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natsaffection · 2 months ago

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story idea or little short thing which ever but i personally image Natasha being a bad flirt when she really means it, like for example she ends up liking a woman who doesn't work for the Avengers or like has something simple like a small librarian or something and because it's unexpected she doesn't know how to react to this sudden feeling and tries to flirt with her but suddenly every bit of seduction she learnt and she used to her advantage vanished and she just stares a lot and maybe asks about the woman's interest as a way of flirting cause i don't know what to do, she's such a cutie patootie in my eyes, i can take her seriously but at the end of the day i just see my shayla like that's just babygirl with a big heart🥲

How she smiles. | N.R

Warnings: None, just fluff

Word count: 3,7k

A/N: Some story’s aren’t just story’s.

The clock on Natasha’s nightstand blinked 5:42 am. but she was already awake.

The room was still, a minimal space lit only by the soft morning gray leaking through the window. A single shelf held a few books. Her combat boots were lined up with surgical precision at the door. A black hoodie was folded on the chair. No clutter. Nothing personal.

Natasha didn’t need much. She liked it that way. She sat up slowly, letting the silence stretch. It was the one time of day she didn’t have to perform. No missions. No teammates. No masks. Just the hum of a world that hadn’t quite started turning yet.

The floor was cold against her feet. She liked that, too, the reminder that she was real. That she existed in the world, not just above it.

By 6:10, she was jogging along the perimeter of the compound. Not for training. Not for show. Just because she needed it. The steady rhythm of breath and pavement was something she could control.

By 7:00, she was in the gym, alone. No music. Just the sound of fists hitting pads. Her technique was flawless, fast, efficient, unrelenting. She didn’t spar to fight. She sparred to stay sharp.

At 8:00, she changed into a fresh black turtleneck and tailored pants. Not because anyone told her to, but because discipline was a habit she never broke. Breakfast was a protein bar and a black coffee she brewed herself. No creamer. No sugar. No softness.

By 8:30, she was already scanning mission logs in the ops room when Steve walked in, muttering about debriefs and red tape.

“You’re late.” she said, not looking up.

“It’s 8:30.”

“I said what I said.”

He chuckled under his breath. She smirked. It was a rhythm now, their banter, safe, familiar. Maria arrived fifteen minutes later, sleek and pressed as always. Natasha greeted her with a glance, a tilt of the head, just enough suggestion to keep Hill on her toes.

It wasn’t about flirting. Not really. It was about reading people, playing the part they expected. Sometimes that part had a smirk and a raised brow. Sometimes it had a knife. Most people couldn’t tell the difference.

By midday, the team had mostly scattered. Thor was off-world. Tony was buried in his lab. Clint was… somewhere. Natasha didn’t ask. She walked the compound in silence, boots echoing in empty hallways, her reflection catching in polished glass. The world outside buzzed with movement, but inside, there was stillness.

Natasha was many things. Spy, assassin, avenger. But in between all of that, she was also a woman used to waiting. Watching. Living on the edges of other people’s stories. She didn’t mind. It was easier that way.

When she finally sat down with Bruce in the lab around 4:00 pm, it wasn’t about conversation. He handed her a tablet with new intel. She passed him a small container of protein gummies, a quiet joke from their last mission.

“Thanks.” he said, with a hint of a smile.

“Don’t get emotional.” she replied.

Later, it was one of those rare nights when no one was injured, the world wasn’t on fire, and no one was being hunted across continents. So Tony did what Tony did best, threw a party.

The tower’s penthouse was transformed into something between a lounge and a battlefield of banter. Stark had cleared out half the bar’s premium stock. Music pulsed low. Everyone had a drink in hand, but the air wasn’t loose. It was precise, a show of ease from people trained to kill.

Natasha stood near the window, her silhouette painted in city lights, sipping whiskey straight. Her dress was black, high-necked but sleeveless, with a slit that whispered danger.

She was talking to Maria, a shoulder angled just so. A too-long glance. A slow smile that hinted at something unsaid.

Steve stood across the room with Sam and Clint, observing with a raised brow.

“You’re staring.” Sam said, following his gaze.

“I’m…watching.” Steve replied, slowly.

“Same thing.”

Clint smirked and leaned over. “He’s just surprised. Nat’s usually ten moves ahead, but with Hill? She lingers.”

“She’s not doing anything wrong.” Steve said, but his tone was too thoughtful to be casual.

“She never is.” Clint added. “Not where anyone can prove it.”

Meanwhile, Natasha had leaned in closer to Maria, brushing her hand lightly over her sleeve as she made a point about… something she definitely wasn’t listening to. She was flushed.

“Relax.” she said quietly, “I don’t bite.”

Maria gave a nervous chuckle. “That’s…debatable.”

She tilted her head, amused. “Maybe.”

Suddenly, the music dropped, and Tony clapped his hands dramatically. “Alright, children of chaos, time for the real entertainment. Who’s up for a little game?”

Natasha turned toward him, intrigued. “What kind of game?” she asked, already knowing she’d say yes.

“Truth or shot,” Tony said. “Classy, right?”

Groans and laughter broke out. Natasha smiled, finishing her whiskey. “Let’s make this interesting.” she said, walking over to the circle that had started forming in the lounge. “Winner gets to make someone else do anything.”

Steve frowned. “Define anything.”

“Come on, Roger’s.” Natasha said, arching a brow. “Live a little.” She was in control. This was her world. These were the spaces she navigated with elegance and heat and sharpness under the surface.

The morning after was crisp, the kind that bit at the skin but promised a clearer mind. Natasha had been restless since sunrise, her body tense with leftover adrenaline and the ghost of too many thoughts. Steve had caught on.

“You need fresh air.” he’d said. “Come on. Walk with me.” So they walked.

They cut through lower Manhattan in silence, boots clicking on damp sidewalks, the city just beginning to hum to life. Steve talked here and there, about a sparring session with Sam, a report Maria wanted, something about a diplomatic issue in Wakanda, and Natasha nodded, half-listening. Not because she wasn’t interested. Just…tired.

Then Steve pointed across the street. “That place is new.” he said. “Wanna try it?”

Natasha followed his gaze to a corner café tucked between a bookstore and a florist. It had wide windows, soft wood framing, and a handwritten chalk sign on the sidewalk that read:

Red Velvet Latte is back — dare you.

Natasha quirked an eyebrow. “Dare accepted.” The bell above the door jingled as they stepped inside, a soft sound against the murmur of the shop’s early patrons and the low jazz playing through the speakers. It smelled like cinnamon and espresso and something warm.

And then, Natasha froze. She hadn’t meant to. It was just a flicker at first, a glance toward the counter, a tilt of her head. But then she saw her.

You.

A young woman behind the espresso machine, long hair tucked perfectly into a clip, sleeves pushed up, a faint smudge of foam on her cheek. She wasn’t doing anything extraordinary, just pouring steamed milk into a mug, but there was something about her. The way the light caught her jawline. The calm on her face. The quiet confidence in the way she moved.

Beautiful.

Not the kind Natasha usually noticed. Not the dangerous, red-lipped kind. This was so much different. And all at once, Natasha Romanoff, assassin, spy, master manipulator, forgot everything. Steve was still talking, saying something about the furniture layout or the smell of nutmeg, but she didn’t hear a word. Her eyes were locked.

She didn’t even realize she’d stopped walking until Steve gently nudged her shoulder. “You good?”

No answer. Then, like the universe wanted to mess with her, the girl looked up..and smiled. It was instinct that brought Natasha to the counter. Not logic. Not curiosity. Just the kind of invisible pull she couldn’t have described even under interrogation.

“Hi there.” The girl said brightly. “What can I get started for you two?”

Her voice was light, smooth, like honey over gravel. And it hit Natasha like a gut punch. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Steve stepped in, amused but polite. “Just a black coffee for me. She’ll have…” He looked at Natasha. “Natasha?”

Natasha blinked. “I- uh…yes. Sorry. Just…”

The girl tilted her head, waiting. Natasha coughed gently, straightening her posture. “Espresso. Double shot. Please.”

The girl smiled again. “Coming right up.”

Natasha tried to mirror the smile, but it felt off. Too wide. She turned to Steve, who was already watching her with a knowing look.

“What?” she asked, too quickly.

He raised both eyebrows. “You’ve interrogated war criminals with more composure.”

“Shut up.”

They moved to a small table by the window, the sunlight catching Natasha’s cheekbone as she stared into the middle distance.

“You gonna tell me what just happened?” Steve asked, lowering himself into the seat.

“Nothing happened.” she muttered, adjusting the sleeves of her jacket. “I’m just tired.”

“Right.” he said, leaning back with a smirk. “Because I’ve definitely seen you speechless before.”

Natasha glared at him, but she didn’t have the energy to deny it. Her heart was still beating oddly fast, her palms still cool with nerves she hadn’t felt since her first mission.

Across the room, the barista worked with ease, laughing softly with a coworker as she pulled another espresso shot. Her voice carried faintly over the counter, low and melodic.

Natasha didn’t even realize she was staring again.

Steve watched her for a long moment, “Well, damn. I think we found your weakness.”

Natasha looked away, eyes narrowed. “She’s not a weakness.” she said, more to herself than to him. But even as she said it, she wasn’t sure she believed it. Not yet.

Their drinks arrived a moment later, and the girl set Natasha’s cup down gently in front of her.

“I hope it’s strong enough.” she said, and for just a moment, her eyes met Natasha’s. It wasn’t flirtatious. Not overt..Just kind.

And it made Natasha’s throat tighten. She barely managed to say “Thank you.” Then the girl turned and walked away, and Natasha watched her go like she’d forgotten how to do anything else.

Two Days later:

Natasha hadn’t meant to come back. At least, that’s what she told herself. She told herself it was just a convenient detour. She happened to be in the area. She just wanted decent espresso. Nothing more.

But as she turned the corner and saw the familiar chalkboard sign outside, Red Velvet Latte is back. You know you want it. She felt something twist in her stomach. It wasn’t nerves, exactly. It was worse. It was anticipation..

She stepped inside. The café was quieter than the day before, a weekday lull, with soft jazz humming through the speakers and the golden morning light catching on the brick walls. There were maybe five other people seated, heads bent over laptops or books.

And then, there you were. Behind the counter again. Your hair was half-up today, a few strands escaping to frame your face. You looked just as natural, just as quietly radiant as before, and maybe it was because Natasha had replayed the moment in her head too many times, but she felt it instantly:

She remembered you.

You turned, spotted Natasha, and smiled. Not politely. Not like you did for every customer. This one was warmer. Real.

“Oh..” you said, walking toward the register. “You’re back.”

Natasha’s mouth felt dry. You didn’t wait for her to speak. You tapped something into the screen and said, “Espresso, right? Double shot.”

Natasha blinked. Normally, she’d have something ready by now, a teasing remark, a flirty comeback, a raised brow and a smile that said you’re fun, but I’m dangerous. It was a routine. A shield. A game she always won.

But now? Now, she stood there like someone had unplugged her brain. “You…remembered?” she managed.

“Of course.” you said with a shrug, a hint of playfulness in your tone. “You don’t forget someone who looks like they walked out of a spy movie.”

It wasn’t flirtatious, not exactly. But it landed. Natasha opened her mouth, say something, say something clever, say literally anything! But her tongue didn’t move the way it was supposed to.

She gave a breath of a laugh, glancing down at the counter like it had answers. “Well…good memory.” That’s all she had..No wink. No comeback. Just a weird little knot in her stomach and a flush creeping under her collar.

You gave her a curious look, not suspicious, just curious. “You want it for here or to go?”

Natasha should have said to go. She had nothing to do here. No reason to stay. But before her brain could catch up, her mouth said,

“For here.”

You nodded. “Take any seat. I’ll bring it to you.”

Natasha nodded and turned away fast, too fast, choosing the corner table by the window, the one that let her sit with her back to the wall. Habit. Safety. Even if she felt completely unsafe in a way she didn’t recognize. She sat there, pretending to scroll her phone, heart beating in this slow, impossible rhythm.

What the hell was wrong with her?

Across the room, you moved like you belonged there, laughing with a coworker, adjusting the cups, brushing hair behind your ear. Everything about you was normal. So normal. And yet it felt like something had shifted in Natasha’s world just from being near you.

A minute later, you appeared beside her with the espresso. “Here you go.” you said, setting it down gently. “Still hot. I pulled it a little slower this time, more flavor that way.”

Natasha looked up, and for a second, she felt breathless again. She nodded. “Thanks.”

You hesitated. “So…spy movie?”

Natasha blinked. “What?”

“You do look like someone out of one.” you said with a grin. “Mysterious. Sharp jawline. Possibly knows forty ways to kill someone with a spoon.”

Natasha stared at you for a heartbeat too long. Normally, she’d laugh. Play along. Maybe lean in, lower her voice, say something like only forty? But her mouth wouldn’t work right, and instead, all she said was:

“I like spoons.”

Silence. You blinked, then gave a soft laugh that made Natasha’s face burn.

“Noted.” you said, lips twitching with amusement. “Well, enjoy your coffee…Spoon Lady.”

And just like that, you turned and walked away, and Natasha let her head fall into her hands with a groan.

She was losing her mind. Spoon lady? Natasha groaned under her breath, dragging a hand over her face.

She’d survived torture. She’d lied her way out of high-security prisons. She’d faced alien armies and bureaucratic meetings with Tony. And somehow, this was her downfall, a coffee shop and a girl with warm eyes and a smudge of cinnamon on her cheek.

The espresso sat in front of her, untouched. She leaned back in her chair, staring at the tiny porcelain cup like it had betrayed her.

Across the room, you were wiping down the counter, smiling at something a coworker said. Occasionally, you glanced toward Natasha, not obvious, but Natasha noticed. She always noticed.

And she hated that it made her stomach flip.

The café had quieted even more, only two other patrons now, both nose-deep in laptops. The music was softer too, some old soul track that felt like honey poured over late morning sunlight.

It was the perfect window.

Natasha picked up her espresso, stood, and walked, with the casual, predator-smooth stride she used in every hallway, every party, every mission, right up to the counter. To smooth over her earlier embarrassment, reclaim a little dignity, maybe throw in a practiced smile, something casual and clever. To prove to herself that she was still her.

But the second you looked up, all that went out the window.

Not because of how you looked, though, God, you did, but because of the way you blinked when your eyes met, as if startled by your own reaction. The way you tucked your hair back too fast. The way you over-corrected your smile like you didn’t trust it to hold.

She’s nervous, Natasha realized. Not scared. Not intimidated. Just…nervous.

It was adorable. And it knocked the breath right out of her.

Natasha had seen it all, seduction, awe, desire, even fear. But this? This quiet fluster of someone trying so hard to play it cool and failing just slightly? It was real in a way she hadn’t touched in years. No performance. No angle. Just a girl with warm hands, pretty eyes, and the worst poker face she’d ever seen.

Natasha leaned a forearm lightly on the wood and took a sip of her drink, stalling, breathing, reminding herself who she was.

“Okay.” she said, softly but clearly. “That was…a terrible first impression.”

You smiled, eyes bright with amusement. “It was kind of charming.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Is that a polite way of saying I sounded like an idiot?”

“Maybe a little..” you teased, laughing. “But in a very mysterious, highly-trained-assassin-who’s-not-great-at-talking-to-baristas kind of way.”

Natasha shook her head, but smiled. Real this time. She exhaled like it let out something she’d been holding for too long.

“I usually do better than that.” she said, eyes fixed gently on you. “I’m…not sure what happened.”

Your expression softened. You wiped your hands on a dish towel and stepped a little closer, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“I think you were just surprised.” you said. “Happens more than you’d think.”

Natasha studied your face for a beat, calm, but flushed, a little shy. And the more Natasha noticed it, the worse she got. Because usually, when someone blushed, she’d lean into it, drop her voice, step a little closer, let the silence stretch. She liked the tension. The control.

But with you?

She didn’t want control.

She wanted to know you.

“I’m Natasha.” she said finally, voice quieter now, like she didn’t want anyone else to hear.

You blinked, that kind of blink that meant oh, and then smiled again, slower this time. “I know.”

Natasha tilted her head. “You do?”

“Yeah…” you admitted, cheeks turning pink, “Steve Rogers was with you yesterday. And you…kind of have the presence of someone who doesn’t do boring for a living.”

Natasha laughed, a low, husky sound. “That’s one way of putting it.”

You stuck out your hand over the counter, suddenly brave. “I’m Y/n.”

Natasha looked at your hand, then took it, her fingers brushing yours just a second too long.

“Nice to meet you, Y/n.” she said. And this time, her voice had its usual rhythm again, low, smooth, a little dangerous. But even then, even with every instinct in her clicking back into place, she didn’t push the flirt further. Not yet.

Instead, she asked, “So…how long have you been working here?”

You smiled, still holding Natasha’s gaze like it was easy. Like you weren’t shaking the world off its axis.

“A little over a year.” you said. “Why, are you planning to become a regular?”

And there it was, the invitation, the challenge. Natasha hesitated for half a second. Then she nodded slowly, smirking just a little.

“Maybe I already am.”

You blinked, your smile faltering slightly, not fading, just shifting. Like you felt the change in the air, too.

“Oh?” you asked softly, setting your rag aside. Natasha’s throat went dry. She glanced down at the counter, then back up. Her voice, when it came, was lower than usual.

“I was wondering..” Natasha said, fingers tapping once, nervously, against the wood, “if maybe you’d want to get coffee with me. Somewhere that isn’t here.”

The words hung there, fragile, quiet, terrifying. You didn’t answer right away. Your lips parted slightly, eyes wide. Then you let out a soft breath, a laugh, the kind people make when something inside them exhales.

“Like a date?” you asked, voice breathless.

Natasha nodded once. “Yeah. Like a date.”

You looked down, then back up, your cheeks flushed, but your smile was real and wide and a little stunned.

“You sure you don’t just want more espresso?” you teased, but your voice was trembling in the sweetest way.

Natasha leaned in, just enough. “I think I’ve had enough espresso. I want…something else.”

There it was. Not a line. Not a performance. Just truth. You bit your lip, still smiling. “Okay.” you said quietly. “I’d like that.”

Natasha blinked once, surprised or relieved. Elated in a way she didn’t know how to show.

Then, gently: “After your shift?”

You nodded. “I get off at two.”

Natasha gave a soft smile, and it reached her eyes this time. “I’ll be here.”

She turned to walk away, and for once, didn’t try to control the smile tugging at her lips. Because this..whatever it was, felt like the start of something she didn’t even know she was allowed to want.

And this time? She wanted everything.

#natasha x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov x reader #dom!natasha x reader #nat x reader #natasha romonova #the avengers #natasha #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanov

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trigun-manga-overhaul · 2 months ago

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TRIGUN ROUGH DRAWING ARCHIVE - RELEASING THIS FRIDAY!

We are happy to announce the upcoming release of our latest scan; the newly released Trigun Rough Drawing Archive by Yasuhiro Nightow, sold at the Trigun 2025 Art Exhibition.

The book contains 138 pages of both previously released and unreleased rough sketches by Nightow himself, coming in both initial rough sketch form and pre-coloring form. Promotional art, manga page sketches, font art, musing art, and merch references.

As per usual, we have not added any watermarks to our pages, as we'd rather not put any claim to content belonging to Nightow. Because of this we ask you to always leave credit when posting our scans, and to not repost the link to the files outside the release post we'll be posting this Friday.

Always support Yasuhiro Nightow's work in any way you can whenever if it is financially reasonable or feasible for you. Buying items secondhand unfortunately doesn't send money his way, so remember that only through official sources can you truly support him. Otherwise, word of mouth, sharing images of collections and simply talking about his works will do a world of wonders, as well.

#trigun #trigun maximum #trigun manga #trimax #manga #fan project #trigun overhaul #trigun ultimate #trigun ultimate overhaul #infodump

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pomegranatelifethis · 9 days ago

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Invisible Daughter

The grandfather clock's steady ticking echoed through Wayne Manor's empty halls as you padded down the marble staircase in your fuzzy slippers, clutching a half-finished chemistry assignment. At sixteen, you'd grown accustomed to the silence that filled the sprawling mansion most evenings, but tonight felt different. Tonight, the loneliness pressed against your chest like a weight you couldn't shake off.

"Alfred?" you called softly, hoping the family butler might still be awake. Your voice seemed to disappear into the vastness of the foyer, swallowed by shadows and expensive furniture that nobody ever used.

No response.

You shuffled toward the kitchen, stomach growling. When was the last time you'd eaten? Lunch at school, probably. The cafeteria pizza had been terrible, but at least it was something. At least someone had noticed you were hungry, even if it was just a lunch lady scanning your student ID.

The refrigerator hummed as you opened it, revealing neat rows of prepared meals with little labels in Alfred's careful handwriting. "Master Bruce," "Master Dick," "Master Jason," "Master Tim," "Master Damian." Always "Master" this and "Master" that. You scanned the shelves twice before finding a container simply labeled "Y/N" shoved behind a gallon of milk that had probably expired.

Your name looked so small on that little white label. So... afterthought.

As you heated up what appeared to be leftover lasagna, your phone buzzed with notifications from your group chat. Your friends were making plans for the weekend, talking about movies and sleepovers and all the normal teenage things you rarely got to participate in. How could you explain that your family was never around to give permission? That your father was too busy being Batman to remember he had a youngest daughter? That your brothers were too wrapped up in their own vigilante lives to notice you existed?

"Sorry, can't make it," you typed back, the same response you'd given dozens of times before. "Family stuff."

The lie tasted bitter, even unspoken.

You ate your dinner alone at the massive dining table, your fork scraping against fine china in the oppressive quiet. Sometimes you wondered what it would be like to have normal problems—arguing with siblings over the TV remote, getting grounded for staying out past curfew, having parents who asked about your day. Instead, you got radio silence and empty rooms.

Your phone buzzed again. This time it was a news alert: "Batman and Robin spotted stopping robbery in downtown Gotham." The accompanying photo showed Batman's imposing silhouette alongside the smaller figure of Robin—Damian, your immediate older brother who'd somehow earned Dad's attention and partnership despite being only a year older than you.

You stared at the image until your eyes blurred with tears you refused to let fall.

When had you become invisible in your own family?

It hadn't always been this way. You remembered being small, maybe six or seven, when Dick would swing you around the manor's ballroom while you giggled uncontrollably. Jason used to read you bedtime stories in funny voices that made you snort with laughter. Tim would help you with homework, patient and kind even when you didn't understand. Even Damian, despite his prickly exterior, had once carved you a small wooden bird because you'd mentioned liking robins.

But that was before. Before you'd stopped being cute and small and easy to manage. Before they'd all gotten swept up in the never-ending mission. Before you'd learned that being the "normal" one in a family of vigilantes meant being the forgotten one.

You were Batman's daughter, but you weren't a fighter. You were Bruce Wayne's child, but you weren't interested in the company. You were their sister, but you couldn't keep up with their nighttime adventures. So you'd faded into the background, a supporting character in your own life story.

The worst part wasn't the loneliness—it was the hope that still flickered in your chest despite everything. Every time you heard the Batcave's entrance whoosh open, your heart would jump, thinking maybe tonight someone would come looking for you. Maybe tonight you'd get more than a distracted "hey" and a pat on the head before they disappeared into their own worlds again.

But it never happened.

You'd started staying late at school, joining clubs you didn't care about just to delay coming home to the emptiness. You'd made friends with the librarians, the janitors, anyone who might spare you a few minutes of genuine conversation. At least at school, people knew your name. At least there, you took up space that mattered.

Your chemistry assignment stared up at you from the table, half-finished and due tomorrow. You should probably complete it, maintain the perfect grades that no one would notice or praise. You were the Wayne family's best-kept secret—not because you were special, but because you were forgettable.

The sound of the grandfather clock chiming eleven made you jump. How long had you been sitting there, lost in your own thoughts? You gathered your books and headed upstairs, passing family portraits that seemed to mock you. Bruce's strong jawline, Dick's bright smile, Jason's defiant smirk, Tim's intelligent eyes, Damian's proud stance. And there you were at the end, looking small and out of place, like you'd wandered into someone else's family photo by mistake.

Your bedroom felt like a sanctuary and a prison all at once. Fairy lights you'd strung up yourself cast warm shadows on walls covered with art you'd created, books you'd read, certificates and awards no one had ever acknowledged. This was your world—small, quiet, and utterly separate from the chaos that consumed the rest of your family.

You changed into your pajamas and climbed into bed, pulling your weighted blanket up to your chin. Tomorrow would be another day of invisible existence, another twenty-four hours of being Bruce Wayne's forgotten daughter. But tonight, in the safety of your own room, you could pretend that someone, somewhere, would notice if you disappeared.

As sleep finally claimed you, your last thought was a wish you'd made countless times before: that maybe, just maybe, tomorrow would be different. That someone would see you—really see you—and remember that you were part of this family too.

But deep down, in the part of your heart that had learned to expect disappointment, you knew better.

You were Y/N Wayne, the invisible daughter, and tomorrow would be exactly like today.

◉◉◉

The next morning, you would wake up to an empty house once again, with only Alfred's quietly concerned glances to remind you that at least one person in Wayne Manor remembered you existed. But even Alfred's kindness couldn't fill the growing void where your family's love should have been.And the saddest part? You were starting to get used to it.

◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉◉

Hello 💌 I know it’s been a while since I last wrote. This little break was due to some personal things, and I truly apologize for the silence.

I’ve realized just how much I missed writing… and more than anything, how much I missed responding to the wonderful messages and requests you left me. Yes, I haven’t forgotten. The topics you asked me to write about are still on my list — and now, it’s finally time to bring them to life.

