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[vunblr]

Crumbs of Connection

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ just in case. Fluff.

Summary: When Bucky wanders into a quirky late-night bakery, he doesn’t expect the warmhearted owner to challenge his defenses.

Word Count: About 11.8k.

Bucky dragged his feet along the cracked sidewalk with slumped shoulders, as the chill of the night seeped through his tattered jacket. He was almost at the building he’d moved into a few days ago, but each step felt heavier than the last. The mission that was supposed to be a walk in the park had left him with a pounding headache, a sour mood, and a stomach that wouldn’t stop growling.

That’s when he noticed.

The little bakery on the corner was still open, its warm light spilling onto the dark street. He frowned. What kind of place stayed open this late? Before he could question it further, the smell of fresh bread, herbs and butter hit his senses. His feet carried him inside before his brain caught up.

The bell above the door chimed softly, and he stepped into the warmth. His eyes scanned the counter, landing on a tray of focaccia behind the glass display. Golden, perfectly crisped, dotted with rosemary and sea salt. His stomach twisted with hunger as he stared, almost entranced.

“Um,” a voice broke through his daze, soft but tinged with caution, “if you wait a little, I can fix something for you.”

Bucky blinked and turned toward the counter. The woman standing there wasn’t what he expected at this ungodly hour. She looked alert, not a trace of exhaustion in her bright eyes or the easy way she held herself. Before he could respond, she disappeared through a door behind the counter.

He frowned, rubbing the bridge of his nose as the light above the counter made his headache throb harder. A few moments later, she returned, holding a small paper bag.

“Here,” she said, offering it with a small smile. ���It must be hard in this cold.”

Bucky stared at her, the bag, then back at her.

“What?” he rasped, his voice rougher than he intended.

“Don’t be proud now,” she said, firm but not unkind. “Just take it.”

His mouth twitched, halfway to a sarcastic retort, but he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind a basket of bread. Mud-streaked face, greasy and plastered hair. His beard was a week past needing a trim, and his split lip and tattered clothes didn’t help either.

He swallowed hard, suddenly unsure whether to laugh or groan. She thought he was homeless. His mouth opened and closed, and then he muttered, “I’m not a beggar.”

Her expression didn’t change. She just stared at him for a beat, then muttered, “Okay?” like she wasn’t entirely convinced.

Bucky squinted at her, then sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ve had a bad night,” he said finally, the admission tasting bitter in his mouth.

She quirked a brow, with obvious skepticism.

“Can I just get a focaccia?” he asked, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. He kept his movements slow, hiding his bruised knuckles from her as much as possible. He grimaced as he came up with a crumpled bill and a few coins. He counted them twice, deepening his frown. He must have lost his wallet somewhere during the mission, or maybe it was back at the apartment. Either way, what he had wasn’t enough.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath. He glanced at her, unsure of how to explain, but she was already watching him.

Her expression didn’t falter. If anything, her gaze softened, though he noticed the faintest flicker of wariness still in her eyes. “It’s fine,” she said after a moment, with a gentle voice. “Just take it.”

Bucky stiffened. “No, I-”

“You’ll pay me back when you get some money,” she interrupted firmly, waving a hand like it was no big deal. “It’s late, cold, and you’re hungry. It’s not going to hurt me to let one focaccia go.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but the look she gave him shut him up faster than he liked to admit. There was no pity there, just unwavering practicality like she’d already decided and wasn’t about to budge.

“I don’t need charity,” he muttered, the words falling flat even to his own ears.

“Good thing this isn’t charity then,” she shot back, arching a brow. “It’s credit. You can pay it back tomorrow, or the day after, whenever.”

Bucky’s lips pressed into a tight line, his pride warring with the hunger clawing in his stomach. Finally, he exhaled through his nose and reached for the bag.

“Fine,” he said, with a clipped voice. “But I will pay you back.”

“Sure. Okay.” she replied, handing it over with an ease that only frustrated him more.

He didn’t thank her. Not out loud, at least. He just nodded stiffly and made his way to the door, the warm paper bag cradled in his hands like it was the first good thing to happen to him all day.

As the door closed behind him, she sighed softly, shaking her head. The man looked like life had chewed him up and spit him out. Maybe he’d just fallen through the cracks recently, it was always hardest in the beginning, learning to ask for help. She glanced at the counter, absently smoothing her hands over her apron.

If she saw him again, maybe she could mention her friend at the community center. They were always looking to help people find stable footing before things got worse. And for someone like him, someone who clearly still had some pride, maybe it wasn’t too late to get him back on his feet.

The sound of the bell snapped her out of her thoughts.

Two cops strolled in, familiar faces, and she greeted them with a small smile. “The usual?” she asked, already moving to grab a pair of pastries from the display.

As she handled their order with practiced ease, her thoughts kept drifting back to the handsome stranger with the haunted eyes.

------

Bucky shoved open the door to his apartment. The space was dark, empty, and cold, but he barely noticed. He kicked off his boots, shrugging out of his jacket and letting it fall somewhere on the floor. His pants followed, the trail of his discarded clothing leading to the kitchen sink.

He turned on the tap, scrubbing his hands under the warm water and letting out a tired sigh as the grime and blood washed away.

Finally, he opened the bag and pulled out the focaccia, its edges still faintly warm. He bit into it without ceremony, his teeth tearing through the crisp crust and sinking into the soft, herby center.

The groan that escaped him was involuntary.

“Jesus,” he muttered, leaning against the counter. He wasn’t sure if the bread was actually this good or if it was just because he was starving, but it didn’t matter. He tore off another bite, then another, letting the flavors fill the hollow ache in his stomach.

His mind drifted back to the clerk. She had been… unexpected, in a way. Not just because she was there at that hour, but how she’d looked at him, unafraid, and then her gesture, offering him the bread without hesitation, it threw him off. He wasn’t used to kindness without strings attached.

Bucky frowned at the thought, swallowing another bite. He knew he’d acted like an ass, stiff and gruff, but he hadn’t known what else to do. His gaze drifted to the paper bag on the counter, now empty except for a few crumbs. Tomorrow, he’d pay her back. He’d make sure of it.

And maybe while he was there, he could look around properly. He’d been too tired to take it all in, but in the brief glance he’d caught, he’d seen shelves lined with pastries, bread, and other things that looked more tempting than they had any right to be.

It wasn’t just about the food, though. It would be a way to repay her. To even the scales.

Dragging a hand through his hair, Bucky sighed and pushed away from the counter. As he collapsed onto the messy nest of sheets in his living room, his last thought was of the clerk: her calm voice and the smile she’d given him as she handed over the bag.

---

The next morning, Bucky stood under the hot shower spray, letting the water beat against his sore muscles. He scrubbed the grime of the previous day away, trying to clear his head. Afterward, he brewed a cup of coffee, jolting his brain into something resembling alertness.

Setting the empty mug in the sink, he began hunting for his wallet. He turned over the few possessions he had in his apartment, muttering curses under his breath, but it was nowhere to be found.

“Great,” he muttered, running a hand through his damp hair.

Reluctantly, he went to the stash of cash he kept hidden under a loose floorboard. Pulling out a few bills, he tucked them into his pocket and took a quick look in the mirror. His split lip was still healing, but his beard was trimmed now, and the dark circles under his eyes were a little less pronounced. Also, his clothes didn’t look like they were dragged against a concrete road. Good enough.

The walk to the bakery was brisk, the chill of the morning sharp but not unpleasant. He felt more like himself than he had the night before, ready to repay the debt and maybe even buy something else.

But as he approached the corner, his steps faltered.

The bakery was closed.

He frowned, sweeping his gaze  over the dark windows and drawn curtains. The sign on the door mocked him with its clear Closed lettering.

What kind of bakery was closed at 10 a.m.?

His mind immediately jumped to worst-case scenarios. Maybe something had happened. Maybe the clerk stayed too late and ran into trouble on her way home. His jaw tightened as he peeked through the curtains, searching for any sign of movement inside.

But then his eyes landed on the sign taped to the door:

Open: 4 p.m. - 12 a.m.

Bucky blinked.

“What the fuck?” he muttered, straightening.

What kind of bakery worked on a schedule like that? Who baked bread for the night shift? He rubbed his jaw, baffled, and glanced at the darkened windows again.

With a shake of his head, he turned back the way he came, the mystery of the night-shift bakery simmering in his thoughts.

---

The day passed in the kind of monotony Bucky had learned to tolerate. Cleaning his gear, half-watching a soccer game, biting back the urge to snap at Dr. Raynor during their session, and ignoring Sam’s persistent calls. By the time evening rolled around, he was restless enough to head out again.

Around 9 p.m., he set off to the bakery, the mystery of its late hours still nagging at him. Who needed baked goods at this time of night? Well, besides himself. Sleep was always a gamble, if he was lucky, he’d be out by 2 a.m., though that was probably wishful thinking.

As he rounded the corner, he spotted movement by the shop. Three bikers, with leather jackets patched with gang insignias, stepped out of the door, each carrying large paper bags stuffed with… something. Bucky couldn’t make out what was inside, but they seemed satisfied, securing the bags to their saddlebags before waving toward the bakery window. His brow furrowed as he slowed his pace. The clerk waved back before she turned and disappeared behind the counter.

The bikers mounted their bikes and roared off into the night, leaving Bucky to stare after them for a moment. He quirked a brow. Well, it seemed the place had its regulars.

Pushing open the door, the soft chime of the bell announced his arrival. The warmth hit him immediately, carrying with it the now-familiar scent of herbs and fresh bread.

She was at the counter again, arranging some pastries on a tray. The sound of the bell made her look up, and her movements stilled when she saw him. It wasn’t much, just a flicker of hesitation, but he caught it. Then, like flipping a switch, she composed herself, her face smoothing into a polite smile.

“Hi,” she greeted him, he thought he caught a hint of surprise beneath it.

“Hey,” Bucky replied, almost gruffly. He stepped forward, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.

For a brief moment, silence hung between them as their eyes met. Neither spoke, just staring at each other, the air charged with an odd sense of recognition. Then she blinked, snapping herself out of the trance, mentally slapping herself.

“Hi,” she said again, her voice a little higher this time, followed by a flustered, “What can I do for you?”

Bucky shifted slightly, pulling one hand from his pocket and holding out a few bills. “I came to pay you for the focaccia,” he said simply. “And… I wanted to buy some other things too.”

Her brows lifted, and she laughed softly, taking the money from him. “That was fast. I wasn’t going to charge you interest, you know,” she chuckled.

“Appreciate it,” he muttered, with a hint of amusement in his voice.

“So,” she said, her professional demeanor slipping back into place, “what can I get you?”

As he scanned the shelves and pointed to a few items, she efficiently began sorting them into paper bags. But he noticed her hands slowing now and then, her lips pressed together like she was working through something. Finally, she turned toward him, bag in hand, and blurted, “I’m sorry.”

Bucky frowned, tilting his head slightly. “For what?”

“For assuming…” She gestured vaguely toward him, her expression tinged with embarrassment.

He blinked, then let out a low chuckle. “Well, I looked like shit,” he said bluntly, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint smirk. “Can’t blame you.”

Her shoulders eased at his reaction, and she gave him a small, relieved smile. “Thank you for… you know,” he added, signaling vaguely toward the counter where the focaccias where exhibited.

“Don’t mention it,” she replied and then extended a hand, “I’m Y/n, by the way.”

“Bucky,” he said, his vibranium hand staying tucked in his pocket as he shook her hand briefly with the other one.

As she returned to filling the bags, he couldn’t stop himself. He leaned slightly against the counter, his curiosity finally getting the better of him.

“So,” he said, breaking the quiet, “what’s up with the hours here? Four to twelve?”

Her head popped up, a faint look of surprise crossing her face before she laughed softly. “Oh, that.” She handed him the filled bags, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time,” he replied in a casual tone, though his gaze made clear that he actually wanted to know.

“This bakery… my grandparents opened it in the ’60s,” she began. “When my gramps passed in the early 2000s, my granny made some changes. One of them was the schedule.”

Bucky tilted his head, his curiosity sharpening. “The late hours?”

She nodded, leaning lightly against the counter. “Yeah. There’s a lot of nightlife in this neighborhood and a surprising number of residents work night or late shifts. She figured people needed somewhere to grab a decent meal at odd hours. It was risky, but eventually, it worked out.”

He let the idea sink in, flicking , his gaze briefly to the trays of baked goods. It made sense, in a way.

“When she passed the shop to me,” she continued, with a voice tinged with fondness, “I decided to keep things just the way they were. It feels right, you know? Like I’m keeping her legacy alive.”

She shrugged, a small smile playing on her lips. “Besides, I don’t get sleepy at night, anyway. I’ve always been more of a night owl. I end up sleeping all morning, so the schedule works for me.”

Bucky studied her for a moment, taking in the mix of pride and nostalgia in her expression. She seemed connected to the place in a way that made the odd schedule seem less strange and more… fitting.

“That’s… different,” he said finally, his voice softer than usual.

“Different good or different bad?” she asked, quirking a brow as she crossed her arms.

He smirked, shaking his head. “Just different.”

But he couldn’t leave it there. The question burned in his mind, and he found himself asking, “Don’t you think it’s dangerous being open this late? Alone?”

She tilted her head, not missing a beat. “I’m not alone. Liam, the main baker, is in the kitchen.”

Bucky gave her a pointed look, one brow lifting in a way that clearly said, Seriously?

“And if someone armed gets in here, he’d chase them off with a spatula?”

She laughed softly, but there was a flicker of something thoughtful in her eyes. “We’ve had our share of… episodes,” she admitted, “but it’s been a long time since the last one.” She gestured toward a small table near the counter with a nod of her head. “The cops come by all the time to grab something or even sit and eat.”

“That’s not exactly foolproof,” Bucky muttered, unconvinced.

Her lips curved into a wry smile, and she leaned in a little, lowering her voice like she was sharing a secret. “Let’s just say having the local bikers as regulars doesn’t hurt either.”

He blinked, frowning. “The guys I saw earlier? So they… behave?”

“They’re good guys,” she retorted, then paused and corrected herself with a grin. “They’re nice guys. Most of the time.”

Bucky raised a skeptical brow, and she continued, “Sometimes they even help out. Like last week, when the mixer broke. They swung by after their ride and got it working again. One of them’s pretty handy with tools.”

Bucky’s frown deepened, though this time it wasn’t out of suspicion. He wasn’t sure whether to find the whole setup amusing or… concerning.

“Guess that’s one way to stay safe,” he muttered, glancing around the shop like it might reveal more secrets.

“It works,” she said shrugging. “Besides, most people aren’t looking for trouble when they’re hungry.”

He let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head. Then he picked up the bags and nodded at her, and she offered him a small smile, “Come again.”

He paused at the door, glancing back at her. “I will.”

With that, he was gone, the door chime softly announcing his exit. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, leaning against the counter for a moment. Her gaze lingered on the door, her mind replaying the way his broad frame looked in those casual clothes. Effortless, like he didn’t have to try at all to look that good.

The thought was interrupted by the sound of the door chime again. She straightened quickly, spotting two guys in uniforms marked with the local electricity company’s logo.

“Hey,” one of them called, grinning. “Got any donuts left?”

---

Time passed, and Bucky started showing up regularly, his visits becoming a constant in her evenings. Three days a week, like clockwork, the bell would chime, and there he’d be, gloved hands tucked into his jacket pockets and that quiet, brooding air about him.

What surprised her most wasn’t the frequency of his visits but how much he bought each time. He’d point out loaves, pastries, and cookies, practically cleaning out half the display case on some nights. At first, she thought it was just politeness, a way to make up for that first night. But as the weeks went on, it became clear that this was just his thing.

One evening, as she packed his usual haul into bags, curiosity finally got the better of her and she glanced up at him with a smile. “Wow, your family must really enjoy our goods,” she said playfully.

The comment made him pause. His smile faltered, just for a second, and his eyes flicked away like he was retreating inward.

She noticed the shift immediately and quickly tried to smooth things over. “Oh,” she said with a laugh, waving a hand, “great appetite then. I won’t complain about that.”

His gaze returned to her, and the corner of his mouth twitched into a faint smile. “Something like that,” he murmured.

She handed him the bags, softening her smile. Whatever that moment had been, she wasn’t going to push. “Well, you’re keeping me in business, so thank you.”

He nodded, a quiet “thanks” leaving his lips before he turned to leave.

---

As Bucky walked the short distance back to his apartment, the bags swinging lightly in his grip, his mind churned with thoughts he couldn’t quite shake. Her comment replayed in his head: Your family must really enjoy our goods.

Family.

His jaw clenched slightly. He didn’t have one, not anymore. The people he cared about… well, they were scattered or gone, and the thought of sitting at a table surrounded by warmth and laughter felt more like a faded memory than a reality.

He adjusted his grip on the bags, slowing his steps as he reached his building. It wasn’t her fault, of course. She hadn’t meant anything by it, just an innocent assumption. And she’d recovered quickly, giving him an out he appreciated more than he could express.

Still, the weight of the moment stuck with him. The way her words had scratched at something raw and unhealed, something he thought he’d buried deep enough that it couldn’t sting anymore.

In the quiet of his apartment, he set the bags on the counter and shrugged off his jacket. He pulled out one of the pastries she’d packed for him, a warm smell of cinnamon and sugar wafting up as he took a bite. The sweetness melted on his tongue, giving him a fleeting comfort.

She was kind. That much was clear. Her warmth wasn’t forced or rehearsed; it was just… there. Bucky leaned against the counter, staring at the pastry in his hand like it might hold some answers. He hadn’t meant to make her uncomfortable, but his reaction had been automatic, a wall thrown up before he could even think about it.

He couldn’t deny that he liked going to the bakery, liked seeing her. He finished the pastry and sighed, glancing at the bags of baked goods. He’d go back, of course. It was becoming part of his routine, and he found himself looking forward to the short conversations, the moments of normalcy she unknowingly offered him.

He just needed to keep things simple. Keep the walls up.

----

Keep things simple, Bucky had told himself more times than he could count, the mantra almost automatic by now. But as he stood at the counter that Wednesday night, watching her nervously wring her hands, he felt a crack in his resolve.

“Can I ask you a question?” she began, a little hesitant. “It’s alright if you don’t want to answer, but…”

He tensed. His gloved hand rested on the counter, fingers curling slightly. “Go ahead.”

“This weekend, I went to the Smithsonian with a friend…”

And there it was. This is it.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he interrupted, with a sharper tone than he intended. He wanted to rip the band-aid off, and get it over with. He braced himself for the shift, the awkward laugh, the strained smile, the clipped words. The gradual squirming in his presence like he carried a weight they couldn’t bear to be near.

But instead, she grinned.

“Well, that explains your appearance the day I met you,” she said lightly, a teasing lilt in her voice. “And your appetite.” She winked.

Bucky blinked. That wasn’t the reaction he’d prepared for.

Before he could respond, she continued. “It’s not my place to say, but… you’ve had it hard, Bucky. I saw the look on your face when I brought this up, so let me be clear: this changes nothing.” She leaned forward slightly, meeting his eyes. “I know it could be hard sometimes, with the people… but not in here.”

Bucky stared at her, the usual quick retorts or excuses dying on his tongue. He didn’t know what to say. The sincerity in her voice and the calmness in the way she addressed the subject without making him feel exposed, caught him off guard.

“Thanks,” he finally said, exhaling a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

She nodded, curving her lips into a small smile, but instead of leaving it at that, she hesitated. “That being said…” Her voice softened. “According to the commemorative plate, your birthday was last week.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed. He hadn’t even remembered.

“So,” she said, bending down behind the counter, “here.” When she straightened up, she held a small plum tart, dusted with powdered sugar. “I couldn’t put all the candles on it for obvious reasons.” She chuckled softly as she gave him the little tray.

Bucky froze. The gesture hit him square in the chest, a pang so sharp and unexpected it made his breath hitch. He stared at the tart, feeling an ache rise in his throat. His lips trembled traitorously as he fought back the overwhelming surge of emotion.

She noticed his hesitation and tilted her head slightly. “It’s just a tart,” she said gently as if trying to assure him it was no big deal.

But to him, it was.

He reached out, taking the tart from her as if it were made of glass. His gloved fingers brushed the edge of the plate and he swallowed hard. His voice, barely above a whisper, cracked as he said, “Thank you.”

Bucky didn’t trust himself to look at her. He stared down at the pastry, his grip tightening around the edges of the plate as he worked to steady his breathing. It had been so long since anyone had done something this thoughtful for him, that he didn’t know how to react.

Watching his reaction, she faltered. Her earlier confidence dimmed as doubt crept into her expression. She fidgeted with her apron, glancing away briefly before blurting out, “I, um… sorry for bothering you. If I overstepped-”

“No.” The word came out sharper than he meant, and she froze. He took a breath, forcing his voice to steady. “You didn’t,” he said again, gentler this time. “You just surprised me here, doll, that’s all.”

Her gaze softened, searching his face, and he didn’t look away this time. His walls weren’t fully down -when were they ever?- but the rawness in his eyes couldn’t be hidden, the unshed tears glimmering with the lights.

Her lips parted, then closed again, like she wanted to say something but wasn’t sure if it was her place. She shifted her weight, her fingers lightly tapping the counter. “It’s not much,” she said after a beat, her tone quiet but sincere. “Just a little thing I thought might make you smile.”

“It’s more than you know,” Bucky murmured then he cleared his throat and adjusted the bags in his hand, needing something to focus on besides the growing ache in his chest. “I, uh… I appreciate it,” he said, a little awkwardly.

Her smile grew, and she reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Good,” she said simply. “You deserve something nice.”

That threw him off even more. He stared at her, stunned by the ease with which she said it, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

His throat tightened, and he looked away, unable to meet her gaze any longer. “Thanks,” he muttered, his voice gravelly as he turned toward the door.

“Bucky?”

He stopped, glancing back over his shoulder.

“I just remembered that I didn’t tell you, Happy birthday,”

He nodded once, gripping the bags a little tighter as he pushed the door open and stepped into the cool night air, which did little to clear the fog in his head.

You deserve something nice. He almost scoffed aloud. Nice? Someone like him? Someone who couldn’t go a single day without being haunted by the weight of his past?

The world had a funny way of reminding him where he stood. Steve was gone. The man who believed in him more than anyone else had handed over the shield, and with it, Bucky felt like the last tether to the person he used to be had been severed. Now, it was just him. And no matter how hard he tried to fix things, make amends, or find a shred of normalcy, the past always had its claws in him.

But tonight, she had looked at him and seen something other than the broken pieces. She hadn’t flinched when she figured out who he was. She hadn’t spat accusations or looked at him with the fear or pity he was used to. Instead, she smiled and handed him a damn tart for his birthday, a day he hadn’t even remembered until she brought it up.

Maybe… He shook his head as he walked, his boots crunching hard against the pavement. Don’t get attached.

Still, he glanced down at the tart again, its delicate powdered sugar glinting under the streetlights and a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, almost involuntarily.

----

One rainy night, Bucky was already imagining the taste of a prune cupcake when he reached the bakery and found the door closed.

His brows furrowed as he noted the light spilling from the kitchen and the neatly arranged merchandise still on display. That was odd. He stepped closer, intending to knock on the glass, but hesitated. If she had closed up, there must’ve been a reason. Why would she open just for him?

He turned to leave, but the sound of a long, creative string of curses froze him mid-step. His frown deepened. Maybe she was arguing with Liam or a boyfriend, or... why was he still standing there?

Then came a sharp scream of pain.

Before his mind could process, his body moved on its own. He pushed the wooden door open with a single fluid motion of his vibranium hand and rushed toward the kitchen, ready to confront whoever was causing her harm.

He wasn’t prepared for the sight that greeted him.

She was alone. Entirely alone.

Barefoot, her jeans rolled at the cuffs, and wearing nothing but a lacy black bra on top. She was gripping one foot and hopping in place, her other hand clutching the edge of the counter for balance. Her face was scrunched in pain, a bead of sweat trickling down her temple.

She froze as he appeared in the doorway, locking her wide eyes onto his.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

“Bucky?!” she finally exclaimed, her voice was a mix of mortification and disbelief. “What the hell are you doing?!”

“I heard you scream,” he said, still on high alert. “I thought- I mean, I thought someone was-”

Well, someone isn’t!” she snapped, waving her arms for emphasis before wincing and clutching her foot again. “What are you… how did you even…”

“The door wasn’t locked,” he said simply, lifting his vibranium hand as if that explained everything.

She stared at him. “You broke my door, didn’t you?”

“Technically, I opened it.”

Her shoulders slumped as she let out a groan.

“What happened?” he asked, softening his tone as he noted the red welt forming on her foot.

She gestured toward a hulking machine in the corner, a sour expression on her face. “The kneading machine broke,” she grumbled. “It’s Liam’s day off, so I have to knead all the dough by hand. I got frustrated and kicked the stupid thing.” She pointed to the offending piece of equipment as though it were an enemy in battle.

Bucky’s lips twitched, but he quickly schooled his expression. “And it fought back?”

Her glare could’ve melted steel, but then her expression shifted, and she seemed to remember her current state of undress. Quickly, she crossed her arms over her chest, though the movement only served to push her curves together.

Bucky’s jaw tightened as he fought to keep his gaze locked firmly on her face. He swallowed hard, feeling the distinct burn of self-restraint in every muscle.

“Can you throw me that shirt?” she asked, jerking her chin toward a crumpled white button-up draped over a stool.

“Sure,” he muttered, grabbing it and tossing it her way.

“Turn around?” she added pointedly, feeling her cheeks going warm.

He obeyed instantly, facing the wall and rubbing the back of his neck. “Why, uh… why were you like that anyway?” he asked, his voice low and awkward.

“It’s hot,” she replied, a little grumpy. “The kitchen’s like an oven with all the equipment running, and kneading all that dough by hand isn’t exactly cooling me off. Plus, I was alone. Or so I thought.”

“Right,” Bucky murmured, feeling a little ridiculous for barging in like that. He’d been ready to throw down with some imaginary attacker, and instead, he’d walked in on… well, on a very memorable scene.

The mental image of her, half naked and glistening, burned behind his eyelids, and he clenched his fists at his sides. He didn’t need his mind going there, not now, not ever.

The sound of her shifting behind him broke his thoughts. “Okay, decent,” she said.

He turned back around, carefully keeping his expression neutral. She was now buttoning up the shirt, but her hair was still mussed. He cleared his throat.

“Want me to help kneading?” he blurted out, the words escaping before he could think them through.

She froze mid-button, blinking at him. “You want to… knead dough?”

“Let’s just say I can put that piece of junk to shame,” he said, nodding toward the broken machine. “Only… you have to teach me how. Then I’ll do it. It’s not a big deal.”

Her lips parted as if to protest, but she hesitated, seemingly caught off guard. After a moment, she shook her head. “That’s sweet, but I can’t ask you to do that. It’ll take a lot of time.”

“I have time,” Bucky replied evenly. He didn’t add that the alternative was staring at the ceiling of his living room, trying to fend off the ghosts in his head and praying for a few nightmare-free hours.

She looked at him, clearly debating, catching her bottom lip between her teeth in a way that momentarily distracted him.

“Plus,” he added with a faint shrug, “I won’t raise your electric bill, and I won’t get tired.”

