prestigious place and nowhere else.”

His fingers grazed your chin. Tender. Possessive.

“...With me.”

You swallowed. He tilted your face up to his, eyes half-lidded.

“You would've turned it down if you knew,” he murmured, getting his lips closer, smooching slowly. “You’re too proud for that kind of help. Too proud to admit you want to be kept.”

Your voice caught in your throat. “That’s not why I applied.”

“I know why you applied, just like me.”

His thumb ghosted over your lower lip.

“That’s why I made sure you’d stay. to be free.”

A flicker of something dangerous passed between you. Or maybe it had always been there. He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

“You think you’re playing me right now, huh,” he whispered, “but—what if I like being used, if it means I get to keep you?”

Your breath hitched. And he smiled. Like he’d already won. Or maybe he was wrong. Maybe you’d just let him believe he had.

Author’s Note:

Babies~ here it is!! 💗 The second part of my enha stepbro AU (first one was HUNTED).

I really hope this one pleased you… did it??? 🥺

I worked so hard on this piece to match the exact vibe I had in mind. Like—why was I waking up at 3 AM with wild ideas for scene effects that were borderline impossible to execute?! 😭🌀

This one definitely has a different flavor! While HUNTED leaned into soft, needy sub!Jakey energy (bless him), I wanted TRAPPED to explore the more intoxicating side of obsession—but not so far that we start hating our sweet little Heeseung~ Just a touch of crazy, y’know?

I really hope the mood translated well, because after rereading it 500 times, I fully lost that "first read magic" feeling I’m not super proud of this draft yet—kinda wish I had more time to proofread and polish it up. I’ll probably update it later (perfectionist problems 😭).

Next up is Part 3, which is supposed to be Sunghoon’s! Let me know if you want anything special in it—I’m all ears... and pervy brain. Just know it’s gonna involve dacryphilia, so bring tissues… for various reasons

XOXO

Reblogs and thirsty little thoughts are always appreciated don’t be shy~© Lassiie

@heejunluvr @choeryyxyz @hoonprksung @schniti-is-in-the-house @ii2sanrio @woniedoyouloveme @saeris-world @gonorrheaisme @soobiverse

[viaxslz]

▦ ﹒ ☆ CALLING THEM BY THIER REAL NAME ⸒ 별 ꜝ ﹫

享受 ! .°. ݁₊ 𐙚 gn!reader, cw: pet names, fluff, nothing much not proofread :P

CHAN

Pet name norm: Normally you call him everything but "Christopher" baby, babe, Channie, cuddlekoala™. he’s used to being absolutely babied. So the first time you go, “Christopher, can you pass me the remote?” His entire system reboots. He blinks at you like you just called him “Mr. Bang” in a courtroom. “Christopher…?” he repeats, slowly, suspiciously. “Are you mad at me? Did I forget an anniversary? Did I leave the fridge open again? Be honest.” 100% thinks he’s in trouble. Starts checking his calendar for any missed events, already texting Jisung like “DID I MESS UP BRO.” You’re just chilling, eating chips. “No? I just felt like it.” He softens like a microwaved marshmallow. “Oh. Okay. Just checking. But also… never do that again.” Gets dramatic: “Calling me Christopher feels like you’re about to divorce me and take the kids I don’t have.” Then pouts for 30 minutes until you call him “baby” again. Suddenly his tail is wagging. “THERE we go.” Lowkey likes it, though. Won’t admit it, but the next time you call him “Christopher” by accident, he gets a little blushy. Bonus: will use it against you if he’s being sulky. “Fine. I guess Christopher isn’t worthy of cuddles tonight.” You: “…what is wrong with you.”

MINHO

Normally, you call him things like: “babe,” “honey,” “min-min,” “grumpy cat,” or something chaotic like “my little menace.” So when you suddenly go, “Minho, can you help me with this?” He freezes. Turns to you slowly, squints. “Who’s Minho. Never met him.” Immediately acts like you just signed his death certificate. “Are we breaking up? Just tell me. I can take it.” (He cannot take it.) “Minho?” he repeats, mock-offended. “What’s next, you calling me Mr. Lee?” You: “I just… felt like using your real name?” Minho: “Well I just felt like dying a little inside.” Tries to act cool and unaffected, but he’s so dramatic behind the scenes. Lays facedown on the couch like a Victorian wife who just heard her husband say “We’re out of tea.” “You’ve been watching dramas again, haven’t you? That’s what this is. You're turning on me. Betrayal. Treachery. This is my villain origin arc.” The next day, calls you by your full government name just to “restore balance.” “Sure, [Full Name], I’ll take out the trash.” Eventually admits (grudgingly, while cuddling you under a blanket burrito) that hearing his real name from you is kinda… cute. “Just don’t make it a habit. I’m used to you being annoying and clingy.” Five minutes later, you whisper “Minho” again. Him, whispering back: “That’s it. We’re fighting. Pillow war. No survivors.”

CHANGBIN

Usually you call him stuff like “binnie,” “baby,” “cutie buff guy,” or something feral like “my gym rat prince.” So when you casually go, “Seo Changbin, can you hand me the charger?” He physically flinches. “What did you just say?” He’s staring at you like you just called him a disappointment in front of his mom. Instantly thinks he’s in trouble. “Wait wait wait, did I do something? Did I breathe wrong? Are you about to lecture me?” You: “No? I just said your name?” Changbin: “My government name?? In this house??” Dramatically clutches his chest. “You only call me Seo Changbin when you’re mad, confessing to a murder, or turning into a villain.” Starts spiraling for no reason. “Is this about the snacks I hid behind the rice cooker? Because I can explain.” Then gets all sulky. “You don’t love me anymore. It’s fine. I’ll move on. Tell the boys I died bravely.” You: “Binnie—” He perks up instantly. “Yes, that’s me. I’m Binnie. Your favorite. Your small strong man.” Pretends he’s joking, but lowkey sensitive about it. Will side-eye you for the rest of the day like a kicked puppy. “You used to call me sunshine… now I’m just Changbin…” Later that night, burrows into your neck like a koala and mumbles, “Don’t say my real name unless we’re getting married or I’m winning an award. It’s scary.” Next morning you wake up to a sticky note on the fridge: “Pet names only 😤 — Binnie ❤️💪🐻”

HYUNJIN

You're normally hitting him with the extra stuff like “angel,” “pretty prince,” “Hyunie,” “dramatic swan,” or “Michelangelo reincarnated.” So when you suddenly go, “Hyunjin, can you pass me the remote?” He goes dead silent. Eyes narrow. Jaw clenches. Paintbrush stops mid-stroke. “Excuse me?” he says like you just slapped him with a Shakespearean glove. “What happened to ‘baby’? ‘Love of my life’? ‘Muse of my soul’? Am I not your walking masterpiece anymore?” You: “I just wanted to say your name.” Hyunjin: “YOU SAY MY NAME WHEN YOU’RE CRYING INTO MY ARMS DURING A MOVIE, NOT TO ASK FOR THE REMOTE.” Paces dramatically like he’s in a K-drama about to turn evil. “I should’ve known this day would come. You’ve grown tired of me.” Actually gets quiet after that. Not sad just way too in his head. “...Do I need a new nickname? Have I lost my sparkle? Is my forehead too big today?” Ten minutes later, comes back with a list. “So I brainstormed some new pet names in case ‘Hyunjin’ is your new thing. Options include: ‘my gorgeous chaos,’ ‘hot disaster,’ or just ‘🌹.’ Thoughts?” You: “Hyunie, please chill.” He immediately melts. “THERE IT IS. I forgive you. Come cuddle me.” Bonus: if you call him “Hwang Hyunjin” he’ll drop to the floor like he’s been shot. “DON’T USE MY FULL NAME UNLESS I’M GRADUATING OR GETTING ARRESTED.”

HAN

Usually, you call him things like “baby,” “sungie,” “gremlin boy,” “my tiny chaos,” or whatever weird affectionate name pops into your head at 3 a.m. So when you go, “Jisung, can you help me with this?” He turns his head so fast it’s a miracle he doesn’t sprain something. He squints at you like you just betrayed him in a Mafia game. “Who? Who’s that? Never heard of him. Sounds like a loser.” You: “It’s literally your name.” Han: “Yeah but why would you use it? Did a demon possess you?” Immediately starts being weird about it. “Jisung? What’s next? You gonna call me ‘sir’? Should I put on a suit?” Then it hits him. He gasps. “Wait. Are we roleplaying? Is this serious? Do I need a fake backstory? I’m ready. I’m a barista who secretly writes music and you’re my mysterious customer with a tragic past.” You: “I just wanted the scissors.” Han: “Oh. Right.” Pretends he’s fine but keeps dramatically sighing and dropping hints. “Remember when you used to call me your little peanut butter cup? Good times.” Later you call him “babe” like normal and he immediately clings to you like a koala. “Thank god. I thought we were over. I was already writing a breakup mixtape in my head.” But now that you know it messes with his head, you start using “Jisung” just to be chaotic. He falls for it every time. One serious "Jisung" and he’s spiraling again. “What did I do now? I swear I didn’t eat your leftovers. That was Seungmin. Probably. Maybe.” Bonus: If you ever hit him with “Han Jisung,” he will crawl under the blanket and refuse to come out. “I’m not coming out until you say ‘gremlin baby boy of my heart’ again.” “You’re weird.”

FELIX

Normally, you call him sweet things like “Lixie,” “baby,” “sunshine,” “my little brownie,” or “deep-voiced angel from heaven.” So when you go, “Yongbok, can you grab my water bottle?” He freezes mid-step like someone just paused his simulation. Turns around slowly with those wide sparkly eyes “Did you just... call me Yongbok?” You: “Yeah?” Felix: “Did I do something wrong? Are you about to fight me? Should I sit down?” Genuinely concerned because no one uses his birth name unless it’s a government form, a relative, or someone trying to guilt trip him with childhood stories. Dramatically puts a hand on his chest “Are you mad at me? Was the hug I gave you earlier not good enough? Do you want a new hug? A deluxe hug?” You: “Felix, I’m literally just dehydrated.” Felix: “Then why are you dehydrating our relationship with this sudden formality?” He walks away muttering “Yongbok… unbelievable…” like you just told him Santa isn't real. Later shows up with your water bottle, two cookies, and a sticker he found “In case you’re mad at me. Even though I don’t know why. But I forgive you.” You: “I’m not mad, I swear.” Felix: “You called me Yongbok. I’ve been emotionally compromised.” The moment you go back to calling him “Lixie,” he lights up like a Christmas tree “There she is. My favorite person. I missed you. Please never disappear again.” Bonus: you try it again the next day just to mess with him. He clutches your arm dramatically “If you say Yongbok one more time, I’m changing your contact name to Tax Collector.”