Thank you for your patience(⁠◍⁠•⁠ᴗ⁠•⁠◍⁠)⁠❤

#batfam x reader #batfamily x reader #bruce wayne x reader #batfamily x batsis!reader #batfamily x neglected reader #the neglected reader #batfam x neglected reader #neglected reader #damian wayne x reader #batfamily #dc x reader

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harryspet · 1 month ago

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ribbons & rage | b.barnes

[warnings] dark!gray!congressman!bucky barnes x feral!hybrid!reader, daddy!bucky, power imbalance, possessive bucky, pet play elements, dollification, political manipulation, age regression tones (dd/lg dynamics), dom/sub dynamic, stockholm syndrome, forced domestication, DUBCON

summary: After a diplomatic mission turns into an extraction, Congressman James Buchanan Barnes brings home a prize no one knows about. She’s impulsive. Dirty. Disobedient. But under his eye, with enough ribbons, praise, and correction, he’ll turn the wild thing into something beautiful. Something his.

word count: 5.8k

bucky barnes masterlist

Sam warned him not to get involved in Project LUPUS. He was only a year into his congressional term and he’d managed to fully rid the public of the image of the Winter Soldier. For the first time in the century he’d been alive, he was just James “Bucky” Barnes. Some of his colleagues had even begun to take him seriously. Despite this, Bucky knew Sam didn’t fully understand. He’d never fully understand the destruction that Hydra had caused to his mind. Bucky was the only one who could understand the minds behind the deep-state project. Modern American scientists influenced by Hydra’s science.

Project LUPUS was Hydra’s legacy. The experimentations, the genetic manipulations, the violence. They hadn’t been erased. They were buried, waiting for someone to dig them up. It was his responsibility to make sure everything tied to it was destroyed.

The classified file came across his desk because one of his colleagues recognized he would be the best person for the job. He was granted limited access under the purpose of an oversight audit and a bioethics violation review.

According to the document, everyone involved had been terminated and all the experiment subjects had been exeterminated. His colleague believed otherwise. Bucky read the documents even closer during his private flight to Outpost-25 A, and undisclosed location in Alaskan territory. A snowstorm had grounded most flights but he’d been given “special clearance”.

The scientists, under the direction of a network embedded within the Department of Defense, were intending to create self-healing, biologically engineered hybrids with enhanced aggression, sharp senses, and fast reflexes. They’d be able to detect and eliminate threats, control public unrest, recover key asessets, and could even be deployed during warfare operations.

They’d learned nothing from the past.

The very last document in the pile of fifty pages peaked Bucky’s interest the most. It was a scanned intake form, faded, stained and partially redacted. This one had many notes written in the margins. A different tone than the documents describing the purpose of the project, the different subjects and how they’d been exterminated.

Subject 109. LUPUS-F. Status: Unconfirmed termination. Last seen on Sublevel 3.

Ah, the real reason he was here. You were nineteen at the time that the project had been terminated. Many of the notes were similar to the other subjects. Rapid healing. Strong territorial response. Pre-verbal communication. A few others, including you, had been listed as non-compliant.

He stared at the paper longer than he should have, becoming unsettled as he read further.

There were so many incident reports related to you. Reports on the use of deadly force. Gunshot wound to the abdomen. The accidental death of a Lt. Carney. Another accidental death of a Lt. Wynn. Destruction of two containment doors during transport. The standard dose of sedation being ineffective due to rapid metabolism.

Avoid eye contact.

Will only accept food from [REDACTED]

Your termination order was prior to the termination of the project. The justification included unmanageable behavorial volatility and emotional instability. It stated your body had been incinerated but there were no autopsy photos included.

Double dose required for sedation.

Rejection of mating partner 103-M.

Rejection of mating partner 98-M.

Rejection of mating partner 115-M.

Bucky searched for anything that gone right during your captivity and didn’t find anything. Bucky finally tore his eyes away when the plane dipped from turbulence. The storm was building. As the jet began its descent into a snow-covered valley, Bucky caught sight of the outpost. It was buried under permafrost in a decommissioned missile silo.

The pilot warned him not to stay long before he finally stepped off the transport. It was a thirty-foot walk through snow, reaching up to his mid-calf, to the entrance. The tall steel doors of the entrance had been sealed off. He used his clearance code, courtesy of his colleague on the oversight committe, and the steel doors groaned open.

Lights flickered weakly above. He passed through long corridors and security checkpoints until he reached the main lab. It didn’t look abandoned. Only frozen in time. Notes were still scrawled across whiteboards, papers stacked on desks, and metal trays with half-used syringes. A shattered, glass, containment chamber sat nearby, clawmarks across the glass.

But there were no bodies, or bones, or even any bullet casing.

Carefully and methodically, Bucky cleared the first two floors of the outpost. He found each cage door open and and empty. When he finally reached Sublevel 3, he noticed something in the air had shifted. The air cooled even further and lights dimmed. That’s where he found the bones. Animal bones.

He checked each cage for a sign of life. Though there was a pistol on his hip and a shotgun strapped to his back, he didn’t ever reach for them. He paused at cell 12-C and stepped inside. There was bedding, sheets created from lab coats, chair cushions and even shredded documents. Muddy foot prints. Small and barefoot.

You weren’t in a cell. You were loose. Surviving.

He stepped back into the hallway. And then he saw you. No chains. Just … standing at the end of the hall. Watching him.

Despite the the lack of sunlight and coldness of your home, your skin was rich and radiant. Your curls, though some were matted, defied gravity. Your frame was slender, most likely from being trapped here with dwindling resources, but the curves of your body remained. Gunshot to the abdomen. He saw the scar above your hip bone. He also saw another one on your right thigh and an even larger one on your collarbone.

It wasn’t just the scars or the angles of your body that made you unlike anything Bucky had ever seen. Unnaturaly wide pupils that he could see even in the dim light. Slightly pointed ears. You looked him over, scanned him, and Bucky noted the faint twitch of your nostrils – scenting him. Though you were physically much smaller than him, you did not cower. You were not prey.

Your lips parted and Bucky could see your canines, just slightly too long.

He remembered your file.

Hybrid Type: Homo sapiens/Canis lupus (Genome Series III)

Ancestral Donor: [REDACTED]

You were made this way. Selfishly, inappropriately, Bucky wondered how something made by evil minds could be so … beautiful. Something switched in his mind then. He couldn’t ensure the full termination of Project LUPUS.

You were like him. A monster of another’s creation. He had to save you. Someone decided to give him a second chance, he could do that from you.

Perhaps they had evolved. Maybe he was here to get rid of you like the others. He was armed. There was no reason to trust him.

You didn’t speak. Just stared. Assessed.

Until you did move.

Part of you expected to easily pierce his skin. To be so much faster and stronger that the shear force of pushing your body against his would easily knock him down. You hadn’t met a worthy opponent yet. Until now.

He caught you.

He moved but barely. You let out a scream of anguish as his arms wrapped around your torso, pulling your body against his. You thrashed wildly, trying to pull your knees into his groin, before you decided to go for his throat. Bearing your teeth, you lunged for him, but the wind was almost knocked out of you when you suddenly found yourself slammed against the concrete wall.

Now you were mad. Blindingly furious.

What was he? He didn’t smell like a hybrid. He smelled chemical, metallic, and synthetic. His arm, across your chest, pinned you against the wall. You looked up at his face now, long dark hair shielding half his face.

“You’re supposed to be dead,” His first words to you weren’t a threat. You knew that much although you couldn’t decipher the full meaning. He was surprised. Not scared of you. Not the least bit scared of his own safety. It made you even more furious, “You’ll hurt yourself if you don’t stop.”

Dead. Hurt. You knew those words. Those were bad words. But he almost seemed worried. He looked … conflicted.

You couldn’t breathe, your chest was tightening under the pressure, and it felt like your bones might crack at any minute. Your eyes burned from the rage and frustration. No one had ever made you feel like this. You wanted his heart in your hands. You wanted his head off his shoulders. But you forced your body to still. Not in submission but to allow yourself time to think.

A growling whine left your throat, the pain finally fully registering. His grip loosened and something changed in his face. He managed to keep you pinned but the pressure lessened, “I don’t want to hurt you,” He spoke and you hung onto every word. You needed to think. To try to understand him, “You won’t be able to hurt me. Not in the way you want to.”

Your nostrils flared. You didn’t believe him. You also didn’t move. Clearly, you would have to take a different approach.

He talked like a human. Carried weapons like the humans. You weren’t sure why. It wasn’t like he needed them. You could take another bullet, you’d done it before. You wished that the food hadn’t started running out a few weeks ago. You would be stronger. But there was still fight left in you.

He didn’t notice the switch flip in your mind. He was already pulling away, giving you space, but you quickly struck again. Dropped your weight, slammed your forehead against his jaw as hard as possible. Nails slashed against his throat when you successfully caught him off guard. You drew blood and smiled.

“Fuck,” He growled, actually growled, and your smile grew bigger.

So he bleeds. What was he?

A metal arm wrapped around your throat before he shoved you to the ground. You scrambled and kicked as he got on top of you, straddling your torso. When he reached into his pocket, you thought he was reaching for his gun.

“You don’t get it,” He said. You screamed as best as you could. Your chest heaved, “I’m not your enemy.”

You didn’t see the syringe until it was already pressed against your arm. The sting was nothing. You’d felt much worse. You didn’t flinch. Despite the way his face softened, you showed him your rage. You pushed at him until you couldn’t feel anything anymore.

Bucky didn’t realize he’d taken on too much responsibility until it was too late.

“You’re safe here,” He’d say over and over, “This isn’t a cage.”

Now you were here in his Brooklyn home, barefoot, feral, and you were close to destroying every valuable item in his home. His first mistake was trying to make sure you didn’t feel caged. He realized quickly that he couldn’t be nice with you. The only things you responded to were pain and control.

This would be a journey. A long one. It would be a slow, brutal fight to drag you out of whatever darkness they left you in.

And Bucky wasn’t sure yet who would survive it.

For the first two weeks, he kept a bit gag in your mouth to stop you from biting, and padded gloves on your hands, leather on the outside, soft inside, to keep you from scratching him. He had to sedate you everytime he deemed you needed a bath or your teeth brushed because you’d fight him until your body went limp from exhaustion. You completely refused any clothing, leaving Bucky to draw every curtain in the home.

He hadn’t found a way to make a click. To help you understand. Until he’d prepared you a breakfast one morning and you’d thanked him by flipping the table. He lifted you by your waist and dragged you kicking and screaming to the living room. He bent you over the couch, vibranium arm pressed against your upper back, and spanked you until your growling turned to whimpers.

He hadn’t seen you cry yet. Not until then. His heart panged, realizing he’d let his anger make him lose control. He hand’t wanted to hurt you. Not really. But the spanking had done more then bruise your ass. It embarassed you. Made you truly realize how much stronger he was. You were deadly but Bucky had an extra eighty years to perfect his craft.

Bucky could tell in the way your posture softened. How you leaned into the fabric of the couch for comfort. You weren’t broken but you were beginning to understand. He was the one in control. He could keep you here no matter how much you fought it.

You allowed him to lift you, to place you softly on the material of the expensive sofa. As he rounded the piece of furniture and sat close to you, he watched how you pulled your knees into your chest. And then quickly sat up and tucked your knees under yourself instead, bottom sore. Hesitantly, he rested a hand on your thigh. You looked up at him, eyes sad and confused.

“I know,” He said quietly, voice rough but steady, “But there are rules to follow. You were being a bad girl–”

You pointed to your chest and spoke to him for the first time, “B-ad girl.”

Bucky was taken aback by your tone of voice. Gritty from misuse but he heard so much softness underneath. A delicateness he had not expected. Bucky nodded after a long pause, “Yes, you were being a bad girl. But I know you can be a good girl.”

Your brows furrowed and Bucky saw the way that you momentarily grew frustrated before you pushed it away. For the first time, you pushed away your gut instinct to fight him. You pointed to him next, “Good girl?” You asked, confused. It didn’t sound right and Bucky could see your mind working.

Bucky grinned, “No, I’m Bucky.”

“Boy,” You corrected yourself, “Good boy?”

Bucky’s lips parted. He honestly hadn’t thought he’d get to this point with you so he hadn’t spent enough time considering how he would explain all of this you, “No,” He said after clearing his throat, “That one’s for you. You get to be the good girl.”

You tilted your head again, “You … Alpha?”

Bucky shook his head, “No, not exactly. I want to be your …” He thought carefully about his next words. He pointed to you, “You … good girl. Baby. Doll. Pet.”

He pointed to himself next, “Me …. I’m Daddy.”

“Hmm,” You made a noise as you looked him over. You reached out next, your fingers wandering curiously over the fabric of his white button up. You felt his chest, hard and thick before you gripped the metal wrist of his left arm, “Daddy arm … this … you?”

“Yes, it’s me. Still me,” Bucky spoke a little breathlessly, not realizing how much that word on your lips would make his heart race. You studied his face and then subsequently his heart rate. You placed a hand over his heart and felt the beating. It fascinated you. Your heart rate was so much slower, so much more controlled.

You made another noise and your hands wandered back to your own lap. It would be a strange sight to anyone looking in. You were completely naked and Bucky had, somewhat, grown used to looking at your figure. Sometimes his eyes lingered a little too long on the perks of your nipples or the plumpness of your bottom. And your legs were slightly parted, he could clearly see your slit. You didn’t mind it. It bothered you more when he wanted you to wear clothes.

“No baby,” You interrupted his thoughts and Bucky realized his hand was traveling closer to the gap between your thighs.

You were so soft.

“What?” he asked, brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“No … not baby,” You pointed to yourself then and gestured to a lower height, palm facing downward, emphasizing how small an actual baby would be, “This baby.”

You wanted to be understood, “Not a real baby, no,” Bucky said, “But I want you to be my baby,” When you went quiet, he continued, “I want to take care of you. I will take care of you.”

You shook your head, “No need.”

“I know,” Bucky agreed, “You’re right. You’re strong. But I know you don’t want to be alone again. All by yourself. No family. No friends. No love. It’s bad for you.”

“Bad for me. No love,” You said after awhile, mimicking him. Trying to understand.

Bucky nodded, “It’s good to have someone. Stay with me. I won’t hurt–”

“You hit,” You retorted, some of that fury returning. Your palm touched the skin of your bruised bottom, “See, you hit! No like. I … don’t like.”

You raised a hand and Bucky quickly caught it. His eyes grew sharper and he sent you a warning.

“Hey, you’re not supposed to like it. I hit, yes. But it’s different than this,” Bucky emphasized the scars on your skin, the bullet wounds, the scars from where knives had sliced you open, “Sometimes it hurts more here.” He pointed to you heart.

“I don’t like,” You said again, softer this time.

Slowly, Bucky’s tight grip turned gently and he took your hand into his. One hand on your thigh, his metal hand on your soft one.

“Then you won’t be a bad girl, okay? No fighting. No hurting Daddy. If you want something, you have to tell me. You can’t just throw a tantrum. There are rules to follow.”

You sighed, considering. Your lips parted again, uncertain. That was good enough for Bucky.

Bucky leaned in, his voice gentle, “Do you know your name? I’m Bucky. You are …”

“109-F,” You answered easily and flashed him a look of boredom, like your name didn’t matter.

“That was your name. We’ll think of something better, okay?”

Another week passed and Bucky found he had little use for the bit gag and leather gloves. The tantrums remained but Bucky noticed your intentions had changed. You didn’t get riled up and try to hurt him anymore. You pushed at him and knocked things over but mostly only when you wanted to communicate something and Bucky couldn’t understand you.

As the spankings increased, the good behavior increased as well. He started new routines with you.

Your room was currently only a twin bed and soft carpet despite the size of the room. It allowed for less things to be destroyed. You didn’t sleep in the bed anyways. Bucky started to notice that his couch cushions, blankets, old newspapers, and even clothes from his closet were starting to go missing. He found them later in the small closet connected to your room.

A nest.

You had created a soft, safe space for yourself inside. At first, you bared your teeth at him when he tried to step inside. Instead, Bucky sat right by the entrance of the closet door. He brought you breakfast, a simple bowl of oatmeal. He’d take a spoonful into his mouth and exaggerate an, “Mmmm,” as he ate. Then he would hold the spoon out to you and wait for you to take it, “Your turn, baby.”

You refused the first few times. Then eventually you took the spoon in your hand and catapulted it at the wall. Not out of anger, mostly out of curiosity. And then you clumsily dipped the spoon inside the oatmeal, brought it to your nose, smearing some on your nose. “See, it’s not so bad. Try it.”

You looked at him like he was from another planet.

Eventually, you took the spoon into your mouth and had a few bites, “Good girl, baby.” That’s how he knew you were warming to him.

His work in Washington continued even as he continued to help you settle into a routine. There were still meetings and late-night calls. Stacks of policy briefs piled high on the living room table and his phone buzzed constantly. Soon, he would have to return but he hoped by then you would be more house broken. Easier to manage. Easier to leave on your own.

You responded well to the corporal punishments. To make even bigger changes, Bucky tried to workout a system of rewards for you. It started with the stuffed animals. Soft and cute. He knew you’d never seen or held one before. He sat outside the closet, further than he usually did, one evening holding a stuffed, brown bear, “Look, he’s soft. Do you want to hold him?”

“ … hold him?” You made you way to the edge of door and reached for it.

Bucky pulled back, “You may hold him. You’ve been such a good girl, eating your food, and not throwing things. Come here,” He patted his lap.

For a long moment, you mentally debated whether or not you would leave the closet. When you finally decided the risk was worth it, you hesitantly crawled forward, sitting your bare bottom on the worn fabric of his jeans. Bucky let you take the bear into your hands and he saw something your face soften immediately. You brushed your hands over the fur methodically, over and over. Bucky counted fifty brushes of your hand over it’s head.

“You can hug him,” Bucky demonstrated for you, realizing then that you wouldn’t know what a hug was. He pressed the bear to your chest and then guided your arms around the plush toy, “See, sweet girl. Do you like him?”

“I like bear,” Your voice came out muffled as you pressed the bear against your face, “Soft.”

You were mesmerized for a solid fourty-five minutes. You didn’t mind when Bucky shifted you in his lap so that you were fully straddling him, the bear between the two of you. His hands caressed your back, the sides of your waist and eventually he fully grasped your bottom in his hands, “Fuck,” He cursed under his breath.

“Hurt?” You asked though it was clear your mind was elsewhere.

“No, baby,” Bucky said although he was painfully hard.

“I keep bear?”

Bucky placed a soft kiss against your shoulder blade and was surprised when your face remained soft, almost happy, “It’s yours. For you, my good girl.”

“I’m good girl,” You smiled a real smile. It was the first time he fully saw your teeth and you weren’t thirty seconds from trying to rip out his jugular, “Good bear for me.”

He nodded, brushing your curls back with his metal fingers. He’d have to tackle another deep detangling another night, “That’s right. But when someone gives you something special, there’s something else you say, too.” He touched your cheek. “Can you say thank you, baby?”

You blinked at him.

“Thannnk—” he started, slow and patient.

You studied his mouth. “Than...”

“Good,” he coaxed, smiling now. “Now say thank you, Daddy.”

You continued, “Thank you… Daddy.”

“There you go. So polite. So sweet.”

You just stayed there, safe in his lap, hugging the bear a little tighter.

You followed Mr. Bear around the house. Wherever Bucky placed him, you were there. The kitchen table at breakfast, the space beneath Bucky’s desk while he was working, beside the bathtub when Bucky decided you couldn’t go any longer without a bath, your bed that you had initially abandoned. You’d even spent a full night in Bucky’s large bed, letting Bucky hold your waist as you slept using Mr. Bear as your pillow. It wasn’t conscious at first. You fell in love with the small toy quickly. You looked in his eyes and squished his belly to help calm yourself, to even help yourself sleep. It was an attachment that was foreign to you. You liked that Mr. Bear was yours and that Bucky had given him to you.

It was comfort and regulation. It was all new.

You spent a full two weeks with that sense of peace. Until you woke from a long nap on the living room couch and Mr. Bear was missing. You’d learn to breathe, to slow down and to not let your anger rise to point of seeing red. You breathed deeply as you turned over every cushion and looked threw drawers. You couldn’t even smell him anymore.

He was gone. Forever. Stolen from you. Had you been a bad girl? You’d grown attached and now you’d been abandoned. You started looking under any item you could find, letting items fall to the ground with a thud. You emptied an entire bookshelf of all it’s books and spread the contents of one of Bucky’s manila folders all over the floor.

Cold, dense paper. Nothing soft. You didn’t register the sound of Bucky’s voice in the other room. You fell to your knees, cheeks wet with tears, and started to shred the papers with your nails.

“....Then tell them to hold off until I’m back D.C. I won’t sign off on anything blind …. Yeah, he knows this. Email him again. Then call. Whatever you have to do. That’s your job …”

A second later, the footsteps came. Fast, heavy but controlled.

“Give me a second,” Bucky said. Then louder, “Just pause the call.”

Your eyes found his when he finally walked into the living room from his office. He looked over everything quickly. You couldn’t control your breathing.

Before he could ask you what was wrong, you yelled, “You took bear! Not here! Where?!”

“He’s not gone,” Bucky crouched next to you, eyes dark and fixed sharply on you, “I was in the other room. You need to ask when you have a question. You can’t do … this.”

“Need bear, Daddy,” You crawled closer on your knees, “Need. Baby is sad.”

“Thank you for telling Daddy how you feel but this is not what you do when you’re sad. You didn’t ask Daddy for help,” Before he continued his lecture, he realized you weren’t the least bit sorry. Your focus was on your toy, “Daddy put Mr. Bear in the washing machine. He was dirty. He’s in the dryer now.”

“You took bear,” You croaked and Bucky sighed, “Not dirty. Give back.”

“I’ll give him back after you clean up your mess.”

“No, Daddy!”

“Do you want a spanking too?” You blinked, eyes wide. You shook your head slowly. It had been so long since Bucky had bent you over and done that to you, “Clean, all this needs to go in the trash. The books go back on the bookshelf. And you can put the couch back together. I will wait.”

You scowled then. You had to clean when all of this was his fault. He took Mr. Bear.

He kept his word. He waited. You put the couch cushions back where they belonged before you stacked the books back on the shelf. He stepped in to show you exactly where the books needed to go and held a trash bag open for you to place all the destroyed papers in.

“Good girl,” He said though the way his jaw clicked made you believe he might be just as mad as you.

He took your hand a moment later and led you into the small room with two white machines. One was loud, rumbling and as Bucky opened it’s door, the shaking came to a cease. And then Mr. Bear appeared. Before you could lunge for him, Bucky’s metal arm shot out, holding you at a distance, “My bear,” Your voice trailed off as you eyed the toy. He looked cleaner but he’d lost the smell you’d grown to like, “Bucky no more clean. Not dirty.”

“Mr. Bear does get dirty just like Baby does. He has to have a bath sometimes. Do you understand?”

You were reluctant but you nodded. “Yes,” As soon as the plus toy was in your arms, you curled up on the ground, and held him tightly. As Bucky turned to return to his call in the other room, you let out a small, “.... Sorry, Bucky.”

He paused in the doorway, glanced back.

“I know, baby,” he said gently.

Bucky decided the perfect gateway into you finally wearing clothes around the house was yet another toy. This one was a soft rag doll that looked just slightly like you. The same skin tone and dark curly hair pinned up by two lavender colored bows. She also wore a lavender dress and matching ballet flats. She looked sweet, safe, familiar.

His usual spiel had failed. He explained that clothes were a good thing. They were soft and kept you warm. He also teased the possibility of one day going outside with him, “The people outside always wear clothes,” He’d say, “You want to go on a trip with Daddy one day, don’t you?”

You just ignored him and let your eyes wander towards the window, “This is Mr. Bear’s good friend,” He presented the doll to you, placing her on your bed, next to the loose-fitting, pink t-shirt dress that was laid out on the bed. He chose something completely unrestrictive on purpose. You perked up then. You gave him a hungry look, as if he was presenting you with a medium-rare steak instead of a doll, “She’s a ballerina. Uh, like a dancer. To music. Her name is … Rina.”

“Rina,” You tried, your eyes locked on her, “Soft?”

“She’s very soft,” Bucky assured you, “She loves hugs too.”

“Rina mine?” You asked next, face soft, looking up expectantly, “Like Bear?”

“She could be. She wants a new friend. But she has a rule.”

Your arms crossed at that. You leaned forward to study the doll, brows furrowed, “She has rule?”

“She doesn’t want to be held unless you’re dressed, like people are supposed to be. Even cute hybrid girls have to wear clothes. She feels the most comfortable that way.”

You pouted adorably, “Bad rule.”

“Maybe,” Bucky said, “That’s what she told me. Rina’s rules. She might let you hold her if you’re a good girl.”

“Don’t like,” You started to whine, pressing your body against Bucky’s body, forehead pressing against his chest, “Please … don’t like.”

Bucky placed gentle on your shoulders, lifting your body from him. He pressed a finger under your chin, lifting it until you were looking at him, “I’m sorry, I would help you but it’s not my rule.”

He turned away from you. Not far, only a few steps. He gave you space. Pretended to check his email on his phone. He heard you stomp your feet. Once. Twice. Then a whine. Then there was silence. The tiniest ruffle of fabric. When Bucky turned around, you were wearing the dress. He smiled wide, impressed.

He doubted he could get you in pair of underwear or a bra today but there was time for that.

He came closer again, running his fingers over your hair before he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, “Did it. See, Bucky.” You declared, eyes wide and expecting, “Mine now?”

“She’s yours.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” You bounced on your toes excitedly before you happily scooped up the doll. Bucky picked you up next, and you wrapped your legs around his torso. You let out a soft laugh, a real one, and it was music to Bucky’s ears. One arm looping around his neck, the other squeezing Rina to your body, you looked Bucky in his eyes deeply. Like he’d placed gentle kisses on your forehead, your shoulder, and cheeks, you placed a soft peck on his lips.

He stilled for a second. Then smiled, full and proud, “Thank you, babygirl.”