A soft laugh escaped her before she could stop it. Finally, she exhaled and nodded. “Alright, if you’re sure. But don’t say I didn’t warn you, this is serious manual labor.”

“I’ve handled worse,” he said with a small smirk, rolling up his sleeves.

“Okay, tough guy,” she replied, her tone half-teasing as she gestured toward the counter. “Let’s see if you can handle my kitchen.”

He stepped up beside her, and as she began to explain the technique, Bucky couldn’t help but notice how the frustration in her features softened, replaced by something almost playful. It wasn’t often he felt useful outside of a mission or a fight, but in this warm, flour-dusted bakery, it felt like he could do something… normal.

Lost in thought, he didn’t notice her watching him. When he did, he realized she was waiting for a response.

“Uh…” he mumbled. It seemed she had been talking and he didn’t listen to a word.

“It’s okay if you don’t get it at first, here, give me your hand.” Before he could protest, she grabbed his hand, shoved a dough ball into his palm, and flipped it downward. Then her smaller hand slid over his, her heel pressing into the back of his hand to guide the motion.

“Like this,” she murmured, leaning just a little closer to ensure he could see. Her hand pressed forward in firm, rhythmic motions and the dough yielded under the combined force of their hands. Then she rotated the dough and repeated the motion, with deliberate pushes.

Bucky froze as the rhythmic pressure of her hand over his sent his mind somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t go. The heat in the kitchen suddenly felt suffocating, and he swallowed hard, trying to focus on the dough and not on the fact that her motions were… suggestive.

She was entirely unaware of his inner turmoil, focused on the task at hand. “See? You push like this and turn it. Then repeat.”

Her voice was calm and matter-of-fact, but Bucky’s traitorous mind kept replaying the way her body had looked earlier in that lacy bra, barefooted and glistening with sweat, and now her hand was on his, guiding movements that mirrored-

“Got it,” he blurted, pulling his hand away like the dough had burned him.

She blinked at him, surprised. “You sure?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve got it,” he said quickly, flexing his fingers. “Why don’t you, uh… go open the store or something? You can sell the ready stuff, and I’ll finish here.”

Her brow furrowed, then she smirked. “Show me you can handle it first. Then I’ll go.”

Bucky nodded stiffly and got to work, kneading the dough with an intensity that had less to do with the task and more with willing his body and thoughts to calm down. He focused on each push, each turn, determined not to let his mind wander again.

After a moment, she hummed in approval. “Not bad. Alright, you’ve got this.” Tossing him an apron, she added with a grin, “Kitchen’s all yours.”

As she walked out, Bucky let out a long breath and grabbed a ridiculous amount of mid-mixed dough from the machine, barely registering its weight in his hands. He tied the apron around his waist, muttering something about how he’d never live this down if Sam found out, then plunged his hands into the dough with more force than necessary. The soft, yielding texture offered little resistance, and the repetitive motion gave him something to focus on, something to redirect the tension simmering under his skin.

Meanwhile, out front, she was practically buzzing. Well, besides the door incident -she’d have to figure out how to fix that later- and the fact he’d seen her in little more than her bra, the night hadn’t gone completely off the rails. She paused, glancing toward the kitchen and biting her lip.

The idea that Bucky Barnes was in her kitchen, sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing as he worked dough like it was his mortal enemy, was surreal. Even in her wildest fantasies -and she’d had plenty- she’d never imagined this scenario.

She distracted herself by greeting a couple of late-night customers, all while sneaking glances toward the kitchen door. But the thought of having him there with flour dusting his strong hands, focused and serious, made her heart flip every time she let her mind wander free.

Back in the kitchen, Bucky gritted his teeth, determined to keep his focus on the task. He flattened the dough with swift, decisive movements, his vibranium arm doing the flips as his flesh one did the work. But even as he forced himself to concentrate, he couldn’t shake the memory of her soft hand on his, guiding him with firm pressure.

Fuck.

---

When he finally finished kneading the massive ball of dough, he stood there, staring at the smooth mound, realizing he had no idea what to do next. With a resigned sigh, he called out for her. “It’s ready,” he said, motioning to the dough. “Now what?”

“That’s for common bread. We let it rise for about half an hour, then shape it, let it rise again, and bake it.”

“Oh,” he said flatly. “So... you just wait?”

She nodded. “Yep.”

“Great,” he replied, crossing his arms. “Guess I’ll hang around. Liam’s not here, so you’d be stuck doing all this yourself. That can’t be easy, it’s a lot of dough.”

She tilted her head, clearly debating. “I’m used to it when it’s necessary.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you kicking me out?”

Her eyes widened slightly. “N-no!”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he teased, a slight smirk tugging at his lips.

She rolled her eyes, exhaling through her nose. “Want a coffee while we wait?”

He nodded. “Sure.”

They moved to the front of the shop, mugs in hand, settling into a more relaxed atmosphere. The conversation was light, drifting from coffee preferences to the quirks of late-night customers. The rain drummed against the windows, adding a cozy backdrop to the talk.

Then the bell above the door chimed, and two bikers strolled in.

Bucky’s eyes immediately snapped to them, stiffening his posture as he took them in. They were soaked, leather jackets gleaming under the fluorescent light. What caught him off guard wasn’t their appearance, it was their manners. The pair paused at the entrance, brushing their wet boots on the doormat before entering the shop.

“Evening, Y/n,” one of them said casually, nodding in her direction as they made their way to the counter.

Bucky stared, measuring them with a sharp gaze, his body language was calm but alert. He didn’t miss how their eyes briefly flicked to him, assessing, before focusing on her.

“Hey, Daniel, Jack,” she greeted them with an easy familiarity. “Usual?”

“Yeah, and maybe throw in one of those custard tarts,” one of them added, grinning.

As she moved behind the counter to prepare their order, Bucky leaned back slightly, still watching them. He wasn’t sure what he expected from the so-called “local bikers,” but brushing their boots off before entering wasn’t on the list.

One of them glanced his way again, tipping his chin in acknowledgment. “Friend of yours?”

She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Helper for the night.”

Bucky just gave a faint nod. He wasn’t entirely sure why their casual familiarity rubbed him the wrong way, but something about how they interacted with her -relaxed, like they belonged- made him tense.

“So, Cookie,” the taller of the two bikers said, his deep voice carrying an easy familiarity. He had a Viking-style haircut, the sides of his head shaved while the top was long and braided, matching the beard he wore. “We swung by earlier, but you were closed. Anything amiss?”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed slightly at the nickname. Cookie?

“Oh, just old Edna broke, again,” she replied with a sigh, gesturing toward the kitchen. “I was trying to figure out what to do.”

The biker’s face broke into a knowing grin. “Y’should’ve called me. You know I’d have ‘er running again in a snap.”

She gave him a sheepish look. “It’s awful outside Jack, and Bucky here helped me out a lot. I was going to call you tomorrow, maybe take the day off.”

The biker’s gaze shifted to Bucky with a curious expression, if not slightly probing. “Did he, now?”

Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, just stared back at him.

She stepped in quickly, a cheerful note in her voice. “Well, here you go, guys,” she said, setting their bags of pastries and the requested custard tart on the counter.

But before she could finish ringing them up, Daniel added something to the order, sending her back to grab another treat.

With her out of earshot, the viking-wannabe fixed his gaze on Bucky again. “There somethin’ on ma face?” he asked, casual but a little edgy.

Bucky shrugged, relaxed, but his steel-blue eyes locked onto the man without wavering. “Nope.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, the tension in the air could be cut with a knife.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, “You know, Cookie, I was thinking of stopping by tomorrow to fix the kneader myself.” His gaze never left the biker’s. “Don’t think your customers must stray from their duties.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. She opened her mouth to speak, but before she could get a word out, the biker let out a low chuckle, his smile more challenging than amused.

“Well, it won’t be a bother,” he drawled, leaning an elbow on the counter. “Since I always take care of Edna.”

Bucky’s lips quirked up in a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sure you do.”

Somehow, she felt left out of the conversation. The way they stared each other down, the sharpness in their tones, it didn’t seem like they were talking about Edna anymore. It was like…

“C’mon, Jack,” the second biker interjected, breaking the thick silence, though his tone carried a subtle edge of warning. “The guys are waitin’. Cookie here will tell ya if she needs anythin’, won’t ya?”

She nodded quickly, eager to shift the mood, and handed over their order. “Yeah, of course. Thanks for always helping out.” Her smile was warm but a little strained as she accepted their payment.

Jack lingered for a bit, gaze still locked on Bucky’s. The other biker sighed and patted him on the arm. “At least help with somethin’, huh?” he added, shoving a large paper bag into his chest.

The man finally broke eye contact, muttering something under his breath as he grabbed the bag and turned toward the door. But before he turned to leave, he glanced back over his shoulder, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Don’t forget, Cookie, you know who to call if you need real help.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked, the faintest sign of irritation flashing in his eyes. He leaned back against the counter, one hand casually resting on the edge, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. “Sure thing,” he drawled, “If it comes to that, I’ll make sure she doesn’t have to wait.”

The implication in his words wasn’t lost on Jack, whose smirk faltered for just a second before he turned and strode out, the other biker following with an exasperated shake of his head.

As the door swung shut, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Well,” she said, attempting to sound lighthearted, “that was… something.”

Bucky’s gaze softened as he turned back to her, though the tension in his posture remained. “They always this ‘friendly’?”

She laughed awkwardly, brushing her hands on her apron. “Oh, they are, actually. They just get a little protective sometimes, you know? Like I’m their sister or something. Maybe they were just surprised to see you back here.”

He tilted his head, twitching his lips in what might’ve been a smile, but his eyes didn’t match the expression. “A sister, huh?”

She nodded, oblivious to the undercurrent in his tone, and started busying herself by tidying up the counter. To her, it was just Jack and his usual overbearing charm. But to Bucky, it was something else entirely.

Even as he tried to relax, his mind kept replaying the interaction. The way that guy had stood too close, his words heavy with meaning, the subtle posturing was anything but brotherly. Bucky had seen it all before, in darker and rougher places than this warm, flour-dusted bakery.

Except this time, it wasn’t just about dominance or some unspoken challenge. It was about her. And for reasons he wasn’t ready to name, that thought didn’t sit well with him at all.

“So," she started, cutting through the silence and his spiraling thoughts, "you were serious when you said you could fix the machine?"

"Yeah," he replied, keeping his face carefully neutral. "It’ll be a piece of cake."

Piece of cake, he repeated in his mind, trying to suppress the small pang of regret creeping up his spine. Sure, he had a working knowledge of mechanics, he’d helped Sam fix his boat, after all. But that had been different. Boats were his element, like motorcycles or cars. A fifty-year-old kneading machine? Well, he’ll find out tomorrow.

His impulsive desire to impress her -and maybe stake some kind of invisible claim- had won out. Now, all he could do was hope the thing wasn’t an unreadable mess.

She glanced at the clock and brushed her hands together. “Alright, time to give shape to the bread. It’s risen enough.”

Without missing a beat, she led the way back into the kitchen. The warm, yeasty air mingled with her faint perfume, wrapping around him like a comforting blanket.

She grabbed a portion of the dough and began to demonstrate. “Okay, so these are the basics,” she said, her fingers moving deftly. “For buns, you just roll the dough into smooth balls. Like this.” She cupped her hands around the dough, rolling it against the counter in a quick, practiced motion until it was perfectly round. “Braids and baguettes are a little trickier. The braids are just three strands, like hair. And baguettes, well, you stretch and roll them into shape. But you can stick with the buns for now, they’re easier.”

Bucky nodded, reaching for a piece of dough. He hesitated for a moment, as the memory of her hand guiding his earlier flashed in his mind. His throat tightened, and he focused on the dough, rolling it between his hands.

“Like this?” he asked, holding up a slightly lopsided bun.

She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Almost. Use the heel of your hand a little more to smooth it out. Here.” She stepped closer, brushing her fingers lightly over his. This time, she didn’t guide him directly, but the proximity was enough to make his heart thud against his ribs.

He adjusted his grip and tried again, and she gave an approving nod. “There you go. See? You’re a natural.”

As they worked side by side, she kept talking. “Most of this will have to go on sale tomorrow, probably at half price. But having you here is a real help. If I’d had to do all this alone, I might’ve had to throw some of the dough out.”

Her words struck a chord, and a pang of happiness settled in his chest. It wasn’t much, just a small acknowledgment of his effort, but it filled a hollow part of him he didn’t even realize was there.

He stole a glance at her as she focused on a braid, her hands working the dough with practiced ease. A strand of hair had fallen loose, brushing against her cheek. She pushed it back with her wrist, leaving a faint streak of flour across her temple. It made her look effortlessly endearing, and he quickly averted his eyes, focusing back on the dough in his hands.

Unbeknownst to him, she was doing the same. She caught glimpses of him as he worked, his broad shoulders hunched slightly, his calloused flesh hand and the vibranium one surprisingly gentle as he shaped the dough. Something was captivating about how he moved, so deliberate yet careful, like he was afraid of breaking something.

“Looks like you’re getting the hang of it,” she said, glancing over at his growing pile of buns.

“Yeah, well,” he replied, rolling another piece of dough under his palms. “Not exactly rocket science.”

She chuckled, “I don’t know. You’ve got a good touch. It took me a week to get my buns to look that smooth while doing it swiftly.”

Every time their gazes met -accidentally, fleetingly- it was like a spark flared in the air between them. Then, one of them would quickly look away, snapping their attention back to the dough. It was a quiet rhythm of stolen glances and fleeting touches, building a connection that felt as tangible as the dough in their hands.

-----

The bread was neatly shaped and lined up on trays, ready to rise once more before its final trip to the oven. She covered the trays with damp cloths, brushing her hands on her apron as she glanced at the clock. “Alright, now we wait again. Should be ready for the oven in about half an hour.”

Bucky nodded, stepping back to let her take the lead. “You need me to do anything else?”

“Not right now,” she replied with a small smile. “I���ll take care of the customers while we wait. You can… I don’t know, hang out if you want?”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Sure.”

She disappeared into the front of the shop, the bell over the door jingling faintly as a pair of officers entered. Bucky leaned against the doorframe, watching her from the kitchen as she greeted them warmly.

“Evening, boys. The usual?”

“Yup. Two coffees and a box of donuts,” one of the cops said, glancing over at Bucky briefly. His partner followed the look, squinting slightly before his eyes widened.

“Sergeant Barnes,” the officer said, his voice respectful but tinged with curiosity.

Bucky stiffened slightly at being at being recognized, but he nodded. “Good evening.”

The officer hesitated for a moment before speaking again. “Uh, sorry if this is out of line, but… would it be okay if I got a picture with you?”

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, glancing at her for a brief second. She offered him an encouraging smile, and he finally nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

The officer grinned and handed his phone to his partner. They stood together for the picture, Bucky keeping his usual neutral expression, though the officer looked thrilled.

As the partner handed the phone back, he chuckled, glancing between Bucky and her. “Didn’t know you were friends with Cookie here. Lucky you, she’s got the best donuts in the neighborhood.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, but she laughed and rolled her eyes before he could say anything. “Alright, enough buttering me up. Your coffee’s getting cold.”

The cops thanked her again, waved at Bucky, and headed out, leaving the shop quiet once more.

He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms as he looked at her. “So… they call you Cookie too, huh?”

She chuckled, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “It’s just a nickname my grandma gave me when I was little. She used to call me her little cookie because I’d sneak cookie dough every time she baked. I guess it stuck, and eventually, the regulars picked it up, too.”

“Little cookie,” he repeated, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Does it bother you?”

“Not really,” she said, shrugging. “It’s kind of sweet, actually”

Bucky hummed in response, his smirk softening into something more thoughtful. “Fits you.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the compliment, but before she could respond, he straightened up. “Guess I’ll head out now. I’ll be back tomorrow to take a look at that machine. Ah… actually... I owe you one more thing.”

Her brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“The door,” he admitted, glancing toward it sheepishly. “Remember I kind of... broke it thinking you were in trouble?”

Her mouth opened slightly in realization, and for a fleeting moment, the two of them were transported back to that chaotic instant, him storming into the kitchen, with his eyes wild with concern, only to find her jumping in her bra, startled but unharmed.

A faint heat rose to her cheeks, and she quickly looked down, busying her hands with the edge of her apron. “Right. The door,” she said, a touch higher than usual.

“I’ll run up to my place and grab a chain and a lock,” he offered, clearly trying to sound casual, though the tips of his ears were suspiciously red. “It’s not much, but it’ll hold until you can get it fixed.”

“That’s... really thoughtful of you,” she said softly, sneaking a glance at him. “Thanks.”

He nodded once, tightening his jaw slightly as if bracing himself, before turning toward the door. “Wait here. I’ll be quick.”

-------

When he returned, he carried a chain and lock in hand, the metal clinking softly as he stepped through the door. Without a word, he moved to the broken door and began securing the temporary fix, his movements sure and steady. She stayed nearby, her arms crossed lightly over her apron, watching him work.

“Will you manage to close up on your own?” he asked, testing the chain one last time to ensure it held.

She nodded, her lips curving into a faint smile. “I’ll be fine.”

He lingered momentarily at the doorway, meeting her gaze as though debating whether to press further. Instead, he simply stepped back, giving her a small, almost shy smirk. “Alright, then.”

He turned toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance back over his shoulder. “Goodnight, Cookie.”

The nickname rolled off his tongue with ease, leaving her a little stunned as the bell over the door jingled behind him.

-----

That night, she lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling as the evening replayed itself in vivid detail. Every stolen glance, every fleeting touch, every word exchanged lingered in her mind, refusing to let her settle into sleep. She rolled over, grabbing a pillow and hugging it tightly, only to let out a muffled squeal, burying her face in the fabric.

It all felt like something out of a novel, the kind her grandmother used to read, with their slow-burn tension and moments of unexpected closeness. Him standing there in her kitchen, sleeves rolled up, kneading dough with those ridiculously strong hands. The warmth of his smirk when he called her "Cookie" before leaving.

She sighed, turning onto her back again, staring at the dim glow of the streetlight filtering through her curtains. Don’t get carried away, she reminded herself. He was… Bucky Barnes, for crying out loud. The man probably had a private life he kept well-guarded. Dating, maybe even a girlfriend waiting for him somewhere. Someone who could offer him more than just late-night baking disasters and a small-town charm bubble in the big city.

“Oh, whatever,” she mumbled, throwing an arm over her face. It was free to fantasize, right? Just a harmless indulgence in the possibilities, no matter how far-fetched.

----

Bucky lay on the couch in his apartment, replaying the events of the night on a loop in his mind. Her hand, firm yet soft, guiding his against the dough in that rhythmic motion. He could still feel her touch and her warmth seeping into his skin. He groaned softly, shifting as he became acutely aware of the pang of need stirring under his sweatpants.

“Damn it,” he muttered, running a hand over his face. Was he really that touch-starved? The answer was obvious.

But then another thought struck him, one that pulled his focus away from his frustration. Her touch hadn’t made him uncomfortable. Not in the way he’d grown used to: tensing, the inevitable flinch, or the tightening of his chest. No, being near her, having her hands on his, had done the opposite in a way he hadn’t felt in years -decades-.

His mind shifted to the kneading machine. He had all but volunteered to fix the thing, despite only a vague knowledge of how it worked. He cursed under his breath, drowning in anxiety as he realized he could very well embarrass himself tomorrow. She’d been so grateful, trusted him so easily. The last thing he wanted was to let her down.

Then there was the other thing, the background he could never escape. Even though she’d been cool about it. He was damaged goods, and he knew that, but still... a part of him wanted her to notice him.

To see him, Bucky, the guy who helped her in the kitchen, who wanted to make her smile, who was ready to spend hours fixing her stupid kneading machine just for the excuse to see her again.

Fuck. This was going to be one of those nights.

----

By the time morning gave way to the agreed-upon hour, Bucky found himself standing outside the bakery, a hand tucked into his jacket pocket as he knocked on the glass of the front door. He might -or might not- have put some effort into dressing for the occasion, trading his usual hoodie for a henley that clung just enough to hint at his physique under his jacket. Still, the dark circles under his eyes betrayed his sleepless night.

She appeared from the back, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted towel, and her face lit up as she spotted him.

“Cookie,” he greeted with a faint smirk as she unlocked the door and pulled it open.

“Sergeant,” she replied, the corner of her mouth quirking up in amusement.

The exchange felt oddly natural, like a line out of an old movie. She opened the door with a soft laugh, stepping aside to let him in. He strolled toward the back, the scent of freshly baked bread of the previous night lingering in the air as she followed.

“Let’s see the beast,” he said, nodding toward the old kneader, circling once like a predator sizing up its prey.

“All yours” she answered, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter. “Think you can handle it?”

He shot her a mock-serious glance. “We’ll see.”

As he studied the machine, his eyes flicked to the sturdy work table beside it.

“You got a cloth or something to cover this?”

She frowned slightly, her brows knitting together in confusion. “A cloth?”

“Something that can get dirty,” he clarified.

“Uh… sure.” She rummaged through a drawer and pulled out an old, slightly worn tablecloth, tossing it to him.

“Thanks,” he said, unfolding it and laying it across the table.

Her confusion deepened as he positioned himself beside the kneader. “What are you-”

She didn’t get to finish the question before Bucky gripped the sides of the heavy machine, lifting it like it weighed no more than a loaf of bread. He turned and placed it carefully on the table, adjusting it until it sat at an angle he deemed perfect for inspection.

She blinked, stunned for a moment before her lips parted in an incredulous laugh.

It wasn’t necessary, he could’ve worked on it just fine where it sat. But something in him wanted to do it anyway, to leave her watching, even if just for a moment.

She raised a brow, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter. There was a teasing glint in her eyes when she said, “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to impress me.”

Bucky froze for a second, then, slowly, he turned his head to look at her with an unreadable expression at first. But then the corner of his mouth quirked up, softening his otherwise stoic features. “Did it work?” he asked, carrying just a hint of challenge.

She felt a flutter in her chest she wasn’t ready to name. Biting her lip to suppress a smile, she fought to keep her voice steady. “Fix Edna,” she quipped, tilting her chin toward the kneader as if to deflect the heat in the air, “and maybe I’ll tell you.”

For a split second, something flickered in his eyes, an almost boyish mischief that made her pulse quicken. “Challenge accepted,” he said, turning back to the machine.

As he bent over the kneader, his metal hand steadying it while his flesh one worked the bolts loose, she let herself watch him for a moment. Something was mesmerizing about the way he moved: deliberate, confident, his sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms that looked sculpted to dismantle things like this.

Luckily for Bucky, Edna really was a piece of cake. As he worked through the simple mechanics of the old machine, a wave of relief settled over him. He didn’t know why he’d been so preoccupied with the possibility of failure. Maybe it was because the stakes weren’t just about fixing a kneader, it was about proving himself in some quiet, unspoken way.

“Do you have a cable extension to test it?” he asked after reassembling the final part, glancing over his shoulder at her.

“Yeah, hang on,” she said, disappearing for a moment before returning with a long orange cord. She plugged it in, watching as he connected it to the machine.

When the kneader whirred to life, steady and smooth, she clapped her hands together once, the sound bright and cheerful in the warm kitchen. Her smile, wide and genuine, was aimed directly at him. “You did it!” she exclaimed, with a contagious enthusiasm.

Bucky felt a jolt in his chest, like a sudden surge of energy. That smile, so pure and full of warmth, made him feel capable of almost anything. For a brief moment, it silenced the nagging voices in his head that constantly questioned his worth.

He turned off the machine and lifted it again, carefully placing it back in its original spot. He adjusted it slightly, turning it until it sat exactly as it had before, deliberately and unhurriedly.

“Show-off,” she teased lightly, eyes sparkling with amusement.

Still riding the wave of her praise, he smirked, grabbing a rag to wipe his hands. “So?” he asked, with a tone just bordering on playful. “You have to tell me now if it worked.”

She blinked, momentarily knitting her brows in confusion. “What…oh,” she murmured. He wasn’t talking about the machine. Her mind flicked back to their earlier exchange, and warmth crept up her neck as she bit her lip, suddenly feeling all too shy under his gaze.

“How could I not be impressed?” she said softly, meeting his eyes with a hint of nervousness.

Bucky’s smirk lingered since her words boosted his confidence. “Good to know,” he replied in a low, almost intimate tone.

Her laughter came nervously, breaking the silence. “Alright, Mr. Fix-It, let’s not-”

She didn’t finish her sentence since Bucky, still high on boldness, took a step closer. “You know,” he started in a steady voice, despite the rapid thrum of his heart, “I’m starting to think impressing you might be my new favorite hobby.”

Her lips parted in surprise, “Bucky…”

“Tell me if I’m reading this wrong,” he murmured, his flesh hand lifting just slightly, hovering near her arm as if waiting for permission.

She didn’t pull away. Instead, her nervous laugh melted into a smile, and her eyes locked onto his. “You’re not.”

That was all the confirmation he needed. Closing the gap between them, he leaned in, in a mix of deliberate but hesitant movements, like he feared the moment might shatter.

When their lips met, it was soft at first, a gentle, tentative connection that quickly deepened. Her hands instinctively rested against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palms.

For Bucky, the world seemed to narrow to just this: the warmth of her lips, the faint scent of flour and sugar on her skin, and the way she melted into him as if she belonged there.

When they let go, her eyes fluttered open, wide and searching, and her lips parted as if she wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words.

“Wow,” she breathed finally, the word barely audible but carrying all the wonder she couldn’t express.

Bucky’s gaze flicked between her eyes and her slightly swollen lips. His own breath was uneven, and his voice rough as he muttered, “Yeah. Wow.”

She let out a nervous laugh, her cheeks warm as she glanced down, only for him to tilt her chin up with a gentle finger. His expression had softened, the earlier mischief replaced by something more vulnerable.

Without waiting for her to pull away -or maybe daring her to- he leaned in again. This time, there was no hesitation, no careful testing. The second kiss was deeper, and more purposeful, stealing her breath away.

She responded instinctively, slipping her arms around his shoulders as she pressed closer. His metal hand found her waist, firm and steady, while his flesh one cradled her jaw, brushing his thumb along her cheek in a tender contrast to the intensity of the kiss.

The world outside the bakery seemed to fade, and when they finally broke apart, breathing heavily, her voice was soft, almost shy, as she finally managed to say, “If that’s how you fix things, maybe Edna should break more often.”

Bucky chuckled lowly, trailing his fingers down her arm as he leaned back just enough to see her face. “Careful, there,” he replied with boyish grin. “I might start breaking things on purpose.”

She laughed, shaking her head as her hands lingered against his chest. “Just… don’t let it be my heart, okay?”

The teasing glint in his eyes softened at her words, replaced by something deeper that made her heart race again.

“Never,” he promised leaning in slightly, nearly touching her forehead with his. Slowly, deliberately, his body shifted closer, bracketing his hands on her sides, palms resting lightly on the edge of the workbench, gently caging her in.

“If you have me, doll…” His voice softened, laced with a husky tremor, as though each word was pulled from the deepest parts of him. He paused, pressing his lips together briefly, while his gaze flickered uncertainly. She could see the struggle in his eyes, the weight of unspoken fears and hopes battling within him. “I’ll treasure you the way you deserve.”