SEUNGMIN

Usually you call him “minnie,” “puppy,” “smartass,” “grumpy cutie,” or “my favorite hater” depending on the mood. So when you hit him with a straight-faced “Kim Seungmin, can you pass me the charger?” He doesn’t even look up. Just goes, “Who died?” You: “What?” Seungmin: “You’re using my full name like we’re in court and I’m about to be sentenced. What happened. Be honest.” You: “Nothing happened, I just used your name?” Seungmin: “Okay. Well I’m scared now. And slightly offended.” Side-eyes you for a full ten minutes like you insulted his entire bloodline. “First of all, only my mom and my enemies call me Kim Seungmin. Which one are you trying to be right now.” Acts cool but he’s definitely being petty about it. “Sure. Here’s your charger, [Full Name]. Would you like anything else, ma’am?” Pretends he’s fine but starts purposely avoiding your pet names just to throw you off. “Okay, y/n. Cool shirt, y/n. Want some water, y/n?” You: “Are you okay?” Seungmin: “I was until I got government named in my own home.” Eventually you break and call him “puppy” again. He smiles, victorious, smug as hell “That’s what I thought. Now come cuddle me or I’ll start calling you by your email username.” Bonus: next time you say “Kim Seungmin,” he responds with “Present,” like he’s taking attendance “Kim Seungmin?” “Here. Emotionally wounded, but physically present.”

JEONGIN

Normally you call him stuff like “innie,” “baby,” “cutie,” or something unhinged like “my little menace in a hoodie” So when you go, “Yang Jeongin, can you help me with this?” He blinks at you like you just threatened him. “Excuse me. I know you didn’t just first-middle-last name me with your eyes like that.” You: “That’s literally just your name” Jeongin: “That’s a form of violence and I’m calling the authorities” Immediately grabs his phone “Hello, yes, I’d like to report emotional damage. Cause? My partner called me by my birth certificate name with no warning.” Stares at you in disbelief. “What happened to ‘baby’? What happened to ‘my sweet Innie who I adore more than anything’?” Starts dramatically narrating his downfall. “It all started on a rainy Tuesday when she called me Yang Jeongin. My world was never the same.” You: “You’re so dramatic.”Jeongin: “You’re so heartless.” Tries to pretend he’s joking but secretly keeps checking if you’re mad at him for real. “You’re not breaking up with me, right? Because if you are I need at least a week’s notice so I can emotionally prepare and eat ten tubs of ice cream.” You laugh and call him “innie” again. He instantly grins like a puppy and tackles you into a hug. “Okay good. I forgive you. But don’t ever scare me like that again. My heart is fragile.” Bonus: if you call him “Yang Jeongin” again just to mess with him, he’ll start responding with “Yes, [ Full Name], do you need assistance?” and bow like a waiter at a fancy restaurant

PERM TAGLIST 📌🔖 ──── @the-sea-called-history02 @oc3anfloor @queenofdumbfuckery @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @my-neurodivergent-world @bookswillfindyouaway @beal-o @velvetmoonlght @straystar-8 @myhwnghynjin

[natalianovnas]

༄ `. 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐎𝐒

request (briefed) : beefy!nat x younger!gf where they date & nat is an off-social media person. reader refers nat as her sugar mommy constantly, reposts anything nat-related on her socials and post about nat all the time. also, nat being confused over movies/series references.

words count : 0.6k || masterlist

an : wrote this at 2 am while dozing off at times. though, i hope this is what you expected, anon 🥲 also decided turn it into a drabble :)

If anyone asked Natasha what it was like dating you, she’d pause, take a breath, and probably say, “It’s… a lot.”

Not in a bad way.

Just that she didn’t understand half the things that came out of your mouth.

You were pure sunshine—chaotic, internet-warped sunshine. You’d wake up in the morning, throw a leg over her solid frame, and whisper:

“Natty… you're my Roman-empire. I think about you daily.”

She’d blink sleepily, rubbing her eyes. “What does that mean?”

“You don’t get it because you are the Roman Empire.”

Cue you grinning like a gremlin while Natasha squints suspiciously, clearly trying to figure out if that was a compliment or not.

Your Instagram story was practically a shrine to Natasha: blurry gym pics, her figure caught mid-walk from behind, short videos of you two holding hands and so on.

Your Twitter had random tweets like:

> “having a six foot beefy assassin as a gf is a flex and a half.”

> pic of natasha fixing your hair with intense concentration

caption: “why is she treating me like a stray she picked up from the shelter? I like it anyway.”

> “do you think if i pretend to be helpless more, natasha will carry me around like a feral toddler?”

> nat just handed me her credit card and said “don’t be ridiculous” when i said i couldn’t afford the 40 dollar hair clip i wanted.

i’m marrying her tomorrow. sugar baby rights.

Thing was—Natasha didn’t have social media. She had a dusty Facebook from 2012 she forgot existed. She barely used her phone unless she was texting you “home in 10” or sending you blurry photos of cats she saw on patrol. So she had no idea her girlfriend had a mini fanbase who’d dubbed them “Sugar Mommy & Chaos Baby.”

One time, the two of you were walking downtown when you spotted a street mural—blue and red, faces opposing each other. You gasped.

“CaitVi real!”

Natasha paused, mid-sip of coffee. “What the hell is a CaitVi?”

You blinked at her. “League of Legends? Arcane? The sapphics?”

She narrowed her eyes, clearly unconvinced.

“Natasha, please.”

But then with a resigned sigh, you added. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

You tried to get her in on trends. One evening, you held your phone up and whined, “Come on, do it with me.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You are the woman, Nat! You have arms like Wonder Woman, you open jars like it's daily occurence, you fixed my car with your bare hands.”

Natasha just sighed and looked away, hiding the way her mouth curved slightly at the corners.

Of course, you got her to do the trend. It got 3.4 million views. She still pretends she doesn’t know.

She knows you post pictures sometimes, little videos of you cuddling or her carrying you like you weigh nothing. She figures people think it’s cute. You show her a few posts here and there.

What she doesn’t know is that your followers are rabid.

They make edits. They comment things like:

> “MOTHER IS MOTHERING.”

“this is my roman empire.”

“she blinked. i barked.”

“sugar mommy supremacy.”

One lazy afternoon, Natasha scrolled through your phone. Her expression changed slowly as she found your Twitter.

“‘My sugar mommy bought me boba again. I win’? - I did not agree to be called that.”

“You paid for the boba.”

“You were crying because they didn’t have the pink cup.”

You batted your lashes, “And you made them check the back. Sugar mommy behavior.”

She gave you that look—half amused, half exasperated, all soft. “I’m going to regret asking this, but… what else have you posted about me?”

You just grinned and pulled up the folder titled “MY NAT.”

“Would you like to start with the gym thirst edits or the ‘Natasha vs my electric bill’ memes?”

Natasha groaned, but she didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.

[wackapedia]

All Yours

Jack Abbot x doctor reader Word count: 1,700 :) You request to transfer to night shift after meeting Jack Abbot during Pittfest

Warnings: None i think, just flirty reader and closed off Jack. Not proofread, just something i giggled to while watching The Pitt :)

Day 1 - 7:00 am Dr. Robby picks up clipboard to get up to speed with the whole department. Patient charts, admin notes, shift change requests- He pauses when he sees it. Neatly written in a pink glitter pen, smelling like flowers, is a transfer request letter. He sees your name and already knows its nonsense.

Robby turns to you, leaning an elbow on the counter of the hub. "Morning!" You grin, a new sticker on your badge. Robby looks down on the paper and reads aloud: "Requesting transfer to night shift for better lunar rhythm alignment and decreased daytime allergies." He deadpans. You nod.

"Are you allergic to sunshine or just looking for Dr. Jack Abbot’s schedule?" He accuses playfully, grabbing Dana's attention. "How dare you! Keep your voice down! I’m simply trying to broaden my experience!" You look around, grateful that no one else heard him. "Uh-huh, by rearranging your circadian rhythm?" Robby grins teasingly, clicking his pen and signing your request form. "I did read an article that its effective-" "You've been winking on Jack every morning during turnover." Robby files your request form in one of Dana's organizers. "Well, I have eyes. And he's single!" "That man is married to the trauma charts." "I'll seduce him out of his charts, then." You smirk. Robby stares at you for a second. "You scare me sometimes." "Do I get the shift?" You ask as he walks away. "Yeah, you're starting tonight. Come back in eleven hours. Don't overdo it." Robby heads off to check on his patients. "Good luck, kid." Dana chuckles.

6:00pm You walk in, well rested and ready for your first night shift, carrying a small box of donuts for the night crew. You spot Robby and Jack exchanging notes and typing up on the computer. "Good evening, night shift nation!" You grin, setting the box on the hub. Robby groans and leans into you, "I told you not to overdo it," "I'm not! I got these fresh from the bakery for everyone…" You open the box, nurses and doctors flocking in like pigeons. "I also asked them to put extra glaze on the Boston cream because you look like a creamy guy…" You pick up a glazed donut, offering it to Jack. His brain almost takes it the wrong way- "She's talking about the donuts, Jack. Right, y/n?" Robby chuckles, praying for Jack's blood pressure.