There was one week left until Bucky had to return to Washington. He was more than happy with the progress you’d made. You’d started wearing underwear and you’d even been open to trying different kinds of clothes. Pants were still a nonstarter. You didn’t mind the skirts. You didn’t love the tight-fitting t-shirts but Bucky often left you no options. You tugged at them and pouted. Selfishly, he liked the way they looked on you.

There were still many gaps in your social etiquette. It took him a full three days to explain that you couldn’t lift up your skirt whenever you wanted. You had a habit of wanting to stare at the different patterns on your underwear and often would flip up your skirt in the middle of a conversation or activity or anything to look. He corrected gently, not because he didn’t like the view but because ideally one day you’d accompany him to dinners and go on outings with him. He didn’t need you putting your body on display.

He convinced you Rina liked it when wore different hairstyles. Ribbons and bows were her absolute favorite. He’d started getting really good at braiding it into neat rows, and tying bows to the ends. During his morning meetings, you often sat between his legs at his desk, Rina in your lap, as he fixed your hairstyle for the day.

Bucky was settling into a sense of peacefulness. A feeling he had longed for. Therapy helped. His new job fulfilled him in some aspects but also made him realize how slow change really happened at the same time. This life, the pocket of innocence he was building around you, was starting to help most of all. This life was the opposite of everything he and you were ever used to.

He didn’t want you exposed to the real world. He would shield you from reality for as long as possible. He would give you something he never had for himself. He’d also had enough of following orders for ten lifetimes. With you, in his own house, he made the rules.

He had to address his mission. Debrief the committee on all of his findings. He had to give his colleagues enough information to satisfy them but couldn’t risk them getting their hands on you. You were the survivicing data to a program that never should’ve been created. He decided to lie. The site was clear of any sources of life. The facility was sealed, records wiped away, and he submitted a report that suggested Project LUPUS be permanently blacklisted from funding due to “gross ethical violations”.

He’d have to spin another story eventually. Explain your presence in his life. Mel, his assistant, was already working on using the story for political advantage. You were a rescued civilian during a humanitarian negotiation. You’d suffered severe trauma and Congressman Barnes, recognizing the complexity of the situation and understanding the importance of mental rehabilitation, he’s personally arranged for you to receive trauma-informed rehabilitative care under his sponsorship. He’d be even more of the hero than the public saw him as.

Colleagues would raise questions but no one would push to hard. He was a war hero. His word was gospel.

Pls reblog w/ your thoughts if you enjoyed! This will be a 2 part series with the second chapter focused on Bucky + Baby’s time in Washington! Hope you enjoyed :)

#dark fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes au #thunderbolts #black!reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x black!reader #dark bucky barnes

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reasonsforhope · 28 days ago

Text

"In the 1750s, an Italian farmer digging a well stumbled upon a lavish villa in the ruins of Herculaneum. Inside was a sprawling library with hundreds of scrolls, untouched since Mount Vesuvius’ eruption in 79 C.E. Some of them were still neatly tucked away on the shelves.

This staggering discovery was the only complete library from antiquity ever found. But when 18th-century scholars tried to unroll the charred papyrus, the scrolls crumbled to pieces. They became resigned to the fact that the text hidden inside wouldn’t be revealed during their lifetimes.

In recent years, however, researchers realized that they were living in the generation that would finally solve the puzzle. Using artificial intelligence, they’ve developed methods to peer inside the Herculaneum scrolls without damaging them, revealing short passages of ancient text.

This month, researchers announced a new breakthrough. While analyzing a scroll known as PHerc. 172, they determined its title: On Vices. Based on other works, they think the full title is On Vices and Their Opposite Virtues and in Whom They Are and About What.

“We are thrilled to share that the written title of this scroll has been recovered from deep inside its carbonized folds of papyrus,” the Vesuvius Challenge, which is leading efforts to decipher the scrolls, says in a statement. “This is the first time the title of a still-rolled Herculaneum scroll has ever been recovered noninvasively.”

On Vices was written by Philodemus, a Greek philosopher who lived in Herculaneum more than a century before Vesuvius’ eruption. Born around 110 B.C.E., Philodemus studied at a school in Athens founded several centuries earlier by the influential philosopher Epicurus, who believed in achieving happiness by pursuing certain specific forms of pleasure.

“This will be a great opportunity to learn more about Philodemus’ ethical views and to get a better view of the On Vices as a whole,” Michael McOsker, a papyrologist at University College London who is working with the Vesuvius Challenge, tells CNN’s Catherine Nicholls.

When it launched in 2023, the Vesuvius Challenge offered more than $1 million in prize money to citizen scientists around the world who could use A.I. to help decipher scans of the Herculaneum scrolls.

Spearheaded by Brent Seales, a computer scientist at the University of Kentucky, the team scanned several of the scrolls and uploaded the data for anyone to use. To earn the prize money, participants competed to be the first to reach a series of milestones.

Reading the papyrus involves solving several difficult problems. After the rolled-up scrolls are scanned, their many layers need to be separated out and flattened into two-dimensional segments. At that point, the carbon-based ink usually isn’t visible in the scans, so machine-learning models are necessary to identify the inked sections.

In late 2023, a computer science student revealed the first word on an unopened scroll: “porphyras,” an ancient Greek term for “purple.” Months later, participants worked out 2,000 characters of text, which discussed pleasures such as music and food.

But PHerc. 172 is different from these earlier scrolls. When researchers scanned it last summer, they realized that some of the ink was visible in the images. They aren’t sure why this scroll is so much more legible, though they hypothesize it’s because the ink contains a denser contaminant such as lead, according to the University of Oxford’s Bodleian Libraries, which houses the scroll.

In early May, the Vesuvius Challenge announced that contestants Marcel Roth and Micha Nowak, computer scientists at Germany’s University of Würzburg, would receive $60,000 for deciphering the title. Sean Johnson, a researcher with the Vesuvius Challenge, had independently identified the title around the same time.

Researchers are anticipating many more breakthroughs on the horizon. In the past three months alone, they’ve already scanned dozens of new scrolls.

“The pace is ramping up very quickly,” McOsker tells the Guardian’s Ian Sample. “All of the technological progress that’s been made on this has been in the last three to five years—and on the timescales of classicists, that’s unbelievable.”"

-via Smithsonian, May 16, 2025

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hyunjinsmuze · 1 month ago

Text

Forget Me, Gently

warnings: Slight smut (one scene), car crash, head trauma, coma, memory loss

contains: Angst, light smut, fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship, soft romance

summary: They fell in love deeply, messily, completely. But after the crash… she forgot. And he’s willing to love her all over again, even if it breaks him.

words: 5.5k

pairing: Hyunjin x Reader

It was the sort of afternoon that hung in the air like a held breath—cloud-filtered sunlight and the faint scent of cinnamon and roasted beans drifting through the small café tucked between a flower shop and a bookstore. Y/N liked this one for its quiet corners and how the baristas never tried to rush you, even when you spent three hours rereading the same page of a sketchbook. The café was warm, lived-in, imperfect in the way real places are. Familiar.

She didn’t notice him at first. Not until the crash happened.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, are you okay?”

Her world jolted. The warmth of her just-bought vanilla latte spread across the front of her hoodie, soaking through in seconds. She gasped, startled more than anything, blinking up at the tall figure before her. He looked horrified. Apologetic. And annoyingly… beautiful.

“I didn’t see you, seriously, I’m so sorry.” He grabbed too many napkins, probably, but pressed a few into her hands with a desperation that almost made her laugh.

“I—it’s okay,” she said, more out of instinct than truth. “It was an accident.”

He nodded quickly, eyes scanning the mess he’d made, the liquid soaking into her sketchbook on the table. That made her flinch.

“Oh—your book,” he said, frowning like he’d just watched a kitten fall off a windowsill. “God, I’ll replace it. I swear, I’ll, can I… buy you another coffee?”

She raised an eyebrow, half amused. “You want to repay me by getting me another coffee after ruining my first one?”

A beat passed. His lips twitched into a crooked smile. “And I’ll even sit with you while you drink it. If you let me.”

She looked at him properly now—tall, fair-skinned, with soft dark eyes and a mouth that looked like it belonged in a painting. Something about him was too delicate to be real but not fragile. No, not fragile. Something else. Like art that knew it was meant to be looked at slowly.

“I’m Y/N,” she said, voice lighter than she expected.

He smiled. “Hyunjin.”

“Okay, Hyunjin. You’re forgiven. Buy me coffee.”

They stood in line together. Her hoodie was ruined, the sketchbook damp, her day derailed but she couldn’t quite stop the curl of interest low in her stomach. He had this way of being intensely present, even in silence.

As they waited, he glanced at her, then at her sketchbook. “Do you draw?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes. Mostly for myself.”

A soft hum. “I paint. A little.”

Her heart skipped. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “mostly oils or charcoal. But I’ve never really shown anyone. It’s more of a… thing I do to breathe.”

She nodded like she understood. Because she did.

When their drinks arrived, Hyunjin’s phone buzzed. He winced. “I have to be somewhere, but… can I text you? Maybe make up for the sketchbook with a proper coffee?”

She hesitated—only a little before handing him her phone.

He grinned as he typed, “See you.”

And just like that, he was gone, a gust of spring air with a paint-stained soul.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

It had been a few days since that unexpected moment, the spilled coffee, the nervous apologies, the way his eyes had looked at her like she was something fragile and important all at once. Y/N found herself replaying it over and over, the image of him lingering in her mind more vividly than anything she’d seen in weeks.

The little café had become more than just a quiet refuge; it now held the echo of his voice, the warmth of his smile. Even the smell of cinnamon and roasted beans seemed to carry a new meaning, as if the ordinary had somehow become extraordinary.

She was sketching there again when her phone buzzed, breaking her concentration. She glanced down, not expecting much. But then she saw the name.

Hyunjin.

A sudden flutter warmed her chest. Her fingers hesitated, then she tapped out a reply, the simple act feeling like a bridge stretching between two worlds.

‘Hey, how’s it going?’

His answer came quickly, and she felt her heart lift.

‘I wanted to ask you something.’

She blinked at the screen, a small smile playing on her lips.

‘What’s up?’

‘Would you like to come to an art studio with me? he asked. We could draw together. Just for fun.’

Her breath hitched. Drawing together. The idea was sweet, simple, yet it carried an unspoken promise of closeness. She imagined him, paintbrush in hand, his eyes steady and focused as he captured the light in a moment or the curve of a smile. Somehow, she thought, he would see her in ways no one else did.

‘I’d love that, she typed back, cheeks warming.’

Great. I’ll send you the details. Can’t wait, his message appeared, and a small thrill ran through her.

That night, Hyunjin sat alone in his room, his phone screen glowing softly in the dim light. The thought of Y/N smiling at the idea of drawing with him made his chest tighten with something tender and new.

He wondered how someone could feel so significant in such a short time. There was something about her her quiet strength, the way she looked at the world that made him want to show her all the colors he kept hidden beneath the surface.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

When Y/N arrived at the art studio a few days later, the soft hum of music and the rich scent of oils filled the air. The space buzzed quietly with creativity. At first, she felt a little out of place, unsure about her own drawing skills among all the paint and brushes. But the light pouring through the large windows made everything look warm and inviting, like a safe little sanctuary.

She wasn’t exactly sure what to expect. Hyunjin had only mentioned his art in passing, over texts, but she’d never seen it for real. The idea of standing next to him, sketching together, made her nervous in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

She wandered deeper inside, her shoes soft against the wooden floor. Then she spotted him—sitting on a stool near a blank canvas, pencil in hand, eyes focused like he was already imagining what the drawing would become. His dark hair fell in gentle waves over his forehead. When he looked up and saw her, his face lit up in a way that made her stomach flutter.

“Hey,” he said, standing quickly. “So, you actually came.”

She smiled, feeling the warmth in his gaze. “You invited me.”

He motioned around the room. “This is where I come when I need to get away from everything. It’s peaceful here.”

She nodded slowly. “It really feels like a sanctuary.”

His eyes softened, and for a moment, she saw something vulnerable in him—a side he didn’t usually show. “What’s your favorite thing to draw?”

“Flowers,” she said, smiling at him.

“Okay,” he said, a small grin forming. “Let’s draw each other’s favorite flower.”

Her heart jumped. “That sounds perfect.”

She learned his favorite flower was a black rose. She told him hers were tulips.

They sat down, sketchbooks in their laps. Hyunjin’s pencil moved with practiced ease. Every line was fluid and graceful, capturing the delicate beauty of the flowers with surprising depth. Watching him, Y/N felt mesmerized—not just by the art but by the calm way he worked. It wasn’t about being perfect; it was about the process, the flow.

She felt that same calm slowly settle inside her.

“How did you get into art?” she asked, breaking the comfortable silence.

Hyunjin didn’t look up right away. His breath slowed, and she saw him gathering his thoughts.

“I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t drawing,” he said finally. “It started as a way to escape. My family was always moving, always busy, and it was hard to find something that felt like mine. Art… it was always there. It helped me breathe.”

Y/N felt her chest tighten. He was sharing a part of himself he didn’t often show.

“That’s why I love it,” he continued, still avoiding her gaze. “It’s one of the only things that makes sense to me. The only thing that lets me really be myself.”

She nodded, unsure of what to say but feeling the weight of his words. “I get that.”

They worked quietly for a while. Occasionally, their eyes met and a soft smile passed between them small, genuine moments that said more than words.

Hyunjin stretched, breaking the silence. “How’s your drawing coming?”

She looked down at her sketch and smiled. “It’s coming along. I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

“You’re good,” he said softly, meaning it.

She blushed, her heart fluttering. “Thanks. That means a lot coming from you.”

His gaze lingered on her a moment longer. “I mean it. You have something special, Y/N. You always have.”

After his words hung softly between them, she realized how much she wanted this—this slow, fragile connection that felt like it could break or bloom at any moment.

When they finally packed up hours later, the energy between them had shifted. They were still the same two people who had met by chance, but something new had begun—a closeness that neither could yet put into words.

As they stepped outside into the warm evening light, Hyunjin glanced sideways at her, his expression unreadable for a second.

“Thanks for coming,” he said quietly. “I really enjoyed this.”

Y/N smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Me too. I didn’t realize how much I missed creating with someone.”

He nodded, and for a moment, they just stood there letting the quiet words hang between them like the last golden rays of the setting

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

A few days had passed since their last meeting, but Hyunjin and Y/N found themselves texting and calling more than either expected. It wasn’t planned more like a song that plays unexpectedly, yet somehow stays with you.

That night, they were on FaceTime, their faces softly lit by the glow of their separate rooms. Y/N leaned back against her pillows, fighting the heaviness of her eyelids as the night stretched on. Hyunjin sat on his bed, casual in a plain white shirt, his hair tousled but still perfectly styled.

“I still can’t believe you’re a K-pop idol,” Y/N said softly, disbelief coloring her tone. “Like, that kind of idol.”

Hyunjin chuckled quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah… it’s kind of hard to believe sometimes. I don’t really look the part, do I?” His laugh was light but tinged with uncertainty.

She smiled, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “No, it’s not that. You just seem so normal.” She flushed as soon as the words slipped out. “I mean, not that you’re not special—just... you don’t have that superstar vibe. You’re just you. And honestly, that’s nice.”

There was a pause as Hyunjin absorbed her words, his eyes softening. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt, thoughts drifting. She had a way of making everything seem effortless. She didn’t try to impress. She simply was. And that was captivating.

“Well, that’s the hard part sometimes,” he said quietly, the playful tone gone. “People expect perfection when you’re in the spotlight. But I’m just me. And sometimes... that doesn’t feel like enough.”

Y/N blinked, surprised by the raw vulnerability in his voice. “I get it. You’re more than what people see on stage. You’re a person. And that’s more than enough.”

His smile was soft, almost shy, eyes briefly flicking away before meeting hers again. “Thanks, Y/N. You’re one of the few who makes me feel that way.”

Her chest tightened at the honesty. How much of his life was public, and how little of himself he could share? And here, in this quiet moment, they were sharing pieces of their true selves.

She smiled gently. “I’m glad. You’re really important, Hyunjin. To a lot of people.”

His smile lingered, something unspoken passing between them—tender, intense. He wanted to say more but let the silence hold the space.

As the night deepened, Y/N grew sleepy. Her eyes drooped, struggling to stay open. Hyunjin noticed, his smile deepening.

“Y/N,” he said softly, voice low and soothing, “are you getting tired?”

She yawned, sheepishly. “Yeah... I’m sorry. I just can’t stay awake. You’ve kept me up too late.” She giggled quietly.

His lips curved in an affectionate smile, eyes soft. “It’s okay. You don’t have to stay up for me.”

She shifted under the covers, surrendering to the sleepiness. “I’m fine. I’m just really glad we’re talking.”

His smile softened even more, intimate. “Me too, Y/N. I’m really glad you’re in my life.”

And with that, she finally gave in. Her eyes fluttered closed as he watched her breathing slow. The sound of her soft sighs filled the quiet. She was asleep.

For a moment, Hyunjin stayed still, watching her peaceful face on the screen. His chest tightened with something unfamiliar but familiar all at once.

He reached for the sketchbook beside him, part of his nightly routine when his mind was too full. He hadn’t planned to draw her. Not consciously. But as his pencil met the paper, her image began to form.

He sketched her as he saw her—delicate features, lips parted gently in sleep, soft hair framing her face. There was a beauty in her letting go, a calm he admired. The more he drew, the deeper his feelings revealed themselves in every line and shadow.

He’d never drawn anyone like this before. It was like he could see her in a way words never could. She was warmth, light, and a breathtaking kind of beauty.

When he finished, he leaned back, staring at the sketch as if it held a secret. His heart ached with the truth it showed—his feelings for her, laid bare.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Days passed before they saw each other again. Though they spoke daily, a quiet tension lingered, something unspoken between them.

One afternoon, they sat together on a blanket at the Han River, the city skyline stretching beyond. The only sound was the gentle rush of water. The moment felt suspended in time, just for them.

Hyunjin watched her, a gentle smile playing on his lips, but his eyes held something else a hesitation, an unspoken question.

Y/N noticed and tilted her head. “What’s on your mind, Hyunjin?”

He blinked, shaking off the momentary trance. “I was just thinking about... how much I like being with you.”

Her heart skipped. She smiled warmly. “I enjoy spending time with you, too.”

They sat quietly before Y/N spoke again, curiosity flickering in her voice. “You never really showed me one of your songs. You talk about them, but you’ve never played me any.”

His expression softened. He pulled his phone from his pocket. “Yeah, I guess I’ve been avoiding that. But... maybe you can hear one now.”

He handed her his headphones, their fingers brushing lightly, sending a shiver through her. She slipped them on, adjusting the volume as he pressed play.

Soft acoustic guitar filled her ears, followed by his smooth, tender voice.

The song was slow and full of emotion. His raw honesty felt like it was meant just for her—not flashy or loud, but lingering deep in the soul.

As the lyrics played, Y/N held her breath, her heart quietly hoping the song was about her.

“I don’t need anything but you,

I don’t need anything but you.”

The song ended. She took off the headphones, heart racing, looking at him.

“I... don’t know what to say,” she whispered. “That was... beautiful.”

He smiled softly, though his eyes held a guarded look. “I’m glad you like it.”

Her heart fluttered again. “Is it... about someone?”

He shook his head, brushing hair from his face. “Maybe... who knows.”

She nodded, hope quietly blossoming inside. Maybe it was her—the song, the feelings, the quiet confession.

Later, as the sun dipped and painted the sky pink and orange, Hyunjin drove her home. The car was filled with peaceful silence, heavy with unspoken words.

“I had fun today,” she said, turning to him.

He nodded, eyes flickering between her lips and eyes. “Yeah. I always have fun with you. You’re just... special.”

The silence grew thick, electric.

Neither knew who leaned in first, but their lips met—slow, deliberate, a kiss that didn’t last long but held everything.

They pulled apart, faces still close.

Hyunjin looked at her with a softness that made her heart thud painfully.

“Y/N... I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, voice low and serious. “The kiss... I—”

She blinked, surprised by the apology. “Hyunjin... you don’t have to apologize.”

He bit his lip. “I don’t want to mess things up. I don’t want to rush anything.”

She smiled faintly, voice gentle. “We don’t have to talk about it. It’s okay.”

He nodded, relief flickering in his eyes. Leaning in once more, he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Hyunjin.”

And just like that, he was gone—leaving her standing with a full heart and the quiet promise of something beautiful beginning between them.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

The next night, the apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioner. Hyunjin stood in the center of his bedroom, taking in the scene he’d carefully prepared. Candles flickered along the windowsill, casting a warm glow that danced across the walls. A bouquet of fresh flowers sat on the nightstand, their scent blending with the subtle vanilla from the candles. On the bed, his carefully arranged snacksthe ones he knew were her favorites—waited.

He glanced at the clock. She would be here any minute now. His heart pounded with anticipation, mixed with a flutter of nerves. Tonight was special. He’d planned every detail, wanting to create a safe, intimate space just for them.

When the doorbell rang, he hurried to open it. There she was smiling brightly, eyes wide as she took in the scene.

“Hyunjin, this is beautiful,” she whispered, turning to look at him.

He smiled, feeling a soft blush rise to his cheeks. “I wanted tonight to be special.”

They settled on the bed, wrapped in the warm candlelight, and started watching a K-drama. But Hyunjin found himself distracted by her laughter, the way her eyes sparkled—it all held him captive.

After a while, he turned to her, heart beating fast. “Y/N,” he said, voice a little shaky, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

She looked at him, curious and maybe a little nervous.

“I… I really enjoy spending time with you,” he admitted, searching her eyes. “You mean more to me than I ever thought possible. And I just wanted you to know… I like you. A lot.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then she leaned in and pressed her lips to his. The kiss was tender, full of everything neither had said out loud. They pulled back slowly, foreheads resting together.

“I feel the same way, Hyunjin,” she whispered.

Their lips met again, this time deeper, more hungry but still gentle. He pulled her close with such tenderness it made her chest ache. His hands smoothed over her back as he lifted her onto his lap, their bodies fitting together like two missing pieces of a quiet dream.

Slowly, he helped her out of her sweater, eyes never leaving hers.

“You’re beautiful,” he said softly, like speaking any louder might break the moment.

Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t look away. Instead, she reached for him, tugging gently at the fabric of his shirt until it slipped off his shoulders. Her palms traced over the warm skin of his chest, learning him every curve and line.

They kissed again, deeper now. More sure. Hyunjin’s mouth moved down her jaw, over her throat, planting soft, open-mouthed kisses like he was memorizing every inch of her skin. She shivered beneath his touch as his hands roamed her waist, fingers curling around the waistband of her shorts, sliding them down slowly.

Everything about him was careful. Intentional.

No rush. No pressure. Just the quiet rhythm of two people choosing each other.

When they were finally bare, skin against skin, he paused forehead resting against hers, breath shallow, lips barely brushing.

“If you want to stop—”

“I don’t,” she whispered. “I want you.”

He eased her back into the pillows, kissing her slowly, deeply, as he moved over her. His body slid against hers in a rhythm as natural as breathing, every movement slow, unhurried, like they were writing a love letter with their touch.

He stayed still after he bottomed out, holding close, waiting for her permission to move.

She nodded. His thrusts were slow, making sure she felt everything—and she did. Her legs curled around him, anchoring him to her, hands spread across his back as he moved inside her.

“Hyunjin… close,” she moaned, nails raking down his skin.

“Me too… it’s okay, let go,” he whispered, steady and reassuring.

She gasped his name softly into the warm space between their mouths. He kissed her through it, whispering promises how good she felt, how beautiful she was, how much she meant to him.

The pressure built slowly, rising like a tide, until they both unraveled together—quiet, breathless, trembling—holding onto each other like they never wanted to let go.

Afterward, they stayed still.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, brushing her hair back.

She nodded, pressing a kiss to his skin. “I’ve never felt more safe.”

He closed his eyes, holding her tighter.

In that moment, there was no past to fear, no future to chase—just this.

Just her.

He didn’t say “I love you.” Not yet.

But the way he held her said everything.

They fell asleep in each other’s arms, the candlelight casting gentle shadows around them.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Their days blended into shared moments cooking together, late-night talks, spontaneous adventures. Hyunjin treasured every second, feeling more complete than ever before.

She loved him. She couldn’t imagine life without him. Even during practice, she would sit quietly in the studio, eyes always on him, watching him dance.

Over time, she grew close to the other members too. They welcomed her with open arms, sharing jokes and stories, making her feel like family.

He loved her more than words could say. She was his world, his muse, his everything.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

One evening, they went out for dinner. Afterward, under the shimmering city lights, they hailed an Uber and slipped into the backseat, hands intertwined.

“I can’t believe how happy I am,” Hyunjin said, turning to her. “These past few months have been the best of my life.”

She smiled, squeezing his hand. “Me too.”

He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “I love you so much.”

Suddenly, a blinding light filled the car, followed by screeching tires and a deafening crash.

She didn’t understand what was happening—one minute everything hurt, the next, everything went black.

Chaos surrounded him. The world spun. Pain seared through his body. He tried to move, to reach for her, but his limbs were heavy, unresponsive.

“I can’t see her... I can’t move... I can’t hear her...” panic flooded his mind.

Summoning all his strength, he shouted her name into the darkness before exhaustion took over.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

The sterile scent of antiseptic filled the hospital room as Hyunjin slowly opened his eyes.

The lights were too bright. The sheets too white. Everything too clean, too cold. His throat felt like sandpaper, his chest heavy, as if something invisible was pressing down on it.

He blinked slowly, groggy, and turned his head a little too fast. Pain ricocheted behind his eyes and down his spine. A nurse rushed over, her hand steadying his shoulder to keep him from moving too quickly.

“You’re awake,” she said softly, her voice fragile, like she was afraid he might break. “You’ve been unconscious for two days.”