There he was, exposed and raw, offering her the most vulnerable parts of himself. And she saw it all, the battered pieces, the scars both seen and unseen, and the wonder in his expression that someone like her could even consider him worth it.

All the previous cockiness evaporated as he waited for her response, his breath caught in his chest. He didn’t move, didn’t dare.

She blinked up at him, parting her lips slightly as her hands lifted from where they rested against the workbench. For a heartbeat, she hesitated, before reaching out, tracing the curve of his jaw.

“You already do,” she whispered. Her thumb brushed the faint stubble on his cheek, and she smiled softly, a mixture of disbelief and certainty shining in her eyes. She rose onto her toes and brought her lips to his. The kiss was more deliberate this time, an answer in every sense, with a confidence that left no room for doubt. When she pulled back slightly, she looked into his hooded eyes. “I’ll take care of you too, Bucky. I promise, " she said tenderly.

His lips curved into a rare, radiant smile, one that softened every hard edge of his tired face. He didn’t say anything at first, just stared at her with such unguarded joy it made her heart flutter all over again. Then, without warning, his strong hands found her waist, and he lifted her effortlessly off the ground.

She gasped, a delighted laugh spilling from her lips as he spun her around, the room blurring for a moment as the motion carried them both. His own low chuckle mingled with hers, a sound so rich and full like a victory, a triumph for once,  over the weight he’d been carrying for so long.

When he set her down gently, he kept his hands on her waist, and she leaned into him, their laughter fading into a warm, contented silence as she rested her hands against his chest. His heart raced beneath her palms, matching her erratic pulse.

They didn’t need to say anything more. At this moment, their shared warmth in the dusty floured kitchen was enough. The world and the rhythm of the weekday could wait a little longer.

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[navybrat817]

why is Thunderbolts Bucky so 🥵🥵🥵 please eat me up

I agree, nonnie!

Eat You Up

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky comes home after a mission and wastes no time making up for the time apart.

Word Count: Over 1.7k

Warnings: Established relationship, oral sex (f. receiving), light dirty talk, mention of cockwarming, slight feels (it's me), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

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

“Just landed. Safe and sound. Tough mission, but successful. Missed you. Be home soon.”

You reread the message, your heart rate picking up. Bucky had been away on a mission for a few days and couldn't reach out much. God, you missed him so much. Knowing now that your man would be home soon where he belonged, you let out a breath of relief and smiled.

You rushed to your bedroom and wasted no time getting ready for his arrival. The message was to the point: He was safe and sound, no injuries, and a tough mission meant he’d need some stress relief. Why not let him play with the person he missed most?

Your heart raced when you heard the footsteps outside of the bedroom door, waiting in anticipation in the middle of the bed. In a few moments, you two would reconnect. Being without him in your home for a few days left you longing. You missed his smile. His dry humor. The sight of him reading a book in his favorite chair. You missed all of him.

Bucky slowly pushed the door open, and you lost your breath when he met your gaze. The heat in the room spiked, but you shivered, your body suddenly feeling cold after days without his touch. His massive build took up most of the doorframe and he was still in his black tactical gear, a fingerless glove covering his right hand. Your beautiful soldier looked like he was still on a mission, his shoulders tight and jaw clenched.

And you didn't have a stitch of clothing on, your legs open and ready for him to do whatever he wanted.

His eyes darkened as they scanned your body, his breathing ragged. Whether it was from the mission or the relief of being back with you, the tension thickened in the air. His gaze paused at the juncture between your legs, his breath catching as he took in the sight of you, before he growled, “Look at you. Such a sight to come home to.” Stepping forward, his voice thick with desire, he added, “I could just eat you up.”

The room seemed to shrink as he stepped closer. His eyes never left you as he closed the distance, his gaze filled with adoration and hunger, his presence overwhelming. Everything about him was overwhelming in the best possible way. Your heart raced as he crawled on the bed, but you didn’t flinch. You were ready for him.

“If that's what you need, Sergeant,” you breathed, a teasing challenge in your smile. He exhaled sharply as you slid a hand down your torso, his chest rising and falling faster, as if he was holding himself back from taking you right then and there. “Then you'll get it.”

You could handle whatever he craved... and more. Maybe you'd make him beg for it for once the way you begged so many times before. No. You wouldn't be cruel enough to make him beg. At least not tonight. Not when you both needed it.

“Trying to touch what’s mine?” He grabbed your wrist before your fingers could reach home, your skin warm under his gentle grip. He was one of the most powerful men you knew, someone with enough strength to rip you in half if he wished, but he would never use his strength to hurt you. “You miss me?” The ache in his voice was more than desire. It was longing.

“I won't touch. It’s all yours.” Your chest tightened when he released your wrist, your eyes suddenly burning with unshed tears, your hands itching to feel his body and know for certain he was really there with you. “I always miss you when you're gone.”

You didn't like eating meals alone now since you had come to expect easy and tough conversations as the two of you moved around the kitchen and sat at the table. You enjoyed exploring your surroundings together, but craved nights cuddled up together on the couch as the television played in the background. Building a home with the ex-assassin was a dream come true.

He hovered over you and tilted your chin, giving you a second to take a breath, before he leaned down and claimed your mouth in a feverish kiss. The ferocity made you gasp, your arms wrapping around him to hold him close. Your nipples brushed against his shirt as you deepened the kiss, desperate and needy. The kiss was a promise, expressing everything you wanted to say before the night was over.

That you loved him, that he was all you needed, that your house was a home because he was back with you.

His hair fell in his face as he broke the kiss and moved his gloved hand between your legs. You mewled when he teased your slit, his stare as seductive as his touch. You rolled your hips up, seeking out more friction, wanting him to make good on his promise to eat you up.

“I missed you,” he whispered, gliding down your body with the grace of a large cat. The muscles in his back rippled as his shoulders spread you open for him, your hands gripping the sheets to keep you from grinding against his face. “And I missed this. Your taste. Your smell. Your sounds.”

You whimpered when his nose brushed your clit. “Bucky, please,” you begged, his hands taking hold of your hips and digging in. And here you thought neither of you would beg tonight.

But Bucky Barnes wasn't a heartless man. He showed mercy when he had to, which was why he took pity and licked a stripe up your pussy with a groan. Flames spread along your body as you threw your head back and moved your hands to grip his hair. He ate pussy skillfully, effortlessly, and all you could do was hold on and ride out the waves of ecstasy.

“Good girl. So beautiful. And all mine,” he murmured before he shoved his tongue inside your hole, your eyes rolling back and mouth parting. Your super soldier had his head buried between your legs like he never wanted to leave.

“I… Oh, fuck!” you cried, his gloved hand reaching up to toy with your breast. His fingers teased your nipple, his metal thumb rubbing your clit, and you couldn't stop yourself from pushing your hips closer. You had no shame in humping his face as his tongue moved along your sensitive walls, his beard leaving the most delicious burn with each movement.

And if you smothered your lover with your cunt tonight, he’d proudly saunter up to the gates of whatever heaven you sent him to with a smile.

He pulled his tongue out, his mouth sucking on the swollen bundle of nerves as your thighs trembled. You lifted your head high enough to catch the feral look in his eyes. Pleasure climbed within you so quickly it left you dizzy. “Such a pretty pussy. Should write poems about it.”

“Oh, God,” you moaned, your head falling back again, heat filling your body.

“My name,” he growled, pushing two metal fingers into your wetness and pumping fast, knowing you wouldn't last much longer. You were right on the edge, ready to fall. He’d be there to catch you. “Say my name when you come.”

You didn't say his name as his tongue entered you once more. You shouted it, chanted it like a prayer, and soaked his mouth with your juices. He moaned as you fluttered around his tongue, and he continued to lap at you, trying to drink down every drop. He swept you up in waves of bliss and you were lucky you didn't drown.

Sparks still burst behind your eyes as he sat back to admire his work, making you clench around nothing as he licked his lips. You held out your arms with a whine, needing him close once again as you came back to yourself. He stretched out on top of you and pressed a soft kiss to your lips, your essence lingering on his. Your hands roamed where they could reach and it sent a thrill through you when he moaned.

“Hi,” he whispered after a moment, smiling and making your heart pound all over again.

“Hi,” you sighed, shutting your eyes and smiling, too, when he kissed each eyelid. You were lucky enough to witness this soft side of him, trusted enough for him to be vulnerable.

“You okay?” He kissed your forehead this time.

“Better than okay. You’re home,” you replied, breathing him in before you opened your eyes. Your heart stopped momentarily under his soft gaze. “Are you okay?”

He was the one out there fighting to keep the world safe. Not only that, he still fought the demons of his past from time to time. It wasn't fair, but you were there to help as you could.

“I’m good, doll. I’m home. Everything I need is right here,” he said, rocking his hips. You moaned when you felt how hard he was through his pants. He deserved to feel good. “And we have some lost time to make up for, so no falling asleep on me.”

“Lost time? It was only a few days,” you teased, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear when he huffed.

“A few days too many,” he said, not teasing at all as he leaned up to unbuckle his belt. “Drives me crazy being apart from you.” He would never leave you if he didn't have to.

“I know. I was just teasing. We can make up for every second you were away,” you assured him, knowing he wasn't done with you tonight by a long shot. You were fine with that since you wanted him just as badly as he wanted you. “Bucky?”

He paused before he could push his pants down. “Yeah, doll?”

You traced a heart on his forehead, wanting to erase the pain he endured and replace it with only good things. “I love you.”

He blinked the mist from his eyes and leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours. “I love you, too.”

When you finally fell asleep the following morning with his cock buried deep inside you, he whispered again that he loved you and that he couldn't wait to eat you up all over again once you woke up.

That's two back-to-back Bucky fics in a little over 29 hours from me with him being in love and not afraid to eat you like his last meal. 😂 Are you lovelies sick of me by now? I hope not. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[y2kstarr]

— ᥫ᭡ say so . . . chris and matt sturniolo

where . . . Chris and Matt both spot you at an influencer party they'd gone to, and now they need to see who can bag you for the night. But what happens when, to their surprise, you want them both?

contains . . . smut, build-up to the smut, threesome (absolutely ZERO incest), Eiffel Tower position, oral (m!receiving), unprotected p in v, dirty talk, degrading and praising, heavy chratt bickering

credits to @delilahsturniolo for the marathon concept

HOT PINK WRITING MARATHON . . . fic #5

It was one of those nights in L.A. — every room lit by ring lights and camera flashes, every corner filled with people who lived for the scroll, swipe, and algorithm.

The lights at the party were dim and dreamlike, flickering between pink and gold. The pool out back shimmered beneath strings of fairy lights, dotted with floating roses that looked like someone’s aesthetic choice purely for Instagram. Voices blended into an intoxicating hum of flirtation, clout-chasing, and alcohol-fueled egos.

Having already downed a few drinks and chatted up multiple people, Matt and Chris had been scanning the party for some real fun to get their hands on.

That was when they spotted you.

You were standing by the glass railing, drink in hand, watching the crowd like a cat in a room full of mice. You looked like you didn’t belong — but in the best way. Like the party was orbiting you, not the other way around. Eyes that held secrets. A smile that could break careers. Legs for days.

Matt nudged Chris with his elbow, low and sharp. “There. The one by the railing.”

Chris followed his gaze, and his eyes instantly lit with that telltale look — like a kid eyeing a locked candy store. “Yeah,” he said slowly, almost reverently. “She’s… wow.”

“I’m going over.”

“You? I don’t think so. You’ll scare her off with your fake-deep ‘I do yoga and listen to The Weeknd on vinyl’ bullshit.”

“At least I don’t wear the same cologne as every crypto bro in this zip code.” Matt adjusted his shirt, the top three buttons undone, chest lightly glistening under the party lights. “Let’s see who she actually wants.”

Chris scoffed, fixing his hat on his head before smirking and following his brother, the both of them approaching like wolves in heat wearing designer sneakers.

Chris got to you first, his hand landing gently on the railing beside yours as he leaned in close, just enough for you to catch his cologne — clean, spicy, intentional. “So tell me something,” he said with a smooth, tilted grin, “are you always the most interesting person in the room, or is tonight special?”

You turned your head slowly, meeting his eyes with a smirk and a raised eyebrow. “Is that your opener?”

“Depends. Is it working?”

Before you could answer, Matt appeared on your other side like a scene change. He handed you a drink—something pale pink and artfully garnished. “She already has a drink,” Chris muttered even as you took the glass from him.

“This one actually tastes good,” Matt said with a wink. “Trust me.”

You took a sip out of sheer curiosity. He wasn’t wrong.

You raised an eyebrow as you took the drink away from your lips, looking between the both of them, curious as to what exactly had pulled them both over to you. “And you two are…?”

“Brothers,” they said at the same time. Then immediately glared at each other.

“Twins?” you asked.

“Triplets,” Chris corrected.

“Our brother, Nick, bailed on us to hang out with a girl in an outfit made entirely of glitter,” Matt added.

Ah, Tara, you thought, snickering and shaking your head as you took another drink, not noticing how they both looked over you and gave challenging glares once more.

Chris tried the classic charm offensive — eye contact that lingered too long, compliments that felt tailored just for you. “You’ve got this vibe,” he said, watching you closely, “like you know you’re hot, but you’re not annoying about it. It's refreshing.”

Matt countered by leaning into humor and empathy. “Ignore him. He probably says that to any girl who orders oat milk at Starbucks.”

Chris rolled his eyes before scoffing. “You fuckin' order oat milk at Starbucks, dumbass.”

You laughed, warm and unfiltered. They both visibly lit up like they’d won something. And now the game was far from over.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

They pulled out every trick in the book throughout the night.

Chris took you to the dance floor, guiding you with one hand on the small of your back, showing off the rhythm he usually showed off in tiktok videos. “I could do this all night,” he murmured in your ear as the beat dropped. You felt his confidence like static against your skin, making your laugh and just feel yourself as you swayed your body to the music with him.

Matt waited for his moment and found it when you took a break, lounging on a cushioned daybed near the pool. He sat beside you, just close enough to graze your leg. “You know,” he said, voice lower now, more serious, “most of the people here only care about how many followers you have. But I was watching the way you look at people. You see through them. That’s rare.”

Chris walked out to join the two of you, more drinks in his hands as he gave you a toothy grin, adding onto what Matt had said. "Yeah, it's like you're out of this damn world,"

You tilted your head at them both, scoffing softly. “You guys rehearsed these lines or something?”

“Absolutely not,” they both said at the same time.

Which made you laugh again. Damn them. They were too good at this.

As you all drank the shots of expensive tequila Chris had got, he told a story about them that had you nearly spitting out your drink laughing, Matt unable to not snicker along with it as well, the environment warm and thick.

By now, the tension between them towards you was crackling like the edge of a storm.

“So,” Matt said, tapping his glass, glancing over it at you as if he wasn't losing his mind hoping that you'd pick him, “who’s winning?”

You looked at both of them, smile teasing.

Chris leaned in, smug. “Come on, we both know you’ve already picked.”

You bit your lip, leaned back into the cushions, stretched your legs like a queen waiting for her court to bow. “Actually…”

Their eyes locked on you, anticipation tight in their jaws.

“…I was thinking maybe I don’t have to choose.”

Silence. Then a synchronized blink.

Chris was the first to speak. “You’re joking.”

Matt tilted his head. “Wait. Are you serious?”

You just smiled, sultry and slow. “Why pick one when I can have both?”

Their smugness melted into something else—surprise, intrigue, hunger.

“Damn...” Chris said finally, breaking into a crooked grin. “I like you.”

Matt laughed, a little breathless. “Dangerous.”

You smirked at their reactions before you stood, glancing over your shoulder to look down at both of them, raising an eyebrow. “Are you coming, or do I need to find someone else to entertain me?”

They scrambled up like excited puppies, speechless, for once outmatched.

And you? You walked ahead, knowing they’d follow.

Because they were players. But tonight? You were the game.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

The bass thudded through the marble floors of the house like a heartbeat too fast from too much tequila and attention, thankfully making noise to cover up the obscene sounds coming from the bathroom you, Chris, and Matt snuck in to finally have some fun.

"Fuuuuck—" Chris groaned out as his grip tightened around the makeshift ponytail he'd made for your hair in his hand, looking down and watching the way you took his cock in your mouth like it was meant to be there.

Your nails dug into his thighs as you gripped them to hold yourself steady, your eyes glossy and fluttering a bit as you looked up at him, being met with that smirking grin on his lips.

"Look like such a pretty fuckin' slut for us, huh Matt?" Chris cooed to you, reminding your of the deliciously thick cock that was Matt's, sliding in and out of your sopping wet pussy from behind.

"Shit— Yeah she does.." He breathily responded, but his eyes stayed trained on how his cock disappeared into your cunt before he'd pull back and repeat, your warm, gooey walls making him bite his bottom lip hard, especially as you clenched around him each time Chris got a little rough with your mouth.

You moaned around Chris's cock as you felt Matt's hands on you, one gripping your hip tightly and the other sliding up your arched back underneath your scrunched up dress around your waist, your tits freed from your earlier make out sesh with Chris as Matt had been busy getting off your panties.

"Goddamn baby, you're just loving this, aren't you?" Chris groaned, his free hand holding his shirt up to his torso so that he had a clearer view of you. He chuckled at your slurred "mhmm" around his cock, your responses muffled by your full mouth.

Chris couldn't help as he gripped your hair harder, thrusting his cock a bit more into your mouth, making small gags and noises spill from you as you let him fuck your mouth, his groans mixing into the noises that filled this dimly lit bathroom.

"Fuckin' hell— y' gonna make me cum, baby—" Chris panted, earning a chuckle from Matt for not holding out as long as he was, but Chris ignored him as you gripped his thighs harder, his other hand nearly tearing his shirt with how hard he was holding it. His breathing became shaky, his legs trembling a bit as his hips sputtered against your mouth.

"I'm gonna— Gonna cum— Holy fuuuuck—" Chris gasped out, groaning loudly as you felt his cock twitch against your tongue before pumping his thick, warm cum down your throat, making tears fall down your already mascara stained cheeks, but you held out, especially with his hand keeping your head in place.

"Told you I'd last longer," Matt snickered, though groaning at the way your pussy clenched around his cock due to you swallowing Chris's sperm, missing the way Chris flipped him off.

"You try fuckin' her mouth next time, then we'll see if you're tough shit," Chris snipped back, looking down at you as he pulled his cock from your mouth, smirking at how your tongue licked up the rest of his residing cum on your lips, before helping you stand up just a bit.

"Fuck— Next time? You hear that, ma?" Matt breathily asked, watching the way you put your hands on Chris's chest to keep you upright before turning your head to look back at him, your pink, glossy lips parted as you face already looked fucked out, making him groan. "You wanna see us again?"

You nodded before moaning as Matt started thrusting harder, deeper into your cunt, suddenly feeling as Chris grasped your jaw and turned your face back to him, his lips brushing against yours.

"Good, cause I don't think I'll ever get enough of you," He purred low, earning a slurred giggle from you before your lips met in a messy, passionate kiss, your nails digging into his shirt as Matt hit that perfect spot within you, your moan swallowed into the kiss.

"Jesus, ma— This pussy's fuckin' amazing— Gonna get me addicted to this shit—" Matt groaned, his body leaning forward to press his chest against your back, in turn, making your chest press against Chris's as you continued to make out.

Your eyes rolled back as Chris's tongue slipped into your mouth, tangling with your tongue as you felt like you were getting drunk off of Matt's dick. God, this was fucking heaven.

One of your shaky hands reached back to meet Matt's that still held your hip, gripping it in an attempt to tell him you were close.

"Y' gonna cum, mama? Yeah? This dick that fuckin' good?" Matt cooed, chuckling as Chris pulled from the kiss to glare at him before delving back in to kiss you harder, your moans and whines spilling into his mouth and in between breaths, his hands palming at your tits.

As that burning ecstasy built in your abdomen, you felt as Matt kissed at your shoulder and neck, biting and kissing over the hickies both of them had made during the make out sesh earlier. The sensation of everything felt like too much, Chris's hands kneading your tits, Matt's dick pounding your sweet cunt, both of their mouths on you.

"'M gonna cum ma— Cum with me— Fuck, please cum with me—"

It hardly took much of Matt's begging to make that pleasure snap within you, your back arching hard, your legs shaking, your hands gripping Chris's shirt like a life line, your lips parting from his to let out a loud, gorgeous moan, especially as you felt Matt's hips stutter before pumping your pussy full of his cum, thick spurts painting you gummy walls.

After a few more moments of Matt riding out your highs, he stilled, all three of you panting in near unison, spent and blissed out. Matt chuckled breathlessly at your face, loving the way you looked completely fucked out now.

"Was that good for you, ma?" He asked, earning a nod and a slurred "mhmm" from you before he leaned in to kiss you, soft and deep, before parting, feeling as Chris pressed his lips to your ear, whispering sultrily into it.

"So, who was better?"

You huffed as you rolled your eyes, your voice a bit strained and tired as you answered back. "Both of you were fucking good.."

"Yeah, but I was better, right?" Chris asked like a puppy looking for validation to boost his ego.

"C'mon dude, she was moaning all over my dick," Matt protested.

"Yeah? Well, she was cryin' all over mine."

"That was cause of me."

"Like hell it was! Did you see the way she was drooling on my dick??"

You huffed as they bickered, too tired to tell them to knock it off, just resting your head on Chris's chest and closing your eyes.

Oh you were definitely going to do this again.

☆ : this one's also not proofread, so i'm really sorry if it's bad, i'm so tired chat 😭 I fuckin started my bloodbath this morning and i'm in pain- BUT IM PULLING THROUGH THE BEST I CAN FOR YALL- hope y'all enjoy, mwah <33

taglist 🏷️

[cryoculus]

— cleanup on aisle three ⟢

phainon’s late-night grocery runs are a masterclass in chaos: strange ingredients, fish-shaped lighters, and recipes that could either save the world or end it. and you, a cynical store clerk who just wants to end your shifts quietly, find yourself caught in the storm of his culinary madness.

★ featuring; phainon x gender-neutral!reader

★ word count; 8.3k words

★ tags; friends to lovers, the grand chrysos au (from the april fool's chef pv lol), fluff, idiots in love, several food mentions

★ notes; kaientai tumblr reinstation starts NYEOW! if you follow me on ao3, you've probably already seen this, but i thought it would be a nice idea to crosspost on tumblr since i have a fairly decent following here as well :")

It’s 12:17 a.m., and the store feels like it’s running on fumes.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead like they're trying to quit. The floor's been mopped twice already, but there’s still a suspicious sticky spot near the freezer aisle. You’ve stopped caring. An hour left on your shift, and you’ve taken refuge behind the express lane counter with a pen and a long receipt roll.

You're halfway through sketching a moth in combat boots when the automatic doors sigh open.

You don’t look up. Probably just another grad student scraping together a meal from energy drinks and despair.

You finish the boots. Add spurs, just for fun.

Minutes pass. A distant freezer door thunks shut. Then: the squeak of a wobbly cart wheel approaches, slow and uneven.

You glance up as a guy pulls into your lane—not with a full cart, but a modest one that looks like it’s been curated by someone either very sleep-deprived or very emotionally unstable.

He’s tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a chef’s coat that’s half-unbuttoned and clinging on for dear life. There’s flour on one sleeve, something like tomato sauce on the other. A burn mark peeks out just above his wrist like a badge of honor. He looks like he’s been personally insulted by dinner service. 

You scan his face—sharp, tired features and eyes that look like they haven't closed in 36 hours. And still, for some reason, he’s kind of hot in the way that makes you instantly distrust him.

He starts unloading his haul without a word.

A 2 liter bottle of cola.

Repackaged chicken feet.

A pint of heavy cream.

A family-size bag of marshmallows.

Three lemons.

Two ramen seasoning packets (no noodles, just the seasoning, and you don't even ask).

A tray of century eggs.

A novelty fish-shaped lighter.

You look at the items. Then up at him. Then back at the items.

“Either this is the world’s saddest dinner or an extremely niche food challenge.”

He exhales—half laugh, half resignation.

“I had to abandon my souffle. My caramel turned into lava. And my artichoke casserole exploded.”

“And this is... what? Your consolation prize?”

“This is survival.” He nods solemnly at the marshmallows. “These might be dinner. Or something to keep me from spiraling into insanity.”

You arch a brow as you scan the fish lighter. “Planning to set the marshmallows on fire in the parking lot?”

“I like to leave my options open.”

He rests his elbows on the counter like the weight of the grocery cart has followed him here. The store lights catch on the flour streaking his cheekbone. You're not sure if it's endearing or if you should offer him a wet wipe.

“You know we sell lemon wedges, right?” you add, bagging his chaos with minimal judgment.

“I needed to suffer through slicing them myself. Builds character.”

You tap the touchscreen, and the receipt prints in no time. As it rolls out, you add the final detail to your sketch—the moth, now holding a sword and standing triumphantly on top of a lemon. You doodle on a fish lighter beside it like a familiar before handing it over wordlessly.

The guy takes one look and laughs.

“Do you charge extra for emotionally resonant moths?” 

“Only for customers with weird grocery lists.”

He smiles—slow, amused, like he’s filing that away.

“Then I guess I’ll be seeing you a lot.”

You don’t respond. You just slide his bag across the counter.

He picks it up, nods once, and turns toward the doors. Stops halfway. Glances back over his shoulder like he might say something else, then changes his mind.

“Thanks for not asking about the seasoning packets. Or the chicken feet.”

You manage a lopsided smile. “Was gonna assume childhood trauma.”

He grins. “Close. Culinary school.”

And with that, he’s gone—out into the night, carrying his bag of questionable dinner plans and a receipt covered in doodles.

You didn’t really expect to see him again.

Weird chef guy with the marshmallows and the seasoning packets. The one who looked like he’d been personally wronged by a stand mixer. He’d left with a fish lighter and chicken feet, and you’d filed him away in your brain under “Midnight Oddities.”

But then, a few nights later, he’s back.

Same graveyard shift. Same busted cart wheel. This time, he’s traded the tomato-stained coat for a plain sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. His hair’s still a mess of white—like someone threw powdered sugar into a fan—and there’s a fresh bandaid across one knuckle.

He looks just as tired as before. Maybe more.

The poor guy drops a basket on your express lane counter with a quiet thunk. Inside: two onions, a bottle of balsamic vinegar, two cylinders of butane gas, and an aggressively large chocolate bar.

“Long night?” you ask without looking up from your pen.

“The lamb reduction caught fire,” he says, with the grave seriousness of someone reporting a tragic death.

You raise a brow. “You mean, like, metaphorically?”

“I mean the fire alarm went off. Twice. It’s fine. The sauce died doing what it loved.”

You nod solemnly. “We should all be so lucky.”

He half-grins, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I considered setting the rest of the kitchen on fire just for closure.”

“You’ll need more butane for that.”

You ring up the items, fingers on autopilot. He leans on the counter, watching you, like he’s got nowhere better to be.

You don’t know why it slips out. Maybe it’s the late hour. Maybe it’s the way your feet ache in that particular flavor of minimum wage exhaustion.

“...Thinking of picking up a second job,” you mutter.

He blinks. “Because this one’s not enough of a spiritual journey?”

You snort. “Because rent exists. And degrees don’t pay for themselves.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding, like that makes perfect sense. “You could always be my emotional support line cook.”

“Tempting,” you say flatly. “Do I get benefits?”