Robby gives the both of you a formal introduction despite having met each other during the pitfest fiasco. He hands him your transfer request letter. "This is a scrapbook." Dr. Abbot notes. "I like to leave a little razzle-dazzle in my wake. Keeps people from flatlining too early." Jack pulls Robby aside. "Is she serious?" "No. That’s the point. Good luck." Robby picks up his backpack and leaves. "Love you, Robby! Dream of normal EKGs!" You say goodbye. He walks away and waves without a second glance. When you turn your attention to the hub, Jack is still there typing up on the computer, the donut still resting on its liner on the counter. You gently nudge it towards him. He looks up, his beautiful golden eyes catching the harsh fluorescent of the emergency department. "Are you bribing your attending?" "No, I’m making sure you're happy and comfy and ready for the shift!"

As the shift continues, each minding their own business, Jack can't help but feel he is being watched. Robby did warn him that Gloria's breathing down their necks about patient satisfaction ratings but this is different. He's being observed and- oh, there she is. He catches you pretending to look at something else behind him, your expression suddenly changing from a smile to a nonchalant "hmm, I'm thinking" look. Jack chuckles and shakes his head to himself.

Your first week came and went easy. With your eye candy inspiration just around the corner, you really can't complain. Jack would chuckle at your puns and jokes but he doesn't get some internet lingo, which entertains the interns greatly. At least he's aware what crashing out means now. Some nights when its less insane, you take selfies with him in the background, slightly turned away or face just out of frame. In one of your instagram posts, you asked Jack to hold his coffee cup out right next to yours.

Day 6 - 6:00 am Instead of reviewing patient notes, Robby slides next to Jack and shows him your instagram post. "Congrats on getting soft-launched" He smirks. "I… don't know what that means. Is that me?" He squints on Robby's screen before grabbing his phone, swapping it with the charts iPad. Jack scrolls through your instagram feed, smiling at your selfies, photos of animals, glimpses of your daily life he finds himself thinking about when he's trying to sleep. "Hi, Robby! You're early today!" You catch the two of them. Jack almost drops the phone. "Yeah, I had to show Doctor Abbot here something… important"

he shows her "did you post this?" "um, y-yeah, its not that serious, really.." "You told people we're dating?" "W-what? no! They just… assumed…" you shrug, your voice fading. "I can make it official-launch next shift if you want." Jack looks utterly at a loss, hands the phone back to Robby and marches off, acting like his ears aren't turning pink.

"o-oh. is he mad?" You nervously ask Robby. "If he's mad, you'll know. Trust me."

The shift ends. You don't talk to him except for patient related concerns and handoffs. You couldn't help but wonder if you've overstepped. The entire walk home, your mind replays the conversations you had with Jack. You admit, you did say a lot of dumb words this past week, but you didn't mean to be disrespectful. You were just overjoyed to share a shift with him, to finally get to know him, and to soak in his stares that's enough to shock you back to life.

You come home and take a quick shower before diving into bed. Your socials has gotten quite the attention with the comments always flooded with teasing from your friends and relatives. Your follower count also increased, not recognizing any of those accounts. Yeah, you probably did go overboard with the fake soft-launching thing.

You went to bed after archiving the photos of yourself and Dr. Abbot.

Week 2 ‐ 2:00am You didn't talk to Dr. Abbot unless it was absolutely necessary, urgent, and with no intern in sight to bother. It wasn't ideal but it felt necessary, considering how uncomfortable it must've felt to Jack- Dr. Abbot. Its as if he heard your thoughts, he sets his eyes on you and approaches you at the hub.

You look up, pretending to just notice him him, and give a small smile. But it’s polite now. Distant. "Need anything?"

"No. I just—" Jack hesitates, then asks, "Did… something happen?"

You want to play dumb but you feel like you've wasted enough of his time. "Just thought I crossed a line and… you didn’t like it," you add calmly with slight resignation. "I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. So I fixed it."

Jack was a man who can handle cardiac arrests but not this. He just stands there uselessly as you answer him so nonchalantly, like nothing’s broken.

Was it a game? Were you just playing with him? Jack had just made an instagram account to follow you! The pictures were gone after he screenshotted two of five and he's just confused with the app and now he's confused with how you're acting. Jack paces inside the break room. He opens and closes a drawer like that’ll give him answers but only finds some packets of sugar, creamer, biscuits, and your pink sticker packs.

After the shift, Robby finds Jack in the rooftop."You’re moping." He begins. "I’m not moping." Jack rubs his face, groans, and mutters, "She’s not talking to me." "You mean, she’s finally treating you like everyone else?" Robby chuckles, leaning on the guard rail with him. "…yes." Jack sighs. "Well, congrats, you’re now everyone else. How’s that feel, genius?" Robby laughs, offering nothing useful.

Jack stares at him, then finally straightens up. "Where are you going?" "To be an idiot with a plan."

You were already feeling fragile from missing your favorite doctor. You haven't had your favorite hallway banter, haven't had a real laugh, and now here comes this big, serious, perfect-haired doctor with the sexiest arms you've ever seen, casually peeling off a sparkly pink heart sticker and just. Boop. Right on your forehead.

"Ow-!" You say out of surprise rather than pain. And Jack smiles, like everything’s fine. Like he didn’t crush your heart last weekend when he pulled away and stopped smiling back.

You blink fast, hand coming up to trace the heart shaped sticker on your forehead. You blink faster. Until you can’t keep them in anymore and those big glassy tears just spill out and you whisper: "You can’t just do that."

Jack’s smile falters. "Do what?"

"This. You can’t flirt with me again. Not when you hated it before. I’m not-" your voice wobbles, "I’m not a game."

Jack's face drops. "What-, no. No, that’s not-!”

You try to be a big brave girl and own up to your mistakes. "I get it. You didn’t like being on my instagram. I made people believe we were a thing. I was stupid. I'm sorry. I made everything awkward. So I archived everything and I shut it off and now I’m just-I’m just trying to stay out of your way, and you-"

"I miss you." He interrupts.

Silence. Heavy, thick, pin-drop silence.

You look up, lips trembling. "Then why did you-?"

"I got scared." He sighs in relief that you're talking to him.

You laugh, wet and bitter. "Scared of me?"

"Scared of liking you so much, I won't know what to do."

He reaches out, gently plucks the sticker off your forehead, and instead places it on the left side of his scrubs, right over his heart. You see the word "All yours" printed in an exaggerated cursive font.

"I didn’t hate your posts," he says. “I checked every day. I have an account now, although I cant remember the password," he chuckles, feeling a bit sheepish. "And I don’t hate you, or anything you did. I don't hate the pictures, I just, didn’t know how to be that guy yet."

"And uh…" You pause, wondering if this is really real. "…Are you that guy now?”

Jack just looks at you, and answers you confidently with his whole chest, pointing at the glittery sticker on his chest. "Yeah. If you’ll let me try again."

[ssa-dado]

i’m actually convinced that hotch is secretly a huge gossip. what if that’s the thing that gets him and fleabag reader to start talking? maybe it’s about one of the other pool dads ? hotch actually knows him cause his kid goes to school with jack and it’s something real scandalous. idk i just need to have hotch being nosey and spilling tea.

Pinot Grigio

triathlon!Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: 21st-century-feminist-meltdown-over-an-old-man mutual pining Summary: It’s a party. You’re the help. He’s the Hotchner. He shows up to the gala in jeans, insults a politician for you, then stands around long enough to overshare a bunch of gossip you didn’t ask for (meaning: casually reveals he’s been tracking your poolside admirers like a repressed Victorian husband.) Warnings: Explicit sexual language! (not graphic, it's all in reader's head and meant as a joke... for herself, apparently), alcohol use, age gap, cuss words, hint of the vile act of female masturbation *pearl clutch*, classism, mysogeny, unhealthy coping mechanisms (wine, gossip, Hotchner) Word Count: 4.2k Dado's Corner: This prompt was so juicy and triggered my brain just right, I had to fumble a lot to find the perfect setting to reveal Hotch’s true chatty grandma self hihihihi this was so funnn! (I think I wrote three different versions of it because my brain cells just refused to collaborate… but hopefully this one works.) [I didn’t end up scripting in the part where Hotch knows the dad because of Jack, butttt! trust me, it’s probably for the better.] Thank you so much for the request, marry meeee <3

masterlist(s)

Pinot Grigio.

Just a normal white wine.

Pear on the nose. Citrusy. Crisp. Innocent.

Until yesterday. 7:24 PM.

When Penelope Garcia - who you don’t know, didn’t follow, would absolutely remember if you did (because of the most adorable Lego duck earrings and blonde curls) - posted a single photo from some FBI event on Facebook.

A glass of wine in one hand. Aaron Hotchner’s shoulder in the other.

A bottle of Pinot Grigio right there on the table.

Since then, it’s been panic.

Pool moms liked. Pool moms shared. Some pool moms commented, even.

Penelope is now famous.

She’s gained at least forty new friend requests from women named Debbie (the cool-girl rebrand of Deborah), Beth (Bethany, but pretending), and Lisa (just... Lisa) - all of them hoping for fresh content.

A new Hotchner sighting. A blurry arm. The back of a head. The profile of his nose.

And now you are paying the price.

Because you’re six bottles deep into Pinot Grigio and currently opening your seventh for the Pool Extension Project Announcement Party.

(A name so thrilling it could only have been brainstormed by three men named Greg in a windowless office with beige carpets and no dreams... broken dreams, maybe.)

(Apparently they’re adding a spa? Maybe? You weren’t listening. You were too busy arranging the buffet to look “effortlessly elegant” while silently sobbing into a tray of beet hummus.)

You’re catering it. Sort of.

You were a last-minute call.

You were a desperate substitution. Someone dropped out, and they called you.

Because you are reliable.

Talented. Charming. Funny. Qualified. And – crucially - cheaper.

(Not cheap. Cheaper. Enough of a bargain to be flattering but still slightly degrading.)

And of course, you said yes. Said “I’d love to,” said “What’s the dress code?” while internally shrieking because - what if Aaron is there too? (He might be. He probably is.)

You also told yourself you weren’t dressing for him.

That you just wanted to look professional in your very black, very tailored to your body catering uniform (with a slutty apron) - but your ass looks absolutely divine in these trousers, and if it’s not captured in one of the official photos and framed in the break room, you’re suing.

Mayday. Mayday.

He’s here.

Confirmed visual.