Two days?

Panic thundered through him sharp, immediate.

“The car—Y/N,” he rasped. “Where is she? Is she okay?”

The nurse hesitated. Her eyes dropped, like she couldn’t meet his gaze. “She’s in a coma,” she said carefully. “There was head trauma. The doctors are doing everything they can… but it’s unclear if she’ll wake. And if she does, there’s a chance her memory may not return.”

The words hit him like a punch to the chest. His stomach dropped. Everything blurred the beeping monitors, the cold walls they all tilted around him.

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no. She—she was laughing. She was right there. She can’t—”

Tears came without warning. Hot, violent. His hands trembled as he pulled at the blanket, as if getting up seeing her would make this unreal.

But it was real.

And the guilt blossomed deep in his gut sharp, vile, unrelenting.

He was released from the hospital two days later with a few stitches on his forehead and a bruised rib. But he didn’t go home.

He went to her.

Every day.

Room 413. The numbers etched themselves into his memory, more permanent than any lyric he’d ever written.

She didn’t move.

She didn’t speak.

But Hyunjin did.

He sat by her bedside, holding her hand like it was the only real thing left.

“Hi, angel,” he whispered one day, voice raw. “It’s me again. You probably know that by now.” His voice cracked. “You always said I talked too much—that I’d ramble and never shut up. So maybe this will make you wake up, just to tell me to be quiet again.”

He chuckled through tears. “I’d take anything, Y/N. Anything at all.”

He brought her tulips—her favourite and set them by the window, even though she couldn’t see them. Played their favorite songs. Talked about the café, the night they painted each other’s favorite flowers. Told her their life’s story in color, hoping it would reach her.

One night, he brought his sketchbook and drew her lying there—so still, so quiet. Then he tore the page out and burned it.

Because that wasn’t her.

That wasn’t the girl who danced around his kitchen in socks, laughing until she cried. That wasn’t the girl who teased him about his dramatic monologues or traced his collarbone with sleepy affection.

That wasn’t his Y/N.

So he drew her again. This time as he remembered her in motion, laughing, eyes wide and bright. Alive.

Hyunjin pressed the sketchbook to his chest, exhaling shakily. “The doctors said… they said your memory might never come back. That if you wake up, you might not know me.”

His heart clenched. He’d played the thought over and over, but it still tore him apart.

“I don’t care,” he said suddenly, tears streaming. “You can forget every moment, every laugh, every look. I’ll remind you. I’ll do it all again. Just… stay. Please.”

He leaned over and kissed her forehead gently, afraid even that was too much.

“I’ll forever love you.”

And he meant it.

The day she woke, he almost didn’t believe it.

He’d been sitting beside her bed, head bowed, sketching the curve of her wrist when he felt the slightest pressure on his fingers.

He froze.

Then her hand twitched.

His heart skipped a beat.

“Y/N?” His voice was fragile, barely a whisper.

Her eyelids fluttered. Her lips parted as she took a shallow, shuddering breath.

Then her eyes opened.

Confused. Cloudy. Empty.

“Who… who are you?” she whispered.

Hyunjin’s world cracked in two.

He felt his soul quietly tear apart.

But still, he smiled.

He smiled through the ache, through the heartbreak that tasted like blood and salt.

“I’m Hyunjin,” he said softly. “Your boyfriend.” His heart broke with the words. “I’m the boy who loves you so much…”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

She didn’t remember their first coffee date.

Or the painting studio.

Or the night he lit candles in his room and nervously asked her to be his girlfriend.

But she remembered the feeling of safety when he sat beside her. She remembered how her chest felt lighter when he smiled. How his laugh stirred something inside her something buried beneath the fog of forgetfulness.

He told her everything. Bit by bit.

The café. The way she teased him about his awful sock choices. Their picnic at Han River. The song he wrote for her.

He showed her pictures. Videos. Paintings.

Each one was a love letter.

Though she smiled, giggled sometimes, and leaned her head on his shoulder, something behind her eyes always flickered with sadness.

She was falling for him again.

But she didn’t remember falling the first time.

And that haunted her.

“I’m not her,” she said one day, voice cracking. “I’m not the girl you fell in love with.”

“You’re still you,” he whispered. “You laugh the same. You tilt your head the same when you’re curious. You care. That’s you. That’s always been you.”

“But I can’t remember loving you,” she said. “And it hurts to see how much you love me. Because I’m still trying to learn your name.”

They cried together that day.

Held each other like it was all they had.

She asked him to move on.

He refused.

“I can’t,” he said. “I’ve tried imagining life without you, and it’s just noise. You’re the only melody I’ve ever really known.”

That day, Hyunjin had to go to practice for the first time in weeks. The weight of leaving her alone tore at him, but she smiled and said she’d be fine.

“I’ll be here,” she promised.

He sent her a message before rehearsal: I’ll be at the hospital in 20. Bringing your favorite snacks. I love you.

But when he arrived, Room 413 was empty.

He blinked, stepped back into the hallway, and asked the nurse.

“She checked herself out about an hour ago,” the woman said gently. “She didn’t leave a number. Just said she needed time.”

Time.

Time had already taken so much.

His steps faltered as he returned to the room. He collapsed onto the bed, still holding the shape of her body.

There, on the pillow, was a photograph of the two of them. The one he kept in his wallet—the one they’d taken outside the bookstore, tulips in her hands, his arm around her.

Beside it, folded carefully, was one of the paintings he’d done of her. The one where she was smiling, eyes closed, bathed in golden light.

She took nothing else.

She didn’t say goodbye.

His knees buckled. He sank to the floor, clutching the photo and the painting to his chest as sobs tore through him.

“She left,” he choked out. “She left.”

The walls didn’t answer. The world didn’t stop.

He cried until his voice was gone.

Until his heart felt hollow.

Until all that remained was her scent, faint on the sheets, and the cruel echo of silence.

His love.

His muse.

His everything.

Gone.

426 notes · View notes

occamstfs · 1 month ago

Text

Community Service

Barreling into town with a trunk full of documents he's supposed to destroy, Dawson's blackmailed into cleaning up the mess he makes. Though with every breath of fresh air this rural homestead starts to feel more like home.

Figured it's been a while since I had some gay cowboys, so here's a longer, romantic cowboy TF! Quite like this to hairy, muscular and musky men and hope you do too! -Occam

It didn’t matter why Dawson was traveling so quickly through the Texas countryside. It was of no business to the people he sped past what substances he may or may not have been under the influence of. Indeed, had he just stayed in his lane nothing none would have been the wiser his this midnight drive through nowheresville. Unfortunately for the man who sees consequence as beneath him, there was a sharp turn in the road he simply missed. Most people would’ve seen the sign, but who can blame him, it’s not like he usually drives himself anyway.

Unfortunately, the man’s speeding car plows straight through a pristine fence and leaves the earth sundered beneath the company car as he soars a few dozen yards into a field. Air bags deploy and before he even realizes what happens he’s out and concussed.

Really, Dawson’s lucky to have just lost his car and consciousness. Come morning the suit awakes to find himself surrounded by locals of this shithole paging through some confidential papers that have escaped his wrecked car. He plasters on a smile in the chance that this isn’t a dream and snatches any documents he can reach telling himself this is all fine. Who hasn’t had a wild night. His bosses will understand, these yokels probably can’t even read!

When one of their ilk stands firm in the face of the smarmy businessman, he hedges his bets assuming he’s collected or destroyed anything actually important and prepares to beat a hasty retreat and make a few phone calls. His bosses will be too sympathetic about his accident to even care about the surely destroyed paperwork anyway.

Unfortunately for him, the young man who continues standing in his way pulls out a cellphone and turns it to the joyrider so he may see that it is too late to flee. Dawson sees evidence, an image of himself sitting next to more than a few open containers, some decidedly suspicious substance powdered in the passenger seat, and a half smoked cigarette that is clearly not tobacco.

Even still this could be easily wiped away. Even the detailed video evidence of the destruction left in the wake of his company car. Money in the right hands would make it as if Dawson never stumbled through. But then the mystery cowboy flips over to scans of the illicit deals and corporate espionage that Dawson was explicitly told to hide from prying eyes and summarily destroy. Looking around at the crew of men around him, Dawson feels the world begin to close in on himself. He proceeds to throw up.

Coming to once more, the corporate shill finds himself in a bed he knows not to be his own, far too cramped. He blearily looks around the shabby suite. There he finds the ringleader of what must be his captors once more, nosily paging through some of his company’s dirty dealings. The mystery man looks up with disinterest as Dawson groans at his misfortune, “Uggghh- Kay, sure. Just let me know how much you want and I’ll be on my way.”

The man adjusts his hat and sets the documents down, “Sure do a lotta shady business dontcha Mr. Davis?” Dawson rolls his eyes, not too pleased at how much this nobody seems to know about himself and his company. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he ignores the man’s comment and continues to try and buy his way out of here, “Yeah yeah sure, business is business. A number. Go crazy, no one even has to know- check cash card, I’ll give you money enough to this shith-”

Before Dawson has a chance to understand the hole he has continued to talk himself into, he’s interrupted as his captor slams his hand against the side of his chair. The massive man stands and stares down at Dawson with an intensity he only thought one of his superiors could produce, it’s enough to stun the glib asshole into silence. Then the cowboy speaks, “I’m Wayne. Since yew didn't have the wherewithal t’ ask yerself. Course, I already know yer Dawson Davis and yew have cash to make all my dreams come true.”

After rolling his eyes a few times waiting out the man’s slow drawl, Dawson prepares some surely asinine retort but is silenced by a single raised finger from Wayne as he continues. “Don’t want that. I want yew put in yer place. Damage yew did, coulda killed someone Dawson. I ain’t gonna let you pay yer way outta this mess.”

Wayne stands and turns to head out of the room, revealing Dawson’s work laptop sitting at a desk opposite him. Mind glimmering with the escape he’ll make as soon as this dullard leaves the room, his fingers almost twitching with the anticipation of ordering a car to his location. He imagines the open air, the weight of this rural hellhole not even a memory. But , he can’t.

He can’t go back without ensuring Wayne deletes those docs. His ego more bruised than his face from the accident, Wayne’s reminded that he’s truly trapped. “We’re gonna have yew repair the damages done and then some. Unless of course, you want those images leaked.”

His heart sinks as he imagines being blackballed for something so stupid- no, by having his life ruined by someone so provincial. His expression twitches into a frown. Judging by the silence, Wayne knows his words have sunk in and he departs, “Yew just send whatever messages to let yer bosses know yer still kickin’ and all. I’ll have a plate set fer yew at dinner. Havin’ pulled pork so hope yew don’t mind gettin’ a little messy.”

The local has to hold back laughter as he turns to wink at the destitute man. He did genuinely want to help Dawson be a better man, it’s not his fault that forcing a rich asshole to get his hands dirty. Left to his thoughts and devices Dawson struggles to find any path forward that doesn’t lead to him listening to these simple-minded yokels.

Soon enough, with a heavy sigh, he gives in. His slightly shaky hands type out an email that he’ll be out of work sick for a few days. That’s all it will all be. Just a few days in hell. A minor setback and he’ll be back in the city, his vehicular-fuckup not even a blip on the horizon.

Smelling what must be dinner wafting through the air, Dawson shuts his laptop before he can see his reflection in the dark screen. The email was some of the best work he’s done in some time, alluding that while he’s away he’ll still be hard at work. Getting the job done.

Following his nose downstairs through this mystery house, he’s surprised at how roomy it is. Passing some old framed photos of Wayne, he wonders why there’s no ring on that finger. Gaydar going off he then starts to see a new angle presenting itself, perhaps if money won’t do the trick, he’ll simply need to pull out some of that old Davis charm.

Plan hatched to get out on ‘good behavior’ rather than bribery, the man still clad in the suit he wrecked his car in offers to help with dinner. Wayne waves him off as he finishes up stirring something in a slow cooker, though suggests Dawson go and set the table. The corpo pats himself on the back for avoiding a snide remark at doing the menial task and sets to it, grabbing plates and silverware and leaving them haphazardly at a small table just before Wayne makes his way over with a sandwich-laden tray.

He hadn’t 100% known what the sandwich was when Wayne mentioned it, but seeing this strangely red pork sloppily spill out onto his plate he can’t help but grimace. Already eating his own messy sandwich and knowing he too may as well try and bridge the gap between them, Wayne starts to chat in between bites, “So Mr. Bigshot what is ‘bout my neck of the woods that gets yew all riled up? Ain’t that bad is it?”

Off the grid for the first time in years, looking at what is to his eyes a knock-off sloppy joe, knowing it is Wayne’s way or the highway, Dawson relents. With a sigh, he levels with the brutish man blackmailing him, “Sure- Wayne, is it? Does looking at me not suffice? It’s simply a matter of phenotype, of class.”

Across the table Wayne grabs for a second sandwich and waits for him to go on, “Ah- Let me restate. I am, quite literally, not made for this world. This is probably the longest I’ve gone in years without being on my phone, and it’s only been about five minutes. But again look at me! I mean really, I’m not sure I can even do what you’ve asked of me or why you demand I do so. Your arms may as well be the size of my waist and mine likely have as much strength as your index finger.”

Dawson crosses his thin arms and looks away, uncomfortable at how overtly he praised the man even if it was simply stating the obvious. Doing so he misses the blush that prickles behind the cowboy’s bearded face as he clears his throat, “‘S fair,’s fair. Still I do think yew could learn to like it out here. Think all yew city folk could stand to be more at one with nature y’know? Spend some time with a community less obsessed with status and getting ahead. Do somethin’ that ain’t movin’ number ‘round on spreadsheets.”

The pair let Wayne’s words sit for a few moments, Dawson goes for his first bite and is less than pleased with the presumably pork detritus that falls abc to the plate as he does so. Sauce staining his face he pleadingly looks to Wayne for a napkin. The man laughs and wonders why he’s suddenly so charmed by a man that was so negligent as to drive not only recklessly but blackout drunk. He pushes that down as he helps the man anyway, “Was yer job to grab those y’know,” he offers with a wink before returning with his dirty plate to the kitchen proper.

“Want a beer boss?” Dawson would prefer stronger spirits but figures any hair of the dog he can get would help his still panging head. He doesn’t realize the mistake he’s soon to make as he lifts the cold bottle to his lips, as soon as the hoppy swill touches his tongue he realizes just how unprepared he was for a drink that cost less than he’d pay for water.

Foamy beer shoots out his nose as he tries to get the stuff away from his taste buds with expediency. Wayne almost does so himself as he laughs at the man’s hysterics. When he sees the man sputtering though he can’t help but feel a strange pang of an emotion that he again refuses to interrogate as he makes his way over with a towel once more.

Soaked in spit-up beer, Dawson stumbles to his feet and apologizes for the mess. Now standing he sees the world in front of him begin to go topsy-turvy, almost falling before Wayne rushes to grab him. “Woah! Okay there partner, guess yer still recovering from the accident. Here, lemmme- Hup!” Wayne hoists the still dripping man up onto his back, for a moment he’s surprised. He carried him with ease earlier, and still does of course, but he does seem slightly heavier.

This falls by the wayside anyway as the man’s sticky breath on the back of his neck begins to produce another problem. Feeling Dawson’s dainty hands gripping his pecs for dear life, hearing the quiet groans of a man he despised moments ago. The man’s pathetic, absolutely a dick, but Dawson can scarcely ignore the strange sensations rising within him more with each heavy step.

When he feels his cock begin to stir he hastens and less than carefully dumps Dawson on his guest bed before racing back out of the room. “Well yew sleep well now y’hear?” Dawson shoots a lazy thumbs up and Wayne pats the door frame a few times, possessed with a desire to stay and stare at the man, “tomorrow we’ll uhh work on sodding the land yew scuffed up so, uhh- get some rest.”

Wayne beats a hasty retreat to his own bedroom, readjusting his pants as he does so. He tries to force himself to remember his disdain, how spiteful Dawson was at their first encounter. Something weird is going on. Though when he too quickly drifts to sleep his subconscious is more than happy to follow his strange, unbecoming desires for the obnoxious man.

In fact both men dream of the other. It’s no wonder Dawson does so, after acknowledging the man’s physique and putting forth effort to find any upside towards his blackmail induced community service that his dreamself finds itself fixating on the hairy hands and burly arms of his blackmailer. To not acknowledge the man as hot would be a lie. In the waking world Dawson’s sticky hands paw at his crotch, struggling under his waistband to play with the throbbing cock. There they struggle against a burgeoning bush of pubes. He grumbles aimlessly, some part of him wondering when the last time he shaved, but it’s of no matter.

Down the hall, Wayne’s dreams are decidedly stranger. It’s like the last twenty four hours are being rewritten. He finds Dawson in the field, asleep at the wheel. He hears him offer to pay for the damages just as he did, but then he offers a helping hand. The man who’d scarcely lift a finger to do any labor besides pushing paper offers to take part in cleaning up the mess he wrought. Dream Wayne starts to inspect the car wondering if the man was even being black mailed anymore, but then he sees the man’s hands and steps back in shock.

Gone are the thin pale fingers, the porcelain hand that has never lifted an object heavier than a stapler. At the end of Dawson’s arms are hands with palms rough enough to not need a glove, hairy wrists that he knows the suit would Nair away in an instant. Realizing this is a dream Wayne begins to turn away to hopefully awaken, just before doing so however, he sneaks a peak of the man’s face. Wayne blinks and in less than a moment the man’s visage changes absolutely. His jawline sharpens and bulges before it’s hidden by a thick, musky beard.

Wayne tries to close his eyes to not see the man transforming through nothing but the power of his own imagination. This only makes the cracking of bones and stretching sounds of muscle growing all the more vivid. The sound of his posh voice deepening with every grunt drives Wayne wild as he humps his bed from the dream of ecstatic transformation. Separated by a few doors both men lose control at the same time. And then the rooster crows.

Awakening face down and feeling his crotch damp, Wayne pushes down everything and prepares for the day ahead. No need to think about the strange nightmare, wet dream, whatever- if he doesn’t give himself time to think at all. Grabbing some old, sure to be too large, clothes for Dawson to wear, he tosses them into the guest room without looking and runs to prepare the equipment for their work today.

With his hand down his pants, Dawson is grateful that his host seems disinterested in checking up on him. He hears the man shout, “get rinsed up and ready for some hard work D- Coffee’s goin’ in the pot.” Dawson does just that, not wondering how he knows his way to the bathroom upstairs.

Left to his own devices for just this moment however, Dawson takes a look in the mirror and his eyes blur. He knows what he looks like, knows what he should look like. And yet, the man now reflected back at him is not that. Though, with each moment lost to the confusion that begins to change. His life up to this point begins to unravel and stitch back together.

Memories of eating barely enough to sustain a human body are washed away and replaced by the life of a man who takes care of himself, for vanity if nothing else. He feels his shoulders strain from holding arms far heavier than the twigs he should have had, before they too widen and burst larger with new strength. Ribs that have always been exposed through his pale skin are suddenly obscured by muscle he never imagined he’d grow or care enough to maintain.

Were he still wearing a shirt, its buttons would surely pop off as his thin chest is suddenly decorated with two delectable pecs that must have taken countless hours in the gym to produce. At the same time, across his form his pale skin begins to glow with a tan. The life spent more under phosphorescents and LEDs than the sun begins to feel unfamiliar as his upper body burns a healthy bronze. As his changes begin to wane, his hair shifting darker and messier as a treasure trail begins to make its way up his waist.

He recalls his conversation last night with Wayne, over a beer he thinks? He remembers eyeing the man’s form with jealousy? No something else. Dawson flexes in the mirror and tries to imagine himself being more like Wayne, being more of a man. His chest quivers as his face burns red from the effort of flexing and before he can even take a shower he’s summoned by Wayne from outside, “Eyup! Ready to get to ‘er D!?”

Briefly smelling his pits to see how much he actually needs a shower he almost laughs as he can barely make out any b.o. underneath the hefty deodorant and cologne he had put on previously. Throwing on Wayne’s hand me downs, Dawson finally departs and takes in the homestead with sober eyes for the first time. Sighing wistfully he can’t help but appreciate the sunrise through the thick tree cover. Then he smells the outdoors and grimaces, he much prefers city stink to whatever that odor is.

Hopping in Wayne’s pickup, already loaded with sod and some tools, Dawson realizes he has no idea what became of his company car. Pit opening in his stomach he promptly discards his growing appreciation of the country to inquire about the car, “Good morning Wayne~ You wouldn’t happen to know if my truck was still in working condition, or uh, what you guys did with it?”

Wayne eyes him wryly as he starts driving the few blocks towards his crash site, “Yer truck?” It takes a few moments of Dawson looking him up and down before he realizes why that’s even strange, when he does he stammers embarrassed. Obviously he meant car, obviously. He can’t even imagine himself behind the wheel of something so large, so obnoxious.

Distracted, he pouts to himself and quietly opts to watch the driver rather than the countryside. He looks at the man’s hairy arms with envy, tracing his veiny biceps and wondering how long he’d need to spend in the company gym to get as shredded as him. Biting his lip, his wandering mind can’t help but flicker back to his dream last night as his gaze trails down to the man’s crotch for the first time.

His mouth almost begins watering as he sees the package barely obscured by the rough and tumble man’s stained jeans. He can’t help but let his mind wander out of his control. Soon enough one of his hands begins to reach to the driver’s meaty thighs.

“Woah there!?” Before it can even get close the hand is snatched by Wayne whose mouth squirms into an uncomfortable grimace. Dawson looks to the man’s face, leaving him unaware as even this contact is enough to force Wayne’s cock to twitch.

He clears his throat to cover his embarrassment and the sound of his pants straining before quickly hard braking the truck. “Well, here we are, lemme uhh, go get set up then. Yew ever gardened before there Dawson?” The clerk lets his silence speak for him as he too hops out of the raised truck. When his feet hit the hard packed earth he flexes his toes and realizes how the pair of Wayne’s work shoes he was swimming in suddenly seem to fit better. Much better.

Sneaking up behind his driver, Dawson watches as Wayne stretches to prepare for some heavy lifting. He almost feels possessed as he stares at the man’s bulging form being stretched to its extremes. Hungrily staring at every bulging muscle on the man, Dawson feels himself start to get riled up in more ways than one.

Every inch of his own body begins to burn, itch and grow. Seeing Wayne bend down, Dawson feels his ass and thighs twitch larger as with every movement of the country boy leaves his outfit fitting better on Dawson. Torn between mimicking the man and pawing at his cock pumping larger, Dawson figures after being caught staring once at the country boy today he might as well try to not let his cock completely control him.

Doing his best to shadow tha man, Dawson grunts and groans from the effort expended by stretching his new form. His arms lengthen, giving biceps new room to grow as they fill the suddenly tight tee Wayne lent him. Now struggling to cross his arms in front of him as pecs continue to bulk and bulge larger, Dawson smirks and closes his eyes as he imagines his meaty arms starting to rival those of Wayne.

Seeing the man pull his calves and extend his thighs Dawson struggles to not take the opportunity to stare at the bulge made all the more obvious. Instead he simply continues stretching as if he’s done it every day of his own life. Biting his lip, Dawson feels his borrowed jeans begin to fill with thighs thicker than he can even imagine. Feeling the prickle of hairs rubbing against the rough garment as from cock to toes he begins to feel the itch of new dense growth.

In no time at all, and before they’ve even truly begun to work, Dawson’s clothes are completely soaked through with sweat. His thicker neck glistens under the morning sun as disparate dark patches on his hairy thighs begin to show on the denim. The man once wholly concerned with the rat race grunts from the exertion of growing muscle he would’ve sworn his thin frame couldn’t support. Overheating, he grunts as he tries to remove Wayne’s shirt, now stuck to him from the intense sweat.

Doing so, Dawson doesn’t notice as his voice sounds deeper and rougher than the smooth corporate tone he usually maintains. The same cannot be said for Wayne, who falls to the floor from shock as he hears the man’s deepening voice. Flashing back to the moment just before he woke up, he scrambles away as he sees what has become of the businessman that should be standing before him.

Dawson tilts his head in surprise as Wayne looks at him with what can only be described as fear. “What’s up Wayne? Gotta cramp or something?” He smirks, still unaware of his changing timbre or the simplification of his performatively haughty syntax, “Or are you just jealous of how big I’m getting hah!” Now escaped from his shirt, Dawson makes his way over to help the man up. Gulping as Dawson approaches him, Wayne tries to reconcile and understand what’s happening. His mind racing as he holds two realities in his head at once.

His eyes flicker across Dawson’s clearly changed form, seeing his toes poking at the front of his own tennis shoes that should be sizes too large and a wide Adam's apple bugling out of his neck. He sees thick pecs being held back by overall suspenders that he would’ve sworn hung halfway down the man’s waist minutes ago. When Dawson reaches down to help him up, there is no recourse but to take it. And then he feels the rough hand he knows he dreamt about.

Hoisted up, face to face with a man that absolutely should be shorter than himself, he feels his mind wiped. Something has changed, this is not the man who barrelled into his life with a trunk full of corporate fraud and secrets. Lost in a haze he shakes it off to focus on what they’re here for, pushing down on his rising erection to get to work. And work they do.

Though it takes much of the day, together the pair make light work of the mess Dawson made. With each bit of grass laid, the motions and rigors of manual labor feel more and more familiar to Dawson’s hands. Soon enough the idea that he’d be sending emails and disparaging underlings right about now begins to feel anathema to the still growing man.

In between every labored breath and peaceful exhalation, the pair steal looks of each other. Looks of hunger, of need, of familiarity. It’s strange how malleable they seem in each other’s mind. Dawson clearly remembers he didn’t want to do this, he knows Wayne had to convince him somehow. But for the life of him he can’t remember why he’d need to be harangued to clean up his own mess. At the same time Wayne struggles to remember his muscular helper as anything but, starting to see him more as a new transplant to the community than anything untoward.