“Free pastries and occasional exposure to open flames.”

“You really know how to sweeten a deal.”

As the receipt prints, you flip it over and start sketching without thinking—muscle memory. A tiny version of yourself appears on the paper, slumped inside a soup pot labeled “Capitalism,” one hand holding a spatula like a white flag. Little cartoon flames lick the edges.

You push it across the counter with his bag.

Mister Chef picks it up. Stares. And for a moment, the usual dead-eyed kitchen glaze in his expression breaks.

“You know, these are actually... really good.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I mean it. You’re talented.”

You shrug, already pretending to clean the scanner. “Talent doesn’t cover health insurance.”

He’s quiet for a second. You feel him looking again, too long.

“Why don’t you do something with it?” he says softly. “Take commissions maybe? Or start some freelance work?”

You pause, then smile like it’s a joke.

“Not everyone gets to follow their dream on a full stomach.”

He doesn’t have a comeback for that.

You hand over his change, and he takes the bag, still holding the receipt in his other hand like it might burn him if he grips it too hard.

On his way out, he glances back once.

“The soup pot’s got good linework.”

You don’t answer. Just wait for the doors to sigh shut behind him, and a few beats later, you realize that you don't even know that guy's name. But then again, it's not like it matters. You probably won't see him again anyway.

Except you do.

It happens a week after, when you’re not supposed to be on break.

Technically, you're just passing through the cereal aisle on your way to the walk-in, but somehow your legs stop moving somewhere between the frosted flakes and the granola that costs more than your hourly wage.

You sink down to the linoleum, back to the shelves, legs folded, a rejection email glowing on the screen of your phone in one hand.

Your art didn’t make the cut. Again.

Apparently, “strong technique but lacks conceptual cohesion” is the new “we regret to inform you.”

You don’t cry. You just kind of... sit. Long enough for your name badge to start digging into your shoulder.

You hear footsteps approaching. Heavy ones. Paired with the soft clink of glass jars in a basket.

You don’t even look up until the familiar blur of white hair comes into view.

“Oh,” Weird Chef Guy says, blinking. “Did the Lucky Charms defeat you, or are we both having a bad night?”

You don’t answer.

He sets the basket down. Squats in front of you, arms resting on his knees. “You okay?”

You gesture vaguely at your phone. “Just failed at being talented. Again.”

He frowns, tilts his head like he’s trying to squint meaning out of your soul.

“Gallery submission,” you explain. “Rejected. They said my work didn’t have enough... something. Whatever.”

You expect a platitude. Maybe a bad joke. Instead, you get:

“That sucks.”

It’s simple. But it lands harder than it should.

You glance up—he’s in a dark denim overalls this time, smudged with olive tapenade or maybe despair. He smells like rosemary and late-night stress. Still weirdly hot. Still looks like he hasn’t slept since the lunar calendar was invented.

“I applied last minute. Used some older pieces I did before I dropped out of Okhema U.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Art school?”

You nod. “College of Arts. Illustration track. I had to take a leave when tuition got ridiculous, and I thought, you know, maybe if I made some money and kept making stuff, I’d figure it out.”

You try to laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Turns out, sketching on receipt paper in a fluorescent-lit retail hellscape isn’t exactly inspiring.”

Weird Chef Guy sits down beside you now, shoulder just barely grazing yours. His basket sits abandoned next to his knee—a couple of mason jars, chili oil, toothpaste.

“Lack of cohesion, huh?” he says, voice softer now. “They ever tried making risotto?”

You blink. “What?”

“Risotto,” he repeats. “It’s fussy. Needs constant stirring. Tastes like glue if you screw it up even a little. It's a total diva of a dish. You can do everything right and it’ll still come out wrong. But then one day—bam—it hits perfect. Creamy, savory, actual magic. Like it forgave you for your sins.”

You stare. “Are you seriously comparing my failed gallery submission to rice?”

He shrugs. “All I’m saying is, maybe your art’s just... in risotto mode. Not a failure. Just a work in progress with attitude.”

It’s stupid.

It’s really stupid.

But for some reason, your chest eases just enough to breathe again.

You would laugh, genuinely laugh at this stranger's attempt to cheer you up but then you hear the unmistakable crinkle of a snack bag somewhere down the aisle.

“Damionis?” you call, not even turning your head.

A very casual voice responds from behind the cereal shelf: “I’m on break. This aisle just happens to have the best acoustics.”

You groan. “Go bother someone in frozen foods.”

Damionis pops his head around the corner, grinning like the absolute gremlin he is. “Nah, I like this sitcom. You want me to bring popcorn next time?”

“Only if it’s expired.”

He throws you a mock salute and retreats. Probably. You don’t check.

When your nosy co-worker is out of earshot, you glance at your present company. Weird Chef Guy—because you still don’t know his real name despite this being your third meeting in total—leans his head back against the shelf and exhales.

“I’m Phainon, by the way.”

You blink. “What?”

“My name,” he says, glancing sideways, and you look at him like he might just be a mindreader. “Figured it was time you knew it, since I’ve been reading yours off your nametag like a creep.”

You glance down instinctively at the little badge on your apron. Right. 

You snort. “And here I thought you were just stalking me.”

“Only in grocery stores. And only after midnight.”

“Points for subtlety.”

“Points for not crying in the middle of Aisle Five,” he counters.

You bump his shoulder with yours. Not hard. Just enough.

He bumps back.

And in the cereal aisle, between a shelf of off-brand granola and a man with fireproof hands, something very small and very soft unspools in your chest.

You're not sure if you want to give it a name just yet.

You’re halfway through a bag of chips and a sip of flat soda when you see Phainon walking into the break room like he’s just stormed out of an interdimensional kitchen hell.

His chef’s coat’s still half-buttoned, a tiny smear of what could be mustard or burnt caramel streaking down his arm, and he’s holding a tupperware container like it contains either the cure for all your problems—or the worst food poisoning of your life.

He spots you, and the chaos continues in his wake, like some sort of culinary tornado.

“Hey,” he greets you, looking way too pleased with himself. “You free to eat something…experimental?”

You raise an eyebrow, slowly lowering the chips. “I don’t know, chef. Last time I checked, I wasn’t signing up for a cooking class. And who the hell let you in here?”

“You’re not signing up for anything,” he says, ignoring your inquiry as he drops the container on the table with a grin. “I’m just trying something out. The ‘No Food Left Behind’ policy. You’re gonna be a test subject.”

You stare at the tupperware, unsure if you should be excited or worried. The lid pops off, and you brace yourself for the smell of burnt desperation and raw ambition.

But instead, it’s surprisingly…pleasant?

“What is that?” you ask, leaning forward.

“Whatever it is,” Phainon shrugs, “it’s better than the version I made for myself this morning. I was going for ‘vibrant acidity,’ ended up with ‘distilled regret.’” He gestures to the container like it's a grand masterpiece. “So, eat up.”

You give him a skeptical look, but you’ve seen enough of his food disasters by now to know that he probably isn’t trying to kill you with poorly executed gastronomy. At least, based on what he checks out in his carts and baskets after his midnight grocery runs. Slowly, you take a forkful. And damn.

It’s good. Really good. The kind of good that leaves you almost suspicious.

The flavors somehow work together in this mess of ingredients—something salty, something tangy, something rich and comforting. It’s like he didn’t just throw things together, but created something from a place of necessity.

You blink, lowering your fork. “Wait. This...actually isn’t bad.”

He grins. “You sure you’re not just hungry?”

“I’m always hungry,” you mutter, finishing the bite. “But no, this is weirdly healing.”

Phainon sits across from you, watching you with an almost unreadable expression. For a second, you almost think he’s serious. “Not what I was going for, but glad to know it worked. Should’ve added more cheese, though.”

“More cheese?”

“Yeah. You’d be amazed at how much cheese fixes everything.” He bobs his head with a self-satisfied smile. “Next time.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s something else there—a tiny spark of warmth you weren’t expecting. The food wasn’t just filling a void; it felt like it was filling something deeper. Like you hadn’t realized how badly you needed it.

You set the tupperware down and glance up at him, suddenly feeling the weight of the last few days. “Thanks,” you murmur, voice a little quieter than you intended. “I haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

His smile softens, but only a little. “Then I guess this was the right kitchen experiment.”

You really should have known better than to run your mouth around someone like Phainon.

The first time it happens, it’s on Monday night. You’ve just clocked in, half-dazed from an over-caffeinated day, and the last thing you expect is a neatly wrapped bundle sitting in the break room fridge with your name on it.

You raise an eyebrow, curious. You slide it out of the fridge, already bracing yourself for some bizarre culinary experiment. The tupperware looks oddly familiar—like the same one Phainon showed up with last time, only this time there’s a little post-it note slapped on top.

Eat me.

You sigh, but you’re also starving, so you open it.

Inside is some kind of…stew? It’s thick and bubbling in the tupperware, with chunks of something that almost look like meat but might actually be vegetables, and a drizzle of something that looks suspiciously like a spicy aioli.

You’re not sure whether it’s the blend of spices or the odd richness, but it smells warm and inviting. He even prepared a small serving of rice to pair it with. 

You sit at the table, spoon poised, and take a tentative bite. Holy hell, it’s delicious.

You should be angry that he’s invading your break with weirdly good food, but instead, you’re just grateful you don’t have to rely on stale sandwiches anymore.

The next day, it happens again.

And the next.

It’s like a strange, unspoken agreement now. You never see him drop off the food, but there’s always something waiting in the fridge when you clock in.

By the third day, you’ve gotten used to it—the warm, spicy-sweet curry with just the right level of heat, the unexpectedly perfect homemade bao buns, and today, what looks like a bizarrely decadent bowl of ramen with ingredients that should never go together, but somehow do.

You’re standing in the break room, staring at the latest offering like it’s a strange gift you didn’t ask for, when your coworker, Damionis, leans in from behind you, peering into the fridge.

“What is this, another one of Weird Chef Guy’s meals?”

“His name’s Phainon,” you mutter, but even as you say it, you realize you haven’t actually mentioned that part to anyone.

“Right. Phainon,” Damionis mocks, grinning. “Well, whatever his name is, I don’t know whether to be jealous or concerned. You’ve been eating like royalty all week.”

You just shrug, not sure what to say. It’s not like you asked for this. It’s just happening.

Then the weirdest part comes. The food is so consistently good that you can’t even be mad about it anymore. You don’t even ask questions. You just eat.

But then it lasts for over two weeks.

Two whole weeks of unexpected, ridiculously good meals waiting for you in the break room fridge every single shift. You didn’t even need to check the fridge anymore—you just knew there’d be something there. And as much as you’d like to complain about it, the truth is… you couldn’t.

It was all too good. He knew how to cook. Too well.

But this? This had to stop. It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate the meals. It’s just that you couldn’t shake the nagging guilt that you were being spoiled by someone who barely even knew you. 

And the more you thought about it, the more you felt like you were becoming a passive recipient of his kindness. You weren’t some charity case, and you didn’t want to feel like one.

So, you decide to do something about it.

You arrive at the grocery store at 10 in the morning. The day shift clerk, Arielle, told you this is the time when Phainon usually dropped off his gifts. To your relief, she was more than willing to help you catch the guy red-handed while you lied in wait in the break room. 

And you did. For about twenty minutes. 

Then, almost on cue, you hear a knock on the break room door, and when you open it, there he is. Phainon. Standing in the there with his usual “I’m exhausted, but I’m fine” face.

“You—” You cut yourself off, arms crossed. “You’ve got to stop doing this.”

“Stop what?” He stares at you, genuinely confused. “The food? Is it bad? Because I can totally—”

“No!” You immediately interject, feeling the pressure of not wanting to sound ungrateful. “No, the food’s amazing. It’s just—” You run a hand through your hair, trying to figure out how to phrase this without sounding dramatic.

“I don’t want to be a burden. You keep leaving these meals for me, and I feel like I’m just taking and taking and not… giving anything in return. I can’t keep just accepting these like it’s nothing.”

Phainon blinks at you, a slow realization creeping across his face. Then he shrugs. “You’re not a burden. I’ve been doing this because I want to. You’ve been working your ass off, so you deserve to eat something decent. Besides, I like knowing that I’ve made something you’ll actually enjoy.”

You stare at him, feeling the weight of his words pressing down on you. He sounds so genuine, so nonchalant about it all. But still…

“I feel like I’m taking advantage of you,” you admit, suddenly embarrassed. “You don’t owe me anything. We don’t even—”

“—know each other, I know.” Phainon cuts you off with a soft smile, not an ounce of irritation in his voice. “But that’s the thing. We don’t have to know each other for me to want to do this. I’ve been training at a restaurant for the past few weeks, and it’s been crazy. Honestly, I barely have time to sleep, much less cook for myself. So, I just... grab what I can, throw it together, and leave it for you.”

You stare at him, processing his words. “Wait. You’ve been doing this after working at the restaurant?”

“Yeah. I’ve been coming home late, still on my feet, barely able to keep my eyes open, and I thought: ‘Hey, might as well bring something for them. They're working hard too.’” He gives a small, sheepish shrug. “I mean, it’s the least I can do.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, your mind a little overwhelmed by the layers of his thoughtfulness and how much more he’s been giving than you realized. It’s one thing to show up with a random meal once. It’s another thing entirely to be doing it on the regular, after pulling long shifts himself.

“I don’t want to be a burden,” you repeat, quieter this time.

“Then don’t,” he says with a chuckle. “Don’t make me stop. You’re eating something decent for once in your life. What’s wrong with that?”

You open your mouth to protest again, but something in the way he looks at you—like he actually believes you deserve the meals, and not just because he’s some guy who’s trying to be nice—makes you pause.

“I’m just looking out for you,” he adds. “And I’m not asking for anything in return. Just… don’t overthink it. It’s food. It’s my way of saying, ‘Hey, you’ve got a weird job, but you’re doing alright.’”

And, damn it, that hits a little harder than you were ready for. The simple sincerity of it. You want to argue, but the honesty in his eyes stops you.

“You’re impossible,” you say finally, shaking your head, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Fine. But only because I’m pretty sure I’ll starve without it.”

Phainon grins, clearly relieved. “Exactly. Now, I’ve got a soup in there that I think might be your new favorite.”

You can’t help but laugh at how easy he makes this all seem. You know this won’t be the last time he’ll show up unannounced, but this time, somehow, it feels a little less like a gift and a little more like the beginning of something worthwhile.

The commission work has been steady. That’s the word you keep using—steady—even though what you really mean is exhausting.

Since you started accepting paid requests, your days have been a blur of grocery store shifts and digital sketchpads. Pet portraits, custom nameplates, grocery signage with smiling cartoon vegetables—nothing too big, nothing too personal. You keep telling yourself it’s fine. It’s money. It’s more than you had before.

But it’s also not what you love. Not really. It feels like turning your art into product. Into labor. Into something with a price tag instead of purpose.

Still, beggars can’t be choosers.

You think about telling Phainon. You’ve wanted to. After all, this whole thing started because he encouraged you to “do something” with your art. But he doesn’t come around anymore—not during your shifts, anyway. He still leaves meals in the break room fridge, but it's been a while since his last grocery run. You figure he’s probably drowning in work at a restaurant he never told you the name of.

You don’t even have his number. Isn’t that ridiculous?

So you keep your head down. Draw. Clock in. Clock out. Repeat.

And then—

One Thursday night, you’re sweeping up near the produce section, trying to shake off a migraine and mentally calculating how many commissions you’ll need to finish by the weekend, when the automatic doors chime.

You don’t look up right away. It’s late, and most customers at this hour want to be left alone.

But something—some presence—makes you glance up.

And there he is.

Still in his usual chef coat, unbuttoned and a little askew, the sleeves rolled haphazardly to his elbows like always. He looks as if he came straight from the kitchen. But that’s not what catches your attention.

It’s the bruise.

Dark and ugly, blooming along his cheekbone like ink under thin paper.

“Phainon?” you blurt before you can stop yourself.

He gives a small, crooked smile. “Hey. Long time.”

You’re already striding toward him. “What the hell happened to your face?”

“Occupational hazard,” he says, waving a hand like it’s nothing. “It’s not as bad as it looks. I got in the way of a flying sheet pan.”

“Bullshit.”

His smile wobbles a little, but he doesn’t argue.

You grab his wrist—not roughly, but firmly—and drag him toward the back. He doesn’t resist.

“You’re coming with me,” you mutter.

He raises an eyebrow. “Scandalous.”

“Shut up.”

You haul him into the break room, ignoring the lingering gazes from co-workers, and make a beeline for the first-aid kit above the microwave.

He watches you in silence as you wet a paper towel with cool water and start dabbing gently at the edge of the bruise. He winces but stays still.

“You’re really bad at taking care of yourself,” you mutter.

“I could say the same about you,” he says, almost reflexively.

You glance at him, and he tilts his head. “I heard from Damionis. You’ve been doing commissions.”

Your hand stills. “...Yeah.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You haven’t exactly been around.”

“Touché.”

You look away, focusing on cleaning the worst of the bruising. “It’s fine. It pays. I don’t love it, but it’s something.”

There’s a beat of silence before he says quietly, “I know that feeling.”

You meet his gaze again, and he looks... tired. Really tired. Not just physically, but somewhere deeper. Like the chaos is starting to catch up to him, too.

You’re not sure who leans in first. Maybe neither of you do. But the distance feels smaller now. Quieter.

Then Phainon says, “Next time you want to vent about it, just... wait for me. I might not always show up on time, but I will. Eventually.”

You smirk, just a little. “Big words for someone with a black eye.”

“Battle scars,” he says solemnly. “The kitchen is a warzone.”

You laugh despite yourself, and the tension lifts, just a bit.

There’s still curry powder under his nails and ink smudged on your wrists. Neither of you are sleeping enough or eating right unless the other intervenes.

But in this tiny, overly lit break room, with a half-empty vending machine humming behind you and a pack of frozen peas pressed to his face, it almost feels like something is working.

Almost.

The next weird thing he does for you starts with a folded envelope tucked beneath your lunch in the break room fridge.

This time, there’s no doodle, no cheeky post-it. Just your name, written in slanted pen across thick cardstock. You open it between bites of lukewarm stir-fry, expecting another pun or maybe a strange coupon Phainon made up himself—One Free Existential Breakdown Redeemed at Aisle Four.

But it’s not that.

It’s an invitation.

A literal, printed, serif-fonted invitation on heavy cream paper that reads:

You’re cordially invited to a private tasting at The Grand Chrysos. Come hungry. Come after your shift. P.S. Don’t argue. It’s on the house. —P.

Your first reaction is laughter. Then confusion. Then panic.

The Grand Chrysos is fancy. It’s the kind of place you pass on your way to the train station and try not to breathe near, in case you accidentally lower its property value. One with five-course menus and wine pairings and waiters in black gloves. You thought Phainon was training at some well-off restaurant, but not in a place like that. 

You stare at the invitation like it’s going to burst into flames.

When your shift ends, it’s nearly 1:15 a.m., and you’ve changed into a slightly less wrinkled shirt in the back room just in case. You told yourself a hundred reasons not to go. You’re not dressed for it. You can’t afford to even look at the menu. You’ll stick out like a ketchup stain on linen.

But you go anyway.

You’re greeted at the door by someone who seems unfazed by the fact that you’re arriving well past closing. They just smile, gesture you in, and say, “Chef Phainon’s expecting you.”

The restaurant is quiet, emptied of patrons, lit only by a soft glow from the open kitchen.

Phainon lies in wait, blue eyes glittering with anticipation. Still in his chef’s coat, sleeves rolled, hair pulled back, looking exactly like the maniac who leaves elaborate noodle dishes in your fridge and somehow always knows when you’ve had a bad day. There’s a tiredness in his posture, sure—but also a kind of light. The kitchen is his domain. He belongs here.

“You’re still open at this hour?” you ask, hesitating at the edge of the dining space.

He glances up, offers that familiar half-smile. “Nope.”

You frown. “Then what—?”

“I just like to experiment until dawn,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “New menu trials. Flavor pairings. Wasting perfectly good sleep in the name of soup stock.”

You stare at him, suddenly seeing the dark circles under his eyes in a new light. “Is that why you always look like a dying student during finals week?”

He snorts. “Not inaccurate.”

He gestures toward a single candlelit table near the kitchen window, already set. You sit slowly, unsure of what to expect. But he’s already sliding the first course in front of you—delicate, strange, beautiful. Some kind of cold-brewed consommé with herbs you don’t recognize and edible flowers that look like they were plucked from a dream.

“This is real,” you murmur. “You’re—you’re the one making all this?”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but you can see it—how much it matters to him. How proud he is, even if he’ll never say it outright.

Course after course follows. A risotto with saffron foam. A deconstructed katsu curry that tastes like every comfort food memory you’ve ever had. A dessert involving toasted meringue, freeze-dried berries, and some strange, tangy syrup he says he discovered by accident.

You’re halfway through the meal when you finally say it.

“I thought this was your job. But you don’t stop when your shift ends.”

He glances up, caught mid-plate wipe. “You don’t either.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he raises an eyebrow. “How many commissions did you say you had lined up last week?”

You go quiet.

“You’re always tired,” you murmur.

“So are you,” he says gently. “But we keep showing up anyway.”

It’s not romantic, exactly. But it is intimate. And in some ways, that’s worse. You’re sitting in a temple of haute cuisine, eating the best meal of your life, and the only thing you can think about is how tired you both are—and how neither of you will admit you want someone to say, It’s okay to stop.

But for tonight, neither of you do. For tonight, you eat.

And when dessert’s cleared away and he brings out a thermos of something he calls “chaos tea” (probably caffeinated), you smile.

Because tired as he looks, Phainon seems a little more alive with you sitting across from him.

You still glance at the break room fridge out of habit.

It’s been weeks since anything showed up with your name on it in crooked handwriting. No precariously packed curries or leftover fish terrines that somehow didn’t stink up the room. No chaotic bao buns, no weird jellied things in little jars, no “guess the ingredients” soups that left your tongue buzzing and your heart weirdly warm.

Just your stuff now. Yogurt. A banana you probably won’t eat. A sandwich that’s seen better days. Someone else's soda you’re pretty sure is off-limits.

It’s fine.

You’ve learned how to eat properly since then. You even meal-prep sometimes, if you’ve got enough brain cells left at the end of the night. Your commissions have picked up—just enough to get by, just enough to let you breathe without doing math at the register to figure out if you can afford a single bar of chocolate. And it’s not like you miss Phainon leaving food for you like some culinary cryptid Santa Claus. 

But every now and then, you’ll crack open your tupperware and realize that you still wait for the scent of saffron, or the punch of vinegar, or whatever strange spice he was experimenting with that week.

You’ll look down at your rice and scrambled eggs and sigh, not because it’s bad, but because it’s yours—and maybe, for once, you liked when it wasn’t just on you.

The last time you saw him, he’d looked like death warmed over. Like someone had dug him out from under a pile of cookbooks and deadlines. There was flour in his hair and a pen behind one ear, a band-aid around his thumb and a blister forming on the side of his neck from god-knows-what. His phone had buzzed three times while you were trying to ask him about the new cold brew in stock.

“Dissertation life,” he’d said with a lopsided smile. “You wouldn’t understand. I’m elbows-deep in food chemistry and the historical evolution of fermentation methods. Pray for me.”

You’d rolled your eyes and told him to go touch grass. He’d promised to consider it… after graduation.

That was three weeks ago.

You don’t text him often. You think about it more than you act on it. The last thing you want to be is another notification in a sea of deadlines. But sometimes you’ll send a blurry photo of a weird carrot shaped like a foot, or a doodle on receipt paper of a garlic bulb with tiny arms. Sometimes it’s just a message: Still alive. Hope you’re eating.

He always replies. Short stuff. A thumbs-up. A picture of a burnt omelette with the caption "how the mighty fall." A single “LOL” that somehow makes your day.

You know better than to take it personally—he’s drowning in work. His internship at The Grand Chrysos ended with a bang (and at least one small kitchen fire, according to a very dramatic text), and now all that’s left is the thesis he won’t shut up about.

You sit at the break table with your sandwich, scrolling back through old messages. Your shift’s half over. You’re trying not to look like you’re waiting on a ghost.

The last text from him was three days ago:

Working on my related literature. Might collapse. If I don’t survive, tell the duck confit I loved her.

You smile, even though it catches in your throat a little.

You put your phone down and stare at your sandwich. Take a bite. Chew slowly.

It’s fine. It’s good, even.

But it’s not the same.

You’re almost done with your shift when Arielle insists—insists—that you go take your break. 

“I already had mine,” you argue, arms crossed, the fluorescent lights humming far too loudly above you. You don’t even know why she’s here at this hour. She works the damn day shift. 

“Take. Your. Break,” Arielle says, giving you a look that says don’t make me drag you.

You eye her suspiciously. Damionis is nearby, not even pretending to be subtle. He’s suddenly very invested in facing the peanut butter jars, whistling off-key. Something is up.

Still, you're tired, and your feet hurt, and your brain is half mush from answering customer questions like where’s the cheese that tastes like sadness but costs twelve dollars more?

So, fine. Whatever. You head toward the break room.

When you open the door, you're hit by the scent of vanilla and something warm, like toasted sugar and citrus zest. The lights are dimmed—when did they even install a dimmer switch?—and standing awkwardly by the fridge is Phainon.

He’s holding a cake.

Scratch that—he’s holding a gorgeous cake. It’s layered and glazed, decorated with candied slices of orange, flecks of gold leaf, and delicate piping that reads Happy Birthday! in slightly wobbly cursive.

And on top: several tiny candles. Lit. Flickering.

He’s using the stupid fish lighter you remember from his very first visit.

“Surprise,” he says, voice soft. “I mean… as much as this counts as a surprise. I had help.”

“He sure did,” Arielle pipes up from behind you, suddenly crowding the entrance with Damionis, both grinning like idiots.

“We coordinated,” Damionis says smugly. “Told him your schedule. Arielle did the decorations.”

You look up. There’s a single streamer hanging half-heartedly from the cabinet above the sink. One balloon taped to the fridge. It’s so dumb. So unbelievably sweet.

You stare at the cake again. At Phainon, who’s shifting his weight from foot to foot, clearly unsure if he’s supposed to say more or not.

And then your vision blurs.

“Oh no,” you murmur, swiping at your face, furious with yourself. “Nope. We are not doing this. I am not crying over a cake.”

Phainon smiles, a little crooked, a little tired. The same smile from all those nights he showed up with tupperware and herbs you couldn’t pronounce.

“Well, it is a pretty great cake,” he says gently. “And you deserve nice things. Even if it's just once in a while.”

You sniff. Your voice comes out smaller than you’d like. “How did you even know? I don't remember telling you my birthday...”

“Mmm, Arielle might have let it slip a couple weeks ago when I bought some salami.” He points the fish lighter at the culprit herself.

Arielle just rolls her eyes and says, “Oh, please. You love it anyway, right?” 

Yes.

It’s ridiculous. It’s heartfelt. It’s everything.

You blow out the candles, blinking rapidly, and someone claps—probably Damionis, who’s always a little too eager about celebrating. Phainon cuts the cake and hands you the first slice. It’s lemon poppyseed with honey cream filling. You don’t even like lemon poppyseed.

But still, it’s perfect.