Aaron Hotchner.

In the flesh. In the room.

Looking slightly out of place, which of course only makes him stand out more.

Navy button-up. Jeans.

(Jeans? Him? He owns a pair of jeans??? Who sold them to him? Who authorized this? Who gave this man thighs and then denim?)

(Well… apparently so. And they fit. Criminally well.)

Meanwhile, everyone else is trussed up in three-piece suits, using big grown adult vocabulary like municipal redevelopment-

(Meaning: someone’s cousin is getting paid a suspicious amount of money to plant four trees and call it urban renewal)-

and strategic infrastructure planning-

(Meaning: they’re finally going to pour some lukewarm asphalt over the holes in 45th St NW, right before election season.)

They all shake hands with fake smiles, congratulate each other on breathing, and pretend the room doesn’t still vaguely smell like feet and chlorine, despite the mountain of imported cheeses you spent hours shaping into perfect little geometric offerings to the gods of local politics.

And Aaron-

Aaron just stands there.

Not speaking. Not smiling. Not performing. Just existing.

And yet, somehow, he still looks more elegant than all of them combined.

God, what a man.

…A man you’ve had full conversations with–

in your head.

While brushing your teeth.

While shaving your legs.

While marinating chicken.

You’ve practiced your banter with him more than you’ve prepared for actual job interviews.

The fact that you’ve barely spoken to him in real life is not because you’re shy. Not because you’re afraid of rejection. Not because there’s the occasional whisper that he’s technically old enough to have fathered you if he’d started very, very young.

(Which, most of the time, only makes it more erotically confusing.)

No. (Yes.)

It’s because you lowkey hate him.

You hate him because he walked in holding his pool bag.

…He just showed up here to do his laps.

And you just know - deep in your soul, in your bloodstream, in your ovaries - that inside that bag is a navy speedo. Matching. To. His. Shirt.

A Speedo that will now never fulfill its destiny, heartlessly imprisoned, crushed by a rolled towel and - if you had to guess - a blister pack of ibuprofen (he’s old enough to break his back sneezing and still blame it on “tight hamstrings.”)

Because, clearly, judging by the way he’s confidently flipping the strap back up onto his shoulder…

He has no idea the pool is closed today.

Didn’t know there was a party. He wasn’t briefed. He didn’t glance at the laminated flyer at reception with a dolphin in a bowtie that said “Join us for the Pool Extension Gala!”

Beautiful, beautiful man. But apparently can’t read for shit.

Because he was too busy doing… FBI things.

Whatever that means.

You don’t really know what he does.

In your head it’s just a sweaty, shirt-clinging montage of him saving lives, wrestling evil, or rescuing kittens from burning houses and carrying them out in one arm while the other cradles a bleeding witness.

You just know it’s hotter than whatever the hell you do, because before he can take more than two steps into the room, he’s already being mobbed by politicians.

Actual, elected men - men with power, men with authority, men with at least three types of stress-induced hair loss and thinning temples they pretend aren’t happening.

And they know him. They recognize him.

They even lower their voices when they speak to him, they shake his hand with such reverence, you can smell their intimidation from all the way across the room.

The fear. The respect. The power. The arm veins. The way Aaron has no idea he’s the main event at a party he didn’t even know existed.

Quite ironically, on the other hand - on the small, overworked, kind of underpaid, sexually malnourished hand that is you - you haven’t slept properly in a week because of it.

Because of the stress of the endless prep and logistics and… fine, because of him too.

Sometimes at 4 a.m., you’d find yourself just… staring at the ceiling. Lying in the dark, vibrating with anxiety and something much less noble and your only two options for survival were:

Cooking. Loudly. Desperately. Whipping up reductions and spreads in your tiny kitchen, determined to perfect the fig-and-goat cheese tartlet while trying not to scream when the oven beeped and you realized the sun was already rising.

Or… Well. Let’s just say your neighbors must think you’re really, really into dental hygiene. What kind of electric toothbrush has that many vibration modes? What kind of dental tool sings at such frequency?

Answer: not a toothbrush.

It’s pink. Plastic. Takes two AA batteries and a prayer.

You may or may not bought it during a very dark week with your café tip money at 2 a.m. from the back shelf of a pharmacy, and since then it’s been the most stable relationship of your adult life.

You’ve had to steal batteries from your TV remote more than once just to get through the week.

She’s not fancy, but she gets the job done.

You’d recommend her.

You’d even recommend her to the woman now standing in front of you - if she’d stop looking at Hotchner and trying to hormonally inform him that she is, at this very moment, in the mating phase of her cycle.

It’s not even subtle - the little cleavage tug, the fluttery eyelashes, the way she’s nodding absently while you talk about acidity and finish, eyes locked on the back of his neck rolls.

You get it. You’ve been there. Last week, actually.

And even now - when you are categorically not ovulating, when you are actively trying to be a functioning member of a patriarchal society - he does, objectively, have a beautiful neck.

A neck that has almost certainly never been stressed about fig preserves or the structural integrity of a puff pastry shell.

“I’ll have that one,” she says, stopping you midway through your ramble and pointing at a bottle.

The fucking Pinot.

Of course you will.

You smile.

Because you are a professional.

Because rage doesn’t pair well with brie.

“Sure,” you say, and pour.

You handpicked twelve white wines for this event. Twelve.

Each chosen with a level of passion that should’ve been reserved for, say, human relationships or personal growth.

Some of them had to be pulled from tiny Italian cellars with shipping so disorganized you’re now on a first-name basis with a man named Lorenzo who thinks you’re unstable and possibly in love with him.

(You might be. You’ve sliced figs and cried about tannins. Your grip on reality is… soft.)

You woke up in cold sweats for a whole week wondering if the Soave made it through Zurich because Italians do not believe in emails. Or customs. Only God.

But none of it mattered, because in the end, it’s always the Pinot, for her – and all the other people that came to your stand earlier.

You call it the Aaron Hotchner Effect.

The logic goes like this:

“If in the picture, he was drinking Pinot, and I drink Pinot, then we have something in common. We can laugh. We can clink glasses.

He’d say something dry and low - “You’ve got good taste” - and brush my fingers as he takes the glass. Maybe the hand. Maybe the elbow. Maybe the fucking thigh.

We’d flirt.

And then he’d fuck me.

Some really good rough, sex up against his hardwood bed. He’d keep his tie on. Hold my wrists. Press his mouth to my shoulder to keep from making a sound, because letting go like that, making noise, would be too revealing. Too honest.

He’d fuck me until my knees gave in and my breath stuttered and my voice cracked from begging. He wouldn’t come until I had. At least three times.

And then, of course, He’d marry me.

All because I drank his wine.”

That’s the pipeline. That’s what’s happening behind their eyes.

And you can't even judge them.

You’d be doing the same, if you weren’t currently being reminded by the smell of onion jam soaked into the pocket of your apron that you’re on the job.

You’re the help, the wine girl no one listens to until the glass is already full and the flirting has failed.

But you’d do it. You would.

Just… correctly.

Because while everyone else in that cursed Facebook photo saw the bottle, you saw the glass.

His glass, the one shoved off to the side, barely in frame - because God forbid someone like Aaron Hotchner be photographed holding the fun juice. That would imply he experiences pleasure. Or whimsy. Or serotonin.

Still, you zoomed in. You don't like to admit that. You really don't. But you did.

And thanks to the course that still haunts your bank account - the one led by three men, all named Marco - you can confidently say, with devastating clarity:

That was not Pinot.

It was Verdicchio.

Lean. Salty. A little green around the edges.

The kind of wine that doesn’t care if you like it.

Citrus and sea air and something just a little bit wrong at the end, like it’s judging you.

And maybe it is.

It’s bitter. Quiet. Difficult.

Difficult also because no one knows how to properly pronounce its name - you didn’t. You butchered it every time and got scolded by each of the Marcos at least once.

(Marco One - smoking indoors in his wool turtleneck in July, would hiss, "No, no, Ver-deek-kio, not Ver-dish-ee-oh, do you want to die in shame?")

(Marco Two made you repeat it five times in a row in front of the whole class.)

(Marco Three just muttered “Madonna Santa” and poured himself another glass.)

Verdicchio doesn’t seduce.

It holds its distance, stands in the corner of the room with crossed arms, and waits for you to prove you're worth the conversation.

Half the people who taste it hate it. The other half get addicted.

It lingers. It cuts. It stays in your mouth longer than it should.

A wine with boundaries.

A wine that says: you don’t know me.

You think you do, but you don’t.

Just like Aaron.

And you tried, betraying everything the three Marcos ever taught you about integrity, balance, and correct regional pairings, to guide each of your (unwanted) patient tragically afflicted with Hotchism toward the Verdicchio.

Even when it didn’t pair with what they were eating. Even when it clashed. Even when it made your soul itch with the wrongness of a soft-rind Brie beside all that salinity.

You’re not a bitch. You don’t gatekeep. You offer your knowledge freely. Warmly. Kindly.

But you’d be lying if you said that knowing the truth didn’t make you feel good.

Smug.

A little superior.

And yes, fine, maybe that made you feel close to him.

Closer.

Maybe you are a bitch.

Because you could have said it, could have casually dropped the line - “Oh, by the way, he was drinking Verdicchio. It wasn’t the Pinot.”

You could have been generous. Transparent. Correct.

But it wouldn’t have changed anything.

You’d be out of Verdicchio instead of Pinot.

They’d still fawn.

Still flutter.

Still call him Agent Hotchner with that glazed, pseudo-coy voice like they’re already imagining what his mattress feels like.

(It’s probably very firm. Orthopedic. Recommended by his chiropractor. No softness. No give. Posture is sacred. Comfort is weakness.)

(He probably tucks the sheets so tight you’d have no choice but to scooch closer to him just to have some room to breathe. Which, obviously, is the point.)

Same thirst, different label.

Maybe you’d tell the first one who actually listens to you.

The first one who doesn’t treat you like furniture in an apron. The first one who doesn’t cut you off mid-sentence the moment they clock that the politicians are loosening their grip on him.

Maybe the reason why you have such a crush on him is because he’s everything.