This instinct is not helped as in nearing up their hard work for the day, Dawson wipes his sweaty brow with the discarded shirt and whines, “Yo- did you bring any of those beers out here Wayne?” Nodding, he goes to his cabin and grabs one from an ice chest. Tossing it over he watches as Dawson takes a contented swig before sighing in ecstasy, “oooh yeah~ No better way to follow up a job well done eh?” Stubble prickles on the man’s once clean shaven face as droplets sneak past his wanting lips.

Wayne’s eye twitches as he can clearly recall Dawson doing such a poor job stomaching the stuff that he almost passed out from coughing it up. Staring at the man happily drinking the stuff as his tanned skin glistens in the sun, his desires begin to cloud his memory once more. Lust decidedly distracting him from the way the world should be. He’s not about to act on it however, instead getting in his car and calling for Dawson to do the same. “Finish that up, before hoppin’ in now-”

Tossing the can into the bed, Dawson rolls his eyes, “Ah come now, talkin’ about me like I’m irresponsible.” Wayne’s brow furrows as he turns the key and starts driving before his passenger’s even buckled up. Locked in the cabin with him, the driver is relentlessly distracted by the smell of his sweat. His mouth waters as he imagines the man’s sweaty pits and musky pubes. He doesn’t know how he makes it home without his cock bursting through his pants.

Just about doing so, he leaves the key in the ignition and sprints into his home. Dawson cries after Wayne, shocked at the bizarre haste of his flight. Barely making it into the bathroom before the friction of his needy cock rubbing against his jeans causes him to lose control, he ruts against the tight pants and falls to the floor as his mind is filled with innumerable images of Dawson as he is now. Each one adamantly suggesting that the idea of him being any different is ludicrous.

Still at the truck Dawson’s mind begins to change likewise. Walking over he takes the keys to the truck, to the house before turning to the equipment left in the bed. And then he begins to unload. Scratching his chest, a few curls begin to prickle out of his sweaty skin as he single handedly begins to load tools and machinery back into a workshop he has never been in before.

The few new curls in his pits expand with haste, dripping with sweat as the bush extends halfway down his biceps. His treasure trail expands to encompass the whole of his stomach as every trip back and forth from truck to shed leaves him more of a man than before. Thick dark hairs launch over his clavicle as a peak of heady curls race to coat the center of his chest, creating singular coverage from his pubes to his burgeoning beard.

By the time he’s finished getting everything in its proper place Dawson can scarcely imagine a different life. Forcing his nose into his own hairy pits he smirks as he delights in how musky he’s left after an honest day's work. He scratches at his sweaty pubes and wonders what Wayne’s up to inside. All the while the few strands of stubble left on his jaw begin to expand and thicken. Sideburns shoot down his rougher cheeks as a mustache begins to decorate his upper lip.

His stomach rumbles as he crosses the threshold into their- er, into Wayne’s home. Scratching his hairy, muscular gut with equally furry thick fingers he figures he might as well start dinner for the both of them. Going for the fridge he finds a few containers of leftover pulled pork and his mouth begins to water. That’ll do nicely. Grabbing a cast iron and starting the gas stove, Dawson cries out, “Honey I’m home~”

Unaware that he lost consciousness during his release, Wayne hears the man’s voice carry through the air, rugged and melodic. He can’t stop his response as he meekly responds, “Duke-” His pupils dilate as the life he knows, begins to change into something new, unfamiliar but true.

Stumbling out of the bathroom with a towel tied around his waist, Wayne sees Duke in a similar state of undress, overalls hanging down, exposing his jungle of pubes as he stirs at the pan. Dawson Duke turns to smile at his uh, his? Neither man is quite sure what exactly their relationship is. Wayne watches as the final changes begin to occur to Duke’s body. Muscles hardening with age as the few inches of exposed skin not decorated with his pelt are swiftly decorated with new dark curls.

Veins criss-cross down the man’s arms as he puts on a little show for his partner, calling out to him in his rough new baritone, “Hey there Wayney- Know we just finished up out there but I’m feelin’ like I’m good fer another round ‘f yew know what I mean.” Not exactly one for subtlety, or at least not anymore. Wayne feels butterflies he hasn’t felt in years as he stands in the presence of his partner

Watching Duke scratch his pubes and beard with the same hand while cooking, he kicks himself for always falling for such fixer-uppers. Nevertheless his cock begins to stir once more. Walking over to the man who eyes him like a puppy dog, Wayne purses his lips just to see what the newly-burly man will do. Duke stops his little arms show and just watches, trying to make heads or tails of what his partner is doing.

Wayne leans in close before pulling the sweaty man into an embrace. Feeling Duke vibrate with excitement as his cock instantly grows rockhard, he sees the pan on the stove behind him and instead whispers into the brute’s ear, “Left dinner runnin’ there Duke.” Having forgotten everything in the world as soon as his eyes fall on Wayne, as he often does. Duke curses before returning to his task, lest he ruin their dinner and be playfully mocked by Wayne, “Shit!”

Looking around their shared homestead, Wayne feels a weight he didn’t even know he was carrying lifted. Some unknown peace comforting him more than he can know. This is right, how it should be. Preparing the table before wandering back behind Duke with a damp towel to wipe his hairy shoulders clean, Wayne continues teasing, “‘Sides yew know we ain’t gonna fuck ‘til we clean up your mess in Ant n’ Jonah’s field.”

Duke groans as his cock pushes against the overalls. Not like he was joyriding or anything. He had to swerve or he’d hit that deer, uhh he thinks. Never been the sharpest tool in the shed but he’s pretty sure that’s what happened. Whatever, he’s not worried. Sides, he can’t wait to use their new post digger! Almost gets him as excited as getting off with Wayne, heh!

And so the pair go on, neither quite remembering the finer details of their lives before now, though without a doubt knowing there is no better world out there for either. Ratrace behind him the kinder but duller Duke does real good in the world. Helping out their community and finding real bliss in doing what he can, as well as of course in the arms of his lover, his husband, Wayne.

For his part, Wayne didn’t even realize how lonely he was. Forcing himself to be the masc civil leader of their little hamlet left him little time for anything but the sweat of his brow. Now with a friendly face to return home to rather than a large empty house, Wayne finally allows himself time to relax. All in all, with the new southern lovebirds, their community has never flourished more.

#male tf #mental change #hair growth #reality change #dumber #cowboy tf #personality change #musk tf #muscle tf

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yandere-sins · 1 month ago

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This idea came to me and I've waited a long time to actually write it, but the time is finally here!! I dedicate it to the Tsaritsa's handmaiden!reader anons, I got so overwhelmed back then that I just dropped the topic which was really not fair of me. Hope you guys enjoy!

Characters: Yandere!Childe (Genshin Impact) x AFAB!Reader Warnings: Yandere, Sexual Content (Exhibitionism, Public sex, Non-Con, Pregnancy/Impregnation Kink Mention, Needy Male, Biting), Blood Mention, Possessiveness

Snow never tasted so bad in his mouth.

For as long as Childe could remember, snow had always been bland and froze his tongue as he shoved handfuls of it into his mouth. It was iron-y from the taste of his own saliva, cold like the lonely nights.

To him, it was home.

But he couldn't say the same about it anymore as he marched into the Tsaritsa's palace, a building frozen over with her grief and suffering. It was beautiful in its own way, and yet, no concern of his. The snowflakes caught in his mouth as he had conquered the snowy path to the entrance, had not tasted like home. They tasted like an attempt to dissuade him, slow him down to get to the one true warmth he longed for.

It's been months since the last time he buried himself in your cunt.

Months of loneliness, of longing. Months that Childe spent palming his cock in the most indecent places, imagining you were there to take care of his need instead. But your image wasn't enough. It didn't thrill him the same way as chasing you did. Didn't fulfill him like the nights he spent searching every nook and cranny for you, only to be unable to find you, so he would go to your place of rest to fuck your pillow instead to release the tenstion.

It was nothing like that one time he managed to pin you down into the snow, push your skirt out of the way, and sink into you for only a moment. A brief moment that he was carelessly lost in the pleasure of your sweet, warm pussy, making it easy for you to escape out from under his grasp and disappear into the night without him fucking you properly. He could remember what it felt like to be buried inside you, but could never replicate that feeling with anyone else. Childe had been sent on this awful, long mission before he could finish what he started, all while longing for you.

Even now, he wasn't sure if the sight of you, standing behind the Tsaritsa's throne, would make him lose all control. If he could keep his composure in front of his boss when his cock was ready to burst at the smallest glimpse of you. Even if his memories grew hazy, his cock would always remember the feeling of being enveloped by you, longing to return to and unite with your sex.

Imagine the surprise when he entered the great hall, brilliant blue eyes scanning the even more brilliant white everywhere for a speck of warmth reflecting from frozen pillars, only to find none. "Tartaglia," the Tsaritsa called out, a polite, kind smile on her lips even though nothing about her screamed friendly, and he winced, forced to direct his focus where it mattered.

Even though everything screamed at him to go find you.

It was a long, unnecessarily edging meeting. Childe could barely contain himself, the nervousness of knowledge that you must be around somewhere as the Tsaritsa's handmaiden, killing him from the inside. There was an unusual sheen of sweat collecting on his forehead as he occasionally dared to look away and scan the room. It was so unlike him to be this much on edge, as if he was high on drugs—which you were to him—but the throbbing of his cock never let him live down the idea of finally burying himself in you.

"That will be all."

These four words were enough to make him snap. He uttered a barely audible, "Thanks, bye," before storming back the way he came from, leaving everyone in attendance a little more confused than before. There was always so little time to catch up to you, the chase neverending as you had proven over and over. In the hallway, servants were mingling, cleaning and repairing things, all of them faceless and looking the same to him, not worth bothering with.

Childe weaved between the countless maids and butlers, the guards standing around straightening up ever so slightly as he passed them by. He caught glimpses of everyone but dismissed them as soon as he realized they weren't you. He'd have known you from the tip of your nose, even though everyone wore the same clothes and headwear, looking almost like Dottore's clones with hardly any distinctions. Normally, Childe didn't care for the servants, but at that moment, he hated them. No matter how good he was in figuring you out, every second he could save from searching could be spent with his cock between your thighs.

People came and went as he scouted through the hallway, checking over his shoulder as if he was the one being hunted. Haunted, was probably more correct, as the thought of you was like a ghost that ran shudders down his back and made his cock throb. The hallway was branching off into smaller, less crowded areas. Fewer servants, fewer guards, more places to sneak into and hide as you always did.

He was desperate to find you, but without even a hint, Childe grew restless and hopeless at the same time. It wasn't often he felt the latter, his shoulders sacking ever so slightly as he raised his eyes to the ceiling, mustering the intricate, frozen decorations made on the building. They were beautiful. Like you. Rarely seen and yet, ever so perfect and admirable. But they also left him with a sense of longing as they were so unreachable. Would it be the same for you?

Taking a deep breath, the cold managed to clear his mind, thoughts so heated from his desire that he hadn't been able to really focus. You had to be somewhere, even if hidden from his sharp eyes. But no matter how well you could hide, Childe had long figured you out enough to find you anywhere.

Squeak.

He smirked.

He knew the sound better than anyone. It was a sign, obviously, as you still wanted him to come and find you. Otherwise, you'd have thrown away your old shoes in favor of new, not squeaky ones to break in before his arrival, regardless of the fact that they had been a gift of the Tsaritsa. The cold had already crept into his bones as he turned his head to the left, one squeak enough to tell him which of the countless, branching hallways you were in.

Even with everyone else moving around him, time seemed to slow as he took soundless steps towards where you dusted an old, unlit fireplace. He imagined this chase after his long absence to be grand, to completely wear you two down to the point you'd be lazily fucking in an empty room from exhaustion. But you had chosen a more direct approach, hiding in plain sight and yet, still apart from the crowd.

Childe could tell from the way you dusted that fireplace, your posture straight, head held high, lightly flicking the feather duster over the stone, that it was you. Undoubtedly. He saw the slight flinch in your posture as you noticed him from the corners of your eyes, his presence too strong to ignore with his fiery gaze burning holes into you. You turned, ready to leave in a hurry again and make him hunt you down like you seemed to love so much, but Childe was faster.

You must have underestimated what an obsessive need could do to someone's ferocity. Especially someone like Childe, who was out of control even without your influence. He crossed those last few steps without a sound, and yet, faster than you could step away from the fireplace, one of your gloved hands landing on the intricate stone rim as Childe's arm wrapped around you, his hand gripping between your thighs and pulling your ass against his fully erect cock.

A moment of complete silence passed you both, neither moving but waiting for the other to make a mistake that would either make or break this closeness. It was Childe who broke the silence first, taking a deep, audible breath before breathing it out, his face burying into the nape of your neck, pressing his lips to the small rim of skin above your collar.

"Found you. Missed you," he whispered, his grin widening while he placed his legs next to yours, forcing you to face towards the fireplace again and caging you there. His hands driving down your sides, you made a push backwards, your strength immaculate, especially when it caused your plush asscheeks to wrap around his shaft. Childe bit his lip, almost ready to explode from that alone, but luckily, the layers of fabric between you two took out some of the edge.

No one stopped to help, even as your hands curled into fists, and he gripped the fabric of your skirt, bundling it upwards. Childe cared very little for the servants passing by you two, unable to see much but they weren't stupid enough to interfer, stearing clear of him. He could feel the intricate fabric of your stockings, hooking his fingers around the garterbelt that kept them up and letting it snap back in place, making you flinch.

You must have been infuriated, body shivering ever so slightly as you tried to wring yourself out of his hold, Childe's fingers digging so deep into your skin that he was drawing blood. He couldn't see your face, but Childe knew it took everything you had to keep your composure, your little promise to the Tsaritsa already known to Childe. You couldn't kill him, even if you wanted.

Honestly, it excited him even more thinking about you trying to stab him.

Fingertips grazing your panties lightly, Childe felt the shape of your cunt, applying pressure to open your lips so he could test the waters. Did you miss him, too? Did you anticipate this as much as he had? Would he find you wet and ready for him after all this time apart? Childe couldn't imagine that the thought of his return didn't excite you even just a little. That your heart didn't race knowing you'd have to tiptoe around him again.

Eagerly, he curled his fingers over and over, thumb flicking your clothed clit as he caressed your pussy. Despite his own cock straining and pressing against his pants like crazy, demanding to be freed from its prison, he made sure to prepare you first, willing to wait if it meant you were ready to take all of him immediately. Who knew how much time he had before bursting. Everything had to be perfect this time.

You twisted in his hold, his hand grabbing your breast and squeezing it hard to secure you in place. It gave him the pleasure of hearing you whimper once as you straightened instead, his weight at your back pushing you towards the cold stone in front of you as he played with your breast, making sure the cold would stimulate you.

With his free hand, he loosened the buttons on your blouse, making the collar drop enough so he could pepper your skin with kisses, suckling at your nape before giving it a possessive bite. You shuddered, not allowing your sweet voice to ring out even if it hurt you, but to Childe, this was a necessary evil. A mark you couldn't erase so easily, proving to everyone and himself that you belonged to him.

"Mr. Ta- Tartaglia," you breathed out his Tsaritsa-given-name, and it had never displeased him so to hear it than when it fell off your lips.

"Ajax," he corrected, and you shook your head ever so slightly in refusal, angering him.

"This is inappropriate, please mind you manners," you tried to reprimand him, and Childe simply huffed a laugh into your ear, raising his hand with which he had petted your pussy to show you the strings of juices dripping from them.

"Don't try to be all goody-two-shoes when I felt you grinding against my hand."

"It's because this position is uncomfortable! Don't be crude!"

"Sure, if you say so."

Reaching between your legs again, you flinched as he dragged the nail of his thumb through your folds before disappearing to reach for his belt. Even with his patience, Childe had long surpassed his limits. The longer he waited, the more time he gave you to escape. You talking to him was rare enough, a clear sign that you were already plotting how to get away, and Childe realized he couldn't take another chase with his cock so painfully hard between his legs.

Like always, you struggled as you felt his shaft slip between your thighs, your plush skin welcoming him, and he groaned into your shoulder, ready to burst. Everything about you was so perfectly made for him, able to make him come in mere seconds. But if he had the choice between your legs and your now sopping wet cunt, he'd take the latter for now, your thighs a delicacy for another day.

He had to take the chance for as long as he could.

Drawing back his hips, he angled his shaft upwards, quickly using his hand to pull your underwear to the side. You gasped as, without warning, he snapped his body forward, burying himself deep inside you with no regard, your insides clenching and holding on to him with a tightness that could only belong to you.

You were deliciously upset, trying to lift yourself off him, which he allowed, plunging you back down at the last second. Childe felt the pearls of precum rise and leak into you, his cock ready to give you a perfectly good reason to stay with him forever. A family sounded like such a good idea now that he was back and ready to settle with you after the endless chases you two had in preparation for this moment.

Pushing you forward, Childe forced you up on your tiptoes, your knuckles turning pale as you gripped the rim of the stone fireplace in front of you. At the same time, your other hand had reached back, fisting his shirt to the point of ripping at it. Did you want him to not leave you so desperately? Adorable.

"So... good..." he mumbled into your shoulder as he pressed his cock even further inside you. Hilting you simply wasn't enough; Childe wanted to fill every inch of you, leaving no space for anyone else in your head and body. "You feel so good around my cock, baby."

"S-Stop!" you demanded, your voice cracking as Childe slammed his cock forward.

"I've waited so long for this, no chance I can stop now."

With very little movement outwardly, Childe humped you, reaching always an inch deeper every time he lodged his cock inside. You clutched his clothes, trying to tear them away and him off you. Still, he kept going, grunting softly into your shoulder, anticipating every sweet sound you suppressed by biting your tongue.

"S-Sir!" You wanted to sound stern, but instead, you mewled.

"Ajax," he growled back, picking up the pace as punishment for calling him the wrong name again.

Everyone could see what was happening between the poor maid and the Harbinger, but no one dared to say anything. Childe made sure that they couldn't see anything they weren't supposed to, by hiding you from view with his body and cloak. But the sounds you two made, albeit muffled, made most of the staff scurrying around you two blush and hurry by.

He didn't care.

All that mattered was your soft, squelching cunt opening up for him and swallowing his cock like a playful little temptress. He could kiss your soft skin and smell the expensive scents that the Tsaritsa made you wear, all while nibbling, assaulting, and marking you like the madman he was. You were everything, capturing every thought and sense of his as Childe felt himself come undone.

"So tight," he groaned, leaving almost no space between your bodies.

His hips picked up the pace, more desperate and eager than before. Soon enough, he lowered the arms he had caged you with, digging his fingers into your hips instead, guiding your flesh up and down his shaft to get himself off. Soon, he'd give you a beautiful little family and you'd forever warm his bed, ready to take his cock at any given time. The chase, although he'd miss it, would come to an end if your belly was round and swollen with his child and he'd get to take a different job around Snezhnaya so he could go home to you and the kid every evening and proceed to fuck you senseless every night. It would be a dream come true—a final, successful hunt.

You were letting out the prettiest gasps as you reached for his wrists, trying to break them with how crushing your grip was, but even so, Childe wouldn't let go. He was obsessed with finally finishing inside you, claiming you in a way no one else had. You were a shuddering mess impaled on his cock and he'd have not wanted you any other way.

Your cunt was dripping with juices by now, letting Childe know you were ready to cum and welcome his seed; ready to finally cave and become all his. You'd be such a pretty mommy, carrying his child and making him a daddy, all while trying to explain to everyone you worked with that you didn't get pregnant while you were assaulted in the hallway. You'd admit you did it with him on other occasions just to save face.

Childe would happily help this lie be more convincing.

Between grunts, he couldn't help but whimper as his thrusts became irregular and hard, all with the purpose to go as deep into you as possible and feel you completely. You were helping him, rocking your hips high and teasing his tip with your shuddering walls until he was finally close enough to taste the sweet release.

Childe groaned loudly, feeling his cum rush through his shaft when you suddenly pushed away from him. There was too much to think about and focus on, and his brain was overwhelmed with all the tasks, giving you the chance to escape. Your breaths were heavy as your cunt slipped off his dick, and you let out a soft gasp before pushing your skirt down and walking off quickly with your gaze lowered, not looking at anyone or anything.

You left him behind to fend for himself.

Unable to stop it, Childe spilled his cum all over the freshly cleaned fireplace, strings of white seeping into the stone pitifully as his seed was wasted on it. He couldn't think straight; he just kept coming pitifully, with his head fallen back and his hips jutting into the air.

You fucking minx.

Leading him on and then disappearing. You waited until the last moment for your escape, ruining everything Childe had built up to. What about your orgasm? Your pleasure? Could you just endure leaving without? Would you get it from someone else?

Panic and anger zapped through him as the last of his cum shot pitifully out of him. He'd not let anyone else make you orgasm. Not another servant, a lover, not even the Tsaritsa! Maybe he didn't finish like he wanted, but that gave no one else the right to enjoy themselves with you. You were his and his alone.

A grin spread over his lips as he stared at the cold, intricate patterns on the ceiling once again. Now, they looked so much more beautiful, even as they were unreachable. Because you weren't. He found you once and he'd find you again, his cock twitching as anticipation spread through him. He'd make you cum so hard, you'd see stars. And then again and again until you could think of nothing else but him, bewitching you in the same way you had him. You'd want no one else, unable to think of anyone beside Childe and his cock when he was done with you.

Once more, the chase was on.

And Childe wouldn't want it any other way.

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residentwordsofaffirmationdealer · 2 months ago

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tracking barbara gordon's skillset as oracle:

she provides directory assistance for several international and intergalactic teams of superheroes (the birds of prey, justice league of america, the outsiders, and she has worked with the titans before).

she is the primary hacker and information network source for many of these heroes.

she helps provide mercy ops (disaster relief and humanitarian efforts) globally.

she is able to hack into the white house cameras.

she hacks into the united states air force routinely to use their memory capabilities.

she is seen as a pentagon level threat.

she writes her own code for scanning new satellite images for human habitations and anomalies.

she's accessed air force rockets no one is supposed to know about and overridden them to fire them.

she has a team of drones ready for surveillance.

she's put her own security systems on arkham asylum.

she hacks into information databases from federal complexes and assembles blueprints and guard schedules so she can send her agents to break into them.

she sets a government complex on fire (she says it is a small and contained fire.)

she also sets the clock tower on fire to force batman to not do murder/suicide.

she hacks into cia debriefing transcripts to obtain information.

she controls a large portion of the world's internet and power grids.

she also is the reason why many world leaders are in power.

she has access to the bank accounts of several supervillains, whom she toys with (specifically for blockbuster, she regularly steals millions of dollars from his accounts in a way that he cannot track who is stealing it and where it is going -- she's stolen 3 million, 17 million, 6 million, twenty million and also a hundred million from him).

she can also hack alien drones.

she can control traffic.

she has several booby-traps in the clock tower for potential assaulters. she also a device to monitor movement of people around it, in case batman decides to show up.

cited panels down below!

"she's the four-one-one for the jla, she the database for the g.c. ex-p.d. she runs mercy ops around the world." nightwing (1996) #38

"you have cameras in the white house?" "don't be silly. the white house has cameras in the white house. i've just tapped into them." nightwing (1996) #66

"i mean, someone hacks into our system and routinely uses our [united states air force] memory capabilities!" "i know!" "often." birds of prey #1 (1999)

"i run a database and search engine for a select few free-land crimefighters." birds of prey: manhunt (1996)

"we scan the most recent images for anomalies. things that don't belong." "where'd you get a program for that?" "i wrote my own code for that one." birds of prey (1999) #3

"they've accessed whitehorse, sir." "whitehorse? no one's supposed to know about that!" birds of prey (1999) #9

"and oracle? we're going to need eyes on several places at once." "i think we can manage that." detective comics (1937) #1077

"they've accessed whitehorse. what's the chance of them arming it?" "all clear?" "oh yeah." "fire!" birds of prey (1999) #9

"[arkham's] security is good, but piecemeal. i installed my own system there after the last breakout." infinite crisis special: villains united (2006)

"batgirl -- that incident a couple months back? when those government agents caught your face on tape? i found out where they're keeping it. it's a federal complex in virginia. i've sent you blueprints, guard schedules -- everything you'll need to break in." batgirl (2000) #17

"where did you get that kind of information?" "they traded another prisoner last month. i hacked into his cia debriefing transcript." birds of prey (1999) #9

"kat, do you have any idea... any notion at all, of how much of the planet's entire internet i control? how many power grids? how many world leaders owe me their positions?" birds of prey #1 (1999)

"i transferred all the funds in her cayman islands account to another offshore account. if she doesn't get the paintings to me in the next forty-eight hours, that money's going to my favorite charities." birds of prey: catwoman/oracle (2003)

"where do you get current [satellite] shots of rheelasia?" "that's my secret, you little netnik." birds of prey (1999) #3

"but the asborbascons were created using languages long dead even on my planet. they are uncrackable." "yes. the absorbascons are uncrackable. but the alien drones aren't." convergence: nightwing/oracle (2015)

"do you have that kind of cash?" "no. but i know someone who does." "there's been a... discrepancy, mr. desmond." "in plain english, mr. vogel." "at one point, three million was electronically transferred from your numbered accounts in the caicos to a bank account in hasaragua. from there to karocco, then yemen, then split between banks in senegal and manila. and then... my hardware couldn't keep up." birds of prey (1999) #3

"seventeen million from your account in the caymans. six from santa prisca. twenty from rheelasia. and a hundred million plus from other holdings of yours around the world, mr. desmond. and where it all goes? nobody knows." birds of prey (1999) #18

"they're taking your cash from impregnable accounts and transferring it electronically to their own." "and you can't find the source?" "there's subsequent transfers performed at lightning speed. the money's split up, rerouted in and out of various banks in an eyeblink. even i can't keep up with whoever this is." birds of prey (1999) #18

"let me handle the traffic." birds of prey (1999) #58

"all of you. keep your hands where i can see 'em." "not a problem. malory. ripken. peppermint." nightwing (1996) #39

#barbara gordon #babs #oracle #batgirl #birds of prey #justice league of america #jla #batman #robin #nightwing #huntress #black canary #blockbuster #dick grayson #tim drake #helena bertinelli #bruce wayne

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gracexthoughts · 11 months ago

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Māzigon arlī naejot issa.