You stand in the crowd, awkward in your semi-wrinkled button-down and scuffed sneakers, feeling a little out of place among the polished shoes and proud parents. You shift from foot to foot, scanning the rows of graduates seated in the middle of Okhema University’s sprawling courtyard.

And then you spot him.

Phainon’s cap is slightly crooked—of course it is—and he’s fidgeting with his gown like it’s some kind of prison uniform. But when his name is called, he straightens up. Walks like he belongs up there. And when he takes the diploma, there’s a flicker of pride that crosses his face before he spots you in the crowd and grins like he just won the lottery.

You wave, cheeks warm, and try not to look too proud yourself. He’s beaming, radiant with accomplishment and relief and maybe just a bit of exhaustion.

Afterward, in the soft afternoon light, he finds you on the steps outside the university.

“You made it,” he says, a little breathless.

“You invited me,” you remind him, but you’re smiling. “I thought those seats were reserved for, you know. Family.”

“They’re too far away to make the trip,” he says simply. “But you were here.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you just nod, feeling something a little too big for your chest. Pride. Gratitude. Something else you don’t want to name yet.

Before you can figure it out, a shadow falls over you both.

A tall, broad-shouldered guy—blonde, scowling by default—clears his throat.

“Mydei,” Phainon says, surprised. “Hey.”

Mydei nods, stiff. “Just wanted to say… sorry. For, uh. Punching you in the face. You know, months ago.”

Your eyes flick between them. Oh.

The bruise. The one Phainon had that night he stumbled into the break room, looking like he’d lost a bar fight with a pan. You remember treating it with frozen peas and whispered concern.

“You really clocked me,” Phainon says, rubbing the side of his jaw with a wince that’s more nostalgic than bitter.

“Yeah,” Mydei says. “You were being annoying. Still. Sorry.”

They clasp hands, awkward but genuine. You don’t ask for details. You don’t need them. Phainon gives Mydei a nod as he walks off, and then it’s just the two of you again.

“So,” he says. “Big graduation moment. I’m finally free. No more dissertation deadlines. No more chefs breathing down my neck.”

“You gonna rest now?” you ask.

“Absolutely not,” he says. “I’m thinking dinner. Celebration. Something borderline dangerous with a blowtorch involved.”

You roll your eyes, falling into step beside him as you start walking toward the city. The sun’s starting to dip, casting Okhema University’s sandstone buildings in soft gold.

“Actually,” you say, heart thudding. “I have a confession.”

Phainon slows a step, giving you a look. “What, your undying love for me?”

You freeze. “Absolutely not!”

He laughs, smug and bright and utterly unrepentant.

You huff. “I meant—I’ve saved up enough. I’m going back. To school. Art school.”

He stops walking entirely.

“You’re serious?”

You nod. “I sent in my documents last week. Just waiting for confirmation. But yeah. I’m… I’m doing it.”

His whole face lights up like a streetlamp. He lets out a whoop so loud a couple of passing students stare. Even is he's the one who just graduated, Phainon is celebrating you so much louder.

“That’s—that’s incredible.”

You shrug, trying to seem cool, like you haven’t been carrying the weight of this decision in your chest for weeks. “Figured it’s now or never.”

“Come over,” Phainon says instantly.

You blink. “What?”

“To my place. Tonight. Let me cook. You’re not getting some lazy congratulations takeout, okay? We’re talking a full meal. Dinner for two. My kitchen, my rules.”

You smile, a little stunned, a little giddy. “You sure?”

“Absolutely. It’ll be awful if you say no. I’ll be dramatic about it. Maybe cry.”

“Fine,” you say, nudging him with your elbow. “But only if you make that weird stew with the spicy aioli again.”

His eyes twinkle. “Deal.”

You keep walking, and for once, the future doesn’t feel so scary. Not when there’s something like this—like him—waiting just ahead.

Phainon’s apartment used to look like nobody actually lived there.

The walls were bare—blank, indifferent, the kind of blankness that says I won’t be here long. His place was functional, stripped down to the basics. Bed, shower, fridge, stovetop. A stack of cookbooks in one corner, post-it notes stuck in like confetti. His kitchen, when he used it, smelled like burnt sugar and ambition. But most nights, he was too tired to even boil water. He came home to sleep, maybe shower, then passed out with his apron still slung over a chair.

That was before you started coming over.

At first, it was convenience. Your new university building was closer to his apartment than your own place, and it saved you forty-five minutes of commuting if you crashed on his couch. Then it became habit. Movie nights. Shared leftovers. Sleeping in until noon on your free days. You never really asked if you could keep staying over—but he never asked you to leave.

Somewhere in between all that, his walls started to change.

He framed one of your failed lino prints first. You didn’t even like it—too messy, too smudged. But he said it “had texture,” and before you could protest, it was up near his bookshelf, angled slightly crooked like he didn’t know how to use a level. Then came a half-finished charcoal sketch of a pigeon. A gouache color study. An ink portrait of a cat you never met. One by one, the misfits from your sketchbooks began populating his walls.

You grumbled. Called it embarrassing. He didn’t care. “You spend half your time here,” he said once, standing in front of the fridge with a container of soup in hand. “Might as well look like you live here.”

It annoyed you—until it didn’t.

Now his apartment feels like something alive. Something shared. His pans still clatter too loud, and his towels are always mismatched, but the walls look warmer. Lived in. Like a space with a history unfolding inside it.

And then, one quiet Tuesday night, he swings by the grocery store again.

It’s nearly midnight, the store is half-asleep, and you’re manning the register with the radio turned low. He buys something ridiculous—a single lemon, a tin of anchovies, and a bottle of hot sauce. You roll your eyes as you ring him up.

On the back of the receipt, you doodle a sleepy cartoon fish holding a sparkler. He grins when you hand it over, folds the paper neatly, and slides it into his wallet.

You catch a glimpse of what’s already tucked inside—half a dozen of your other doodles, dog-eared and soft at the corners. A rabbit with an apron. A stick figure with flaming oven mitts. Even that old moth wearing combat boots with the spurs. All preserved like little relics.

“You keep those?” you ask, surprised.

Phainon shrugs, casual, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “They make my wallet look cool.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart’s not in it. Your chest feels weirdly full.

Because it’s not just the wallet. It’s the walls of his apartment. It’s the fact that he keeps showing up. The way he lights up when you talk about your latest project, even when you’re rambling. The meals he made for you when he barely had time to sleep. How he’s been quietly holding onto all these tiny pieces of you—and never once made you feel silly for handing them over.

You’re not stupid. You know what this might mean.

And maybe—just maybe—you might just feel the same.

It’s barely past seven when you’re stuffing your sketchbook into your bag with one hand and trying to smooth your hair with the other. You’ve got fifteen minutes to make it to your first class of the day, and somehow, despite waking up with enough time, you’re still scrambling.

In the kitchen, Phainon is moving with that easy, practiced grace he only ever has when food’s involved. There’s toast browning, eggs cooling, something wrapped in foil that smells suspiciously amazing, and a thermos of warm broth in your favorite flavor. His hair’s still damp from the shower, and his chef’s coat is half-buttoned, but he’s focused, like preparing your lunch is his actual job.

“You don’t have to do that every morning,” you mumble as you slip your shoes on.

“I know,” he says, without looking up. “But I like to.”

And maybe it’s the way he says it, like it’s a given—like of course he’d want to take care of you—that makes your fingers itch. You pull out the little folded doodle you made the night before. It’s stupid. It’s cute. It’s terrifying. Just a rough sketch of the two of you holding hands, hearts doodled above your heads, and the words i like you, idiot scrawled at the bottom.

You wait until he turns around to rinse something at the sink before you slip it into the recipe journal he keeps open on the counter, tucked between a page of messy notes about pickled egg foam and a weird diagram involving chili oil.

Your heart hammers the entire time, but you say nothing. You just sling your bag over your shoulder and shout a “See you!” before you bolt out the door.

Class is a blur. You think your Realism professor says something profound about emotional verisimilitude but you’re too busy trying not to spiral.

It’s only during your break, when you finally unwrap your lunch on a bench just outside the art building, that you find the post-it.

It’s stuck to the inside of the foil, slightly greasy but still legible, written in Phainon’s usual hurried, slanted scrawl.

I’m terrible at feelings but I think I might be in love with you lol. If you’re not horrified, meet me after class?

Your mouth drops open. For a second, you just stare at it, hands frozen around your sandwich, your brain a whir of static.

And then you laugh.

Because of course he responded like this. Of course he had to one-up your confession in the dumbest, most Phainon way possible.

You tuck the note into your coat pocket and pull out your phone, fingers hovering over your messages.

See you at 3 :>

And when 3 o’clock rolls around, Phainon’s already waiting outside your building, hair windswept, journal tucked under one arm. He looks nervous until he sees you walking toward him, and then—then he smiles like the sun finally decided to rise for real.

You grab his hand without saying anything.

He holds on like he’s never letting go.

⟢ end notes: wahoo, you made it to the end! thank you so much for reading qwq it's been a hot minute since i posted on this acc and tumblr in general (i was mostly active on the kpop side of things in 2023), so i'm kinda just posting this to feel out the vibes. if i should crosspost my other stuff here etc etc. i also just started writing for hsr about,, a month ago?? so i've no idea how the fandom is on here JSDHFJSDGFH either way!! i'm just happy to share my stuff anywhere i can :^)

[ozzgin]

I HAVE BEEN THINKING ABOUT YAN! SCHOOL FOR A SOLID WEEK NOW YOU'VE ALTERED MY BRAIN CHEMISTRY SOOOO HEAR ME OUT

imagine the yandere classmates DYING to get paired up with you in a project so that they can ask you to do it at your house because "it's convenient". they'll probably use this as an excuse to snoop around your room and steal some items— heh. I imagine that the yanderes would absolutely duke it out in the classroom once your partner has been announced lololol. 🤭

You’re forgetting one very important detail: Reader has yandere parents.

It’ll be the ultimate battle of wits. Even if you live alone, it’s enough to mention you’ll have classmates over to get your parents in their camouflage suits.

“It’s just some university project”, you mention casually over the phone.

A moment of silence.

“…Mom?”

“I'll have to call you back, darling”, she announces quietly, rushing over to the dad who just fainted in the kitchen upon hearing the blasphemous news.

On the day of said meeting, your classmate scans the room with a knowing grin.

“Coffee, tea?” you ask enthusiastically.

“Whatever takes longer”, he says, casually taking out his materials.

Once you’re gone, he scrambles to your bed, checking for a potential diary, or toy, or intimate belonging. Suddenly, there’s a faint rap at the window. He glances outside, then nearly stumbles over in shock.

“Damn it!”

Among the bushes facing the building, your parents are gesturing a stark no-no with their index finger. “Don’t even think about it”, they seem to imply.

It becomes a generational challenge. Your classmates take turns coming over to your place in an attempt to defeat your parents, the old-school graduates. Can the youth outsmart the veterans? Only time can tell.

One day, a young man enters the classroom in somber silence. He approaches the group, and merely stretches his hand out, dropping a crumbled piece of paper.

"What's this?" one of the students asks, eyebrows raised.

"It's (Y/N)'s stamped bus ticket", he reveals victoriously. "Stole it from their bedroom."

A collective gasp erupts from the crowd. This madman has bypassed the system. There are cheers, and cries, and - most importantly - there's hope.

The next generation will always surpass the previous one. It's one of the never-ending cycles in life.

[Yandere School Masterlist]

[soangelbaby]

can you do one with bigbro rafe where topper and kelce find out, but they lowkey fw it??? ily your writing btw !!

😏 this was kinda chaotic buttttt nonnie u literally read my mind n tysm bb ily TW ; INCEST don’t like, don’t read 💋 might be sum typos too idk 😞

“ugh rafey — it’s so hot in here! why do you never have the ac on when your gross friends are over?” you whine, arms crossed above your head, chest pressed out, top rising above your hips. topper and kelce are slouched on the sofa, legs spread, controllers loose in their hands as they fumble around with the controls. rafe’s sat back on the recliner opposite of them, he glances to you briefly, eyes scanning over your outfit, stopping on your bare thighs barely covered by black spandex. exhaling through his nose, head snapping back to the tv, “get the hell out,” he mutters, loud enough for you to hear and deep enough to send a shiver up your spine, because he was giving you the exact reaction you wanted. you bit your lip to hide your smirk, stepping deeper into the den, pushing hair back that was sticking to your face, “i’m serious rafe!” huffing, hands flying to your hips, stomping at the floor like a child throwing a tantrum, “everytime you have them over—”

kelce leans over muttering something to topper with a smirk on his face as both their eyes trail down your frame. rafe’s jaw clenches and he rises from his seat, still trying to mask how much you’re affecting him, “i said get. out.” he repeats stepping closer to you, pointing towards the door. your breath catches in your throat, blinking up at him, he’s so close and so angry, you could literally feel the heat radiating from his body. “make me,” you say, voice full of challenge and defiance, tilting your head up and crossing your arms. rafe watches you for a second, tongue poking into his cheek before he reaches out snatching your wrist, “you wanna act like a slut? keep testing me,”

now he was making them watch, tugging your little shorts and panties down to your ankles, kelce and topper were in shock, but not because they didn’t think rafe was capable, they knew he was sick and fucked up. but the way you practically begged for it from the start? that’s what got them going, “you wanted this huh? acting like a little whore in front of my boys, wanted them to see you get ruined?” you tried to shake your head, whimpering ‘no’ but rafe doesn’t appreciate that, reaching up to slap you hard across the face, “don’t fuckin’ lie, say you wanted it, slut” you can already feel his dick lining up with your slit, daring to push in. and you do, crying out for your big brother’s dick in front of his friends.

“what the fuck is going on in this house?” kelce choked out under his breath, despite his eyes being glued to where rafe’s cock teases your cunt. topper’s already slipping his hand into his sweats, no shame, rubbing at his throbbing shaft, “bro, you’re sick” kelce mutters to topper, shifting in his seat. topper groans, “you’re watching too — don’t pretend you’re not into it,”

rafe shoves into you, no preparation, tip kissing your cervix as he bottoms out, “ah — fuck rafe!” you whine, trying to move up the couch, hands pushing at his chest, but he grips your hips tighter, slamming into you again, “don’t run baby, you needed this remember?” slow and deep, making sure you feel every inch, you clench so hard around him, release already building in your gut, “rafey — please, s’too deep,” you’re trembling under him, furniture rocking against the wall, and his friends are still getting off to you being split by him. rafe laughs low, “too deep?” grunting, driving in harder, hips flush against yours, “should’ve fuckin’ thought about that before you strolled in here like a bratty little bitch huh?”

your mouth falls open in a silent cry, head dizzy as your brother bulldozes your poor little cunt. topper groans, thumb rubbing over his glistening tip one last top before he spills right in his sweats, sticky cum soaking through the fabric. kelce isn’t far behind, leg bouncing and hips bucking against his denim jeans, just enough friction to make him bust at the sight of his best friend fucking his own little sister, “fucking shiit—“ he hisses, eyes fluttering shut for a second. rafe just laughs, reaching up to grab a fist full of your hair, yanking your head back just for them to see your face. “you see that? see how pathetic they are for you?” his hand comes in contact with your ass, sharp sting of the smack sending a jolt through you.

“gonna cum in this stupid little pussy — maybe next time you’ll think twice before acting out,” rafe thrust into you so hard the couch actually slides across the floor, scraping the tile, your body locks up as your orgasm washes over you, body going limp under him, whimpering as you scream rafe’s name. and then you feel it, thick hot ropes staining your walls, animalistic growls falling from his lips as he bites down on your shoulder, “fuck — that’s my girl,” he pants, not pulling out, cock still twitching inside you. his gaze snaps to kelce and topper, “next time she’s gonna ride me, wanna see how fucked out she looks on top,” and the way they nod? you knew he was serious..

[coldfanbou]

Doing is Better Than Watching

Here we go with something a little fun. It was something that was made for an odd pairings challenge. I did end up adding a little.

Length 3.7K

Chuu X Mreader X Hwasa

Chuu scanned the area, her heart beating out of her chest as she looked up at the sign. As her eyes drifted downward, she saw the bodies pressed against the window. Their breath fogged the glass as the people on the other side watched. It was arousing. The young woman had never felt like this before. As she stared at the act being committed before her, her legs rubbed together, her hand moving to her core before she stopped herself. Chuu gulped and took a step back. Turning her head away from the lewd sight. She started away, pushing through the crowd of onlookers and crossing the street. 

Chuu turned back, the name of the building being ingrained in her mind. Tinkerbell. She went home, her mind flashing back to the woman she watched. The way her body had grinded against her partner’s, the euphoric look on her face. It was all in her mind. 

Opening the door to her apartment, Chuu saw you flicking through channels. She balled her hands, her thumbs nervously rubbing against the side of her fingers. “Hey, what’s up, Chuu?” She opens her mouth to reply, but her voice doesn’t come to her. 

She purses her lips, considering how to answer. The first thought in her mind was to ask, “Have you ever heard of a place called Tinkerbell?” She pushed the idea back, saying “nothing,” instead. “How was your day?” Chuu sits down beside you laying her head on your lap, poking your thigh with her finger. 

You place your hand on her head, moving her hair away from her face. You see the edges of her lips curl upward in a smile. “My day was fine. I didn’t do very much. By the way, have you decided what we’re going to do for our date?” Chuu shook her head; she had completely forgotten about it. For a moment, she considered asking about Tinkerbell again. Reasoning that a guy would love to go there, and maybe she could watch it go on from outside. Chuu bit her lip; she hadn’t yet shared those sorts of details about her desires with you. She didn’t know if you would want that, so she kept it to herself.

“I haven’t thought about it much.” Chuu turns her body, looking up at the ceiling. She kicks her feet as she considers what she should do for a date. “Is there anything you want to do?”

“Our last date was my choice. It’s your turn to choose what we do.” You reply, tapping the top of her head to remind her you took turns choosing what to do.

“Well…there’s something I want to do, but…I don’t know if you want to.” Chuu felt her heartbeat quicken. She refused to look you in the eye and turned her back to you just as quickly as she had turned to face you. 

“Chuu, it’s your choice. Remember when I made you go bungee jumping?” You ask, shaking her head. Chuu swats your hand away, a smile forming on her face as she remembers the trip you took, how her legs shook as she stood on the edge of the platform and needed to be pushed off. “You screamed holy shit the entire way down before yelling and crying like a baby.” You were teasing her, it wasn’t that bad, and she knew it.

“I did not!” Chuu yells, shooting up. She straddles your lap, raising her fist against you, a sly smile as she tries to batter you. You reach up, trying to grab her wrists. Chuu giggled as you tried to stop her. Your hand slides up one of her arms, stopping at her wrist. You try to stand, falling forward instead, landing over Chuu. You grab her other wrist and hold the small woman down. She tries to resist for a moment before giving up. Her breathing begins to slow as she stares at you. “You cheater, you can’t grab my arms. It’s not fair.”

“Why isn’t it fair?”

“You’re stronger,” Chuu whines, puffing out her cheeks. The sight makes you smile; Chuu’s expressions always look so cute. You bend over and kiss her cheek. Chuu tries to stay mad, but as you pepper her with small kisses, she breaks into a laugh, her toothy smile shining through now. You let go of her wrists, and she wraps her arms around you. “No cheating next time.” She giggles before moving in and pressing her lips against yours.  You shake your head at the ridiculous thought.  

“Alright, so are you going to tell me what you want to do?”

Chuu purses her lips. “D-do you know of a place called Tinkerbell?” You recognize the name and cock your head to the side. “I want to go there.”

“What do you mean?” You were confused about what she meant by she wanted to go there.

“I want to go there for our date.” Chuu’s voice becomes a murmur, embarrassment taking hold. “I want to see you fuck someone.” Chuu turns her head away. “You can go inside and I’ll watch you from outside.”

The idea didn’t quite sit right with you. “Isn’t there something else we could do? It’s supposed to be a date.” Chuu pouts and reiterates her wants. You mull over the idea. You weren’t really interested in being with another woman; it didn’t feel right, especially if Chuu was just going to be watching. “What about you come in with me? If you come in with me, then we can do it.”

“Really?” Chuu asks, surprised that you would make such a deal. 

“Yes, that’s my condition.” 

Chuu jumps at the opportunity. “Let’s go right now!” Chuu wriggles out from under you and jumps on your back. “Date night, date night!” she chants, her grip tightening.

“Well, I guess we don’t really need to dress up.” Chuu climbs off you and rushes to the door; her excitement is almost contagious. She puts on her shoes and goes around in circles, waiting for you to get ready. Once you're out the door, Chuu skips ahead of you, almost dancing, occasionally peering behind to see if you're still there. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.” Chuu led the way, bringing you inside the building. You were lost for a moment, the entrance being a bit confusing, but you figured out the lobby was a little further in. The man working the front desk was confused at the sight of you and Chuu, but greeted you as warmly as he could. 

“Excuse me, is it possible to get a room?” Chuu asks, her fingers tapping away at the desk. 

“This isn’t  a hotel.”

“We know, we just want to be with someone.” 

“I see, well, if you look behind you, there is a board with our workers for the night. Some are more open to a threesome than others; if you’d like, I can select the worker for you.” Chuu nods along, listening intently. 

“That would be great.” She responds before walking over to the board, looking at the dozens of faces and names. You slip the worker money, which he deposits in the big machine. The worker sucks in a breath as he looks at who’s available. 

“Ah, she’ll be good for this.” He mumbles to himself before selecting a tan woman. The picture used was fierce, giving her something of a domineering aura. As your eyes move downward, you read her name, Hwasa. “There we go.” The worker picks up a card and hands it to you. “Here’s a keycard. Please go to the room written here. It is up the staircase, the second door on the left.” You were surprised how well he knew the building, to the point that he could say that off the top of his head, but Chuu soon stole your attention. You heard the sound of her feet banging against the stairs as she rushed upward.

“Chuu!” You shout before chasing after your girlfriend. She giggles on her way up, the excitement of it all taking hold of her. She rushes to the door, waiting outside with a silly smile on her face. You tap the key card against the door and push it open. On the other side of the door was Hwasa. She had one leg on the bed, the other hanging off the edge. The tan woman was staring right at you both, a hand running up and down her exposed slit. Hwasa wore a short sheer black nightgown, in her position, it didn’t cover anything lower than her waist, not that it covered much at all. 

“Come in,” she groaned in a low, sultry tone. The smirk she held grew wider as she locked eyes with Chuu. “Well, aren’t you a cute one?” She said, stepping off the bed and treading toward her. Hwasa walked around your girlfriend, her eyes eating Chuu up. Your eyes wander along your new partner's body, taking in the valley between her breasts. Her smooth mounds were topped with small brown nipples, already hard and poking through her gown. As your eyes moved south, you noted her small waist and wide hips. Her tanned legs looked longer in a set of black heels.

Hwasa stopped behind Chuu, slipping her hands along Chuu’s waist. One hand went up to Chuu’s chest while the other moved between your girlfriend's legs. “Such a pretty girl. Did your naughty boyfriend here want to have a threesome?” Hwasa teased, her hands lingering against Chuu’s body. Chuu gasped. Hwasa’s touch was electric. 

“Why don’t you tell her why we’re here?” You interject, walking over to the bed and taking a seat. You figured it would be entertaining, if not hot to watch Chuu fumble around in this situation.

Hwasa gave you a slight grin before looking back at the woman who was becoming putty in her hands. “Yeah, tell me why you’re here.” Hwasa’s demand wouldn’t be met. One of her hands slipped underneath Chuu’s panties; her hand was resting against your girlfriend’s slit. Chuu moaned. The situation had turned around on her. She had expected to watch you and Hwasa go at it, but as it turned out, you were watching her. Chuu was losing it, and Hwasa was barely touching her. The tan woman was simply tapping her hand against Chuu’s bare slit, but it still made her moan. “Oh, baby, don’t tell me this is going to be your first time with a woman.” Hwasa’s voice was sickly sweet with her teasing. She squeezed Chuu’s breast, drawing out a moan from her. 

Hwasa chuckled, “You look like you have a lot of energy.” Hwasa glances at you, her grin plastered on her face, “Does she?”

“She has a lot of energy.”

“Great. I just love tiring people out. Let’s move to the bed, baby.” Hwasa nudged Chuu forward, as your girlfriend tried to climb onto the bed, Hwasa pushed a single finger inside Chuu. Chuu’s entire body shivered as the tan woman’s finger curled inside her. “What’s wrong, baby?” Hwasa asks, pretending as if her finger wasn’t knuckle deep inside Chuu. She pushes your girlfriend onto the bed and pulls out her finger, dragging it along her lips before sucking on it. “I have a lot of toys here, and I’ll make sure to have a nice experience.”

As Hwasa climbs onto the bed, she looks over at you, “You don’t mind watching, do you?”

You shake your head, “Go right ahead. Just don’t let her take control, or you’ll be in trouble.” Hwasa chuckles at your answer. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Hwasa responds, “Feel free to enjoy the show by the way.” With that, Hwasa focused on Chuu. She stripped your girlfriend down to nothing, looking over her thin body. “You’re such a pretty girl,” she tells Chuu, planting a kiss on your girlfriend’s cheek.

Hwasa placed her hand against Chuu’s slit, listening to the petite woman gasp again. “Relax and let me work.”

Hwasa pushed two fingers into Chuu, curling them inside the young woman as she leaned over and used her tongue against Chuu’s nipple. “So cute,” She commented, hearing Chuu’s moans. “Are you enjoying yourself, baby?” Chuu nodded her head as she whined, her body tingling as she got close to an orgasm. Chuu felt a tightening in her core as Hwasa’s fingers toyed with her. When Hwasa used her palm to rub her clit Chuu was sent over the edge, her body squirming as she came on Hwasa’s fingers. Hwasa laughed at the young woman. “Poor baby came already. Here I’ll give you a treat.” Hwasa pulled away from Chuu, grabbing something from a nearby drawer. Returning to the bed, you see she has a double-sided strap-on in her hand. Hwasa moves slowly, pushing one end into Chuu, drawing a moan from the recovering woman. Once secure Hwasa pulls Chuu into a seated position and turns around, showing off her shapely ass. “Come here, baby,” she orders, bringing Chuu closer. 

“Here, have some fun,” Hwasa said, aligning the toy with her entrance. She pushed her hips back, taking it in. Chuu moaned, her hands digging into the tan woman’s ass. The double-sided strap-on shifted inside her, rubbing her walls. “C’mon baby, go ahead and fuck me.” Watching from the side, you knew what would come soon enough. Chuu wasn’t nearly tired enough to be left in charge. 

You sat back, pleasuring yourself as you watched Chuu ram the length of the toy into Hwasa. The tan woman roared as she felt it smack against her service. You knew she would regret choosing such a toy for this. In a matter of seconds, Chuu began thrusting. They were awkward, holding no rhythm as she figured out how to fuck the older woman. Still, what she was doing was working. Chuu slammed her hips against Hwasa’s ass, moaning as her pace quickened. Chuu could hardly control herself when she got like this. She brought her hand down on Hwasa’s bottom, her flesh jiggling violently as Chuu continued to take her from behind.