And you’re- well. You’re here.

In shoes that are starting to pinch. With wine on your hands and fig paste in your hair. With bills and back pain and the slow, creeping dread that no one really sees you unless you’re holding something they want.

And even then, just barely.

He’s elegant, unreadable, capital letter Important.

You’re… nice. Warm. Cheap... cheaper.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe that’s the whole appeal.

Maybe that’s why you keep staring at him as he’s basically dragged to your tasting stand by a small parade of men who spend their days warming seats in the Senate and collecting checks for pretending they invented civic duty.

One of the men makes the effort to squint at your name tag.

You can see the gears turning in his head as he uses it - not to address you - but to soften the blow of a condescending joke he thinks is charming, such as “how rare it is to find a young woman with taste… especially one who serves.”

You smile.

Because that’s the job.

You’re the help. The scener-

“What do you mean?” Aaron asks, turned slightly toward the man, voice flat.

He looks disgusted.

(Though, in fairness, everything he says sounds vaguely judgmental. That’s just his face.)

“Oh, no… Hotchner, don’t get me wrong. I mean it as a compliment. I admire it. Not everyone’s meant to chase titles or build a résumé, you know? And that’s not a bad thing - society only works because some people are content doing the everyday stuff. The real work.”

You’re two seconds away from breaking the last Pinot bottle over his head.

Kill two birds with one stone: one bottle, one condescending prick, and finally, blissful silence.

“…We need the people who keep the wheels turning. Mechanics. Hairdressers. Cooks…”

He gestures vaguely to you, apparently your existence is now an example. A concept. An idea. Something nice to look at when dressed in black and pouring wine.

“Really,” he adds - just in case you didn’t catch the insult the first three times - “I admire it.”

“Do you always talk to people like this?” Aaron doesn’t raise his voice - just tilts his head slightly, gaze locked on the man with a kind of stillness that, for reasons you’ve yet to comprehend, is louder than yelling.

It’s unsettling.

“What? I’m paying her a compliment.” Senator Asshole tries to laugh it off.

“You’re condescending to her. It’s not the same thing.”

“Come on,” Senator Asshole chuckles, flicking a desperate glance around, “I’m just saying she’s good at what she does.”

“And I’m saying maybe you should stop talking,” Aaron hisses.

The silence is immediate.

Aaron just stares at him – for one, two, three, four??? Seconds.

Senator Asshole, sadly, does not burst into flames. He’s stolen away by Councillor Buttchin, who probably heard everything and tries to mop it up with the limp excuse of needing to discuss “urban renewal”

(Meaning: gentrification. The rich man’s robbery.)

And so Aaron watches him leave, before he turns back to you.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “The asshole didn’t even apologise.”

(He’s very hot when he swears.)

You wave it off. “It’s alright.”

“No. It’s not. It’s disgust-”

“It’s not the first time,” you cut him off. Because you don’t want to hear it. The apology. The concern. The male guilt wrapped in decency like it's somehow revolutionary.

Yes, thank you for noticing misogyny exists. Gold star.

You’ve done the bare minimum and you’re very tall so it feels like more. Congratulations on not being a monster.

At least, that’s what the rational part of you is saying. The one with a spine. The one that reads theory and donates when she can.

The other part – the one currently regulating the lubrication levels of a certain region of your body that apparently believes being mildly defended by a man with forearms like that is enough to justify reproduction - has… other thoughts.

Darwin would call it natural selection.

You’d call it bringing feminism back fifty years in one pelvic pulse.

But maybe your body’s oh-so-romantically prepping for insemination because he doesn’t make a speech.

He doesn’t continue to perform, doesn’t launch into a well-rehearsed monologue about respect, social or say something like “I have a lot of female friends, my mom is a woman, for instance.”

He doesn’t explain how decent he is.

He just… nods. Gives you a flicker of a concerned half-smile (because he’s a dad, and concern is hardwired into his frontal cortex, right between disapproval and knows best.)

But it’s quiet. Undramatic.

Like he saw it. Heard it. Filed it.

And now he’s moving on. Not because it didn’t matter. But because it did.

And not just emotionally, physically. Actually moving-moving.

Shifts halfway down the shorter end of your stand - not technically in your area, but just close enough that if he got any nearer, people might start asking him what cheese pairs with a Chablis.

(Which would be a disaster, because he looks like he’d say “cheddar” and then stare you down until you corrected him.)

Close enough to feel like a choice.

He doesn’t look at you. Scans the room instead, until his gaze lands on something. Someone.

“See that guy?” he says, nodding subtly toward ‘that guy’ across the room.

You follow the gesture.

Ah. That guy.

Mid-thirties.

You don’t know his name.

You just know he’s always suspiciously nearby. Hovering. Lurking. Casually orbiting the table where you sit every week in the pool cafeteria while waiting for your friend to finish her laps.

Objectively hot - if your type is broad shoulders, hollow eyes, and a divorce lawyer in waiting (and it pretty much is, unfortunately.)

He has a kid, you’re pretty sure. And a wedding ring he forgets to forget.

The kind of man who blames his wife’s headaches instead of confronting the fact he thinks the clitoris was a Greek philosopher.

(“Clitoris? He makes an appearance in Plato’s Symposium, doesn’t he?”)

“He’s been battling with himself over asking for your number for about a month,” Aaron says. “Still hasn’t managed it.”

Oooooooooooooookay.

Weird. Unexpected. Also deeply awkward.

(How strange that it’s not you making things weird for once.)

“And…” you trail off, because you’re too distracted by how he looks like he’s regretting it all - what a loser. “You’re saying this because you want me to hand it to him directly?”

“Oh, not at all.” Boy. That was fast. Too fast. “…he’s married.” You knew that already. “…You shouldn’t-”

“I shouldn’t?” You blink.

“Um, you…” He shakes his head, “You should… just… know this.”

…Right.

Aaron’s wife definitely cheated on him. Or maybe he’s just a prude. Or a control freak.

All possible. All extremely inconvenient. Poor him. Or maybe he deserved it, who knows.

“…Thanks,” you say flatly. “You… want something to drink?”

You ask because it’s polite… and also because he’s technically clogging the line forming behind him (all faint whiffs of Pinot settling directly into your nostrils from people pretending they need a refill, when really, they just want to stand near him.)

(Mr. Aaron.)

(Awkward-mr.-Aaron.)

(Socially-repressed-emotionally-terrifying-mr.-Aaron.)

(Mr. very-much-returning-to-the-place-he’s-meant-to-be, mr. Aaron.)

(Mr. leaning-in-to-read-the-wine-list, mr. Aaron.)

(Mr-)

“How did you know about the guy?” slips out of you, as you’re already pouring something into an empty glass just to keep moving… you don’t even look at the bottle.

No pear. So, not Pinot. (Small victories.)

“He always sits on the side of the table facing you, instead of watching his son’s swimming lesson like the rest of the parents.”

Yeah, okay, that guy is a bit way too obvious, but the problem only continues to be him.

Aaron.

“He straightens his posture every time you laugh.”

Aaron, who shouldn’t have time to notice these things. Who stops by every other week, maybe. Maybe less. Always suited. Always in a rush. Always delivering the same three lines.

“Americano, no sugar.”

“Card.”

“Have a nice day.”

He never lingers. He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t even stir the coffee. Just takes it and goes. Gone before the register beeps. FBI stuff awaiting for him.

“He ordered the same drink as you twice. Didn’t drink it. He doesn’t like cappuccino, he only did that because he thought you’d notice him”

So, how the hell does Aaron know? How does he notice you? Because he must have.

Somewhere in those two-minute drop-ins. In the blur between Card and Have a nice day. In the handful of seconds he’s ever been within ten feet of you.

Unless…

“Puts his phone down when you walk in. Doesn’t check it again until you’re gone.”

Unless he did look. Unless he looked specifically at you. Out of all the people. All the tables. All the parents and staff and regulars.

“His son finishes swimming before your friend. He doesn’t leave. Doesn’t talk to anyone else. Always finds something to do. Phone. Book. Pretending to read the sign about pool shoes.”

He saw you. And he remembered.

Which means…

“Always leaves five minutes after you. Never before. Never with anyone else.”

He’s either been paying attention. Or this big, terrifying federal agent is actually just… a massive gossip.

You freeze, because he picks up the glass you poured.

It wasn’t meant for him. You didn’t even know what it was.

Aaron swirls it once.

Leans in. Smells it.

Then brings it to his lips-

And hums.

A low, pleased little sound that settles right between your legs  lungs, ergo straight to your heart. Because you’re a professional. And you take the sommelier thing very seriously.

You’re just passionate about your craft.

Especially about praise.

You love being praised.

On the job.

For the wine.

“People give a lot of themselves away when they want someone,” he says softly, almost kind.

Then he licks his lips. Just to clean the red off.

But it’s slow. Thoughtless. (Only makes it worse for you, honestly.)

You’re magnetically locked onto that smart mouth, so it’s easy to catch the small smile he gives you before turning and walking away.

Still with that soggy pool bag slung over his shoulder.

Fuck.

The things you wouldn’t do to that man.

“Can I have what he just had?” the next woman in line asks, already stepping up.

Of course you can.

That’s the point of lines, isn’t it? You wait your turn, you get what you want, and you leave. No lingering. No swooning. No involuntary pelvic lurches.

Survival.

Even if the sommelier - oh, that’s you! What a coincidence - would swear to drink Pinot for an entire godforsaken month just for five more seconds with that huge, handsome, back in that goddamn navy shirt… and that mouth too.

You glance at the bottle in your hand.

What did you even pour?

Oh. Of course.

It’s that wine.

The one you only open on nights when you’re either crying or coming.

The one that tasted like a mistake the first time and like a need every time after.

Aglianico.

Black fruit. Smoke. Leather.

Earthy. Dense. A little savage around the edges.

Unapologetic.

Masculine.

Slow to open.

Demands patience.

Tastes better if you wait for it.

Like all the worst things.

And all the best ones.

What a coincidence, really.

Phi's Corner: requests for fleabag!reader x Hotch are (wide) open(ed)!