(Come back to me)

jacaerys velaryon x betrothed!reader

warnings; talk of injuries and blood, canon divergence, angst ending with comfort summary; reader was sent to rook’s rest and when she returns injured, jace nearly looses his mind a/n; reader is targaryen and in my head she is maybe rhaenyra’s cousin but i didn’t feel like fleshing out a whole family for her so you can use your imagination.

Jacaerys has been going mad. The Lady Y/N has been gone for hours, and every second more that the Prince was ignorant of her fate was a second closer to him flying off in search of her. She’d volunteered to fly to Rook’s Rest and face Cole’s army herself. Her dragon, Silverwing, is the largest dragon with a rider second only to Vhagar, but she’s been gone too long for the prince’s liking. He’d begged her not to go, begged his mother to send him instead, and neither had listened. He couldn’t deny the logic of the choice, but the longer she stayed at battle, the more images of her broken and bloody flooded her betrothed’s mind.

The Prince and the Queen stand on the balcony off his chambers. Queen Rhaenyra has tried calming her son, but to no avail. The sun nears the horizon, setting the sky on fire in shades of gold and red, but Jacaerys only watches for signs of his betrothed.

“I’m going after her,” Jacaerys blurts out, unable to contain himself any longer, pushing off the stone half wall.

“No,” the queen says firmly, moving to block her son’s path. Ever since the death of Prince Lucerys, the queen has kept her eldest son close, refusing to send him out on dragon back.

“She should have been back by now! I will not just sit here and await news of her fate,” the prince argues, his voice strained and fraught. The Queen’s heart aches at the panic in her son’s eyes.

“Y/N is a fierce dragon rider. I am confident she will return soon,” she says placatingly, reaching up to cup his cheek, but Jacaerys pushes her away.

“No, I can’t just sit here. She’s to be my wife; I’m meant to protect her, not sit safely by in a castle while she risks her life protecting my birthright!” The prince exclaims and pushes through the doors to his chambers, but a dragon’s shriek stops him in his path. He whips around, his eyes scanning the skies for the sight of his betrothed. And then he sees her.

Jacaerys sprints through the halls of Dragonstone, his steps echoing against the stone as he makes his way out of the castle. He should feel relieved, but the prince cannot shake the fear clutching at his heart.

As Jacaeryrs reaches the mouth of the Dragonmount, all his fears come to the forefront. Y/N isn’t in the saddle; instead, she’s clutched in the silver claws of her dragon, her arm hanging limply down. Silverwing sets her down gently before landing herself, and Jacaerys swears he can see the sadness in her massive silver eyes. “No, no, no,” Jacaerys mutters, dropping to his knees next to her body, tears blurring his vision as he pulls her body to him. Her clothes are covered in blood and singed, an arrow lodged in her shoulder, and a gash on her side. Her silver hair is dark with ash and crimson, but breath still moves through her lips shallowly, a small beacon of hope. Without any thought but her care, he scoops her into his arms, cradling the body of his betrothed to his chest and running as fast as he can back to the castle.

“Call the master!” He bellows to the first guard he sees, his voice fraught and cracking, the princely tone he maintains forgotten in his panic. “Hold on, my love.”

As he pushes his way through the doors of the castle, the Grand Maester and the queen, followed by Ser Lorrent, rush towards the pair. “Help her!” The prince shrieks at the maester, all manners forgotten, and his expression is wild with fear. Used to such behavior, Grand Maester Gerardys simply nods and inspects the body in the prince’s arms.

“We’ll take her to her chambers. I’ll meet you there,” he says and turns, hurrying off to gather supplies. Ser Lorrent steps forward, his arms outstretched, to take the girl from the prince, but Jacaerys pushes past him, following after the maester up to the stairs and hurries to her apartments.

As they reach her chambers, the prince lays her down gently on her bed, not caring for the state of her bedclothes. He stays close to her side as the maester gathers his things, watching her closely to make sure she stays breathing. Soon, Geradys comes to her side. “Excuse me, my prince,” he says softly to the young prince, but he doesn’t seem to hear. Rhaenyra steps forward, her hand wrapping around her son’s shoulder.

“Darling, let the Grand Maester work,” she says softly, pulling Jacaerys back a few steps. Rhaenyra tries to coax him away to wash and change, as he is now covered in his betrothed’s blood, but he refuses.

“No, I won’t leave her,” he says, pulling against his mother.

“We won’t; just give him space, my darling,” she coos, pulling him to her and wrapping her arms around her darling son, whose body is shaking. He relents to his mother’s pull, allowing him to be held like a child as he watches the maester struggle to keep the love of his life in the world of the living.

Nearly an hour later, the maester turns to the prince and queen, blood staining his front and hands and his eyes weary. “I’ve done all I can, your Grace, my Prince. It is up to her spirit and the gods now. But she is a fighter, if ever there was one,” the Geradys says, his eyes soft for the Prince of Dragonstone. The Queen thanks him, but Jacaerys isn’t listening, moving forward numbly. He kneels next to the bed, his shaking hands reaching for hers, the ash and blood washed clean by the maester. He presses a gentle kiss on her skin, gripping her hand tightly between his own.

“Y/N, my love,” the Crown Prince whispers, reaching up to brush a strand of silver hair from her brow. “You have to fight. Please, you can’t... I can’t lose you as well, please. Kostilus, māzigon arlī naejot issa. Ko-Kostilus,” he begs, his throat closed tightly as tears slip down his cheeks. Please, come back to me.

***

It’s a full day before Y/N wakes, and Jacaerys has refused to leave her side. Late afternoon light shines into the room, beams of light cutting the air and washing it in an amber glow. Amethyst eyes flutter open, blinking in the brightness of the room.

“Jace?” She mutters; her voice is rough and her throat is burning.

“Y/N!” Jace gasps, jumping up from his seat in the center of the room to kneel at her side, gingerly taking her hand in his. “You’re awake!” he laughs in relief, his vision blurring with tears of joy. He drinks her in, her weary smile, and the lilac swirls in her eyes he thought he’d never see again.

“How long-?” She begins groggily, attempting to sit up by the wound in her abdomen, causing her to grimace. Jacaerys gently pushes her back down to the pillows.

“Don’t move, my love. Silverwing brought you back one evening past. You were,” the prince swallows, his throat constricting at the memory, “badly wounded. Gods, I feared you’d not wake.” He reaches for her, his calloused hand cradling her head.

“I’m afraid you’re stuck with me, my prince,” she smiles. Even wounded and weak, her humor remains. Jacaerys laughs through his tears, moving to sit on the bed and covering her face in kisses, making her giggle until it causes too much pain in her stomach.

“What happened?” Jace asks, sitting back and holding her hand tightly.

“Aemond was there, and Aegon. It was a trap,” she sighs, grimacing. “We were engaged with Sunfyre when Vhagar appeared... I had to fly close to the ground to get out from between the pair, and their archers took advantage.”

“Gods, I will kill both of them for laying a hand on you,” the prince says, his voice crackling with anger.

“I’m alright, Jace,” she coos, reaching up to cradle his beautiful face in her hands. His anger subsides at her touch, her gentleness soothing the fires raging inside him.

“You’re wounded; you nearly died. If you’d arrived minutes later, you would have been passed by the time you returned to me. My love, Icouldn’t bear it if you-”

“Jace-”

“Promise me. Please just promise me you’ll be more careful,” the prince implores, his amber eyes fierce and wide.

“I promise, Jace. I do, and I will,” she says earnestly, their eyes locked for a long moment. “Come here,” she whispers, pulling on his hands to bring him closer. “Lay with me?”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You could never. Please?” Y/N’s eyes plead with the prince, and he forgets any notion of courtly manners or what is proper for two betrotheds as he comes to lay in her bed. Careful of her injuries, he wraps his arms around her, pulling her frame into his, and she rests her head against his chest, sighing in relief at returning home to him. There they lay, the future king and queen of the Seven Kingdoms, basking in each other’s warmth and thanking the gods for another day of safety in this war.

#jacaerys valaryon #jacaerys strong #jace velaryon #jace targaryen #jacaerys velaryon fluff #jacaerys targaryen x reader #jacaerys velaryon x reader #hotd jacaerys #jacaerys x reader #prince jacaerys #jacaerys targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #jacerys targaryen #jacerys velaryon #jacaerys velaryon angst #jacaerys valaryon x reader #house of the dragon fanfic

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untolduttering · 4 months ago

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Cravings

Summary: Sanji has gone much too long without his favorite meal and he fears that it’s driving him insane. Once he finds himself fully alone with you, he takes full advantage of the moment.

Tags: Sanji x afab!reader, nsfw, established relationship, oral (female receiving), fingering, face riding, overstimulation, squirting

Word Count: 3.4k

There’s a hollow pit in Sanji’s stomach this morning and it sets him on edge. He woke up late, a dream of you keeping him asleep longer, one that was cut off too early to be satisfactory anyway. When he got up from bed, the cold air bit harder than usual, settling into his bones and it seemed nothing could warm him. His clothes did not hug his body the way they should have. The image of you sleeping in his bed, hair mussed and sheets rumpled, didn’t leave him warm and fond, but instead running hot and with a fierce ache. The taste that he desires most hasn’t been on his tongue in much too long and he’s afraid it may kill him.

He arrives to the kitchen late. His process is not as smooth as usual, he starts and stops again and again. His foot caught on the stairs on the way up, tripping in a way he never does. He had to pause at the top to take a moment, to relax the building tension in his body. As he searches for ingredients, he has to dig around for much longer. He scans the fridge again and again, his eyes not finding the sauce he wants. He moves bottles and containers around and still cannot find it. He slams the door shut, thinking to try again later. When he does, he finds it immediately. He lights his third cigarette of the morning by then. Everything is too loud, too much. The pots and pans clang and bash as he uses them. A spoon clatters to the counter as it slips from his fingers, another to the floor. He grits his teeth.

Brook was always silent when he came in. There was a routine here by now, a pot of tea waiting on the table for when he wandered in. He waits until Sanji has been in the kitchen for some time before he enters, so he must have noticed Sanji’s late start. This time, Sanji can feel his eyes—or whatever damn thing the skeleton saw with—boring into him. His neck prickles with Brook’s all too knowing gaze and so Sanji waits.

It must have been after his first cup that Brook decides to venture a question. “Has something bothered you at all this morning, Sanji?”

Sanji twitches at his voice even though he had been anticipating it, and grunts. “Nothings bothering me.”

He wonders if he sounds too gruff. Does he grunt like that when he feels fine? He’s sure he does, but does it sound exactly like the way it did just now? Was his answer rude? He asks himself these things even though he can’t do anything about it. He can’t admit to what’s bothering him anyway, isn’t sure what he can do about it either.

The thing is, the past few weeks have been perfect. They ran into some marines, yes, but they’d won and no one had been injured. The last island didn’t bring any issues. The stock has been well kept, Luffy’s grubby finger successfully and consistently kept at bay. They could relax. But that didn’t mean they weren’t busy, or that their ship life meant they had all too much alone time.

It meant that Sanji couldn’t lavish you in the way he wanted. When you could be intimate, it had to be quick. Any time spent with you is time spent in heaven, so he cannot really complain, he still enjoys it immensely. However, it does also mean that you want him as close to you as possible. That you want him inside you as fast as you can. And your love for his mouth on yours means you don’t want to break away to breathe for even a moment. He loves this, he loves this, but it leaves him without having his favorite meal between your legs, and that’s what has got him so irate this morning. To go so long without the taste of your pussy on his tongue might be the thing that drives him insane. He’s considered stealing a pair of your panties to stuff his mouth with while he cooks. It wouldn’t be enough, but it’d be something to tamper the need.

His thoughts turn vile, leachurous, nasty. Thoughts he is always too afraid to say aloud to you. He wonders if you know how good you taste. He thinks of you alone in your shared room, your fingers dipping into your wet cunt and collecting the slick there. Bringing them to your mouth and sucking on your fingers. Fingering and collecting and tasting again and again. He grips the counter and pictures himself showing you how delicious it is. His fingers dipping in and your tongue swirling around his digits, watching your cheeks redden as he describes to you how it feels to drag his tongue through your folds, to shove it in your hole—

The door to the kitchen slams open, followed by confident footsteps, a stride so sure of itself. Zoro. All brashness, he comes in, heading straight for a bottle of sake. Not even a good morning, not even a oi, shit cook. Just coming in to raid his supplies, ruining the perfect fantasy he had going. Sanji starts in on him immediately, legs flying.

The fight doesn’t last long. Sanji’s too focused on getting him out, and Zoro’s too baffled on what the fuck he possibly could’ve done this time to really put much effort into staying.

It isn’t too long until you catch wind of Sanji’s foul mood. Zoro goes storming by, grumbling about some idiot shit cook. As you watch him pass, Brook comes up on your other side. He’s silent as he finds his place next to you, watchful. It’s clear to you he has something on his mind, and you think it may have to do with Zoro’s attitude. You look up at Brook, inviting him to speak.

“Do you know what’s bothering Sanji?” he asks.

You raise your eyebrows and glance in the direction Zoro has just gone, but he shakes his head. “It started before that.”

You frown. “Oh, well, no. I’ll go see what I can find out.”

Brook nods and pats your head as you walk past, perhaps as a way of saying good luck, or maybe thanking you.

When you walk in, Sanji knows it’s you by your soft footsteps. He can pick you out by any sound you make. He knows you by your scent and by the smallest flash of you across his sight. He could be deprived of all his senses and yet he could still pick you out, still know it’s you.

He pauses before he turns, taking in his progress. It’s close enough to done, close enough to breakfast. All he really would have to do is keep most of it warm. His fingers twitch as he thinks of this, as he does the math in his head. I can, I can.

Some mornings, the crew comes in still wearing their pajamas. It depends on the day and the mood of the person as to whether they’ll come to breakfast dressed and ready for the day. For you, the morning has been a lazy one, and you walk in wearing one of his t-shirts with a pair of shorts hidden beneath. Your hair is still a little messy from your pillow. The sight has his cock throbbing.

Before you can fully open your mouth, fully form your question, he’s across the room in a handful of strides. His mouth is on yours immediately, heated and desperate, and he starts dragging you back to the pantry.

“You must forgive me,” he murmurs. “Forgive me for my crassness, forgive me…”

“Sanji?” you ask him, confused and concerned.

Brook and Zoro will be warning everyone off by now. They’ll know you’ve come in to do some sort of damage control, and won’t come in themselves until you give them the all clear. You both have time.

You’re in the pantry, door almost slammed shut so he can push you against it. Sanji drops to his knees and the impact of bone on wood makes your stomach churn.

“Sanji—”

“You must understand,” he cuts you off. “You must understand just how much I need this. I’m sorry but I… I need it.” The last part comes out high pitched as he gets your bottoms off, removed at an impressive speed.

He doesn’t waste anymore time. He latches onto you as he hitches your leg over his shoulder. The moan he lets out is sinful, the shiver that wracks his body almost terrifying. He’s like a dog, the way he immediately starts lapping into you, the way his hips buck as he humps air. Sanji knew he had an affliction, one revolving around you, and could only be solved by you. He knew he was a desperate man, but he did not know just how bad it was.

You give up on trying to get anything more out of him. For one, it’s clear he’s not going to answer you. Two, it’s difficult for you to form words, to form a single coherent thought. He knows you so well that he already has you moaning, arching off the door, and sliding your fingers through his hair.

It’s perfect. It’s exactly what he has been wanting. But some greedy part of himself, one that he tries to keep tucked away, tears its way through, and he feels that it’s still not enough. He adds his fingers, reaching two in to hit that spongy spot that has you keening, because he needs you coming in his mouth now. He needs you tugging on his hair and grinding down onto his tongue right this second.

You give him just that. The way he pumps his fingers so mercilessly into you, the way he sucks on your clit and flicks his tongue, the way he’s so uncharacteristically aggressive with you, has your hips bucking on his face. When he wants you, he’ll ask so sweetly, sliding his hands all over to convince you. He’ll ease you into it or simply beg, face buried in your shoulder. You have to take the final step and say yes. But right now he was just taking, and it made your head swim. He throws you into your orgasm and your legs shake with the force of it.

It’s wet and it’s messy and it has him shivering with delight. And all he wants is more.

He maneuvers you onto the floor so that he can shove his face into you harder. He doesn’t give you a moment to catch your breath, he simply keeps licking his way into you. He’s eating so much sloppier, making out with his delicious treat.

There’s an ache in his teeth that he’s unfamiliar with, an urgency in his jaw. It feels similar to when he feels the urge to snap, to dig into someone. His mood swings are constant, a thing everyone is used to, but it’s not a feeling he ever feels towards you. His mouth, as never before, just wants to bite.

You can feel his teeth grazing, wanting to sink into flesh, but never doing so. The sensation makes you shiver. You’ve prompted marking each other before, something he’s glad to let you do, but he can’t bring himself to do it in return. He’s slowly loosening to the idea of hickeys, as they don’t hurt as they’re given. The bruising still bothers him. But biting, he’d always been firmly against biting.

He, as always, never wants to harm, never you, and now he wonders why he tortures himself so. To put his teeth so close but never sink them in. He thinks it may be the yearning, that he always has to have something to ache for, but knows he’ll never receive. Something about what he does and does not deserve. Something about deserving suffering, perhaps. Or maybe he does have a part of himself that likes to toy, to tease.

You’re so sensitive from your first that it doesn’t take him all too long to get you to your second. Your back arches off the floor, the zaps of pleasure running through your spine and all the way down to your toes. The throbbing of your cunt spurs him on and still he does not let up, does not give you a moment to recover. You pull on his hair and wriggle your hips, trying to get him to at least slow down.

“Sanji,” you whine. “‘S too much, too good, I can’t. Please?”

Just taking the short moment to pull back and answer you makes him want to cry. He can’t handle the short distance between him and your pussy. You feel his breath tickle you as he speaks. “Oh, but my sweetheart, please. Don’t you know how good you taste? It just drives me wild. And you’re doing so good for me, squeezing my head and clenching,” his voice hiccups and stutters on the word, “around my fingers… yeah. Yeah, my baby, you can give me more, can’t you? I know you can…”

He dives back in after trailing off, your pussy pulling him back into a trance. The teary look in his eye and desperation to his voice makes it impossible to tell him no. You let out a whimper but say, “Okay...”

He coaxes another out of you, all tongue and fingers and spit. You buck and spasm so hard, legs kicking out, that he has to put in more effort to hold you down, making sure you don’t hurt yourself. And yet he is just not satiated. He never truly is, really, but usually he’d be… calmed by now. Some out of place thing inside of him would be put back. His mind a little clearer. A sense of purpose, a job well done, a need fulfilled. But he feels as jittery and needy as ever.

“Just… just a little more, my love,” he tells you, and starts to move you again.

You can do little else but allow him to do as he pleases, and soon your pussy is hovering over his face.

“Your full weight, baby,” he murmurs, running his hands up and down your thighs, rubbing your hips. “Don’t think, don’t worry about a thing, just sit and feel good.”

You mewl out his name again as he pulls you down. Your thighs give out, unable to hold you, and it causes him to moan in delight. You’re always too worried, too self conscious, to ever fully press down on him. To have you too weak, too fucked out, to hold yourself up was delightful.

Ravenous. Depraved. Deprived. His mouth aches, his tongue and jaw tired, but it doesn’t matter. He feels you start to rock your hips and he groans, but suddenly you yelp and stop. The added movement was too much, overstimulating, and you couldn’t keep it up. Sanji wanted it, though, needed it, and began to grind your hips for you. You cried out, babbling about too good, too much, all over again, with his name in the mix, and you try to crawl away from him.

Good god, what was happening? You’ve never had to crawl from Sanji before. He would overstimulate you at times, so eager and needy for more, more, more that he’d keep going, begging you to let him. But if it was just too much, he’d relent. Kissing and apologizing and thanking you.

He wasn’t listening now, though, and he didn’t let you move. He’s got an iron grip on you, the hardest his hands have held you. The moment he feels you try to move away, his heart twists in panic. He feels like something precious is being taken from him. You're his, your pussy is his, and he couldn’t handle it being taken before he’s done, taken from him ever.

He feels pissed each time he has to stop to breathe, too. He can’t believe his body thinks he still needs air. Why the fuck would he want air right now? His real form of substance is already sitting on his face. It’s a waste of goddamn time to breathe. He was a man built for servitude, pleasure. Breathing currently interrupted that, so why would his body request it?

Above him, you’re barely holding on. You’re on your forearms, panting and moaning and trembling. You can’t form any more words, the babbling having ended a bit ago. All you can do is whisper his name, your throat barely able to say it, and simply keen. You snake a hand down, so shaky the whole way through, and tangle your fingers in his hair. Maybe if you give him this last one, he’ll let you go. You wonder if you’d really want him to. It makes your stomach flip and your pussy pulse to think of him forcing more orgasms out of you.

He’s just as noisy, as he always is, as he has been the whole time. Making slurping noises so lewd it makes your skin burn. A few more guided movements of your hips and your coming again, but this time you’re squirting, gushing all over his face.

This, this, is paradise. Sanji’s cock, neglected and aching and leaking, shoots hot ropes in his pants; a wet and hot mixture soaking through the fabric. His hips buck from just how strong his own orgasm is, his back arching as much as it can. You’re creaming all over his face, from his ministrations, from his love. And oh, how you sing for him. He couldn’t think of a better way to fix his mood, a better thing to cum to.

You collapse, falling to the side and laying there, taking deep, stuttering breaths. Sanji doesn’t move, he keeps his head tucked between your legs, and simply twists to lay on his side as well. He doesn’t continue to eat you out, however, finally relenting and letting you both calm down and find yourselves.

He does take the time to stare at your pussy, though, enjoying the sight. All puffy and swollen and wet; you just look so pretty. He wonders if you’d let him sleep like this at night, so close to a most precious part of you. He likes breathing in the scent of you, watching the way you flutter and clench from him just looking. Your thighs keeping him so warm and cosy. Yeah, he could easily fall asleep like that. He gives you feather light kisses up and down your slit, trying not to push you any more, but you’re so sensitive that you twitch and jolt anyway.

When he’s had his fill—which is to say he hasn’t, he just misses your face terribly—he comes crawling out to hold you. He finds himself equally concerned and bashful. He can’t believe how… demanding he’d been.

“How do you feel, my love?” he asks, sheepish. He pulls you close, squeezing and rubbing at your body, switching between legs and hips and arms.

You hum, and softly answer, “Tired… but good.” You know that what he’s asking for is if he took it too far, did anything wrong. “You always make me feel good.”

“I’m… I’m sorry I—”

“So, so, sooooo good,” you cut him off. For him to crave you so madly that he just has to corner you and pin you down so that he could fuck you with his tongue? How could you not be flattered?

You lift your head to look at him, and his face is dripping. Your slick is smeared all over, his upper lip a mixture of your cum and blood from his nose. His face is flushed from both pleasure and his shyness. He chews his bottom lip, meek from your attention on the mess he’s made.

You giggle. “We need to clean up.”

Sanji grins a little at this. “I don’t know, I quite enjoy my face being covered like this. I might just stay like this all day.”

You stick your tongue out and scrunch your nose. “Gross.”

He smiles wider. “No, my love, this is what bliss looks like.”

“Dork,” you snort.

You both stay like that a little while longer, enjoying each other’s warmth and presence. Breakfast could wait just a moment longer.

#one piece #one piece x reader #black leg sanji #vinsmoke sanji #sanji x reader #happy birthday babyyyyy

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dreamersworldduh · 5 months ago

Text

HIS AWAKENING

• NATE JACOBS x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — Nate Jacobs embodies the quintessential all-American quarterback—athletic, commanding, and effortlessly attractive. Beneath the surface, however, lies a man riddled with inner conflict. His outward bravado conceals a fragile core shaped by toxic societal expectations, a broken family dynamic, and a deep struggle with his own identity. Nate's carefully constructed image masks a storm of repressed emotions, his intimidating presence serving as both armor and a warning to those who might venture too close.

That is, until Y/N entered his life. Strikingly handsome and unapologetically bold, Y/N exudes a magnetic confidence that demands attention the moment he walks into a room. His blend of charisma, sass, and fearless energy challenges everything Nate thought he knew about himself—and about the walls he's built to keep others out.

WARNING! FLUFF. Suggestive Langauge. Swearing.

WORDS! 10.8k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Sorry for the delay—this is quite a long fic that I had to break into two parts. Now, I know some people feel about the immensely complicated Nate Jacobs, however, I wanted to show a different side of him and give his gay awakening.

NEXT PART! HIS AWAKENING — PART 2

The late afternoon sun bathed the campus in a golden hue, casting long, uneven shadows across the pathways. Y/N stepped out of the administrative building, a folder clutched tightly in his hands, filled with room and board information, dormitory rules, and a map of the sprawling university grounds. His mind buzzed with anticipation and a hint of nervousness as he mentally ticked off the steps to get settled. The day had been a whirlwind of check-ins and introductions, and all he wanted now was to find his dorm, unpack, and get a moment to breathe.

Lost in his thoughts, Y/N barely noticed the bustling crowd of students around him until it was too late.

Without warning, he collided with what felt like a brick wall. The impact sent his folder slipping from his grip, papers scattering onto the ground.

"I'm so sorry—" Y/N began, crouching to gather his things, but his apology was cut short by a sharp, irritated voice.