You think back about how you warned Hwasa, and now you are watching the results of ignoring that warning. Hwasa was biting the bed sheets as Chuu relentlessly thrust into her. Chuu’s hands were digging into Hwasa’s soft flesh, her body shaking. She was on the verge of cumming and so was Hwasa. She screamed it out, telling Chuu just how close she was. 

Your girlfriend was far too focused on her pleasure to hear a thing. She was chasing her orgasm without thought. Hwasa’s walls clamped down on the toy a moment later, and she cried out as pleasure overcame her. Despite cumming along with her Chuu continued thrusting. She loved being overstimulated, and Hwasa was about to find out. “Fuck wait!” Hwasa moaned, feeling the cock inside her continue to stir. Another orgasm washed over the pair not long after, with Chuu burying herself inside Hwasa. A smile formed on Chuu’s face, it was euphoric, showing her completely lost in the pleasure she felt. Glancing at Hwasa, you could see the tired expression on her face. Her ride wasn’t over just yet, though. 

They’re bodies were sweaty now, hair becoming matted to their skin. “This feels so good,” Chuu moaned, resting her head on Hwasa’s back. She stuck her tongue out, sampling some of the tan woman’s salty sweat. “Let’s go again.” Chuu moans, her hips already moving, her strap-on sliding in and out of Hwasa’s slick cunt. The older woman gives tired moans as Chuu drives her cock deep into her cunt for another round. Hwasa was understanding why you said not to give her control. 

As your girlfriend hammered away at Hwasa’s cunt she had the bright idea to play with her clit. She reached around, moving her fingers in small circles over the sensitive nub. “Ah fuck!” Hwasa cried out, a wave of pleasure hitting her. It was overwhelming her senses. “Harder,” she moaned. The word came out of her mouth without her meaning to say it. Chuu listened, though, and went harder. Hwasa’s rough moans filled the room now. Chuu for her part added more pleasure, reaching to Hwasa’s tits and squeezing one before doing the same to the other. 

Watching the women go at it was like nothing else you had ever seen. Hwasa was being reduced to a toy for Chuu, who had originally wanted to just watch, and was now enjoying herself to another level. After another wave of orgasms, you notice Chuu finally running out of steam, her breathing was heavy, and her thrusts slowed until she left herself buried inside Hwasa, undoing the strap and lying back on the bed. You stay seated, giving them a moment to bask in the afterglow. You chuckle to yourself, even if you didn’t do anything, it was money well spent seeing Chuu enjoy herself so much.

That being said, there was still something that needed to be done. You walk over to the tired pair and flip Hwasa onto her back. “I tried warning you,” you tease, as you grab your cock and rub it against her sensitive slit. 

You push the tip inside, making Hwasa groan. As you look over to Chuu, you tap her stomach. “Chuu, I don’t think you want to miss this.” Your girlfriend stirs, her eyes opening slowly until she sees you grab Hwasa’s waist and slam yourself deep inside her. Chuu’s hand slipped between her legs, rubbing her folds as you took your turn with the experienced woman. 

“Fuck, this real cock,” Hwasa mutters quietly, wrapping her thick legs around your waist as you drive your cock deep into her cunt. You grab at Hwasa’s breasts, their bouncing too hypnotic to leave them alone for any longer. You squeeze them between your fingers, the soft flesh bulging between them. The older woman whimpered as you played with her breasts, groping them roughly as you brought her close to another climax. Hwasa’s moans grew louder, her legs tensing around you as she got ever closer. 

Chuu fingered herself at the sight. It was just what she wanted. She pushed two fingers into her cunt, plunginng them deep into her cunt and rubbing her walls as she watched you work over Hwasa. Her moans were rising just like the older woman’s. Part of her wanted to be involved in the action, part of her wished to just to watch you fuck another woman. Her body moved on its own, and she got beside Hwasa, opening her mouth and latching onto one of the tanned woman’s dark nipples. Hwasa cried out from the pleasure, biting her lip after and holding Chuu against her chest. You lean down and take the other breast into your mouth. With both you and Chuu sucking on her nipple Hwasa was finally pushed over the edge.

Hwasa pushes you in deeper with her legs, your cock rubs against her womb as her walls tighten around you. You give her a small thrust, and cum inside Hwasa, the warmth of your cum spreading across her body. She rolls her head back and let’s out a long moan as she feels your cum fill her. Hwasa’s body shakes, and her walls milk you for every drop. Chuu pulls away from the tanned woman’s chest and etches the sight of your tangled bodies into her mind. You grind against Hwasa until she finally lets you go and as you pull out Chuu takes the chance to watch as your cum flows out of the tanned woman’s slit. Chuu can’t help but play with herself, the sight nearly bringing her to her own climax. 

You grab her, though, stopping her just short of cumming. Before she can question you you pull her onto Hwasa’s tired body, and push your cock into her wet slit. Chuu cums in that instant, moaning loudly before Hwasa grabs her face and pulls her into a kiss. The older woman, despite being tired, works over Chuu as you fuck her from behind. Hwasa holds the kiss, pushing her tongue into your girlfriend's mouth while she plays with her ass. Slapping the firm piece of flesh and leaving her handprint on it. 

You loved seeing the tan woman play with Chuu, and it fueled you. You hammer into Chuu, driving your girlfriend crazy as you trap her between yourself and Hwasa. Hwasa reached back down as you thrust, and moved her hand in small circles against Chuu’s clit. The small woman cried out, the pleasure quickly becoming too much. It didn’t help that she had just cum. Chuu’s voice filled the room, her moans rising as she got closer to her orgasm. “Oh shit!” She yelled out as she came on your cock, her walls gripping you tightly as you continued to thrust. The overwhelming pleasure coursed through her entire body, shutting down her mind as she collapsed onto Hwasa. You came soon after, burying yourself in her tight cunt and filling her just like you did Hwasa earlier. 

You drag Chuu off of Hwasa and collapse next to your girlfriend. Chuu fell asleep in a matter of moments, too tired from the experience. The tan woman runs a finger along Chuu’s chin, “That was fantastic,” she coos. “This little one has so much energy.” Hwasa moaned, sliding two fingers along her slit. “I wouldn’t mind having some more fun like this. Maybe next time we could work both holes.” Hwasa said with a smirk. “Do you think she’d be into that?” You had to admit the idea of Chuu being stuffed like that was hot. It made your cock twitch and Hwasa noticed, reaching over and grabbing your shaft. “So?”

“I’ll talk to her.” You look down at Chuu’s sleeping face, “I think she’ll be into it, though.”

Hwasa chuckles, “I’ll set a date for you two. Just make sure she can take it as well as she can give it. I have something bigger for her.” You’re amused at the comment, but don’t ask further, recovering as much as you can before your time ends and you have to carry Chuu out.

[havens-iphone]

── backwards and fowards ꫂৎ ; grumpy!hamzah

summary ⋮ at a party, you meet hamzah—quiet, distant, and seemingly uninterested in you. despite his cold demeanor, you try to interact with him, but he only responds with dry remarks and indifference. after an awkward car ride and a particularly harsh comment at game night, you quietly pull away, convincing yourself he never cared. weeks pass, and while mandy checks in, hamzah doesn’t. but in your absence, he starts to notice—game nights feel dull, the group quieter. he catches himself looking at your photos, missing your presence. then, late one night, your phone buzzes, pulling you from sleep.

wc ⋮ 2.8k

authors note ⋮ okay honestly this SUCKS. came out worse than i expected but oh well💔💔 i got rlly lazy at the end but hopefully part 2 will be better!!

the party was already in full swing by the time you arrived. loud music spilled out into the hallway, accompanied by bursts of laughter and the scent of something that smelled suspiciously like burnt pizza. you took a deep breath and knocked on the door, adjusting your oversized cremé sweater you wore for the cold toronto weather before mandy opened it with a smile.

"there she is!" mandy greeted, pulling you into a warm hug. "you made it! this place is already crazy."

you grinned, your eyes scanning the crowded living room. "you always throw the best parties, mands," you replied, pushing through the door. the apartment was packed with friends, majority of them you didnt know.

your eyes fell on two familiar figures sitting on the couch — martin, who was already in his usual comfy hoodie, and hamzah, who was slouched beside him, eyes half-lidded as he stared at his phone.

you had seen hamzah a few times before, but never met properly. he was always off to the side, scowling in his hoodie like he wanted to be anywhere but here. you didnt blame him, though. some people just werent built for parties.

still, that didnt mean you were going to leave him out of the fun. you bounced over to the couch, grinning like a mischievous cat. "hey, hamzah!" you called brightly, your voice louder than necessary as you plopped down next to him.

he barely glanced up, his fingers still flying over his phone. "your loud," he muttered, not even bothering to look your way.

you laughed, unbothered. "i perfer the term 'energetic'.. and im not that loud. trust me, you'll get used to me."

hamzah shot you a side-eye, barely hiding the annoyance that flickered in his dark eyes. "uh-huh," he grumbled, his tone dry. "maybe you should take it down a notch before your voice annoys the whole building."

you titled your head, unfazed. "ill take that as a challenge."

martin, overhearing the exchange, chuckled from the other side of the couch. "oh no, hamzah, you've awakened the beast."

you gave him a dramatic wink. "you know me too well, martin."

hamzah's lips twitched in something that couls've been a smile, but he quickly masked it. "great, now im really looking foward to this."

you leaned back into the couch, nudging him with your shoulder, though her clearly wasnt interested in your attention. but you didnt mind — you were used to it. it was a game, really. hamzah was like a stone, cold and unyielding, but you knew better than to think he didnt have a soft spot under all that sarcasm.

"im here for the snacks, by the way," you added, not missing a beat. "dont judge me."

hamzahs gaze finally flickered to you, his eyes narrowing slightly, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "if i judged you for that, i'd have to judge myself too."

you grinned. "see? were already bonding."

martin rolled his eyes, "oh please, you two are like oil and water."

you just shrugged, your smile wide as ever as you think of a cringy comeback, "oil and water make a beautiful mess, dont you think?"

hamzah didnt respond, but the faintest smirk lingered on his face. it wasnt much — but for a guy like hamzah, it was more than enough.

the night carried on, and you found yourself drawn back to the couch time and time again, sneaking glances at hamzah as be tried — and failed — to hide his amused smirk whenever you pulled another ridiculous stunt. but you could tell he wasnt completely unfazed. he was.. intrigued, and that was more than enough to keep you going.

the end of the night came, slowly, but it came. mandy and martins friends started leaving one by one until it was just mandy, martin, hamzah, and you. hamzah and martin were left talking in the kitchen as you helped mandy clean up, even though you werent asked.

you gazed over at hamzah in the kitchen. his eyes caught yours while martin was still talking about video ideas, the corner of his lips curled up, just barely. you flushed, looking away in hopes he hadn't seen.

you and mandy finish cleaning up. you yawn, heading to the front door to get your shoes on. "you walking home?" mandy asks, concerned.

"yeah, its like a 30 minute walk, not too far." you smile, trying to reassure her you'll be fine. mandy flashes a frown at you, "its cold, are you sure? i can drive you."

"mandy, trust me its fi-" you get cut off by hamzah, "i'll drive her home." he clears his throat. you show a confused look as you smile, putting on your shoes.

hamzah picks up his keys, opening the front door. "come on." he demands you. martin and mandy flash eachother a look and smirk, saying their goodbyes. you both head out the door, walking down the hallway to leave the building.

theres an awkward silence between you two as you head towards the car. he opens the passenger door for you, your cheeks turn red, thankful for the cold weather disguising your fluster.

you climb into the passenger seat as he shuts the door, heading over to the opposite side. he climbs in and immediately starts the car, putting your address in the gps.

as the car hummed down the empty road, the soft sound of the engine was the only thing breaking the silence. you could feel the warmth of the cars interior surrounding you, and despite the tension earlier, something about the quiet made you feel safe. you allowed yourself to sink deeper into the seat, your head tipping slightly to the side, eyes fluttering closed for just a second.

but the silence felt like it was choking you. it was suffocating, thick air. you couldnt stand it anymore, the awkwardness clawing at your chest, so you spoke up, your voice soft, trying to break the tension.

"thanks for driving me home," you murmured, your fingers nervously fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. you turned your head slightly, hoping to catch his eyes, but he was so focused on the road, his jaw tight. the way he was holding himself, so distant, made the words feel like they were falling flat in the air. “i know its late, and you probably have better things to do, but i really do appreciate it.”

there was a long pause, and you could feel the coldness radiating off him. he didnt respond right away, and the silence streched out, sharp and uncomfortable.

“yeah, well, its not like i had a choice, right?” his voice was flat, almost dismissive, and it stung more than you expected.

you pushed on, forcing a small laugh to lighten the mood. “i probably wouldve ended up stranded if it werent for you. or, like, lost in a ditch somewhere.” ou glanced at him again, searching his face for any flicker of softness, but all you got was the faintest twitch of his jaw.

the rejection settled in slowly, like a cold ache blooming in your chest. you leaned back into the seat, folding in on yourself, wishing you could just disappear.

you prop your elbow up on the car door, leaning your head on your hand as you gaze out the window.

“im sorry if i… talk too much or whatever,” you whispered, barely audible, more to yourself than to him.

hamzah exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers flexing on the steering wheel. “you don’t have to fill every silence, you know. its annoying,” he muttered, his voice low and tight.

it shouldnt have hurt as much as it did.

you bit the inside of your cheek and nodded, turning your head to stare back out the window. the streetlights blurred into streaks of gold against the night sky. you blinked rapidly, willing away the sting in your eyes.

for the rest of the drive, you didnt say another word.

and he didnt seem to notice.

or maybe he did — and just didnt care.

the car slowly came to a stop as he pulled up to your apartment complex. you unbuckled as you held the car handle. "thank you." you murmur, avoiding eye contact. he hums in response as you open the car door and step out. you rush to the entrance of your apartment. as he drives off you sigh, shoving the key into your door and entering.

after your proper introduction to hamzah, you became a fixture in their little group.

its now been a week since the awkward car ride between you and hamzah. your phone buzzed on your bed as your putting on some pyjamas.

you glance at it, seeing mandys contact. you rush over to read the text. you smile at the invite to a game night with just you four, knowing hamzah will be there for sure. you accept and start heading out of your front door, saying goodbye to your two dogs — bubbles and disco.

you arrive at mandy and martins shared apartment after a long 30 minutes of walking in the cold, dark night.

you knock as you hear mandys feet quickly shuffling to the door. she opens it and greets you, pulling you into a hug. as your hugging, your eyes meet hamzah. you flash him a smile as his eyes quickly dart away, looking cold. she pulls away and you enter the house.

"go sit next to hamzah! we'll start once the hot cocoa is all ready," she shares, smiling as she walks back to martin in the kitchen.

you sit next to hamzah, feeling his awkward aura as he shifts himself slightly, distancing you two a bit more. you take a deep breath, uncomfortable with the silence.

you clutch your hands in your lap, fingers twisting together as you try to ignore the space hes put between you. the distance feels louder than the silence itself, each second stretching out like an eternity.

“i can move if you want,” you offer quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. you dont look at him, your eyes fixed on a faint scratch in the dining table. “i dont want to bother you.”

hamzah exhales, sounding annoyed. “youre fine,” he mutters, but he doesnt move closer.

the words should be reassuring, but they feel hollow, like hes just saying them to end the conversation. you nod, pressing your lips together to keep the lump in your throat from rising, and let the silence swallow you both again.

mandy and martin slowly walk over to the table were sat at with a pile of board games, giggling as they both hold 2 cups of hot cocoa.

they reach the table as they set down the cups, sliding you and hamzah yours as they sit in their respective seats opposite from you and hamzah.

you adjust yourself as you pick up your hot cocoa to sip. "oh carefu-" mandy warns, getting cut off by your whimper at the hot liquid burning your mouth.

hamzah glances over, eyes flickering to you as you set the cup down quickly, fanning your mouth with your hand and swallowing the burning liquid with a whimper. "seriously?" he mutters, shaking his head. "are you stupid? is it not obvious its hot?"

martin snorts, biting back a laugh. mandy gives hamzah a pointed look. "you dont have to be rude," she chides, nudging him under the table.

the burn still lingers on your tongue, but what stings more is the sharp edge to hamzahs words. still, you force a smile, waving it off. “its fine,” you mumble, voice a little hoarse. “my fault for not listening.”

for a split second, something unreadable flickers across hamzahs face, but he quickly schools his expression, leaning back in his chair like he couldnt care less.

mandy breaks the tension with a clap of her hands, pulling out the first game from the pile. “okay! how about we play something to lighten the mood?” she chirps, shooting you a sympathetic smile.

you nod, grateful for the distraction, but as the game begins, you cant help but notice the way hamzah avoids looking at you — like your presence is something hes trying to ignore.

you throw your hands up, laughing loud, voice echoing, filling the space. cards fall as you cheer for yourself, a wild grin on your face.

mandy giggles, martin shakes his head, the room buzzing, alive and bright. but hamzahs voice cuts through it all — sharp as a blade, too tight

“do you ever shut up?” he mutters, not even bothering to glance. the words hit harder than bullets, stripping away your stance.

“youre so annoying,” he bites out low, like your joy is some kind of crime. the room turns cold, your laughter dies.

mandy and martin trade a look, their smiles faltering. you swallow the ache, force a grin, pretending the hurt wont last.

but every word lingers, heavy and sharp, etching itself in your skin.

the night continues and you find yourself being quiet and reserved, only speaking when spoken to, not cheering when you win, and only mumbling short little answers when someone asks you something

you glance at the oven clock, noticing it says 12:34 am. you sigh before mumbling, "i think im gonna head home, its getting late." forcing a smile, you get up from your chair and stretch.

"oh, yeah it is.. are you sure you dont wanna just spend the night?" mandy questions. you bite your cheek, "no, im fine."

you hug mandy and say goodbye to martin as you quickly walk to the door and put on your shoes. hamzah has a confused look on his face when he notices you didnt even bother saying goodbye to him.

his expression quickly falters when he sees martin looking at him. you open the door and slam it shut, walking outside into the frigid night.

you sigh, not wanting to walk in the dark or cold but knowing its either that or another awkward car ride with hamzah.

'maybe he just is upset im intruding on their group' you think, zoning out as you continue walking the 45 minute walk to your apartment.

your mind rattles with a bunch of ideas as to why hamzah is so cold to you. obviously its not unusual that he was cold but it was different with you. like he had some unbearable hatred against you.

a sharp pain snaps you out of your thoughts, you wince, only now noticing the blood on your lip. you must have been biting it without realizing. swiping your tongue over the wound, you continue walking until you finally reach home. the moment you step inside, your dogs dart from their little bougie beds to greet you.

you yawn, shuffling over to your bedroom. you lay down, taking off your shoes and throwing them randomly. you tug the blankets over yourself the instant a shoe hits the ground. you turn on your phone, deciding to mindlessly scroll on instagram. as your scrolling you space out, however, one specific post catches your eye.

your eyes inspect the photo, jaw slacking ever so slightly as you see a photo hamzah posted only 20 minutes ago. him and another girl hanging out, hamzah smiling as the girl is acting silly.

for some reason, you feel hurt. as if your heart had just been ripped out. sure, you werent expecting to be the only girl hamzah hangs out with but it hurt seeing him so happy with another girl. you didnt expect for him to like you as well, especially not this fast. but you liked him, a lot. you always have.

you turn off your phone and roll over, tears silently escaping. you wiped them, 'this is stupid to be upset over, of course he doesnt like me!' you repeat in your head until you eventually fall asleep.

the past 2 and a half months have been nothing but you bed rotting. of course there has been plenty of opportunities for you to get out but you just didnt want to leave the comfort of your house, or bed for that matter.

mandy was worried, constantly checking up on you, calling you, inviting you for game nights, but you only spoke to her breifly. telling her not to worry and that you were fine. she never believed you, obviously.

you took notice to the fact that only mandy was calling, never once did hamzah call you. not even to ask if you were coming to the game nights or movie nights.

and after 2 more weeks, he still didnt. you knew to stop waiting to see his stupid contact buzz on your phone, so you gave up any hope of thinking he cared.

hamzah didnt think you leaving the group when you had just joined would affect him. and truth be told, it didnt at first.

but the silence starts to eat at him. the group feels dead without your voice. game nights are quieter. hamzah catches himself stalking your page. seeing the way your bright smile travels to whoever else is in the picture with you. seeing you makes him smile, even if its just simple photos of you.

your sleeping as your abruptly woken up by your phone ringing and vibrating. you groan, looking at the screen and seeing hamzahs name.

[tikitakatia]

Louvre — A. Putellas x Reader

WC: 2k

Summary: Alexia wasn’t supposed to enjoy the museum tour, but somehow, she finds herself booking another one.

Alexia was already plotting her escape.

She’d barely stepped out of the Olympic village before regretting every decision that led her here. Not to Paris, not to the Olympics, but to this detour. Her teammates, running on impulse and questionable group logic, decided that they just had to visit the Louvre today, specifically the Egyptian wing. Apparently, team bonding now involves learning about mummification techniques. She supposes it might come in handy the next time the refs let a clear penalty slide.

Jenni was practically bouncing like a child that was fed too much sugar. Misa, who´s now fully immersed in her TikTok influencer era, was narrating every step like it was meant to be a viral trend. Irene and Laia had been arguing for ten straight minutes over whether ancient Egyptians worshipped cats or just really liked them. Alexia, meanwhile, was weighing her options: fake an emergency, claim sudden heat exhaustion, or just disappear quietly and hope no one noticed until she was already at the beach volleyball courts. Anything to escape another hour of 'team bonding.'

And that’s how you meet her.

You.

The tour guide. Underpaid, over-caffeinated, and radiating the kind of forced enthusiasm usually reserved for theme park employees in August. You spot them immediately, voice slightly too loud, smile a little too tight and donning Olympic gear acting like it makes them blend in. It doesn’t.

But then there’s her.

Leaning against a wall like it's personally inconveniencing her, arms folded with precision, brow set in a permanent state of "don’t even try me." She's wearing sunglasses indoors, not the oversized fashion kind, but the 'I’ve made a conscious decision to block all of this out' kind. You can’t tell if she's a chaperone, a coach, or just someone who took a wrong turn and is now emotionally trapped in the Egyptian wing. She doesn't speak, doesn't move, and yet somehow broadcasts a full essay titled I Would Rather Be Literally Anywhere Else.

You recognize that look. You’ve seen it on grumpy dads stuck at brunch, teenagers at family reunions, and one duchess at a ribbon-cutting ceremony who clearly wanted to set the building on fire. Whoever she is, she looked like she was more interested in being a mummy than learning about one.

“Welcome to the Louvre!" you announce, voice a little too bright, in that tone that screams, I am seconds away from losing it, but I’m smiling through the existential crisis anyway. You quickly scan their name tags and IDs to familiarize yourself, then your eyes land on the bored-looking blonde in sunglasses like a magnet. You read her nametag, Alexia, and give her another look. This is going to be a fun tour.

You kick off the tour in the section which also happèns to be your comfort zone. Not because you’re obsessed with mummies or anything, but because, let’s face it, the statues can’t talk back. And thank God for that, because if they could, they’d probably ask you the same stupid questions a thousand times a day. You launch into your usual spiel about the Rosetta Stone replica, spewing out facts you’ve memorized so well you’re pretty sure they’ve been burned into your DNA at this point. It's automatic. It's almost robotic. But hey, it’s a job. And you’re doing it.

But then you glance at her again. There she is in the back, looking like she was about to fall asleep on her feet. And then, just to top it off, you swear she yawns, and not just a casual yawn. No, no. It’s an audacious yawn. A yawn so big it could eclipse the entire museum´s collection, making you wonder if maybe she's part of some secret society of people who can’t be impressed by 3,000-year-old artifacts. The audacity of this woman.

You’re speechless for a second, standing there in utter disbelief, but you quickly recover.

Cool. Challenge accepted.

You lower your voice, just enough so only Alexia can hear. "This," you say, pointing to a funerary mask, "is believed to have been worn by ancient Egyptians to help hide their resting bitch face better than sunglasses."

Alexia’s eyebrows twitch slightly, like she's trying to hold back a smile. But as if in a last-ditch attempt to remain emotionally unaffected, she shoots you a look over her shades like you just told her the pyramids were built by camels.

You go on, unphased. "And this one here? The Anubis statue? Guardian of the afterlife. Also the first to popularize the smokey eye."

This time, she snorts.

"What was that?" Irene turns to look at her.

"Nothing," Alexia mutters, smoothing her face, her tone trying to hide the crack in her defenses.

You keep walking, dropping facts with the precision of someone who’s learned to keep this whole ‘tour guide’ thing going while simultaneously amusing themselves. Each one is aimed only at Alexia, like a game where the only rule is you have to try not to laugh.

"This papyrus scroll here? Early tax evasion forms."

"The sarcophagus? Absolutely cursed. By bad interior design."

"This entire wing? Sponsored by ancient trauma."

Each remark is met with an involuntary sound from Alexia. A laugh under her breath, an incredulous look, but she’s fighting it. Or at least, she’s trying to.

When you finally stop in front of the cat goddess Bastet, you can tell her teammates are trying to drag her out. You let them get just far enough away before you drop your next fact.

She’s still hovering, clearly trying to pull her composure together. "She protected households," you say, low again, "and invented knocking things off tables for sport."

Alexia glares at you, still fighting a smile. You can see she’s getting close to breaking so you point to a bunch of hieroglyphs on the wall.

You lean in, voice dropping just enough for her to hear. "And this one right here? Says ‘send nudes.’"

This time, there’s no stopping it. Alexia bursts into laughter, a loud, uncontrollable laugh that echoes through the room. Her teammates freeze, turning around to stare at her like she’s suddenly grown a second head.

"Alexia?" Jenni calls out, blinking in confusion.

Alexia just shakes her head, still laughing. "Nothing," she says, but the smile on her face gives her away.

Her teammates look confused, but you can see Alexia's walls crumbling. Her laughter starts to die down, and as she tries to compose herself, she bites her lip and shoots you a look.

"You’re making that up," she says, still trying to act all tough, but there's no hiding the grin tugging at her lips.

"Absolutely. But you believed me for half a second," you reply, unable to resist the smug satisfaction of getting under her skin.

She gives you a crooked smile, shaking her head in resignation, then turns to follow her teammates as they finally drag her out of the exhibit.

Two days later, your inbox pings.

Private Louvre tour request. Olympic Committee. Egyptian wing. No name.

You frown. Weird. Could be anyone. Could be another team of tourists who will complain about anything under the sun. Could be your worst nightmare. Who knows?

You show up anyway.

And there she is. Leaning against a column like this is now her new second home. The others are behind her, looking like they’ve just come off a 5-day hike through the Louvre's entire collection of obscure art. Clearly, they’re not happy to be here.

"You again?" you say, with a raised eyebrow, pretending you don’t already know exactly what’s going on.

"Missed your historical slander," Alexia says, deadpan, as if this is a normal thing to say to a tour guide.

Jenni groans dramatically from the back. "She literally made us cancel lunch for this."

They look like they’re already regretting their life choices, but you’re already leading them through the Greek wing, statues galore.

You lean closer to Alexia, dropping your voice just enough so only she hears. "This guy? Zeus. Massive ego. Turned into a swan to seduce someone. Because, you know, consent was apparently optional for ancient gods."

She raises an eyebrow, completely unamused. "A swan?"

"Yeah," you say, nodding seriously. "The original bird app."