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @fangirlunknown ; @hayleym1234 ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @mxblobby ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softestqueeen ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24

[inseobts]

Here's a fun little story for the strawhats reader makes a tim burton reference (like sleepy, hollow or beetlejuice or whatever Tim burton movie is your favorite?) But none of them knew the reference, nor ever heard of it. So, the reader has to explain it?

I don't know if they have movies in the one piece universe? So we could just say that the tim burton movies are "books"

The Nightmare Aboard the Thousand Sunny

strawhat crew x gn ! strawhat ! reader (platonic)

a/n: let's pretend movies exist but in a subtle way if this makes sense lmao also it’s been years and years since I saw the movies and my memory is really short so I went on google for some help, hope I got the references right

words count: 1.7k

tags: platonic, strawhat reader, humor, modern references

masterlist || ko-fi

The Thousand Sunny bobs gently on the waves, the sea stretching endlessly around you. The crew is sprawled across the deck, enjoying the lull between islands. You’re sitting cross-legged near the mast, absentmindedly peeling an orange while recounting your latest island adventure.

“That whole place gave me Sleepy Hollow vibes” you remark, flicking a piece of orange peel into the sea.

Silence.

You glance up. Nine pairs of eyes stare back at you, blank and expectant.

“…You know? Sleepy Hollow? The Headless Horseman?”

More silence. Luffy scratches his chin “Is that a pirate?”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face “No, it’s a classic horror story! A guy on a horse, but, like, without a head? He throws flaming pumpkins at people? Ringing any bells?”

Franky leans forward “Wait, so the dude has no head? How does he see?”

“That’s—it’s part of the horror! He’s supernatural!”

“Sounds like a Logia-type” Robin muses, flipping a page in her book.

Sanji exhales a puff of smoke “And what was that other thing you mentioned? Sleepy Hollow?”

“It’s the name of the story!” You gesture wildly “By Washington Irving! Adapted into a movie by Tim Burton! You know, Tim Burton? Beetlejuice? Corpse Bride? Beetlejuice? Nightmare Before Christmas?”

Brook gasps “A corpse bride? How romantic! Ah, if only I had one to marry too!”

You sigh dramatically “Not the point, Brook.”

Zoro crosses his arms “Never heard of this Tim Whatever guy.”

“Of course you haven’t,” you mutter “I bet if he were a famous swordsman, you’d know his whole life story.”

Zoro shrugs “Maybe.”

Nami raises an eyebrow “Did you just say Beetlejuice twice?”

You pause “Yeah. That's the joke. But I’m not saying it a third time.”

Chopper tilts his head “Why? What happens if you say it a third time?”

The whole crew stares at you, waiting.

You sigh, rubbing your temples as the crew continues to stare at you, waiting for an explanation.

“Okay, so Beetlejuice—”

“That’s three times” Usopp interrupts, eyes darting around the ship in panic.

You blink “Huh?”

“You said Beetlejuice three times,” he hisses, pointing at you “You just summoned whatever the hell that is!”

Luffy immediately looks excited “Ohhh! Who is it? Are they strong?!”

You groan “No, no, it’s not real! It’s from a movie. In the movie, if you say his name three times, this creepy, chaotic ghost guy shows up and causes mayhem.”

Franky grins “Sounds like my kinda guy!”

“He was not super,” you deadpan “He was gross. And weird. And kind of a pervert.”

Sanji instantly scowls “Tch, I hate this guy.”

Brook hums in thought “So you’re telling me there’s a ghost you can summon just by saying his name? How interesting! I must try this with my own name. Brook, Brook, Brook!” He spreads his arms dramatically.

Nothing happens.

“Yohoho! It appears I am immune!”

Robin chuckles behind her book “So this Tim Burton person creates horror stories?”

“More like… spooky and weird stories,” you explain “Creepy but fun. He has a really distinct style, dark colors, long, spindly figures, big eyes, gothic settings. His movies always have this eerie, dreamlike atmosphere.”

“Like a nightmare?” Chopper asks, eyes wide.

You nod “Kinda! Like The Nightmare Before Christmas!”

Luffy perks up “Christmas?! We fought a guy with Christmas-themed moves once!”

“Not the same thing” you sigh “It’s a stop-motion movie about Halloween and Christmas colliding.”

“Sounds complicated” Zoro grunts.

“It’s amazing!” you insist “It’s got singing skeletons, spooky monsters, and a guy named Jack Skellington who tries to take over Christmas!”

Brook gasps “A singing skeleton?! Finally, some real representation!”

You snort “Right?! You’d love it, Brook. It’s all about embracing who you are instead of trying to be something you’re not.”

Robin smiles “That does sound like something our crew would appreciate.”

Nami sighs, stretching her arms “Alright, so let me get this straight. This Tim Burton guy makes creepy, weird, yet somehow heartwarming stories. And you’ve seen all of them?”

“Of course,” you say proudly “I grew up on this stuff.”

Usopp squints “So if we ever run into a headless guy throwing pumpkins, we’ll know it’s a Sleepy Hollow situation.”

“Exactly.”

“And if someone named Beetlejuice shows up, we punch first, ask questions later” Zoro states.

“Uh… more like, don’t summon him in the first place” you correct.

Luffy grins “Alright! Then let’s find this Tim Burton guy and invite him to the crew!”

You laugh “Yeah, good luck with that, Captain.”

Brook taps his chin “Still, I wonder what I’d look like in this… Burton-esque style.”

You smirk “Oh, you’d totally fit in.”

The conversation trails off, but as night falls over the Sunny, you can’t help but smile. Sure, they don’t get the references, but at least they listen. That’s what matters.

It starts with a simple thought: If they don’t get the references, I’ll just show them the actual movie.

Easier said than done when you’re on a ship in the middle of the Grand Line.

But you? You’re determined.

The first step is convincing Franky and Usopp to make a projector.

“Okay, so I need you guys to build a machine that can play movies” you say, clasping your hands together in front of them.

Usopp raises an eyebrow “A what-now?”

Franky rubs his chin “Movies, huh? So, like, a visual playback system? A moving image display?”

“Yes!” You point excitedly “You’re both geniuses when it comes to building stuff. I know you can make something!”

Franky grins, cracking his knuckles “Well, if it’s a challenge, then hell yeah I’m in!”

Usopp sighs “Why do I feel like this is gonna take way more effort than you’re letting on?”

You wave a hand dismissively “C’mon, you built a climate-controlling staff and laser beams before! You’ve got this!”

It takes them days of tinkering, but eventually, they rig up a projector using various spare parts from Sunny’s workshop. The hardest part was figuring out a power source that wouldn’t fry the entire thing, but thanks to Franky’s Cola-powered genius and Usopp’s fine-tuned engineering, the contraption actually works.

Step one: Complete.

Step two? Getting the movie.

That one takes a little more effort. You spend your time at the next trading port digging through every odd shop you can find. You’re almost ready to give up when, miraculously, you spot it.

A dusty little store, tucked between two fish markets, has an entire shelf of old-world relics. Among them?

A DVD copy of The Nightmare Before Christmas.

You nearly cry in relief.

After some haggling (and by haggling, it mean bargaining away a favor that Nami is definitely going to make you pay for later), you return triumphantly to the ship.

Finally everything is ready.

That night, the crew gathers on the deck, sitting in a semi-circle around the makeshift screen Franky and Usopp put together. The ocean breeze is cool, the stars above twinkle like tiny lanterns, and the faint hum of the projector fills the air.

“Alright,” you say, practically vibrating with excitement “Tonight, I present to you all—The Nightmare Before Christmas!”

Luffy raises a hand “Is this the one with the singing skeleton guy?”

“Yes!”

Brook claps “Excellent! I’ve been looking forward to this!”

Zoro grumbles, arms crossed “This better not be a waste of time.”

“Oh, lighten up, moss-head” Sanji sighs, flicking his lighter for a fresh cigarette.

Robin smiles at you “I’m curious to see why you love these stories so much.”

You grin, heart full “Well then, sit back, relax, and let the magic of Tim Burton change your lives.”

The movie starts, and from the first eerie yet whimsical notes of “This is Halloween” you can tell the crew is hooked.

Luffy leans forward, eyes wide “Whoa! They’re all singing! And they’re monsters?! This is awesome!”

Brook hums along immediately, tapping his bony fingers to the beat “Ah, this song is quite catchy!”

Robin watches with a soft smile, clearly fascinated by the gothic yet charming visuals.

Zoro, meanwhile, squints at the screen “So this Jack guy… is he an idiot?”

You gasp dramatically “Excuse you?! He’s just lost, Zoro! He wants something more out of life!”

“Yeah,” Usopp chimes in “He’s like Luffy but… spookier.”

Luffy grins “I like him!”

As the movie plays, Sanji strolls over with a tray full of snacks “Here,” he says smoothly, handing you a warm bowl of popcorn “Figured movie night wouldn’t be complete without something to munch on.”

Your eyes sparkle “Sanji, you angel, I could kiss you right now.”

He smirks “You can try, sweetheart.”

You don’t, but you do immediately shove a handful of buttery popcorn into your mouth. The rest of the crew digs in, each with their own snack, Chopper happily munches on caramel-coated nuts, Franky enjoys a ridiculously large soda, and even Zoro eventually takes some popcorn (though he pretends he’s not into it).

The movie continues, and reactions vary:

• Luffy cheers every time Jack does something dramatic.

• Brook cries at “Sally’s Song” saying “I feel her pain!”

• Franky thinks Oogie Boogie is “SUPER!”

• Usopp yells, “NOPE!” when Oogie’s bugs spill everywhere.

• Nami complains that Jack’s Christmas plan is a financial disaster.

• Robin simply watches with an amused, knowing look.

• Sanji rolls his eyes but clearly enjoys the aesthetic.

• Zoro claims he doesn’t care, yet you catch him watching intently.

By the time the movie ends, the deck is silent. The credits roll, the music fades, and you turn to see everyone deep in thought.

“So?” you ask, heart pounding “What did you guys think?”

Luffy grins, jumping up “That was amazing! The singing! The monsters! The explosions!”

Brook nods sagely “Jack Skellington is truly a gentleman. I respect him.”