"Maybe you should watch where you're standing," the stranger snapped, his tone clipped and unforgiving.

Y/N froze mid-reach, his gaze snapping upward to meet the source of the hostility. He was greeted by the sight of a towering figure, broad-shouldered and radiating a palpable air of arrogance. The guy was wearing a football jersey, the bold number on his chest practically screaming athlete. His jaw was set, and the way he loomed over Y/N gave off a distinctly entitled vibe.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said, straightening up slowly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Didn't realize this was your sidewalk, Mr. Quarterback. Want me to bow next time you grace it with your royal cleats?"

The guy's face darkened, a flicker of irritation flashing in his eyes. His jaw tightened as he took a small step forward, towering over Y/N even more. "What's your problem, man?"

"No problem," Y/N replied smoothly, his tone calm but laced with amusement. He dusted off his papers and tucked them back into the folder before glancing back up. "Just don't appreciate being plowed into like I'm part of your warm-up drills. Or is that how you flirt?"

That comment landed like a slap, throwing the quarterback off balance. His brows furrowed, and his mouth opened slightly as if to retort, but he hesitated. Finally, he muttered, "Yeah, not interested, thanks."

Y/N smirked, unbothered, his sharp eyes scanning the guy with calculated precision. There was something about his tightly wound demeanor, the tension in his shoulders, the barely contained frustration in his voice. It was fascinating in a way that made Y/N want to push a little further.

"Relax, big guy. You're not my type either," Y/N said, his smirk widening. "Too much bottled-up rage under all those muscles. But hey, therapy exists for a reason."

The quarterback growled under his breath, his fists clenching at his sides. "You don't even know me," he bit out, his voice low and simmering with frustration.

Y/N shrugged, already stepping to the side as if to end the encounter. "Don't have to. You've got 'walking anger issues' written all over you." He turned back briefly to add, his tone almost lighthearted, "Oh, and next time you want to storm through a crowd, maybe pick someone who won't call you out."

The quarterback's patience snapped, his voice lowering into a growl as he took a step forward. "What makes you think I won't—?"

Y/N didn't miss a beat, spinning on his heel to face him again, his smirk sharp and dripping with confidence. "Fight me? Go ahead, QB. But fair warning—I fight dirty. And I don't lose."

For a moment, the two stood there, tension crackling between them like a live wire. The quarterback's fists remained clenched, but he didn't move. There was something flickering in his eyes—something unreadable, caught between frustration and intrigue.

Without waiting for a response, Y/N turned on his heel and walked away, his steps confident as he rejoined his waiting parents by the car.

As Y/N disappeared into the crowd, the quarterback remained rooted to the spot, watching him go. His fists slowly unclenched, but his mind raced, replaying the encounter over and over.

What Y/N didn't know, as he laughed with his parents and carried his things to the dormitory, was that the guy he had just clashed with was none other than Nate Jacobs—his soon-to-be roommate.

The dormitory hall buzzed with the energy of move-in day, a cacophony of shuffling boxes, shouted instructions, and the occasional crash of something fragile being dropped. Parents bickered over furniture placement, wide-eyed freshmen struggled to find their rooms, and the air smelled faintly of fresh paint and sweat. Y/N navigated through the chaos with a box tucked under his arm, its contents rattling with every step. His other hand gripped the edges tightly—his track gear was in there, and he wasn't about to let it spill everywhere.

When he reached the door to his room, he paused, his gaze sweeping over the space. It was compact, the two beds crammed against opposite walls, a small shared desk wedged between, and a closet barely big enough to hold his shoes, let alone his wardrobe. Functional, sure, but it was far from luxurious. Still, Y/N's mind was already buzzing with ideas for rearranging the space as he crossed the threshold and set his box down near one of the beds.

"Guess this'll have to do," he muttered to himself, surveying the drab beige walls with mild disinterest.

As he began unpacking, the sound of heavy footsteps thudding down the hallway pulled his attention. The steps grew louder, and then the door creaked open wider behind him. Y/N turned, his curiosity fading into sharp recognition when he saw who was standing there.

Nate Jacobs.

The guy from earlier—the walking brick wall in a football jersey. He stood in the doorway with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his sharp features framed by the dim light from the hallway. His hoodie hung loosely over his broad frame, but the edge of his jersey peeked out, making it impossible not to identify him as "QB." Their eyes locked, and for a moment, neither said anything.

"Oh, great," Y/N said, breaking the silence as he dropped a shirt onto his bed with an exaggerated sigh. "It's you."

Nate's brow furrowed, his face twisting in mild disbelief. "You've got to be kidding me," he muttered under his breath as he stepped inside. He dropped his bag with a heavy thud onto the empty bed opposite Y/N's, rubbing the back of his neck. "Of all the people on campus..."

Y/N leaned back against his desk, crossing his arms as his lips curved into a smirk. "Didn't think the universe hated me enough to make you my roommate, but hey, here we are."

Nate shot him a look, his irritation obvious. "Trust me, I'm not thrilled either. Last thing I need is to share a room with some loudmouth track star who doesn't know when to shut up."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Loudmouth? Big talk coming from the guy who growled at me like a pissed-off grizzly bear earlier."

"You were the one running your mouth first," Nate countered, his jaw tightening as he crossed his arms.

Y/N straightened up, walking to his stack of boxes with a casual air. "Right," he said, tossing a look over his shoulder. "And you were just minding your own business, Mr. 'Maybe you should watch where you're standing.'"

Nate scoffed, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "Look, let's just get through this without killing each other, alright? I've got enough on my plate without you adding to it."

Y/N paused, one hand resting on the box he was about to open. For a moment, his smirk softened into something more contemplative. "Fine by me," he said lightly. "As long as you don't turn this place into a football locker room, we're good."

"Deal," Nate replied, though his tone carried the faintest hint of skepticism.

Satisfied, Y/N returned to his unpacking, pulling out a stack of books and arranging them on the small shelf above his desk. "You're not gonna do the whole 'alpha male' thing in here, are you?" he asked without looking up.

Nate frowned, clearly caught off guard by the question. "What the hell does that mean?"

"You know," Y/N said, waving a hand in Nate's direction without turning around. "All the posturing, random yelling, punching walls when your team loses. That sort of thing."

Nate's glare could have cut through steel. "Do I look like the kind of guy who punches walls?"

Y/N turned to face him, his gaze raking over Nate's broad frame. "Honestly? Yeah, you kinda do."

Nate opened his mouth to argue but stopped, clearly deciding it wasn't worth the effort. With a low growl, he turned back to his duffel, pulling out a stack of neatly folded shirts.

Y/N chuckled under his breath as he returned to his own unpacking. "Relax, QB," he said with a grin. "I'll stay out of your way if you stay out of mine. Fair enough?"

Nate didn't look up from his bag, but his response was low and clipped. "Fair enough."

For a while, the room was filled with the sound of zippers, rustling papers, and shuffling clothes. The tension between them hadn't disappeared, but it had simmered down enough for them to coexist—for now.

As Y/N placed a framed photo on his desk, he threw a sly glance in Nate's direction. "By the way," he added, his tone casual but teasing, "you should work on your comebacks. 'Loudmouth track star' isn't exactly cutting it."

Nate's jaw tightened again, his hands pausing mid-fold. But this time, he didn't rise to the bait.

"Welcome to the dorm, Nate," Y/N said with a grin, leaning back against his desk. "This is gonna be... fun."

Nate didn't respond, but as he turned back to his bag, the faintest twitch of a smirk crossed his lips—though it was gone almost as quickly as it appeared.

The sun hung high in the sky, its relentless heat radiating off the manicured grass of the university's sports complex. Sweat clung to the air, sticking to every athlete who dared brave the afternoon heat. The track team had just wrapped up their grueling practice session, their laughter and chatter filling the space near the bleachers.

Y/N stood in the center of his group, casually stretching out his legs. His running shorts were impossibly short, exposing the full expanse of his toned thighs, every muscle seemingly sculpted to perfection. A light sheen of sweat glistened on his skin, catching the sunlight as he leaned into a stretch, completely unbothered by the attention his appearance drew. Y/N was always confident, effortlessly commanding the room—or in this case, the field—without even trying.

Not far away, the football team was mid-drill, their coach barking orders as they ran through their routines. The rhythmic thuds of cleats on turf filled the air, accompanied by the occasional grunt of effort. During a water break, Jake and Ryan, two of Nate's teammates, wandered toward the sideline, their eyes drifting to the scene by the bleachers.

Jake nudged Ryan, nodding toward Y/N. "Man, look at those shorts," he said with a snicker. "I swear, are those even legal? Dude's got more leg on display than half the cheer squad."

Ryan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Right? He's just out here showing off. Like, we get it—you've got legs. Congrats or whatever."

Standing a few feet away, Nate overheard the exchange. He rolled his eyes, tossing a football absently into the air and catching it. Normally, he tuned out their locker-room banter, but today, for some reason, he couldn't resist chiming in.

"Maybe he thinks the shorts make him faster," Nate said, his tone deadpan as he spun the football in his hand. "Aerodynamics or something."

Jake laughed, emboldened by Nate's comment. "Yeah, or he just likes the attention. Look at him. Bet he spends more time flexing in the mirror than running on the track."

Unbeknownst to the trio, Y/N's sharp ears had picked up every word of their conversation. His smirk widened as he straightened up, casually brushing a hand over his shorts as he turned to face them.

"Aw," Y/N called out, his voice sweetly mocking as he strode toward them with deliberate ease. "I didn't realize the football team was so interested in my thighs. Should I start charging for the view, or are compliments enough?"

Jake and Ryan froze mid-laugh, their faces flushing with embarrassment. They exchanged panicked glances, unsure how to respond.

Jake stammered first, trying to recover. "W-We weren't—"

"Oh no, please," Y/N interrupted, holding up a hand as he stepped closer, his smirk wicked. "Don't stop. It's flattering, really. I had no idea my legs were such a hot topic. Maybe next time, though, you could focus on your drills instead of gossiping like high school mean girls."

Ryan muttered defensively, "We weren't gossiping—"

"Sure you weren't," Y/N cut in smoothly, raising an eyebrow. "By the way, if you're gonna talk about someone, maybe be a little less obvious. Your whispers are about as subtle as a marching band."

Jake opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. He looked like a fish gasping for air, which only made Y/N's smirk grow.

Finally, Y/N's attention shifted to Nate, who was still standing there, the football frozen in his hand. "And you," Y/N said, his tone growing sharper as he cocked his head. "I'm surprised, QB. You had a whole two cents to throw in, but it's funny—I don't remember asking for your opinion."

Nate blinked, momentarily caught off guard. He wasn't used to being directly challenged, especially not by someone like Y/N. His faint smirk faded into a defensive glare. "I didn't say anything worse than what they said."

Y/N tilted his head, pretending to consider this. "True. But unlike them, I thought you had a spine. Guess I was wrong."

Behind Y/N, the track team, who had been watching the interaction unfold with barely contained glee, erupted into muffled laughter. Jake and Ryan didn't dare respond, their embarrassment palpable.

Satisfied with their stunned silence, Y/N tossed one last smirk over his shoulder as he sauntered back toward his team. "Don't worry, boys," he called out breezily. "Not everyone can pull off confidence and shorts. Better luck next time."

Jake muttered under his breath, "Dude's savage."

Nate didn't respond, though his grip on the football tightened. His gaze lingered on Y/N as he rejoined his group, laughing easily with his teammates as if nothing had happened.

Something about Y/N got under Nate's skin, and it wasn't just the sass. It was the sharp wit, the unapologetic confidence, and the way Y/N had absolutely no fear of putting him in his place. It irritated Nate—but it also intrigued him, in a way he couldn't quite shake.

"Jacobs!" the coach yelled, jolting Nate from his thoughts. "Back on the field!"

Nate turned sharply, tossing the football to a teammate with more force than necessary. But as he jogged back to join the drills, his mind stayed stubbornly stuck on Y/N, replaying the encounter over and over.

The silence between Y/N and Nate had become suffocating, stretching across days with no sign of breaking. The tension hung heavy in their shared dorm room, in the classrooms, even on the fields where they practiced their respective sports. Y/N had made it abundantly clear—he wasn't interested in speaking to Nate, or even acknowledging his existence.

For Nate, the lack of interaction was an unfamiliar and deeply unsettling feeling. He wasn't used to being ignored, especially not like this. It gnawed at him in ways he couldn't fully explain, like a splinter lodged too deep to reach but impossible to forget.

It started off as the first rays of dawn spilled into the room, bathing it in a warm orange glow. Nate lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind replaying their last conversation on the field. Y/N, as usual, was up early, moving quietly around the room as he pulled on a fitted t-shirt over his toned frame. His movements were precise, methodical, and entirely devoid of unnecessary noise—a courtesy Nate was beginning to resent.

As Y/N grabbed his backpack and water bottle from the desk, he glanced briefly at his phone, scrolling through notifications. He didn't so much as glance in Nate's direction.

"Morning," Nate offered, his voice low and tentative, breaking the stillness.

Y/N didn't respond. The only sound that followed was the click of the door as it shut behind him.

Nate sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. It was going to be another long day.

By the time class started, the lecture hall buzzed with muted chatter as students trickled in, taking their seats and pulling out notebooks or laptops. Nate entered behind Jake and Ryan, scanning the rows instinctively until his eyes landed on Y/N. He was seated a few rows ahead, angled slightly toward a classmate he was chatting with.

Without realizing it, Nate chose a seat a few rows back, perfectly positioned for an unobstructed view.

Y/N sat with one leg crossed over the other, his notebook balanced on his knee as he scribbled notes in the margins. Every now and then, he leaned toward the person next to him, whispering something that earned a quiet laugh. Nate couldn't hear the words, but he didn't need to. The easy smile on Y/N's face, the relaxed way he carried himself—it was a stark contrast to the cold shoulder he'd been giving Nate.

Nate's eyes lingered. The way Y/N tapped his pen against the desk, the slight furrow of his brow when he focused, the unconscious habit of brushing his fingers through his hair when he stretched—it was all maddeningly distracting.

"You okay, man?" Jake asked, nudging Nate's elbow.

"Yeah," Nate muttered, tearing his gaze away and forcing himself to focus on the professor's droning voice. But even as he tried to take notes, his eyes kept drifting back to Y/N.

As the heat of the afternoon sun bore down on the sports complex, baking the grass and filling the air with the faint scent of sweat and turf. Nate was supposed to be focused on running passing drills, but his attention kept slipping to the track just beyond the field.

Y/N was sprinting, his powerful strides eating up the distance effortlessly. His movements were fluid, almost graceful, and the way he slowed to a stop after his lap left Nate momentarily frozen.

"Jacobs!" the coach's voice barked, snapping Nate out of his thoughts.

"Focus!"

"Yeah, sorry, Coach," Nate muttered, catching the football mid-air and throwing it with a little more force than necessary.

As he jogged back into position, his eyes darted toward the track again. Y/N was standing by his team, his chest heaving as he took a long swig from his water bottle. One of his teammates said something that made him laugh—a loud, easy sound that made Nate's chest tighten.

It was infuriating how completely oblivious Y/N seemed to his presence.

By the two made into the dorm, it was quiet, the air heavy with unspoken words. Y/N entered first, tossing his bag onto his bed without so much as a glance in Nate's direction. Nate followed, shutting the door behind him with a little more force than necessary.

For a while, the only sound was the faint rustling of Y/N unpacking his gear. Nate leaned against the door, his eyes fixed on him. The silence was unbearable.

"Are you ever gonna talk to me again?" Nate asked finally, his voice cutting through the stillness like a knife.

Y/N didn't even pause. "Didn't think there was anything left to say."

Nate's jaw tightened. "You're really this pissed about what I said on the field?"

Y/N snapped his head up, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "Pissed? No, Nate. I'm disappointed. I thought you were at least capable of being decent, but clearly, I overestimated you."

Nate frowned, stepping closer. "I was joking!"

Y/N shook his head, his voice calm but biting. "Oh, I got the joke. It's just not funny coming from someone who doesn't know the first thing about respect."

Nate opened his mouth to argue but stopped himself. Y/N had already turned away, pulling a fresh shirt from his drawer and pointedly ignoring him.

A knock on the door broke the tension. Y/N walked past Nate to open it, revealing one of their neighbors leaning casually against the frame.

"Hey, you two coming to the frat party tonight?" the guy asked.

Y/N glanced over his shoulder at Nate, his tone dismissive. "I'll be there," he said. "Can't say about him."

Nate bristled. "I'm coming too," he said firmly, stepping forward.

Y/N raised an eyebrow but didn't respond. Instead, he turned back to the neighbor with a small smirk. "Guess we'll see you there."

The door closed, leaving them alone again. Y/N grabbed his things and left without another word, the silence in the room now suffocating. Nate stood there for a long moment, staring at the closed door, wrestling with his frustration—and something far more complicated that he couldn't quite name.

The bass reverberated through the cramped frat house, shaking the walls and drowning out any chance of meaningful conversation. The air was thick with the mingling scents of cheap beer, sweat, and an overzealous amount of cologne. Multicolored lights pulsed in time with the music, casting flickering shadows over the packed rooms. People were crammed into every corner, laughing, drinking, and dancing, their movements chaotic but full of life.

In the middle of it all, Y/N commanded the makeshift dance floor in the living room. He wore a cropped black graphic tee emblazoned with a bold design, the hem cutting off just enough to reveal his toned stomach. His low-waist black jeans hugged his hips perfectly, emphasizing his every movement. The outfit, combined with his easy confidence, made it impossible not to watch him.

Y/N moved like the music was a part of him, his arms swaying above his head, his hips rolling effortlessly in time with the beat. His friends surrounded him, hyping him up with loud cheers and playful shouts as he spun and struck teasing poses. A playful grin danced on his lips as he leaned into the energy, the kind of carefree charisma that lit up the entire room.

Across the space, Nate stood with a group of his football teammates near the beer pong table. A red Solo cup dangled from his hand, barely touched, as his gaze kept drifting toward the dance floor. Specifically, toward Y/N.

"What's got you so distracted, man?" Jake nudged Nate's arm, his voice cutting through the din.

"Nothing," Nate muttered, his tone clipped, though his eyes remained locked on Y/N.

Jake smirked but didn't press.

The situation shifted suddenly when a tall guy with dyed hair and a silver chain stepped confidently into Y/N's circle. The stranger's movements were smooth, his intentions clear as he joined Y/N in the rhythm of the music. He leaned closer, his hand brushing Y/N's hip as their steps aligned.

Nate's grip on his cup tightened, the cheap plastic creaking under the pressure.

Jake, noticing, glanced toward the dance floor. "Looks like your roommate's got himself an admirer," he said with a teasing grin.

Nate didn't respond, but his jaw clenched as he watched the stranger say something to Y/N, earning a laugh. Y/N threw his head back, his carefree laugh cutting through the music as he spun into the guy's arms. Their faces were close now—too close.

An unfamiliar irritation churned in Nate's chest, sharp and insistent. It wasn't jealousy. It couldn't be. He didn't even like Y/N like that. So why did seeing him with someone else feel like a punch to the gut?

"You good, man?" Jake asked again, his tone more curious now.

"I'm fine," Nate said shortly, his voice harsh as he tore his gaze away. He tipped his cup back and took a long swig, trying to focus on anything else.

But his resolve faltered almost immediately. His eyes found their way back to the dance floor, where Y/N now had his hands in the air, his body leaning into the guy's. Their movements were perfectly synced, like they'd been dancing together for years. The crowd around them seemed to blur, leaving only the two of them in Nate's focus.

"What's your problem with him, anyway?" Ryan chimed in, noticing Nate's growing tension. "You've been weird about Y/N since day one."

"I don't have a problem," Nate snapped, the words coming out sharper than intended.

Jake raised an eyebrow. "Right. And the way you're glaring at that guy right now is totally normal."

Nate scowled, his knuckles whitening around his cup. "I'm not glaring."

"Sure," Ryan said with a smirk. "Whatever you say, QB."

Nate ignored them, his attention snapping back to Y/N just as he threw his arms around the stranger's neck, laughing again. The easy intimacy of it—the way Y/N could just be himself, confident and unbothered—grated on Nate's nerves.

It wasn't just the dance. It was the way someone else was getting Y/N's attention, his laughter, his energy. It was the way Nate couldn't seem to draw that out of him anymore, no matter how hard he tried.

Before he could stop himself, Nate muttered under his breath, "What's so great about that guy, anyway?"

Jake burst out laughing. "Oh, this is gold. Jacobs is jealous."

"Shut up," Nate growled, shoving Jake lightly, though his flushed face betrayed him.

Jake kept laughing, but Nate didn't care. His focus was entirely on Y/N, who seemed to sense Nate's eyes on him. Y/N glanced up, his gaze locking with Nate's for the briefest moment.

Y/N's expression was unreadable, but the smirk that tugged at his lips wasn't. It was sly, teasing, and far too knowing, as if Y/N could see right through him.

Nate's stomach twisted.

Y/N turned back to his dance partner, but not before throwing Nate a look that seemed to say, I see you watching.

Scowling, Nate tipped his cup back again, downing the rest of his drink in one go. He tried for the rest of the night to focus on his teammates, on the beer pong game, on anything other than Y/N. But no matter what he did, his thoughts kept circling back to him.

And that damn smirk.

Soon the party had shifted into its final stages, the once-deafening music now muted, replaced by the hum of lingering conversations and occasional bursts of laughter. The crowd had thinned, but pockets of energy still buzzed throughout the house. In the corner near the door, Y/N leaned heavily against the wall, his cheeks flushed, his eyes slightly glassy from one too many drinks. Despite his clear intoxication, he retained that magnetic, carefree air, laughing easily at something the guy next to him said.

The guy—a tall, confident-looking student with a cocky smirk—leaned in close, his lips brushing against Y/N's ear as he whispered something that made Y/N giggle. Y/N swayed slightly, his balance unsteady, and the guy placed an arm around his waist, guiding him with ease. Y/N leaned into the touch, his body language loose and trusting as the guy began steering him toward the front door.

From a few feet away, Nate watched the scene unfold, his grip tightening on the edge of his Solo cup. For the past ten minutes, he had been quietly observing, his irritation building with every second. Jake and Ryan stood nearby, but their banter barely registered as Nate's attention remained fixed on Y/N.

When he saw the guy's arm slide more firmly around Y/N's waist, something inside Nate snapped.

"Where are you going?" Nate's voice cut through the air as he stepped forward, his tone sharp and commanding.

Both Y/N and the guy turned to face him, the sudden interruption catching them off guard. Y/N blinked, momentarily confused, before a lazy smirk spread across his face. "Hey, QB. Didn't know you cared," he drawled, his words slurred just enough to betray how drunk he was. He leaned more heavily against the guy, his body swaying slightly.

Nate ignored Y/N's teasing and turned his full attention to the other guy, his piercing gaze hard and unwavering. "You can leave," Nate said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "He's not going anywhere with you."

The guy frowned, holding up his hands defensively. "What's your problem, man? We're just leaving. It's not a big deal."

"It is if he's drunk," Nate snapped back, stepping closer. His voice was low and edged with a quiet intensity that made the guy falter. "Find someone else to bother."

Y/N chuckled, clearly amused by the exchange. "Relax, Nate," he said, his voice thick with amusement and alcohol. "I can handle myself. Not my first rodeo."

"You're wasted," Nate retorted, his eyes narrowing as he reached out and gently but firmly pulled Y/N away from the guy's hold. His hand rested on Y/N's arm, steadying him as Y/N stumbled slightly. "You don't even know this dude."

Y/N looked up at Nate, his expression shifting to one of annoyance and mild curiosity. "Wow," he said, his tone biting. "Since when are you my babysitter?"

"I'm not," Nate shot back through gritted teeth. "But I'm also not letting you do something stupid."

The guy, clearly irritated now, stepped forward. "Look, man, it's none of your business—"

"It is now," Nate interrupted, his voice dangerously low. His glare alone was enough to make the guy hesitate. "Go."

The guy looked between Nate and Y/N, his frustration evident, before scoffing and throwing up his hands. "Whatever, dude. Your problem now." He turned on his heel and disappeared back into the thinning crowd.

Y/N pulled his arm free from Nate's grip, his movements unsteady but deliberate as he glared at him. "Seriously, what is your deal?" he demanded. "I was having fun."

"You call that fun?" Nate shot back, crossing his arms. "Getting blackout drunk and going home with some random guy?"

Y/N smirked, but it was weaker now, less sure. "Jealous, QB?" he teased, though his voice lacked its usual bite.

Nate's jaw tightened, his gaze darting away for a moment as he struggled to find the right words. "No," he said finally, though even to himself, it sounded unconvincing. "I just don't want to deal with you getting into trouble and me having to explain it to the RA."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, leaning closer as his smirk returned, sharper this time. "Right. Totally about the RA," he said, his voice dripping with mock sincerity, "and not because you can't stand seeing me with someone else."

Nate's eyes snapped back to Y/N's, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, neither of them said anything, the silence stretching between them thick with tension.

"You're drunk," Nate said finally, his voice softer now, almost reluctant. "Let's just get you back to the dorm."

Y/N sighed heavily, leaning back against the wall. "Fine, QB," he muttered. "But only because these shoes are killing me."

Nate rolled his eyes but stepped closer, steadying Y/N with a firm hand on his shoulder. "Come on."

As they made their way out of the frat house, Y/N mumbled something incoherent about his shoes and the terrible music, his head lolling slightly against Nate's shoulder. Nate kept his grip steady, his chest tightening in a way he couldn't quite explain.

It wasn't about the RA. He knew that much.

And maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop pretending otherwise.

The dormitory door slammed open with a loud bang, the sound echoing down the quiet hallway as Nate strode inside, his steps purposeful and heavy. Draped over his broad shoulder like an unruly sack of potatoes was Y/N, who groaned loudly, his legs kicking weakly in protest. Despite his best efforts to wriggle free, Nate held him firmly, his strength making any escape attempts laughable.