You swear you hear her snort, and it’s louder than before, like she’s giving up on pretending to be unimpressed.

The others start to notice, slowly turning their heads toward the sound.

"You’re actually enjoying this," Irene says with a gasp, pointing at Alexia in disbelief. "Last week you said museums are just fancy sleeping areas."

"Shut up," Alexia mutters under her breath, trying to hide the smile that’s clearly threatening to crack her icy exterior.

"You made fun of me for liking art," Laia adds, half-shocked, half-amused.

"Still do," Alexia says without missing a beat. "But this guide lies better than you flirt."

You cough, covering up a laugh, but it’s clear you’ve won this round.

A few days later, another anonymous booking. This time, the Renaissance wing.

Olympic Committee. No name. But you’re not even surprised anymore.

You walk in. And there she is. Again. Waiting alone.

"Just you today?" you ask, trying to sound casual, like you’re not secretly a little excited.

"They're recovering," she says, her face completely straight.

"From art?" you ask, eyebrow raised.

"From me dragging them to three tours in a week," she admits, sounding almost proud of herself.

You grin. "Addicted to my lies now?"

"Something like that."

You step into the Renaissance section, ready to drop some fresh facts on the poor souls who just so happen to be standing next to you.

"Here we have the Mona Lisa," you announce dramatically. "Famously small. Famously smug. Fun fact: she’s actually judging you for your fashion choices."

Alexia stands next to you, arms almost brushing. Her lips twitch. "She looks like she’s holding in a fart."

You turn to her, mock-shocked. "How dare you. That’s the mother of all memes right there."

You move on and she follows, clearly enjoying herself.

"This one was painted with real lapis lazuli. Extremely rare. Also the reason blue pens exist today."

"That true?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

You shrug casually. "Fifty-fifty. But it sounds good, right?"

She leans in a little closer. "Tell me more fake facts."

It keeps happening. More anonymous bookings. More sarcastic commentary. More time with her.

You start branching out. The Medieval section. The Islamic Art wing. Even the random furniture gallery.

"This chair once belonged to Napoleon. He sat on it after every failed date."

"These tiles were early prototypes for IKEA."

"This painting? Definitely haunted. But only if you yawn too loud near it."

Alexia eats it all up, each remark leaving you with the satisfaction of knowing you’ve cracked her tough exterior. Every smirk, every eye-roll you earn feels like a win.

By the sixth visit, Jenni finally confronts her.

"You realize you’ve seen more of the Louvre than the football field by now, right?"

Alexia rolls her eyes, unbothered. "It’s educational."

"You're flirting," Jenni presses, smirking.

"Shut up," Alexia says, but there’s a hint of a smile on her lips. She’s not fooling anyone.

After one particularly long tour through the Islamic Art section ("This calligraphy? Probably a 600-year-old text complaining about tourists"), Alexia lingers, pretending like she’s just inspecting the exhibits.

"Do you ever get tired of walking people through here?" she asks, leaning against a display like she’s been doing this her whole life.

"Not when they make weird faces at 12th-century tiles," you respond, smirking.

"I wasn’t making a weird face," she says, defending herself.

"You looked like you were trying to decode IKEA instructions in Arabic."

She laughs, and it's full this time. No hiding it. Her shoulders shake with genuine amusement. She leans in, her voice dropping just enough for you to hear.

"Okay. So what if I said I wanted a private tour... outside the Louvre?"

You blink, half-laughing, half-confused. "Like... a date?"

She pretends to think about it, looking up at the ceiling for dramatic effect. "Let’s call it a cultural exchange."

"That sounds suspiciously like Olympic Committee phrasing," you reply, raising an eyebrow.

She shrugs, completely unphased. "I can pull strings."

You shake your head, smiling. "Fine. But only if you promise to fact-check me."

"Never. That’s half the fun," she grins.

You grin right back. "God, you’re the most stubborn museum convert I’ve ever met."

"And yet..." she steps closer, voice quiet but playful. "Your favorite."

You don’t argue.

Because she is.

[cloudyluun]

Office Hours | professor!harry

Summary: Harry's got a reputation on campus, and you're curious to find out if the rumors about the enigmatic literature professor are true. When a question about your essay turns into an unorthodox lesson, you realize Professor Styles might be able to teach you more than you bargained for.

A/N: This is my first fic / one shot, i'm don't really know yet if i'm gonna give it a part two, hope y'all enjoy!

Word Count: 2,5k

Warning: Smut (oral sex, rough sex, unprotected sex), praise kink, forbidden romance, power dynamic, fluff

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The classroom is bathed in warm afternoon light, the sun filtering through the tall, arched windows of the university’s historic building. The scent of old paper and the faint scratch of pen on paper fill the room as Professor Styles—Harry to his colleagues, but only “Professor” to his students—leans against the oak desk at the front. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing toned forearms etched with faint tattoos, an unorthodox sight in this bastion of academia.

“Ms. Y/L/N,” he calls, his voice a honeyed baritone that pulls your attention away from your open notebook. The way he says your name, deliberate and slow, sends a shiver down your spine. “Do you have any thoughts on the passage from ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ we just discussed?”

You’ve been half-distracted the entire lecture, tracing the curve of his jaw and the way his fingers tap idly against the desk. Caught off guard, you scramble to remember the last ten minutes of discussion. Clearing your throat, you respond, “I think... Wilde is emphasizing the moral corruption that accompanies vanity?” Your voice wavers slightly, but you hold his gaze.

Harry’s lips twitch into a faint smile. “Interesting interpretation,” he murmurs, eyes scanning you for a beat longer than necessary. “But I’d argue it’s more about the fear of aging and the lengths one goes to preserve youth.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks. It’s not the first time he’s challenged you in class, though it always feels personal when he does. You’re not sure if it’s his teaching style or something more deliberate. Either way, the air between you has always felt charged.

Class ends shortly after, and as the other students trickle out, you linger, pretending to adjust the strap of your bag. You’ve been looking for an excuse to speak to him alone, though your intentions blur the longer you’re near him.

“Was there something else, Ms. Y/L/N?” Harry’s voice breaks your train of thought. He’s still leaning against the desk, arms crossed now, his stance casual but his gaze anything but.

“I just…” You hesitate, clutching the strap of your bag tighter. “I’m having a little trouble with the essay prompt. I was wondering if I could get some clarification?”

He tilts his head, regarding you thoughtfully. “Of course. Why don’t you stop by my office during office hours tomorrow? We’ll go over it in detail.”

Disappointment flickers in your chest. You were hoping for a conversation now. But then he adds, “Unless you’d prefer to discuss it now?” His voice dips lower, and there’s a glimmer of something in his eyes—something that makes your pulse quicken.

“Now works,” you say quickly.

He gestures for you to follow him out of the classroom, leading you down the hall to his office. It’s a cozy space, lined with shelves overflowing with books. The scent of leather and faint cologne lingers in the air. Harry moves behind his desk, unbuttoning his cuffs as he sits, rolling his sleeves further up his forearms. He gestures to the chair opposite him.

“Have a seat.”

You sit, your legs crossing nervously as you pull out your notebook. Harry watches you intently, the silence stretching until it feels heavy.

“So, what specifically are you struggling with?” he asks, leaning forward slightly. His tone is professional, but there’s an undercurrent of warmth that makes it impossible to focus.

“It’s the part about…” You trail off, struggling to articulate your thoughts. His presence is so overwhelming that the words tangle in your throat. “About how morality ties into aestheticism.”

Harry nods slowly, his gaze unwavering. “A complex question. But you’re more than capable of handling it.”

The compliment catches you off guard. “You think so?”

“I know so,” he says, and there’s a softness to his voice that makes your stomach flip. “You’re one of my most promising students, Ms. Y/L/N.”

The tension in the room shifts. His eyes hold yours, and for a moment, the space between professor and student feels dangerously thin. You shift in your chair, the leather creaking beneath you. Harry’s gaze flickers to the movement, then back to your face.

“Thank you,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

The air between you thickens. You’re acutely aware of every movement, every breath. Harry leans back in his chair, running a hand through his curls. “You have a lot of potential,” he says, his voice lower now. “I hope you realize that.”

Your heart pounds in your chest. The way he looks at you is no longer just that of a professor evaluating a student. It’s something else entirely.

“I… I appreciate that,” you say, though the words feel inadequate. Your gaze drops to your notebook, but you’re too flustered to concentrate.

Harry stands suddenly, the movement making you look up. He rounds the desk, leaning against its edge in front of you. The proximity is intoxicating.

“Tell me something,” he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Do you enjoy my class, Ms. Y/L/N?”

You nod quickly. “Yes. Very much.”

His lips curve into a small smile. “Good. I’d hate to think I’ve been wasting my time.”

The double meaning in his words isn’t lost on you. Your breath hitches as he steps closer, his knees brushing yours. The tension is electric now, the lines of propriety blurring with every passing second.

“Professor,” you start, your voice trembling, “I should…”

“Should you?” he interrupts softly, his eyes searching yours. “Or do you want to stay?”

Your resolve crumbles under his gaze. “I want to stay.”

His smile deepens, and he steps even closer, his hands resting on the arms of your chair, caging you in. The scent of his cologne is heady, making your thoughts swim.

“Then stay,” he murmurs.

Your heart is a wild drumbeat in your chest as he leans down, his lips brushing yours in the faintest, most tantalizing whisper of a kiss. You’re frozen, caught between disbelief and desire, until his hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up to his.

The kiss deepens, slow and deliberate, his lips soft but commanding. Your hands find their way to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. He pulls you to your feet, his arms wrapping around your waist as he backs you against the desk.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers against your lips, his voice ragged. “If this isn’t what you want, tell me now.”

But stopping is the last thing on your mind. You shake your head, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pull him closer.

His lips trail down your jaw, to the sensitive spot beneath your ear, as his hands roam your body. Every touch is purposeful, igniting a fire that burns hotter with each passing moment.

“Professor Styles,” you breathe, and he groans at the sound of his title on your lips.

“Harry,” he corrects, his voice a low rumble. “Call me Harry.”

You comply, his name falling from your lips like a prayer as he lifts you onto the desk, his body slotting perfectly between your thighs. His hands slip beneath your blouse, exploring the soft skin of your waist, and you arch into his touch.

The world outside his office fades away, leaving only the two of you tangled in a web of forbidden desire. You know the risks, the consequences, but the pull between you is undeniable, impossible to resist.

Harry’s hands hover at your waist, his hesitation palpable as his eyes search yours for reassurance. “We don’t have to do this,” he murmurs, his voice rough, almost pained. “You can tell me to stop.”

Instead of answering, you cup his jaw, your thumb brushing against the stubble on his cheek. “I don’t want you to stop.”

He exhales sharply, as if he’s been holding his breath, and then his lips capture yours again. This time, the kiss is slow, measured, as though he’s trying to savor every second. His hands grip your hips lightly, his fingers twitching as though he’s holding himself back. The weight of his restraint is intoxicating, the tension between you mounting with each tentative touch.

“You’re sure?” he asks, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours.

“I’m sure,” you whisper, your voice steady despite the wild beat of your heart.

That’s all it takes. Harry’s lips move with more urgency, his hands finally roaming your body with intent. He traces the curve of your waist, the small of your back, the soft skin of your arms, as if committing you to memory. Each touch ignites a spark, a slow burn that consumes you both.

When he lifts your blouse over your head, his movements are careful, reverent. He pauses, his gaze sweeping over your exposed skin, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

You’re not sure who moves first, but suddenly his shirt is gone, and your hands are exploring the taut muscles of his chest, the intricate tattoos that adorn his skin. He shudders under your touch, his breath hitching when your fingers trace the line of his collarbone.

He leans in, his mouth brushing over your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, his lips pressing tender, lingering kisses to your skin. The slow pace is maddening, the anticipation coiling tighter with every moment.

“Harry,” you breathe, your hands gripping his shoulders. “I need…”

“I know,” he cuts you off, his voice low and thick with want. “I’ll get you there, love. Just… let me take my time.”

And he does. He maps your body with his lips and hands, his touch alternating between featherlight and firm. When his mouth finds your breast, his tongue teasing your nipple, you arch into him, a soft moan escaping your lips. His hand trails down, his fingers skimming the waistband of your jeans, hesitating again.

“Tell me you want this,” he says, his voice a strained whisper. “Say the words.”

“I want this,” you say, your voice unwavering. “I want you.”

The sound he makes is low, guttural, as he unbuttons your jeans and slides them down, taking your underwear with them. He stands back for a moment, his eyes dark as they rake over you. “You’re breathtaking,” he murmurs, almost as if in awe.

When he lowers himself to his knees, his hands grip your thighs with more force, his hesitation giving way to something more primal. He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then slowly works his way up, his stubble grazing your sensitive skin. By the time his mouth reaches your center, you’re trembling with need.

His tongue flicks out tentatively at first, testing your response. When you gasp and tangle your fingers in his curls, he grows bolder, his tongue tracing deliberate patterns over your folds. He circles your clit slowly, his movements maddeningly precise.

“Harry,” you moan, your hips bucking against his mouth. He groans in response, the vibrations sending a jolt of pleasure through you. One of his hands slides up your thigh, his fingers teasing your entrance before pushing inside. The stretch is delicious, and you can’t help the way your body arches toward him.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he mutters against you, his voice muffled. His fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes you see stars. He alternates between thrusting his fingers and flicking his tongue over your clit, building you up slowly, methodically.

“Don’t stop,” you plead, your voice breathless.

“Never,” he promises, his pace quickening. The tension in your body builds and builds until it snaps, your orgasm crashing over you in waves. Your thighs tremble around his head, and he holds you through it, his movements gentle as he helps you come down.

But he’s not done. He rises to his feet, his lips glistening as he kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His hands are on your hips, lifting you onto the desk, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.

“Tell me how you like it,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough.

“Hard,” you admit, your nails digging into his shoulders. “I like it rough.”

His eyes darken, and a wicked smile curves his lips. “Careful what you wish for, love.”

He unbuckles his belt and frees himself from his trousers, the sight of him making your breath catch. He’s thick, hard, and achingly ready, and the anticipation makes you clench around nothing.

��Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, his voice soft despite the fire in his eyes.

“I can take it,” you assure him.

He pushes inside slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust. The stretch is intense, and you’re grateful for his patience. Once he’s fully seated, he stills, his forehead resting against yours as you both catch your breath.

“You feel incredible,” he groans, his hands gripping your hips. He starts to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate, each one pushing you closer to the edge.

As your moans grow louder, his restraint slips. His movements grow rougher, his pace unrelenting as he drives into you. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, mingling with your cries and his grunts of pleasure.

“Look at you,” he growls, his hand wrapping around the back of your neck to pull you closer. “Taking me so well. So fucking perfect.”

You’re lost to the pleasure, your body meeting his thrusts eagerly. The desk creaks beneath you, the sharp edge digging into your back, but you don’t care. All that matters is the way he feels inside you, the way he’s unraveling you piece by piece.

“Harry, I’m so close,” you manage, your voice breaking.

“Come for me,” he commands, his voice rough. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles that push you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you, your body clenching around him as you cry out his name.

The sensation is too much for him, and with a guttural moan, he follows you over the edge. His thrusts grow erratic as he spills inside you, his head dropping to your shoulder as he pants against your skin.

For a long moment, neither of you move, the room filled with the sound of your ragged breaths. Finally, Harry lifts his head, his eyes soft as he looks at you.

“We shouldn’t have done that,” he says, though his tone lacks conviction.

You smile faintly, your fingers brushing through his curls. “But we did.”

He chuckles, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. “And I’m not sure I can stop wanting you.”

“Then don’t,” you whisper, pulling him back in for another kiss.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

Part 2

taglist: (join it here)

[losergames]

Chop Shop is strictly 18+ for language, themes, and potential explicit content. 

🔗 - Game Intro | Bug Report | Ko-Fi

Episode Four is now available! (+ 59,000) - PLAY HERE

Debrief after your meeting with Inez.

Steal... or don't!

Yvonne has a secret.

2 more achievements.

And more!

This update comes with a patch (Version 1.2.3) For this update you will need to start a NEW SAVE. An updated inventory macro has been implemented and is not compatible with old saves. I really wish you didn't have to but it's what's best for the game and its longevity!

Patch notes + author notes are under the cut. If preferred, you can access them in game in the start menu.

STORY

PROLOGUE:

General edits and fixes.

More vague, as to not elicit any emotional connection to the crew for continuity.

EPISODE 01:

Added a new set of personality building choices when meeting KJ, Jonno, Natasha and Aiden at the bar.

EPISODE 02:

Tweaked the conversation with Dilani in the closing scene to reflect more on the situation. Added some more fearful dialogue and flavour text.

Other general edits and fixes.

EPISODE 03:

Fixed gaps and spacing issues.

Minor phrasing and sentence structure changes.

Grammar and typo fixes.

UI + TECHNICAL

SETTINGS:

Changing the font size now only applies to the game text in the passages.

Added descriptions to the toggleable settings.

UI:

The background now changes colour dependent on what theme you are using, instead of the default black.

INVENTORY:

The inventory macro has been updated! Previously V2, now V3 of the ChapelR Simple Inventory Macro.

CREATE A SAVE

Modified the randomise PC choice, setting pronouns in 'sets' instead of randomising each pronoun separately.

GAMEPLAY MODE

Players can now choose a gameplay mode when starting a new save: Regular or Challenge.

Challenge mode disables the back button, disallowing players to return to the previous passage. Players cannot redo dice rolls or try out different choices for desired outcomes.

Challenge mode is not available in Create A Save. All CAS made saves default to regular mode.

AN: hello hello! it has been a while -- episode 04 is finally here!

this ep was a long one to get through but we finally made it out of the fog. i found that i wrote a bunch of stuff that just... didn't fit? but is hopefully going to be used later down the line, so it's cool i've got shells of scenes for later.

i can't find any game breaking bugs myself and my amazing beta testers have scanned through as many possible variants as they can! of course, if there is anything funky, broken, or maybe not triggering correctly, please submit a bug report!

again i will say that you will need to start a NEW SAVE for this update. unfortunately the updated inventory macro is not compatible with previous saves. i really didn't want this to be a thing when updating chop shop but it is unfortunately just the way for this update - apologies!! i know it's super annoying when games do this but chop shop is still a wip so there will always be some teething problems along the way.

as i look through my notes, we have now completed act 1 of my outline (AAAAHH) so soooo exciting. finally pc can stop wringing their hands about being bad and actually //start// being bad.

if you've made it this far -- hello and thank you! i'm so happy we're at the point where PC is making some real decisions, taking another step into their life of crime.

happy update day and happy reading!! thank you so much for the continued support and patience!!! i hope you enjoy the new episode! - becky :-) <3

[hockeyluvrr]

I rolled a 3 with Quinn Hughes. And won prompt 3

i copy pasted your example of how to request so i wouldn’t screw it up thank you for that vvv much

thanks for requesting lovely, hope you like it!! also if you guys want this to be a longer fic, lemme know 😉

MASTERLIST

word count: 1,130

smut prompt #3: "Do I look like I care? I’m seriously trying so hard to hold back from fucking you senseless right now.”

The music was loud, the kind of beat that vibrated through your body, yet all you could hear was the sound of your own pulse. It was as if the rest of the world had faded away, leaving only the weight of Quinn’s eyes on you.

He was across the room, standing with his usual laid-back confidence. His posture was casual—leaning against the wall with a drink in his hand, chatting with a group of people—but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t paying attention to them at all. Not really.

You felt the heat of his gaze on your skin, burning through the crowded room, and despite the noise and chaos of the party, you couldn’t ignore it. His eyes followed you, never wavering, watching your every move. There were moments when you swore his gaze lingered a little longer than necessary, like he was waiting for something—like he was waiting for you.

You knew you were imagining it, right? Quinn Hughes was a professional hockey player, used to the attention, used to being the centre of any room. But there was something different in the way he looked at you, something that made your stomach twist in ways you weren’t used to. Something that had been building between you two for weeks now.

The playful exchanges, the flirtations that were maybe just that—flirtations, right?—but the way his words lingered in the air after he spoke, leaving you questioning what he really meant. The touches that seemed too close, the accidental brushes of his fingers that sent heat rushing through you, no matter how many times it happened.

You took a sip of your drink, hoping to cool the fire that was starting to build inside you, but it wasn’t helping. Not with him standing there, his eyes still locked on you.

Without even realising it, you found yourself moving toward the bar. The party was full of people, but it felt like you were walking in slow motion, trying to avoid looking back at Quinn, even though you couldn’t help yourself. You kept your eyes straight ahead, trying to pretend that his gaze wasn’t pulling at you like an invisible thread.

You thought you had succeeded when you reached the bar, ordering another drink to distract yourself from the tension in the air. But when you turned around, you came face-to-face with Quinn. He was standing just a few feet away now, his casual stance no longer a distance but an invitation.

You froze for a second, the breath in your lungs catching, before you forced yourself to meet his gaze. That spark—the one you couldn’t quite ignore—was there, stronger than ever.

“Not avoiding me, are you?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper, his words teasing but with an edge that made your heart skip. There was no humour in his tone, no playfulness—just something darker, something more intent.

You fought to keep your cool, even though you felt a flush spreading through your chest. “I’m just getting a drink,” you said, keeping your voice steady, but the words came out quieter than you intended.

Quinn’s smirk grew, and for a moment, he just watched you, his eyes scanning your face with the same intensity they always did. Then, his hand moved, just a subtle shift, but it was enough. His fingers brushed against your lower back—barely there, yet electrifying.

“Yeah? You sure about that?” His voice was soft, but it was like a challenge. “Because you’ve been avoiding me all night.”

You shivered, whether from the touch or the implication, you weren’t sure. The music throbbed in your ears, but the space around you had narrowed. It was just you and him now, the air between you thick with tension.

“I’m not avoiding you,” you said, trying to sound confident, but the words felt hollow. You could feel your pulse quicken, the heat between you unbearable. “Just... not looking for distractions.”

His expression softened, but only slightly. He stepped closer—just enough to close the distance between you—but not enough that you could escape. “Not looking for distractions?” he repeated, his voice low, a playful but dangerous lilt to it. “Because I think you’re already distracted.”

The words hit you like a rush of adrenaline, and your breath caught in your throat. His proximity made your mind spin. He was standing so close now that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, smell the faint scent of cologne that made your heart race a little faster.

You wanted to back away. You wanted to say something witty, something that could cut the tension and make it all feel like nothing. But you couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe. Everything in you was drawn to him, to the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered in that moment.

Quinn’s gaze flicked down to your lips, then back up to your eyes. His chest brushed against yours when he leaned in a little closer, and you could swear you felt a ripple of heat pass between you. You barely registered the way your fingers tightened around your glass.

“You think I don’t notice the way you look at me?” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear now. The words were laced with something darker—something almost daring. “Because I do.”

A surge of desire shot through you, and before you could stop it, your eyes fluttered shut for a split second, your body betraying you. When you opened them again, Quinn was still there, so close now that you could feel the faintest brush of his lips if you moved even an inch.

“Quinn…we’re friends-“ you start before he cuts you off.

“Do I look like I care? I’m seriously trying so hard to hold back from fucking you senseless right now.” he said softly.

Your breath hitched, and the words hung in the air like an electric current. You were inches apart, the tension so thick it was suffocating, and all you could do was stand there, caught between the urge to close that last bit of distance—and the fear that once you did, nothing would ever be the same.

“Don’t mess with me, Quinn.”

“Not messing with you, baby.” He says, brushing some of your hair behind your ear with a dark look in his eyes. “So what do you say? Want me to get you properly acquainted with my mattress? Bet your face would look so pretty pressed into it.”

Your breath quickens at his words and he grins, because he knows that you’re not about to refuse his advances right now.

He knows he’s got you right where he wants you.

[uniquexusposts]

Little surprise - C. Leclerc

Summary: Y/n is pregnant and meets her husband Charles at the track as a surprise.

Y/n turned off the tv and got up from the sofa. She was satisfied with the results from her husband, Charles Leclerc. Monaco was one of his favourite circuits, mainly because it was his home Grand Prix, but faith didn't agree with those previous years. It's sad to say he had never finished the Monaco Grand Prix before. However, this weekend seemed to be good.

"Are we going to see daddy?" Y/d/n asked and looked hopeful at her mum. The three-year-old had been waiting to walk down the streets to see her dad. It was a weird situation for Y/d/n; her dad was never home at a race weekend, but this weekend he was.

Y/n smiled and nodded. "Shall we go then?" Y/d/n heavily nodded. "Go put on your shoes, love."

Y/d/n crawled off the sofa and ran to the hallway to grab her shoes. It made Y/n happy to see her daughter excited. You would say: 'you live in Monaco, there's a race, why not visit it?' Well, it sounded easier than it looked. Y/n was pregnant with her second child, which was the best thing that ever happened to her - and to Charles, but she struggled a lot with sicknesses. It made it challenging to show up at races; it was uncomfortable.

"Mummy, can I bring Raf and Peter?" Y/d/n walked back to the living area with her two favourite stuffed animals; she held the giraffe and rabbit up in the air.

"Are you sure you want to bring them both?" Y/n asked and packed her bag. "Are you sure you won't lose them again?"

"No."

It happened one time before Y/d/n lost Raf and Peter. They were relaxing at the Ferrari facility, but the trouble and drama it caused... Y/n and Charles preferred not to be in that situation again.

"Sure, but they are your responsibility now." Y/n softly smirked; she knew Y/d/n would leave them somewhere around anyway. "Are you ready?"

The little girl started to jump and happily giggled. Y/d/n was a daddy's girl, so there was nothing more exciting than going to see your dad. She had been watching the third free practice all morning - well, the parts with Charles. Obviously, Y/d/n was too young to understand what Formula 1 was, but seeing her dad and his friends was all she needed to enjoy herself.

"Raf and Peter are happy to see daddy too," Y/d/n said and looked at her teddies when she stepped in the lift. "Can I press the button?" She looked up, and her arm reached for the button. Y/d/n grew a few centimetres by standing on her tiptoes.

"You are getting tall, sweetheart," Y/n proudly smiled. "I think daddy is happy to see Raf and Peter too.” She stroked her daughter’s hair.

She quickly looked in the mirror; it was the first time in days Y/n dressed up. She was wearing a maxi dress. It covered up her 20-weeks bump, but it showed she was carrying a tiny human. As shoes, she picked Birkenstocks, just for the comfiness. Her hair was curly, and her makeup was minimal. At first, she doubted what to wear. As a wife of a driver, people expect you to look stunning and stylish all the time. Over the years, it became less for Y/n, but it was still bothering her in some ways.

"Give me your hand," Y/n instructed Y/d/n. As soon as they left the apartment building, they stepped into the busy world of racing. Every spot in Monaco was busy and chaotic due to the race weekend.

Y/d/n grabbed her mum's hand, but quickly let it go. "Can Raf sleep in your bag?"

A soft smirk rolled over Y/n's lips; there you had it. "Of course, love." Y/n opened her bag and lowered it for her daughter. "Sweet dreams, Raf."

Y/d/n gave Raf a kiss. "Sleepy sleepy, Raf," and carefully put Raf in the bag. "Are we going to see uncle Pierre too?" She grabbed her mum's hand again, and they started to walk towards the entrance of the track.