Usopp shudders “Yeah, but that Boogie guy? Never sleeping again.”

Nami sighs “I mean… it was good, but Jack really should’ve stayed in his lane.”

Franky wipes a fake tear “SUPERB storytelling!”

Robin smiles “It was lovely. I see why you love these kinds of stories.”

You beam, turning to Zoro “And you?”

He shrugs “Not bad.”

Sanji exhales a puff of smoke “Kinda weird, but… entertaining.”

You sigh in relief, flopping back onto the deck “Mission successful!”

As the crew starts discussing their favorite parts, you feel a warm sense of happiness settle in your chest. They may not have gotten the references before, but now? Now, they get it.

And you’ve just officially introduced the Straw Hat Pirates to the magic of Tim Burton.

Best. Movie Night. Ever.

[evermarch]

now that we have sotr, i wanted to update this post about how katniss’ power comes not from her similarities to lucy gray, but in their differences. i’m still working out my feelings about katniss being canonically covey descended, because i don’t love the implications for the 74th reaping to begin with. but i am at least glad that the covey connection has no bearing on what makes katniss the symbol of the revolution.

lucy gray’s livelihood was music. she believed that her voice was the skill which kept her and her family alive. from the minute she started singing at the reaping, before they even met, snow recognized it as the only currency she possessed, and thus, the only power she wielded. it was her ticket to victory, and they both knew it. to her knowledge, it was her last line of defense in the arena against the snakes. in the end, singing to the jabberjays may have been what saved her from snow.

in sotr, we learn that burdock’s covey connection comes not from the everdeens, but from his mother’s side. unlike her singing voice, katniss’ skill with a bow is an everdeen characteristic, through and through. and archery, not music, is what katniss identifies as the source of her strength, as the skill which keeps her alive. and it’s true; she never would have been a real threat without that bow. she simply wouldn’t have survived long enough. not after burdock died, not in the arena(s), and not in the war. she also would never have been able to shoot coin and end the cycle of the dehumanizing “opinion” of governance.

yes, a lot of katniss’ “power” over snow comes from her connection to the covey (her name, singing their songs, girl from district 12 “pretending” to be in love with a blond boy, etc.). and there is no doubt that the covey connection is imperative to katniss’ cultural identity and her relationship to her father. but not one of the qualities which make katniss the mockingjay for the people, which is her real threat in bringing about the capitol’s downfall, has anything to do with lucy gray or the covey at large.

beyond the bow which keeps her alive, katniss’ power comes from a variety of non-covey sources. cinna’s costumes, while echoing lucy gray in unforgettability, make her not appealing, but striking, as the “girl on fire.” tying the district 12 tributes together comes from haymitch, the rebellion, and most importantly, her luck of being reaped alongside peeta, someone willing to give his life to save hers. her compassion for prim, peeta, rue, thresh, and even cato is rooted in her mother, who snuck into the seam to treat people for free and left her privileged life behind to marry a coal miner. even katniss’ ability to heal both herself and peeta, which keeps them alive long enough to hold out the berries, comes from asterid.

the covey and their legacy touches katniss more than most in district 12, but that isn’t part of her appeal to the masses. there is music class in district 12, and peeta, asterid, and maysilee recognize and feel emotionally connected to many of their songs. the galvanizing effect of their music could have come from any mouth singing banned songs with provocative words. that’s clear because it works when no one, not even katniss, knows of her heritage. when katniss sings, her beautiful voice is not what moves people—it’s the timing, the moments when she sings: to rue, and to pollux and the mockingjays. ultimately, katniss is not a performer, which is, as haymitch points out, explicitly what people respond to about her.

katniss’ similarity to lucy gray is undoubtedly a rose thorn in snow’s side, and most certainly leads to his recklessness in exacting his vengeance against her. in fact, it’s snow’s attempted exploitation of that connection by trying to force katniss to be a performer that is his predominant failure. but the effect on snow, personally, isn’t what ignites the rebellion. it certainly isn’t what makes the revolution successful. that is a concerted, unified effort of decades, which results in katniss and peeta holding hands at the opening ceremonies in burning costumes. in no one being able to blow katniss and peeta in the air when they hold out those berries. in giving katniss the wire to fire into the force field.

as snow himself notes before her victory tour, no one would believe her death was an accident after she held out the berries. she is already a martyr before she really starts to perform. because, unlike for lucy gray, reaper, haymitch, finnick, and the other potential symbols, the people of the districts are already primed and ready to fight. katniss, in a burning costume, is the human manifestation of marching orders. she is a signal to something that already exists.

the kindling is laid. the logs are stacked. the gas is poured. the striker is not around her neck, but in maysilee’s pin on her shirt. all katniss would need to do to start the fire is find a striking rock on a berry bush in her arena. a striking rock which she could only recognize because of her father. whose true power she only understands because of peeta. power she only chooses to use because of her sense of justice, displayed through her solidarity.

solidarity, not an inherited musical talent, not twirling in a colorful dress at the interviews, not a “performance” as a lovestruck girl, is what lights the spark of revolution. it’s a quality katniss shares not with lucy gray, but with haymitch. of course, the difference between them is that haymitch did not have the benefit of a locked and loaded rebel movement in place to ensure the world would be watching. but snow’s lingering obsession with lucy gray is also not what makes katniss a success where haymitch failed. from haymitch, the rebellion learned that its symbol is needed not to build the fire, but to light the spark.

in a line of failed attempts ranging from beetee to haymitch to finnick, katniss is successful because, this time, the groundwork is laid to launch the districts into a planned, full-scale rebellion. in displaying her love for prim, for rue, and for peeta, her solidarity was the striker hitting the rock at just the right moment. katniss, the springtime daughter of asterid march, the prodigal archer of the everdeen line, the girl who fights not for herself, but for everyone else, is the mockingjay not because she bleeds covey blood, but because in selecting the moment she starts to burn, she is “luckier, [and] with better timing.” and that is a fire that even snow, the #1 peacekeeper, would never have been able to quell.

[ang3ltine]

𝐖𝐞'𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 '𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬'?- College au

⤿ 𝖿𝗍 𝖬𝗎𝗌𝗂𝖼 student 𝖲𝖾 𝗆𝗂 𝗑 𝖥𝖺𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗈𝗇 student 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝖲𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒: this is just a small headcanon that shows how it would be like to have a roommate like Se mi.

𝖶𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌: mentions of alcohol, drunk Se mi, smoking, suggestive themes, abusive relationship and violence (not too extreme).

𝖠𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗌: Don't worry this mostly contains fluff!! Also I hope you enjoy!

𖦹 It was the start of a new year in College and you had decided to swap roommates with another girl. The reason was that your old roommate was a pain in the ass and you'd had enough.

𖦹 By the time you had entered your new dorm room, another girl was unpacking her stuff. She was tall, had short dark hair and piercings on her nose and bottom lip. Honestly you had mixed feelings, she was super hot but also kind of intimidating?

𖦹 Nonetheless, despite you two being polar opposites of eachother. You both got along pretty well. Your roommate was a music major named Se mi, her aesthetic was more simple and darker than yours. Whereas you liked your pinks and whites and was a Fashion Major.

𖦹 You thought that Se mi would be the type to keep to herself and not talk much with you, but you were dead wrong. She's super kind and caring but was also a big tease.

𖦹 Furniture shopping!! You guys would go to the mall to buy cute furniture for your dorm room. Se mi picked out cute matching cups with Cherries for you guys to share ♡

𖦹 Se mi legit lives in your bed at this point. She loves how your mattress was much more plush and comfortable than hers. You'd always have to kick her out if you find her sneaking under your covers at night.

"Se mi? What the hell are you doing??" You hissed through your teeth as Se mi slips under your covers.

"What..? Oh don't mind me, just go back to sleep and pretend you never saw me," she'd state casually while snuggling further into the blanket. This had been going on since maybe the 3rd week of the 1st semester?

Groaning in annoyance while you face palmed, you had to calm your heartbeat down. At some point you had begun to grow a small crush on her but blamed it on your lack of success in your love life.

𖦹 Speaking of your love life. It was a legit mess. Every boy you had been with had either cheated on you or was just a fling. The most recent 'boyfriend' you had was super manipulative and controlling. Feeling like you didn't really have a choice , you stuck with him. Because he gave you what you thought was love.

𖦹 Se mi hates this man with her guts and believes you deserve better. Literally has an existential crisis because she doesn't know whether the feelings she has for you is platonic or much more.

𖦹 Finally she had enough when she heard you crying by your bedside, keening down and clutching your stomach. He had punched you, hard. Without a second thought, she stormed her way through the boy's dormitory and confronted the guy. Leaving him with a broken nose and a clear message.

"Don't mess with my girl."

𖦹 Se mi likes when you style her clothes or pick out outfits for her. Also she absolutely loves it when you actually make clothes for her! Literally adores every accessory or shirt/sweater you design for her.

𖦹 She's a smoker and gets drunk from time to time. This was so she could cope with her own problems, until you coerced her to drink less and smoke outside. As her birthday gift, you got her the vivienne westwood heart shaped lighter that had been on her wishlist. You may or may not have taken a look at it while she wasn't looking. She so wanted to marry you on the spot when you handed it to her.

"Please marry me!!" She'd scream, literally almost waking up the girls next door.

"Geez! Ok, fine! I'll marry you, just be quiet!" You whisper shouted as she hands you a makeshift ring that she totally didn't make right infront of you.

𖦹 Don't worry, she gets you a real one with a golden band and a pink gem in the middle. Which you love and Cherish ofcourse! You two would definitely have matching promise rings, with hers being a silver band and a black gem.

𖦹 Both of you collect figurines so you two definitely go to popmart together! She likes Hirono and Kubo whereas you liked Skullpanda and Molly figurines. You'd decorate your room with showcases and get matching labubu's together!! So cute

𖦹 Would drop you off at your class before going to hers cause both the music department and fashion/design department are close by.

𖦹 Gives you privacy whenever you need it and isn't the type of person to eavesdrop in a conversation that you're having with a friend. Unless you personally come to her for advice.