Y/N had made a valiant, if poorly coordinated, attempt to run away halfway back to the dorm, weaving unsteadily down the sidewalk in a way that had Nate's patience snapping. Without a word, Nate had hoisted him up with an ease that left no room for negotiation.

"Put me down, Nate!" Y/N shouted, his voice muffled against Nate's back as he bounced slightly with each determined step. "I don't need your help!"

"You're drunk," Nate replied flatly, his tone devoid of amusement as he kicked the dorm room door shut behind them with a sharp thud. "And you almost ran into traffic, so yeah, you kinda do."

Y/N let out an exaggerated groan, his fists weakly thudding against Nate's back in a half-hearted attempt to protest. "I hate you," he grumbled, his words slurring slightly from the alcohol still coursing through his system.

"Sure you do," Nate replied dryly, his voice tinged with sarcasm as he moved across the room. Despite his curt tone, he lowered Y/N onto his bed with far more care than he wanted to admit, making sure the other boy landed softly.

Y/N sat up almost immediately, swaying slightly as he jabbed a wobbly finger in Nate's direction. His expression was a mixture of annoyance and defiance, though his flushed cheeks and glassy eyes robbed it of any real weight. "I don't need your hero complex right now, okay? I can take care of myself."

Nate crossed his arms, his broad frame looming over Y/N as he raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Really? You couldn't even walk in a straight line five minutes ago."

Y/N scowled, his hands fumbling with the hem of his crop top as he attempted to smooth it out and reclaim some semblance of dignity. "Doesn't mean I needed you to carry me like I'm some damsel in distress," he shot back, his voice petulant. "I'm fine."

"Fine?" Nate repeated, his tone heavy with disbelief. He stepped closer, leaning down until they were at eye level. His piercing gaze locked onto Y/N's, refusing to let him look away. "You're a sweaty, drunk mess who tried to ditch me in the middle of the street. That's not fine, Y/N."

Y/N opened his mouth to argue, but no words came out. The closeness between them was almost suffocating, the intensity in Nate's expression enough to leave him momentarily speechless.

"Exactly," Nate said after a beat, his voice softer but no less firm. "Now sit still and stop trying to act like you've got this handled."

Y/N opened his mouth, ready to fire back with another slurred but defiant retort, but before he could get a word out, Nate moved. In one swift motion, he reached forward and tugged Y/N's crop top over his head, leaving the smaller boy momentarily stunned.

"Hey!" Y/N squawked, his arms flailing wildly as he tried to grab the shirt back. His movements were clumsy and ineffective, his balance still shaky from the alcohol. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Getting you out of this," Nate replied matter-of-factly, his tone steady and unbothered. He held the damp, sweat-soaked crop top between two fingers as if it were offensive before tossing it unceremoniously onto the floor. "You're gonna feel like crap in the morning if you stay in it."

For a moment, Y/N could only blink at him, his brain scrambling to process what had just happened. He crossed his arms over his now-bare chest, his cheeks flushing a deep pink—not entirely from the alcohol. "You could've asked, you know," he muttered, his tone more flustered than annoyed.

Nate smirked faintly, crossing the room to rummage through Y/N's drawer. "Yeah, because you totally would've cooperated," he shot back, pulling out an oversized t-shirt that looked soft and well-worn.

Y/N glared at him, the heat in his cheeks only intensifying as Nate approached with the clean shirt. "I could've done it myself," he muttered, but the bite in his tone was weak.

"Sure you could've," Nate replied dryly, kneeling slightly to pull the shirt over Y/N's head with surprising gentleness. His hands brushed against Y/N's skin as he adjusted the hem, the warmth of his touch sending an unexpected shiver down Y/N's spine.

Y/N froze for a split second, his heart racing inexplicably as Nate leaned back to survey his work.

"There," Nate said, straightening up. His tone was softer now, almost satisfied. "Better."

Y/N shifted on the bed, his arms dropping to his sides as he glanced down at the oversized tee now hanging loosely on his frame. He tried to ignore the way his pulse was pounding, instead narrowing his eyes at Nate in an attempt to regain some semblance of control.

"Great," he muttered sarcastically, crossing his arms again. "You've played dress-up. Now leave me alone."

But the way his voice wavered slightly at the end betrayed him, and Nate's smirk deepened just enough for Y/N to notice.

Nate ignored Y/N's protests, dropping to a crouch at the foot of the bed and reaching for his shoes. The laces were tangled, no doubt from Y/N's stumbling attempts to leave the party earlier. Nate tugged at the knots, his fingers moving with a practiced ease, his expression calm despite the grumbled complaints coming from above.

"Seriously?" Y/N said, his tone a mix of annoyance and embarrassment. He tried to sit up straighter, wobbling slightly as he propped himself up on his elbows. "I can handle that."

"Uh-huh," Nate replied without looking up, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he slipped off one shoe, followed quickly by the other.

Y/N scowled, his brows knitting together. "I'm not completely useless, you know," he muttered.

Nate finally glanced up, his piercing eyes locking on Y/N's. "Right. Because you've been handling everything so well tonight," he quipped, his tone dry. Then, as if it were the most casual thing in the world, he added, "Do you wanna try taking your pants off yourself, or are you gonna make me do that too?"

Y/N's face turned a deep scarlet, his mouth falling open in disbelief. "Excuse me?" he sputtered, his voice pitching higher than usual.

"Relax," Nate said, rolling his eyes as he reached for Y/N's legs, pulling him closer to the edge of the bed with little effort. "It's not like that."

Y/N froze, momentarily too stunned to respond as Nate's hands moved to the waistband of his jeans. With a flick of his fingers, Nate unbuttoned them, the sound of the zipper loud in the otherwise quiet room.

Nate worked with practiced efficiency, sliding the jeans down Y/N's legs and tossing them aside in one smooth motion. Left in nothing but his snug boxer briefs, Y/N instinctively crossed his legs, his flushed cheeks now impossibly red.

"Happy now?" Y/N muttered, avoiding Nate's gaze as he tugged at the hem of the oversized shirt Nate had put on him earlier.

Nate didn't respond immediately. He stood, his full height towering over Y/N, and for a moment, his gaze lingered. It wasn't just exasperation anymore—there was something softer in his expression, something unspoken that made Y/N's heart stutter in his chest.

"There," Nate said finally, his voice quieter now, almost gentle. "You're good."

Y/N looked up at him, his lips pressing into a thin line as he tried to ignore the heat rising in his face. "You're really annoying, you know that?" he mumbled, though there was no real malice in his tone.

Nate smirked, taking a small step closer. The corner of his mouth quirked up in that infuriatingly confident way, but his voice carried a hint of warmth. "Yeah," he said, his tone low, "but you'll thank me in the morning."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, meeting Nate's gaze for the first time. "Doubt it," he shot back, his voice softer than he intended.

For a moment, the air between them shifted. The playful tension from earlier dissolved into something heavier, more charged. Nate didn't move, and neither did Y/N, their eyes locked in a silent exchange that seemed to stretch on forever.

The sound of Nate's steady breathing filled the small space between them, his presence overwhelming. Y/N could feel the heat radiating from him, his own pulse racing as he fought to keep his expression neutral.

Nate leaned forward slightly, his smirk softening into something more tentative, more vulnerable. Y/N held his breath, his gaze flickering to Nate's lips before quickly snapping back to his eyes.

But then Nate straightened, stepping back with a barely audible sigh. "Get some sleep," he said, his voice quieter now, almost reluctant.

Y/N didn't respond, his heart still pounding as he watched Nate retreat to his side of the room. The unspoken tension hung in the air long after the moment passed, leaving Y/N staring at the ceiling and wondering why he couldn't shake the way Nate had looked at him.

The dormitory bathroom was dimly lit, its harsh fluorescent lights buzzing faintly in the stillness. The quiet was broken only by the sound of Y/N brushing his teeth, the rhythmic scrape of bristles against enamel filling the otherwise empty space. He leaned lazily against the sink, still groggy from the remnants of sleep and the unsettling memory of a strange, vivid dream he couldn't quite shake.

After rinsing his mouth, he splashed cold water on his face, hoping to clear the lingering haze in his mind. Grabbing a towel, he dabbed at his skin, his thoughts elsewhere. When he turned to leave, he froze mid-step, his breath catching in his throat.

Nate stood in the doorway, his broad figure filling the frame, one shoulder casually propped against the wall. His arms were crossed over his chest, the muscles in his forearms tense, and his expression unreadable. He didn't move, blocking the exit as his piercing eyes bore into Y/N.

"Jesus, Nate," Y/N said, his voice muffled as he tossed the towel aside onto the counter. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack? What are you doing here?"

Nate shrugged, his eyes flicking away for a brief moment before locking back onto Y/N. "Bathroom's on the way to my room," he said casually, his voice steady but lacking its usual bite. "Didn't know I needed permission to stand here."

Y/N narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the sink. "Right. Because loitering outside the bathroom at midnight is totally normal behavior."

Nate didn't reply immediately. Instead, he studied Y/N with an intensity that made the air between them feel heavier. The silence lingered too long, his gaze dipping slightly before snapping back up.

Y/N's expression shifted, his brow furrowing as he straightened slightly. The teasing edge in his voice was gone when he spoke again. "Alright, spill. Why did you really stop me from leaving with that guy at the party?"

Nate's posture stiffened, his arms dropping slightly as he stood up straighter. His jaw worked for a moment before he finally spoke. "I already told you," he said, his voice clipped. "You were drunk. You could've done something stupid."

"Uh-huh," Y/N said slowly, tilting his head as if trying to see through Nate's words. His tone was skeptical, almost mocking. "And I'm supposed to believe it had nothing to do with... jealousy?"

Nate let out a bark of laughter, but it sounded forced, too sharp to be genuine. "Jealousy?" he repeated, shaking his head. "Trust me, I wasn't jealous. You're not that special."

Y/N raised an eyebrow at that, his lips curving into a sly smirk. "Oh, really?" he said, his tone dripping with amusement. "Then why were you staring daggers at him all night?"

"I wasn't," Nate snapped, his response too quick, too defensive.

Y/N pushed off the sink, taking a step closer. The distance between them was shrinking, and with it, the tension in the room thickened. "You sure about that, QB?" Y/N asked, his voice low, teasing. "Because if I didn't know any better, I'd say you didn't like the idea of me with someone else."

Nate's jaw tightened further, his fists flexing at his sides as if he were trying to keep them still. "Don't flatter yourself," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm straight, okay? You're not my type. At all."

Y/N paused, studying him closely, his smirk fading into something softer, more curious. His eyes searched Nate's face, lingering on the tight line of his mouth and the tension in his brow. "Right," Y/N said finally, his tone quieter but no less pointed. "You're straight. That's why you've been acting weird around me since day one."

Nate stepped forward, his height casting a shadow over Y/N as he closed the remaining space between them. "I'm not acting weird," he said firmly, his voice lowering. "You're the one making this into something it's not."

Y/N didn't back down, his chin tilting slightly as he met Nate's gaze head-on. For a moment, the room felt impossibly small, the charged silence pressing in on both of them.

"Okay," Y/N said finally, his voice calm but tinged with something knowing. "If that's what you need to tell yourself." He moved past Nate, his shoulder brushing against him as he stopped at the doorway. Y/N paused, glancing over his shoulder with a faint, almost teasing smile. "But just so you know, people who are totally straight don't usually get this worked up over their 'not-my-type' roommate."

Nate didn't move, his fists clenching at his sides as he watched Y/N disappear down the hall. His chest felt tight, each breath harder to take as Y/N's words echoed in his head.

I'm straight, he told himself, gripping the edge of the counter as he turned toward the mirror.

But as he stared at his own reflection, the doubt that flickered in his eyes told a different story. For the first time, Nate wasn't sure what he believed anymore.

The countertops were cluttered with stray utensils and empty mugs, evidence of late nights and hurried mornings. The air was thick with the mingling aroma of freshly brewed coffee and whatever leftovers Nate had just pulled from the fridge.

Y/N stood by the counter, the picture of effortless ease. He leaned back casually, his mug cradled in one hand as steam curled lazily upward. His other hand drummed a slow, steady rhythm against the counter's edge, as though he had all the time in the world. His eyes flicked to Nate, who was bent over, half inside the fridge, rummaging noisily.

"Move," Nate said abruptly, his tone more gruff than polite as he turned, balancing a carton of milk and an apple in one hand. His shoulder bumped Y/N's in an impatient nudge.

Y/N, unfazed, merely smirked. He didn't shift an inch. "Say 'please,'" he drawled, his voice teasing, laced with just enough challenge to be infuriating.

Nate huffed audibly, clearly not in the mood for games. He stepped closer without hesitation, closing the already minimal gap between them. His broad chest brushed against Y/N's back as he reached over the counter to grab the half-empty box of cereal perched precariously near the edge.

The contact was brief but electric. Y/N's posture stiffened almost imperceptibly, a small hitch in his breath betraying him before he quickly smoothed over the moment with a practiced veneer of nonchalance. He tilted his head just slightly, glancing over his shoulder with a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Careful, QB," Y/N said lightly, his tone deliberately playful. "Buy me dinner first."

Nate recoiled as if burned, retreating a step too quickly. "You're annoying," he muttered under his breath, his voice low and clipped. He kept his gaze fixed on the counter, avoiding Y/N's eyes entirely as he busied himself pouring cereal into a bowl with far more focus than the task required.

But the flush creeping up Nate's neck was impossible to miss. A faint pink dusted his cheeks, standing out against his otherwise stoic expression.

Y/N noticed, of course. He always noticed. A slow, self-satisfied grin spread across his face as he turned back to his coffee, taking a deliberate sip. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he pretended not to notice Nate's embarrassment.

The gym was quieter than usual, its usual cacophony of clanging weights and rhythmic grunts reduced to a distant hum. The faint smell of rubber mats and chalk lingered in the air, mingling with the sharper scent of sweat. Y/N lay stretched out on the bench press, his fingers curling around the cold metal bar, the plates on either side gleaming faintly under the fluorescent lights.

Nate's shadow loomed over him, breaking his focus. "Need a spot?" he asked, his tone casual but carrying a slight edge, the way it always did when he was talking to Y/N.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, pausing to wipe the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His lips quirked into a lazy smirk. "Didn't know you cared."

Nate crossed his arms, rolling his eyes but unable to hide the faintest hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Someone's gotta make sure you don't drop the bar on your face," he shot back, stepping closer. His hands hovered just above the bar, ready but not intrusive.

With a small huff of amusement, Y/N settled back into position and began his reps. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, muscles contracting and releasing as he powered through each press. The bar creaked faintly under the strain, but Y/N's focus didn't waver. Nate, however, wasn't as disciplined.

Despite himself, Nate's gaze kept slipping—drifting over the line of Y/N's arms, the way his biceps flexed with each upward thrust, the tautness of his shoulders under the weight. The faint sheen of sweat on Y/N's skin caught the light, highlighting the sharp lines and curves of his body. It was distracting, far more than Nate would ever admit, even to himself.

"You gonna stare all day, or are you actually spotting me?" Y/N teased, his voice breathless but carrying that familiar sharpness. He didn't even look up, but the smirk in his tone was unmistakable.

Nate jerked slightly, caught off guard. A faint flush crept up his neck, and he quickly averted his eyes, his focus snapping back to the bar. "Focus on the bar," he muttered, his voice tighter than usual.

Y/N chuckled, a low, knowing sound that Nate found both infuriating and—he'd never admit it—amusing. With a controlled motion, Y/N lowered the bar back onto the rack, the clanging sound reverberating through the gym. He sat up, rolling his shoulders and reaching for his water bottle, his grin still firmly in place.

"Whatever you say, coach," Y/N said, the words dripping with playful mockery.

Nate didn't reply right away, his jaw tightening as he busied himself adjusting a nearby weight. He could still feel the heat creeping up his face and silently cursed himself for it. Meanwhile, Y/N leaned back against the bench, casually stretching his arms overhead, his grin widening as he watched Nate's back stiffen ever so slightly. The unspoken tension between them hung in the air, heavy but electric, as Nate fought to maintain his composure.

"You done admiring me, or should I grab the dumbbells next?" Y/N quipped, breaking the silence with another laugh.

"Shut up, Y/N," Nate muttered, but his voice lacked the usual bite, and Y/N only laughed harder.

The library was nearly deserted, the silence broken only by the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional rustle of paper. Rows of bookshelves stretched out in every direction, casting long shadows across the polished wood floors. At one of the large study tables near the back, Y/N and Nate sat side by side, an unintentional arrangement born from choosing the same spot at nearly the same time. Neither had moved, both too stubborn to concede the table to the other.

Y/N was sprawled comfortably in his chair, a picture of effortless confidence. A few loose papers and an open notebook were scattered in front of him, but he wasn't exactly focused on them. Instead, he leaned forward to grab a book from the far corner of the table, the movement causing his cropped hoodie to ride up just enough to expose a strip of skin along his waist.

Nate noticed. He hadn't meant to, but his eyes flicked downward, caught for a moment too long on the sliver of skin and the faint shadow of muscle underneath. His jaw tightened as he quickly looked away, his fingers tapping out a random rhythm against the keyboard of his laptop, but it was too late.

Y/N straightened up slowly, his sharp eyes catching Nate's fleeting glance. A smirk spread across his lips, equal parts amusement and challenge. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, the motion making his shirt ride even higher.

"See something you like?" Y/N asked, his voice low and teasing, the tone carrying just enough edge to make Nate freeze.

Nate's ears turned bright red, a telltale sign he was flustered despite his attempt to maintain a neutral expression. "Your shirt's just... short," he mumbled, awkwardly gesturing toward it with one hand, his eyes resolutely fixed on the table now.

Y/N's smirk only deepened. He tilted his head, leaning slightly toward Nate as if to close the already narrow space between them. "Yeah? Guess that's why you can't stop staring." His tone was light, almost casual, but there was a deliberate weight behind his words that made Nate's discomfort palpable.

Nate cleared his throat, his fingers suddenly flying across his keyboard with an intensity that suggested he was trying to summon every ounce of focus he could muster. "Focus on your work," he muttered, his voice gruff. He didn't look up, but the slight jiggling of his leg under the table gave him away, a nervous tell he couldn't quite control.

Y/N chuckled softly, the sound barely louder than a whisper in the quiet library. "Whatever you say, Nate," he drawled, leaning back even farther in his chair, his arms still crossed. He watched Nate out of the corner of his eye, clearly enjoying the way the quarterback's posture grew more rigid with every passing second.

The door to the bathroom creaked open, and Nate stepped into the room, steam trailing after him like a veil. His hair was damp, darkened by water, and clinging messily to his forehead. A towel sat low on his hips, barely secured, revealing the sharp cut of his hip bones and the lean muscle of his torso. Droplets of water traced erratic paths down his chest and abs, glinting under the soft glow of the desk lamp in the dim dorm room.

Y/N, seated at his desk with his laptop open, barely registered the movement at first. But as Nate leaned casually against the doorframe, the sudden presence was impossible to ignore. Y/N's gaze flicked up instinctively, his eyebrows shooting upward in a mixture of surprise and exasperation.

"What?" Nate asked, his voice dripping with mock innocence, though the smirk curling at his lips betrayed him. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning more comfortably against the doorframe, the motion emphasizing the play of muscle under his skin. "Never seen someone fresh out of the shower before?"

Y/N scoffed, forcing his attention back to his screen even as his ears burned. "Boy, please. You could... put some clothes on," he said, his voice coming out more strained than he intended.

Nate didn't miss the tension. His smirk widened, and he pushed off the doorframe with deliberate slowness, walking across the room to his side. Each step seemed to echo, purposeful, and exaggerated.

"Oh, what's the matter, Y/N?" he drawled, his tone rich with teasing. "Afraid you'll see something you like?" His voice dipped just enough to make the words hang in the air, playful but laced with challenge.

Y/N didn't look up, his fingers hovering over his keyboard as if pretending to type. His shoulders were stiff, his neck tense, and his face was turning a shade of red that Nate couldn't help but notice.

"Shut up," Y/N growled, the words coming out more flustered than threatening. His eyes stayed glued to his laptop screen, though his focus was clearly elsewhere.

Nate chuckled, the sound low and satisfied, as he finally pulled open his dresser drawer. He took his time grabbing clothes, moving as if he had all the time in the world. Every so often, he threw a glance over his shoulder, catching the way Y/N's jaw tightened, the way his hands fidgeted in his lap.

Revenge had never tasted this sweet. For all the teasing Y/N had put him through, Nate was finally getting his moment, and he was enjoying it far too much.

"I'm just saying," Nate added, his voice light and casual, "if it bothers you that much, you could always move to another room."

Y/N didn't respond. His screen was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world, though the pink flush creeping down his neck gave him away.

Nate grinned to himself as he pulled a shirt over his head, the satisfaction of his victory lingering in the air like the faint mist from his shower.

However, victories can only last so long.

The music pounded through the packed frat house, the bass vibrating through the floor and reverberating in Y/N's chest. The dim, colorful lights shifted and spun, casting the room in flashes of blue and red as bodies swayed to the rhythm. Y/N was in the center of the makeshift dance floor, moving effortlessly to the beat, his hips rolling with a confidence that was impossible to ignore.

His low-waist jeans clung perfectly to his figure, dipping low enough to reveal the faintest hint of skin between the waistband and his cropped graphic tee. The shirt, short enough to tease his toned stomach, shimmered slightly under the lights. Every movement, every turn of his body, seemed to draw eyes his way.

Across from him, a frat guy stepped closer, emboldened by Y/N's easy energy. His hands inched toward Y/N's waist, a sly grin on his face as he leaned in. Y/N let it happen, his lips curling into a mischievous smile as he played along, his movements slowing to match the guy's. The moment lingered, electrified by the heat of the crowd and the pull of the music.

But from the edge of the room, Nate stood frozen, his grip on the Solo cup in his hand tightening with every second. He hadn't touched the drink in over ten minutes, his focus entirely on the scene unfolding in front of him. His jaw was set, his chest rising and falling as he fought the growing frustration gnawing at him.

When the frat guy leaned in even closer, his hand brushing against Y/N's hip, Nate's patience snapped.

He pushed through the throng of dancers, his broad shoulders cutting a path as he moved toward Y/N. Without a word, he reached out and grabbed Y/N's wrist, his grip firm but not rough.

"Hey—what the hell?" Y/N yelped, stumbling slightly as Nate yanked him away from the dance floor.

Ignoring the frat guy's startled protests and Y/N's struggles, Nate dragged him through the crowd and up the stairs. The music faded to a dull thrum as they reached the second floor, the noise from the party below muffled behind closed doors. Nate shoved open the door to an empty room, pulling Y/N inside before slamming it shut behind them.

The sudden silence was jarring, broken only by Y/N's heavy breathing as he wrenched his arm free.

"Seriously, Nate? Again?" Y/N snapped, spinning to face him. His chest was still heaving from dancing, his hair slightly damp from the heat of the room. "What is your problem?"

Nate stood there, his fists clenched at his sides, his eyes dark and unreadable as they bore into Y/N. "What the hell were you doing with that guy?" he demanded, his voice low and strained.

Y/N scoffed, throwing his hands up. "Dancing? Flirting? Having fun? You know, normal things people do at parties?"

"That guy wasn't—" Nate started, his voice rising, but Y/N cut him off.

"Oh, don't even start," Y/N said, stepping closer and jabbing a finger at Nate's chest. His voice was sharp, each word like a dagger. "Straight people don't get to interfere in their gay roommate's love life just because they're feeling territorial. You've got no right to—"

"Shut up!" Nate barked, his voice rough and cracking at the edges.

Y/N froze for a beat, his eyes narrowing. "No. You shut up, Nate," he snapped back, his tone fierce. "I don't know what's got you so wound up, but I'm not gonna let you treat me like I'm some kind of—"

"I don't know what I'm doing, alright?" Nate interrupted, his voice suddenly softer, almost desperate. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing the room in agitated strides. "I don't—this isn't normal for me. I've never felt like this before."

"Felt like what?" Y/N asked, his voice losing some of its bite as he crossed his arms.

"Like this!" Nate snapped, stopping abruptly to face Y/N. His eyes were raw with emotion, his composure slipping with every word. "About a guy. About you."

The confession hung in the air like a thunderclap, the weight of it pressing down on both of them. Y/N stared at Nate, his expression softening but his guard still firmly in place.

"You're kidding," Y/N said finally, his voice quieter but still edged with disbelief. "You, Mr. I'm-Straight-As-An-Arrow, have feelings for me?"

Nate exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging as he looked away. "I don't know what this is," he admitted, his voice breaking slightly. "I didn't let myself think about it."

"Think about what?" Y/N pressed, his tone gentler now, the anger replaced by curiosity.

Nate's gaze snapped back to Y/N's, and for the first time, his vulnerability was laid bare. "You," he said simply. "How you make me feel. How much it pisses me off to see you with someone else. How I can't stop thinking about you, no matter how much I try."

Y/N blinked, stunned into silence as the words sunk in. For the first time, he didn't have a quick comeback.

Before he could respond, Nate crossed the room in a single step, his hands cupping Y/N's face as he leaned in.

The kiss was hesitant at first, almost unsure, but the moment their lips met, everything else fell away. Y/N's hands instinctively found the front of Nate's hoodie, gripping the fabric as he kissed back. The hesitation dissolved into something more certain, the kiss deepening as weeks of tension and unspoken feelings spilled out between them.

It was messy and unpracticed, their movements slightly clumsy but real. When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathless, their foreheads resting together as they struggled to process what had just happened.

"Wow," Y/N murmured after a beat, his voice soft but tinged with amusement. "Didn't think you had it in you, QB."

Nate let out a shaky laugh, his lips curving into a faint smile. "Yeah. Me neither."

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