"I don't know, love. Maybe we will see him, or uncle Carlos. We will look for them, yeh? But first, we need to find daddy."

"Yes, we need to find daddy first."

Once Y/n and Y/d/n arrived at the track, they scanned their passes. Y/d/n excitedly imitated the check-in sound of the gates and walked on the stairs. Y/n followed the small girl, also trying to find out where Charles possibly could be. They crossed the track and entered the paddock/pit lane area.

"I see daddy!" Y/d/n cheered and started to run away.

Before Y/n could stop Y/d/n from running, it was already too late. Y/n looked up and noticed Charles was still in an interview in front of his garage. She pressed her lips into a tin line and followed her daughter to her husband; this escalated...

"Daddy!"

Charles recognised the high voice, but he assumed this couldn't be his daughter since she wouldn't be here today. He continued talking to the reporter, but squeezed his eyebrows together when he heard the voice again. Charles looked behind the reporter and cameraman, and a small girl was running towards him. It was Y/d/n.

"Daddy," Y/d/n breathed and raised her arms up in the air.

"Bonjour, mon amour," he greeted and lifted her up from the ground. "What are you doing here?"

Y/d/n smiled. "I wanted to see you," she giggled. "Mummy is here too!" She pointed at a woman who was walking towards them as well.

Charles' face softened; he really didn't expect to see his wife at this Grand Prix due to the heavy sickness. It was a real surprise. "That is a surprise," he chuckled and looked back at Y/d/n before looking back at the reporter. "I'm sorry," he mentioned and politely smiled. "Thank you," he ended the interview and gave the reporter a nod. Charles stepped away and walked towards Y/n. "Hey," he said, surprised. "You here as well?" A teasing smile grew on his face.

"What a coincidence," Y/n cheekily said.

"I really didn't expect you to be here," Charles honestly said. At first, he was disappointed when he and Y/n decided she would attend the race, but safety and health first.

Y/n smiled. "That is kinda the point of a surprise," she said. "I'm feeling good, and Y/d/n wanted to see you. So if you don't mind, we are gonna watch the qualification here?"

Charles couldn't be happier; this really made his weekend better. "Of course." He looked at Y/d/n, who was hugging him like she hadn't seen him in a while - they saw each other this morning before Charles left to prep for the day. "I'm really surprised. It's good to see you, babe," he said and gave her a kiss. "You look beautiful," he whispered in her ear.

"Thanks..." She shyly smiled. "You had a great morning. It's too early to say it, and I hope I won't jinx anything, but it seems like a good weekend."

"Please, don't cheer too soon," he replied and looked painfully at his wife. "We have said this for years, and it just... escalates every time."

"Maybe it won't this time."

They started to walk towards the Ferrari hospitality. "My weekend is already amazing because you all are here. How is the baby?"

Y/d/n laid her head on Charles' shoulder and looked around her. It wasn't all new to her, but it surely was overwhelming. Her eyes fell on someone who was waving at her; it was Pierre Gasly. Y/d/n looked up and happily waved back at Pierre.

"Good, she's calm now, and the sickness is gone." That was something huge; this was the first time in the pregnancy this happened.

Charles proudly smiled. "That's good. If you don't feel good or need anything, you will let me know, okay?"

"I will, don't worry, Charles."

It was the second time Y/n showed up at a Grand Prix during her second pregnancy. People adored the young family; they were happy to see the family together. And to see the baby bump. 

Taglist: @itsjustkhaos@crashingwavesofeuphoria@maryvibess @chocolatefartstrawberry @snzleclerc @ironmaiden1313@blodwyn4u

[arxiwon]

Bound in the Game

Pairing: Jungwon x Reader (Enhypen)

Genre: Angst, Smut, Psychological Tension, Possessive, Dark

Synopsis: In a dangerous alternate world reminiscent of Alice in Borderland, you find yourself trapped in a game where survival isn't just about outsmarting the others, but about power, control, and manipulation. Jungwon, an enigmatic and possessive player, has marked you as his own, pulling you into a high-stakes game of lust, survival, and psychological warfare. As the game escalates, so does the tension between you and Jungwon, igniting a dangerous mix of passion and dominance. But when another player enters the scene, determined to claim you for himself, the game takes a darker, more twisted turn. Now, you must decide whether to play by Jungwon’s rules or let someone else steal you away.

You wake up with a jolt, your heart pounding in your chest, struggling to make sense of your surroundings. The last thing you remember is the blinding light that overtook everything before you lost consciousness. But now, you’re standing in a dimly lit, desolate street, a cold wind blowing against your skin. The sound of a distant siren echoes through the empty city, and the air carries a sense of foreboding, as though the world itself is holding its breath.

Jungwon is standing next to you, his expression unreadable as he scans the surroundings, eyes flickering from one shadow to the next. The tension between you both has been palpable ever since you were forced into this twisted game, but neither of you has spoken a word yet.

Your eyes meet his, and for a moment, the world feels still. His usual warmth and ease are gone, replaced by a sharp, calculating gaze that sends a shiver down your spine.

“We’re in this together,” he says, his voice low and steady, though there’s an edge to it that wasn’t there before. You can’t tell if it’s a promise or a warning.

You nod silently, the weight of his words settling into your chest. The rules of this game are clear: survive, or die. Each round presents a new, deadly challenge, and no one is spared. The twists and turns you’ve already faced have changed you both, in ways you don’t fully understand yet. But one thing is certain—your relationship has become far more complicated.

The first challenge arrives suddenly, a card flipping in the air in front of you, signaling the start of the game. It’s a red card—a game of "Trust," with high stakes. The rules are simple: you must rely on each other’s instincts, or fail. The game is designed to tear people apart, forcing them to decide who to trust, who to betray.

You glance at Jungwon, your pulse quickening as you realize the implication. If one of you fails, the other will suffer.

You don’t get the chance to speak before Jungwon steps closer to you, his body nearly pressing against yours as his hand reaches out to grip your wrist. His touch is almost too firm, but there’s a tension that simmers beneath it.

“Stay close,” he mutters, his lips brushing against your ear as he pulls you along. “Don’t move unless I tell you.”

You feel his words as much as hear them—hot breath against your skin, and something more primal in the way he holds you. There’s a moment of hesitation on your part, but it’s fleeting. In this world, hesitation equals death.

The game progresses, each challenge more intimate than the last. It’s the mental manipulation, the psychological warfare, that gets to you—the way Jungwon looks at you, the way his proximity lingers longer than necessary. He’s playing a game within a game, and you’re not sure whether you’re the pawn or the prize.

After a particularly dangerous round, you find yourselves in an abandoned building, alone for the first time in what feels like forever. Your breath comes in shallow gasps as your mind races, still processing the weight of the choices you’ve made and the trust you’ve put in him.

But as the door slams shut behind you, you realize that the real game is just beginning.

Jungwon stands near the window, looking out at the city, his posture tense, like he’s holding something back. You can feel it in the air, thick and suffocating. The magnetic pull between you two is undeniable now, charged with so much unspoken tension that it makes it hard to breathe.

“You’re trying to control everything, aren’t you?” you finally say, your voice barely a whisper. The words slip out before you can stop them, the frustration and fear mixing into something more dangerous.

Jungwon doesn’t turn to look at you immediately. He seems to savor the silence for a moment, then slowly, deliberately, his gaze meets yours. “You don’t get it, do you?” His voice is low, almost predatory. “In this game, control is everything.”

Your chest tightens. The air around you feels charged, and suddenly, the distance between you two doesn’t seem like enough. The thought crosses your mind—if you let him take control, would you survive?

Before you can think further, he moves. It’s fast, sudden, and you don’t have time to react. He’s on you before you know it, his hand gripping your chin, tilting your head back to expose your throat. His lips brush against your skin, and for a moment, all you can do is shiver under his touch.

“Stay still,” Jungwon growls, his voice rough with a hunger you can’t quite place. His lips move down your neck, his breath hot against your skin. The feeling of him so close, so commanding, makes your pulse race, a mix of fear and something else—something darker.

You can feel the weight of his gaze, the intensity that he holds over you. There’s a split second where you hesitate, and in that moment, Jungwon’s grip on your chin tightens, forcing you to look him in the eyes.

“This game... it’s about survival, remember?” His words are like a warning, but the heat in them makes you shudder. “And I plan on winning. But the question is... will you be strong enough to play with me?”

You swallow hard, the heat in your body rising as you realize what he’s asking. You’re caught in his web, unable to look away, unable to escape. The boundaries between survival and desire blur, and in this game, the stakes couldn’t be higher.

Without warning, he presses you against the wall, his lips crashing into yours with a force that takes your breath away. The kiss is urgent, desperate—like a man starving. His hands roam, pulling at your clothes, eager to claim what he can. But you don’t resist. Instead, you meet him with the same fervor, knowing that this—whatever this is—is your new reality.

The game has already begun. And you’re not sure who will be left standing when it’s over.

Jungwon’s lips pull away from yours, but the heat from his kiss lingers, suffocating the space between you two. His breath is harsh, his chest rising and falling rapidly against yours as his hands continue to roam, moving from your shoulders down to your waist, grasping at you as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away. His eyes are dark, something primal swirling in their depths.

"You're mine now," he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous, like a threat wrapped in desire. His thumb traces the curve of your jaw, soft yet possessive, as if he's marking you. "In this game, no one can protect you but me. You understand that, don't you?"

You should feel fear, you should resist, but the words hit something deep inside you—a place where something raw and unspoken stirs. You hate that it excites you. You hate how easily he’s able to make you forget everything except him.

You force yourself to speak, but your voice betrays you, shaky and filled with unspoken longing. "I... I’m not your pawn, Jungwon."

His smile is slow, calculated, like he knows exactly how to play this game. He leans in close, his lips brushing against your ear. "You say that now. But every move you make from here on out will show just how much you belong to me."

His words should make you recoil. They should make you fight back, but they don’t. Instead, they light a fire inside you that you can't extinguish, a need so strong it overwhelms your senses. You hate how much you're drawn to him, to his dominance, his control. It makes you feel weak, and yet you can't pull away.

Jungwon’s hands find the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly, deliberately, exposing your skin to the cool air. His eyes trace every inch of your exposed body, and his fingers hover just above your skin, making your breath hitch with anticipation.

“Don’t pretend this isn’t what you want,” he whispers, his lips barely brushing against your collarbone. “You crave the control, just as much as I do.”

You shiver, a mixture of defiance and desire clashing inside you. You want to fight, to refuse, but the urge to give in—to let him take you, claim you—becomes overwhelming. The game has become more than just a test of survival. It’s become a battle for something darker, something more intense, and you can’t help but wonder how much you’ll lose in the end.

His lips return to yours, hard and demanding, as he pushes you against the wall again. Your hands instinctively reach up to grip his shirt, tugging him closer, if that’s even possible. You feel the press of his body against yours, the warmth and the tension blending into something that makes it hard to breathe.

You want him. There’s no denying it. Every kiss, every touch, only feeds the need inside you. But as his hands move to the zipper of your jeans, you hesitate.

A cruel smile plays at the corners of his mouth when he notices. “What’s wrong? I thought you wanted this.”

His fingers move faster, unzipping your jeans and pushing them down your hips with ease. The intensity in his gaze doesn’t falter, his hands deftly pushing you toward the edge of the bed that’s somehow appeared in the room.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he growls, his tone dark, demanding. He pushes you onto the bed, his body following quickly, pinning you beneath him with a force that leaves no room for escape. His lips are on you again, fierce, desperate, as if he can’t get enough.

You fight the urge to give in completely, to let him control everything, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult. His hand slides under your thigh, lifting it to wrap around his waist as he grinds against you, the friction sending a wave of heat coursing through your veins.

“Look at me,” he commands, his voice rough with desire. “I’m the one who gets to decide what happens next.”

You meet his gaze, defiant but shaking, your body responding to his touch in ways you can’t control. You can feel the power in his presence, the way he owns every inch of the space between you, and despite yourself, you want to let him.

“You want me to take you apart piece by piece, don’t you?” he murmurs against your lips, his voice like silk, smooth and deadly. “You want me to break you and put you back together.”

Your heart races at his words. Your body betrays you, aching for him, and before you can protest, he’s already sliding off your jeans, tossing them aside like they’re nothing. His fingers trace along the line of your panties, just barely grazing the sensitive skin underneath, sending shivers down your spine.

“You don’t need to say anything,” Jungwon says, his voice a mixture of amusement and something far darker. “I can feel it in your body. You want this. You want me.”

A part of you wants to push him away, to remind him that this isn’t just about lust. But in this world, in this game, the line between control and submission has blurred, and all you can do is surrender to the overwhelming desire he’s ignited within you.

He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear as his hand slips into your panties. “I’ll make sure you understand exactly how much you belong to me.”

His fingers find their mark, and your body reacts before your mind can catch up. You gasp, a breathless sound that barely escapes your lips, and Jungwon chuckles darkly. He knows the effect he has on you, and he’s not letting go.

Every movement, every touch is a reminder that you’re no longer just playing a game of survival. You’re caught in a web of lust, power, and control, and there’s no escaping him. Not now, not ever.

Jungwon's fingers continue their slow, teasing motions against you, driving you insane with every careful, deliberate stroke. The feeling of his touch—so possessive and unrelenting—makes your skin burn with need. He’s pushing you to the edge, and it feels like there’s nothing you can do but surrender to the fire igniting within you.

“You’re already this wet for me,” he murmurs, a smirk dancing at the corner of his lips as he watches your reactions closely. His eyes flicker with amusement, but there's something darker in them, something more calculating. "Tell me, does this feel like control to you?"

You bite your lip, trying to suppress the desperate moans bubbling up inside you. The words catch in your throat, torn between wanting to remain defiant and the undeniable pull of his dominance.

"You want this... don’t you?" Jungwon's voice drops to a low, teasing whisper, his finger circling slowly, gently, before he presses in deeper.

A gasp slips from you, your back arching involuntarily as his fingers slide inside you. Your body betrays you, trembling under his touch. The way he moves, so confident, so sure of himself, makes you feel weak, exposed in ways you never expected.

“I know you want to say something,” Jungwon continues, his voice barely more than a growl, “but don’t say it unless you're ready to accept the consequences.”

His words, loaded with both threat and promise, only send you spiraling deeper into this dark, intoxicating pull. Every breath you take feels shaky, fragile, as though the mere air is charged with an electricity you can’t escape.

You grip the bed sheets tightly, trying to steady yourself as the pleasure builds within you, but Jungwon doesn’t let you settle. His free hand moves to your chest, pushing you down into the bed, forcing you to meet his gaze. His face is inches from yours, and you can feel the heat radiating off his body, mixing with your own.

“I’m not letting you get away with pretending you don’t need me,” he growls, his tone sharp and commanding. “Because I know you do. Your body gives you away.”

He pulls his fingers away suddenly, making you gasp in frustration. You’re left hanging, desperate for more, but Jungwon just watches you, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

“You want me to finish it, don’t you?” he taunts, his lips curling into a sly smile. His eyes flicker to your exposed body, as though drinking in the sight of you, and something about the way he looks at you sends a jolt of heat straight to your core.

You bite your lip, the intensity of the situation consuming every rational thought. But your defiance still stirs within you, even though your body is practically screaming for him to finish what he started.

Without warning, Jungwon shoves your thighs apart, positioning himself between your legs. He doesn’t waste time; his hands grasp your hips firmly, lifting you slightly as he aligns himself with you. His eyes never leave yours, and the intensity of his gaze is enough to make your breath hitch in your throat.

“This is where you belong,” he mutters under his breath, his voice rough, the words a command as much as a declaration.

You can’t even form a coherent response, your mind completely blank as the weight of the moment hits you. Everything about this feels so right, so dangerous. You can’t stop yourself from wanting him, craving every inch of his touch, even though you know it’s only going to pull you deeper into this twisted game.

He thrusts into you without hesitation, the feeling of him filling you so completely that you gasp, your fingers clutching at his shoulders. He gives you no time to adjust, moving relentlessly, making each thrust deeper, faster, like a man determined to claim every part of you.

The pressure in your core builds quickly, the pleasure mixing with an edge of pain as Jungwon takes what he wants, pushing you further into the bed with each powerful movement. His hands dig into your hips, holding you in place, ensuring you can’t escape even if you wanted to.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his breath coming in shallow pants as he loses himself in you. His pace never falters, each thrust more punishing than the last, and it feels like he’s carving his mark into your very soul.

You try to hold back, to stay composed, but your body betrays you with every movement. The pleasure is too much, too intense, and soon you’re moaning, your voice muffled against the pillow as you try to bite back your cries.

Jungwon doesn’t let you. He pulls your hair back roughly, forcing you to look at him, to meet his eyes as he drives into you relentlessly. His lips are close to yours, and he speaks with a low, guttural growl.

“Say it. Say you belong to me.”

You can’t stop yourself from gasping, the words spilling out before you can think.

“I... I belong to you,” you manage to choke out, your body trembling beneath his touch.

His smile is wicked, satisfied, as he continues his brutal pace. He can feel your walls tightening around him, the way your body betrays you with every stroke. But he’s not done yet.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Every inch of you is mine.”

The words send another wave of heat coursing through your veins, and you finally let go, letting the pleasure take over completely. Your back arches, your body convulsing beneath him as you reach your release, a cry tearing from your throat.

Jungwon isn’t far behind. With a final, punishing thrust, he follows you, spilling himself into you with a harsh grunt, his body shuddering against yours. He stays there for a moment, his breath ragged as he rests his forehead against yours.

For a few seconds, neither of you move. The weight of the moment, the intensity of the connection, fills the room with a suffocating heat.

When Jungwon finally pulls away, his expression is unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something deeper in his eyes. Satisfaction? Possession? You can’t quite tell.

But you know one thing for sure: this game is far from over. And you’ve just given him everything he’s wanted.

Jungwon pulls away from you, his breath heavy as he watches you with a mixture of satisfaction and possessiveness. You can barely focus on anything but the intense aftershocks still rippling through your body. The air is thick with the remnants of your intimacy, the weight of what’s just transpired settling heavily on both of you.

But just as you're about to breathe a sigh of relief, something changes. The sound of footsteps echo through the hallway, distant but growing louder with every passing second. The heavy thuds of boots on concrete make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

Jungwon tenses beside you, his body rigid, his eyes narrowing in the direction of the noise. He’s alert now, the ease that once filled the air between you replaced by a cold, calculating intensity. He grabs your wrist firmly, pulling you into him, hiding you in the shadows of the room.

“You stay quiet,” he whispers fiercely, his grip tightening on you. His voice is full of warning, but also something else—something darker. “We can’t afford any distractions.”

Your heart races in your chest as you try to steady your breathing, but the tension in the air is suffocating. The footsteps are getting closer. It’s clear someone else is in the game, and they’re not here to play nice.

Suddenly, the door to the room you’re in creaks open, and the tall figure of another player steps inside. He’s a stranger to you, tall and broad-shouldered with dark eyes that seem to gleam with malicious intent. His gaze flicks over to where you and Jungwon are hidden, and a slow smile spreads across his face, like he’s already figured out what’s going on.

“Well, well,” the stranger says, his voice smooth and almost mocking. “Looks like we have a little game of our own going on here.”

Jungwon steps forward, his body blocking you from the stranger’s view, his posture tense with warning. His eyes narrow into a sharp glare, a subtle but unmistakable possessiveness radiating off him.

“You should leave,” Jungwon warns, his voice low and dangerous. “This game doesn’t involve you.”

The stranger’s laugh is low, almost a chuckle, as if he finds the situation amusing. “Doesn’t involve me? I think it does. You’re in my territory now. And I’ve never been one to share.”

Without missing a beat, he takes a few steps closer, his eyes locking onto yours, a predatory gleam in them. He steps into your personal space, his presence oppressive and suffocating. He’s no longer looking at Jungwon but you, as if you’re the only thing that matters now.

“I think you and I could have some fun,” the stranger says, his voice dripping with something darker, more twisted. His hand reaches toward your arm, his fingers lightly brushing against your skin, sending a cold shiver down your spine. “What do you think?”

You flinch back instinctively, the unease rising in your chest as your mind scrambles to make sense of the situation. Your body still reacts to his touch, but not with the same warmth that Jungwon’s presence brings. No, this feels like danger—like he’s testing the waters to see how far he can push you.

Jungwon moves in front of you, his body a solid wall between you and the stranger. His eyes flare with fury, his jaw clenched tightly, but his voice remains unnervingly calm. “Touch her again, and I’ll make you regret it.”

The stranger raises an eyebrow, clearly unfazed by Jungwon’s threat. “Is this how you think you’ll keep her? Through intimidation? You’re playing a dangerous game, boy.”

But before Jungwon can respond, the stranger steps closer, his gaze shifting from Jungwon back to you. He’s closing the space between you, and you feel trapped. The unease builds as his hand moves to your face, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear in a disturbingly gentle motion.

“Such a pretty little thing,” he murmurs. His breath is too close to your skin, and you feel your stomach churn with disgust. “You could do so much better than him.”

Your heart races in your chest, and your mind reels. This is it—this is the moment where everything could shift. If Jungwon doesn’t act fast, this stranger could take you from him, could make you another pawn in this twisted game.

Jungwon steps forward, his posture aggressive now, like he’s ready to strike. His hand grabs the stranger’s wrist, jerking it away from your face with a force that makes the other man wince. The tension in the room is so thick, it’s suffocating.

“I said,” Jungwon growls, his voice low and dangerous, “stay the hell away from her.”

The stranger glares, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes now. He’s no longer so confident, no longer so sure that he can take what he wants. Jungwon is in full control now—dominant, possessive, unwilling to let anyone else touch what’s his.

The stranger hesitates for a moment, looking between you and Jungwon, calculating his next move. Finally, after a long, tense silence, he chuckles darkly.

“You’re lucky, kid. This time.” He sneers, his gaze once again settling on you. “But don’t think I won’t be back.”

With that, he turns and storms out of the room, the door slamming behind him with a resounding thud.

You’re left standing there, your heart racing, your body still trembling from the encounter. Jungwon remains still for a moment, as if measuring the situation, before turning to you. His expression is cold, controlled, but there’s a flicker of something behind his eyes—something possessive and dangerous.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice softer now, but still laced with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken.

You nod, but your mind is still reeling from the stranger’s touch, from the way he made you feel like a prize to be won.

“I’ll make sure no one else touches you,” Jungwon says firmly, his hand reaching for yours. “You’re mine. No one else gets to play with you.”

You look up at him, meeting his gaze, and you can see it—the promise in his eyes. He’s not going to let anyone take you from him. And maybe, just maybe, you don’t want that either.

[the-oblivious-writer]

A Loving Distraction

Wednesday Addams x Reader

One-shot

Summary: Wednesday attempts what’s meant to be a study session, but being the distraction you are, you had other plans in mind.

Warning(s): kissing, established relationship, and no pronouns

Notes: dedicated to @101rizzlrr - ask and I shall deliver

You stare at your phone, thumb hovering over the text you're about to send to Wednesday. The message reads: "Meet me in the library? Promise to actually study this time."

The memory of your last "study session" brings a smile to your face. You'd spent more time debating the merits of different torture methods throughout history than actually reviewing for finals. Not that you minded - Wednesday's passionate defense of the rack over the iron maiden had been oddly endearing.

Your phone buzzes with her reply: "Bold of you to imply I was the distraction last time. But fine. West wing, third floor. Don't be late."

Twenty minutes later, you're climbing the worn stone steps of Nevermore Academy's library. The afternoon light filters through the Gothic windows, casting long shadows across the floor. You spot Wednesday at her usual table, surrounded by a fortress of leather-bound books. She's wearing her signature black dress, white collar crisp and perfect despite the late hour.

"You're four minutes late," she says without looking up from her notes.

"I brought a peace offering." You place a steaming cup of black coffee - no sugar, no cream - next to her elbow. "And I was delayed by Principal Weems giving her weekly lecture about proper uniform length to some poor first year."

"Excuses." But she takes the coffee, and you catch the slight softening around her eyes that passes for a smile in Wednesday's world. "I assume you're here because you're still struggling with Advanced Poisons?"

You slide into the chair across from her, pulling out your own textbook. "Some of us didn't grow up taste-testing deadly nightshade."

"Your loss. Mother always said it builds character." She reaches for your notebook, scanning your latest attempts at categorizing toxic fungi. "Your classification system is almost painfully wrong. Look at this - you've put death caps under 'slow-acting.' They can kill within 48 hours."

"Not everyone shares your enthusiasm for mortality rates," you tease, leaning closer to see where she's marking corrections in precise red ink. Her hair smells faintly of rain and graveyard dirt - a scent you've come to associate with comfort, oddly enough.

"Clearly. Which is why you need my help." She pauses, dark eyes flickering to yours. "Though I suppose there are worse ways to spend an afternoon than ensuring you don't accidentally poison yourself with basic mushroom identification."

"Aw, you do care."

"Don't be ridiculous." But her knee bumps yours under the table, and stays there.

The next hour passes in a comfortable rhythm of studying and bickering. Wednesday corrects your work with cutting efficiency, while you try to distract her by suggesting increasingly outlandish uses for non-lethal poisons. ("Think about it - just enough to make the entire school board mildly nauseated during budget meetings.")

"Focus," she chides, but there's amusement lurking in her voice. "Unless you want to explain to your parents why you failed this semester."

"They'd understand. I'd just tell them I was distracted by my brilliant, beautiful girlfriend who happens to be a walking encyclopedia of death."

"Flattery will get you nowhere." She turns a page with deliberate precision. "And that's not even close to my most impressive quality."

You lean forward, resting your chin on your hand. "Oh? Do tell."

"I can name at least fifteen ways to incapacitate someone with items found in this library alone." Her eyes meet yours, challenging. "Would you like a demonstration?"

"Tempting, but I think the librarian is still mad about last time." You reach across the table, fingers brushing her wrist. "Besides, I can think of better uses for our time."

Wednesday arches an eyebrow. "Can you now?"

The tension shifts, electric and familiar. You stand slowly, walking around the table until you're beside her chair. She turns to face you, expression unreadable but for the slight catch in her breath when you lean down.

"Much better uses," you murmur, and then you're kissing her. Her lips are cool against yours, tasting of coffee and secrets. One of her hands finds its way to your collar, pulling you closer with that controlled intensity that is so uniquely Wednesday.

You break apart at the sound of footsteps approaching, though you don't go far. Wednesday's normally pale cheeks have the faintest hint of color, and you can't help feeling a bit smug about that.

"That was…" she starts.

"Distracting?" you offer with a grin.

"Entirely inappropriate for a study session." But she's fighting a smile now, the real kind that makes her look almost human. "We have an exam tomorrow."

"True." You brush a strand of dark hair from her face. "But I'd argue that was an excellent practical demonstration of biological responses to stimuli."

Wednesday rolls her eyes, but she's definitely smiling now. "Your scientific method needs work."

"Then I suppose we'll need more practice." You gesture to the towering shelves around you. "We have the whole library."

"You're impossible." She stands, gathering her books with precise movements. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"To find somewhere more private for your… research." She gives you a look that makes your heart skip. "Unless you'd rather stay here and actually study?"

You grab your bag, already following her toward the stacks. "Lead the way."

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A/N: nice little one-shot before I post more angst