𖦹 When you two started dating, she was the one to ask you to be her girlfriend. She knew you had feelings for her too but you didn't know how to tell her. Which she completely understands, this was something new to you. She took her time with you and eventually you got more comfortable in the relationship.

𖦹 Ideal dating spots would be around or near campus, unfortunately. This is due to your busy schedules and you both take your majors seriously. If you guys are on break, she definitely take you outside the city to the beach. If you didn't want to travel far, she'd take you to cute cafés and arcades to have fun and chill at the same time.

𖦹 Very much into PDA! Holds your hand/waist when your walking to class or talking a walk around campus. Would teasingly whisper obscene things into your ear just to get a reaction out of you. Often resulting in you both making out in the girls washroom or a janitors closet.

{Nsfw}

𖦹 Oh Lord you're in for a long ride. Yall share the same washroom so expect shower sex from time to time. You'd have to shove her out the bathroom because she wouldn't leave, when you just wanted a peaceful shower.

𖦹 Is surprisngly super sweet and soft during intimacy. A soft dom most of the time but can be a switch too. However, if she's feeling frustrated then expect her to be a little rough. But she'd give you the best aftercare, making sure to rub your sides and stomach. Would give you painkillers and a warm bubbly bath. If you wanted, she would join you. If not then she'd wait until you've finished first.

𖦹 you guys share a bed at this point, so now you both have a small double bed with a super plush mattress and insanely fluffy pillows and massive duvet. Will never keep her hands to herself so expect lazy morning sex or insane makeout sessions.

"Why're you so embarrassed? I've literally seen you naked so there's no need to be shy~" she'd say teasingly while cuddling with you in bed.

"God you're insufferable..!"

Safe to say you two didn't make it to your first class.

[captain-huggy-bear]

Quinn Hughes

Thoughts

Quinn and Anxiety

Stomach Squisher

Quinn the giver

Quinn and an Alternative partner

When you're on your period

Quinn and Period sex 18+ MDNI - {Jack mentioned} + [1]

When you're in hospital

Flowers

After a long day

Reassuring

Drabbles/Prompts

Valentine's Day

How he reacts to some guy being a creep towards you

Breaking point

Marking you up - 18+ MDNI NSFW

Forgotten Goodbye Kiss

Casual dominance

He cuts his hair

Body hair

“This is the end of your all-nighters, you hear me, baby?”

"What I'm trying to say is... I like you."

“Hey… hey… why are you crying?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at me”

"I'd like my good morning kiss now, thank you very much"

"Can I?"

“Every morning I fall in love with you all over again."

“Let’s keep it professional, alright”

“Hey...it’s just me now. You don’t have to pretend anymore...you can talk to me."

One-shots

Late Bloomer - Quinn x Fem!Reader - Quinn finds out he's your first boyfriend in your mid-20s, you're expecting him to freak out.

The Sleeves - Quinn x Short Fem!Reader - Jersey sleeves are just a little too long for you.

Fishbowl Blues - Quinn x Fem!Reader - You're more stressed and worried over Quinn's busted lip than he is.

Practically Ancient - Quinn X Fem!Reader - You end up down a rabbit hole of instagram comments and profiles and can't help but compare yourself to all the women who would gladly date your boyfriend. You can't help but wonder why he's even with you.

'You're Blushing.' - Quinn X Fem!Reader - You're friends with Jack and Luke first, they decide to tease you good naturedly about your reaction to their older brother, Quinn.

To Fight a Ten Year Old - Quinn X Fem!Reader - In which Quinn is prepared to time travel to whoop some ten year old butt because you tell him a story from your childhood and he takes it personally.

Scratchy - Quinn X Fem!Reader - 18+ MDNI - Quinn will do most things to make you laugh, his favourite thing about growing out his beard is the fact that it's a weapon of mass destruction when breaking that laugh out of you. It also makes you a little weak at the knees and hot behind the collar too which is a bonus.

A Love that Gives, Gives, Gives - Quinn X Fem!Reader - Sometimes you think you have the perfect fitting bra and it turns out that it's actually a traitor in disguise. Sometimes your boyfriend is personally offended that an article of clothing would hurt you so much because he's a sap.

Squish Time - Quinn X Fem!Reader - Sometimes there is only one way to regulate your nervous system and that is squish time.

Guard Dog - Quinn X Fem!Reader - You are feeling particularly protective of Quinn after the game against the Washington Capitals and run into Dubois.

The Collection - Quinn X Fem!Reader - You keep every single puck that Quinn has ever given you, he finds your collection that you've been shyly hiding away. It might just be the thing that makes him realise you're the girl he's going to marry.

The Missing Puck - Quinn X Fem!Reader - It's the Hughes Bowl...and you're missing your usual warmup puck from Quinn. You think he's forgotten, he most definitely has not, but he didn't think this through. Fuck. Sequel to The Collection

A Little Misunderstanding - Quinn X Fem!Reader - Your parents assume that Quinn, the man you mention over the phone all the time, is in fact your boyfriend. He's very much not, but Quinn thinks its funny to pretend he is...until it gets a little too real and maybe some truths are told and feelings are aired.

Perfect Fit - Quinn X Fem!Reader - You fit perfectly into Quinn's family, knowing how much they love you just makes Quinn realise that you're it for him.

Teacher!Reader Series -

You teach teenagers History in Vancouver, while dating a pro-hockey player, Quinn Hughes. Recurring teenage OCs like David for the lols.

The Teacher's Always Right - Quinn X Fem!Reader - Your students badger you about your relationship status and you let slip you're dating a hockey player who plays for the Vancouver Canucks. They don't believe you, you're petty enough to arrange a school trip to Rogers Arena just to prove your point.

National Teacher Day - Quinn X Fem!Reader - Quinn has a big surprise for National Teacher Day that puts your relationship out in the public space

In Your Element - Quinn X Fem!Reader - Quinn finally gets an opportunity to each lunch with you at your school, but he arrives a little early and sees a different side to you, when you're absolutely in your element

The Little Things Mean A Lot - Quinn X Fem!Reader - Sometimes it's the small things that make you fall in love all over again, like your favourite Singapore chowmein from your favourite Chinese takeaway after a long day of teaching and parent's evening

In Sickness and in Health - Quinn X Fem!Reader - You've convinced yourself that you're not actually that ill, mostly because setting cover for your lessons is more trouble than its worth. Quinn is having none of it.

Priorities - Quinn X Fem!Reader -When Quinn gets a text from you 2 hours before his game, he shows where his priorities lie when he drops it all for you. A kind of sequel to In Sickness and in Health but you don't need to read that to read this.

In the Firing Line - Quinn X Fem!Reader - You break up a fight at your school getting hurt in the process. There's only one person you want to call in that situation.

The Jello Incident - Quinn X Fem!Reader - You come home from work and tell Quinn all about the jello incident at school and then fall asleep on him.

Morning Sickness - Quinn X Fem!Reader - Quinn is getting increasingly worried about you as you're sick every morning and every evening, you're adamant that you're fine. Turns out you're right in a way.

Drabble: You're reaction of him being out on IR

Baby Shower Surprises - Quinn X Fem!Reader - Quinn organises a baby shower for you with your high schoolers. It might just be the sweetest a bunch of teenagers have ever been.

[lulushults]

why does no one talk about the real implications of natsu becoming end?

people go on and on and on about how nalu isnt real because natsu’s ‘too stupid to understand love’, but…r u guys not seeing whats literally right before ur eyes? let me explain :)

natsu was told by zeref himself, and then shown a direct demonstration, of the fact that zeref and natsu are directly connected, meaning if zeref dies, natsu dies.

then we get natsu finding presumably dead lucy, and going apeshit and becoming hell bent on killing zeref before being interrupted by gray.

so? what ya’ll think natsu just thought well lucys dead, lets go finish the task at hand and kill zeref yipee!

natsu was told if zeref dies, HE dies. and immediately after finding lucy ‘dead’, he loses literally every thought in his head except for his drive to kill zeref.

u wanna know why? because lucy has had such a dramatic effect on natsu’s life, personality and happiness that the thought of living without lucy drove him straight too a main source that he can rely on to end his life. in that moment he forgot about everyone he was leaving behind, happy included, and wanted to join lucy in ‘death’.

mr go happy natsu that everyone thinks has exactly 0 thoughts inside his head and goes out of his way to hide his feelings, immediately decided the next step and only step of action after discovering lucy was to end his own life because he couldnt bare to not have her in his. natsu relys on lucy as a main source of safety and comfort, sure he never directly says it out loud but he shows this through the way he acts with her. the way he goes out of his way to be in his apartment with her constantly. the way he feels he needs to protect her. the way he gets so aggrivated when another man flirts with her, because to him shes HIS lucy and he just cannot allow another man to steal her away from him. not to mention he also outright said lucy’s scent makes him feel comfortable.

i’ve always believed that natsu and lucy are connected in more ways than one. they’re eachother best friends. they’re so clearly in love. and they are eachother safety blankets. they both rely on eachother for stability and comfort whether directly or indirectly, the small glances when natsu notices shes upset, lucy always wanting to look out for him and immediately becoming worried whenever they’re apart despite knowing he can take care of himself. and i also wholeheartedly agree that if one of them were to die, the other would not be able to live anymore. if natsu were to die, lucy would drown in the feeling of loneliness despite being surrounded by the guild. without natsu, who does she really have left? hes so implemented into her daily routine that she couldn’t continue her everyday life because everything would feel so out of the ordinary and just…wrong. waking up without his heat next to her. walking to the guild with him. eating with him. going on jobs with him. and then falling asleep and feeling him sneak into her bed while she pretends to be asleep all the while slowly inching closer to him because shes enjoys his company.

and as we literally saw first hand in the final season, natsu does not under any circumstances want to live without her either. who would splurge on his expensive eating habits on jobs? who’s apartment would he break into? who’s bed would he sneak into? who’s fridge would he secretly break into every day to steal food? natsu has never cared about love, or relationships, or starting a family or even getting married. until he met her. and now shes so naturally integrated into his life that he just can’t imagine how he would go about putting a smile on his face without her there to make it so easy for him.