#because when it says ''warning: sharp objects'' | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

buckysleftbicep · 19 days ago

Text

exit wounds 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, choking, hairpulling, rough sex, degradation, overstimulation, unprotected sex, rough sex, creampie, possessiveness, dom!bucky, angst

summary: after you put yourself in danger once again during a mission, bucky finally snaps.

word count: 3.2k

author's note: hello my loves, i hope you enjoy this fic! also, i am currently looking through all the requests i've received and am excited to say i got started on a few! so please, keep sending them, fresh ideas always helps me write better! love you guys and please stay safe out there!

want him so badly

The storm broke before the mission did.

Rain pelted the shattered rooftops, thunder cracked above as you darted through the ruined alleyways of Bucharest, your pulse hammering in your ears. The objective was simple, get in, extract the intel, get out.

“Left. Take the left,” Bucky’s voice crackled through your comms, taut with command.

“I see the target,” you shot back, breathless. “I’m going in.”

“You go in alone, and I swear to god—”

You cut the line.

Not because you were being reckless. You knew what you were doing. You had spent hours upon hours studying the building’s layout, the guards’ rotations, and the window of opportunity that was already closing.

You didn’t need him barking orders in your ear. And you especially didn’t need your boyfriend second-guessing you when you were this close to securing the objective.

But then, behind you—boots pounded on wet concrete, close, fast, and furious.

“Fuck—(y/n)!”

Too late.

The intel was secured. The flash drive sat warm in the lining of your suit, pressed against your sternum. On paper, the mission was a success.

But the cost?

Three injured agents. A building engulfed in fire. And Bucky’s silence on the jet ride towards the nearest safehouse, the tension was thick enough to choke on. He hadn’t looked at you once.

Not when you handed Val the drive. Not when she nodded coolly and dismissed you without a word of praise. Not when the soft hydraulic hiss of the safehouse doors opened and when the rest of the team shuffled in like ghosts.

Now it was just the two of you. The others had scattered quietly, retreating to their temporary rooms for the night. The rain still dripped from your suit's collar, blood clung dry beneath your fingernails, and the silence between you and Bucky pulsed like a second heartbeat.

You peeled your damp tactical vest from your shoulders and tossed it onto the table. Every breath you took felt too loud in the stillness. Your skin was still buzzed with leftover adrenaline and heat, you didn't know if it was from the mission of the confrontation you knew was about to come.

You heard the final set of footsteps retreat, then the soft click of the outer door.

Still, you didn’t turn around.

“I had it,” you said calmly, your voice flat but controlled. “You didn’t need to come after me.”

He didn’t respond at first.

But you could feel him. The tension radiated off him like heat off an engine block. You didn’t need to look to know his jaw was clenched, his hands curled into fists at his sides. You could already feel his glare burning through your back almost as if it was trying to set you aflame.

You met his eyes—cerulean, but sharper than usual. Tense. Controlled.

“I got the drive, didn’t I?”

“That’s not the fucking point,” he snapped, the steel in his voice sharp now. “Three agents could’ve died (y/n). You could’ve died.”

“I didn’t,” you bit out. “And I wasn’t going to.”

His mouth twisted, his chest heaving once before he spoke again, voice splintering. “You think I give a shit about your stats? Your little field heroics?” His voice cracked then, just slightly.

“You think I want to scrape you off the concrete one day just because you were too stubborn to follow the damn protocol?”

You barked a bitter laugh. "Funny. You’ve been quiet up until now.”

He moved fast.

One moment, he was across the room. The next, he was inches from you, towering, taut with anger, fist clenched so tight you could see the veins straining in his forearm.

“You wanna say that again?” he asked, low and dangerous.

You squared your shoulders, refusing to flinch. “I said—”

“Don’t,” he cut in sharply. “Don’t test me tonight.”

“Why not?” you hissed. “You’ve been dying to explode since we landed Bucky. Go ahead. Yell. Blame me. Do what you always do when you don’t get your damn way—”

He didn’t yell. He didn’t move.

He just looked at you. And somehow, that was worse.

The silence that followed crackled with heat. His jaw tensed, eyes burning into yours like he was holding back with everything he had.

Then, slow and deliberate, he stepped forward, closing the space between you. His body radiated heat, tension rolling off him in waves.

“You think this is about me?” he whispered, dangerously quiet now.

“You think I give a fuck if I look bad in the debrief? I don’t care about orders, (y/n). I care about you. And you made the call without backup, without thinking. Again."

“I knew what I was doing,” you murmured, but it came out thinner now.

“And if you were wrong?” he snapped. His breath hit your cheek—damp, hot, ragged. “If I hadn’t gone in after you?”

You couldn’t answer. Because you didn’t know.

And suddenly the room felt too small. Too close. Your heart pounded against your ribs like it wanted out.

He was so close you could smell the rain still clinging to his skin, see the soaked-through fabric of his black shirt clinging to every line of muscle. His hair was still damp, curling around his jaw as his chest rose and fell with heavy, measured breaths.

He looked frayed at the edges, barely holding it together, and burning with fury.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he said, voice rough. “You think I care about the mission? You think I care about what Val thinks?”

Your breath hitched.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered. “I was just… I needed to prove I could handle it.”

He took another step forward. “To who?”

You blinked.

“To Val? The team?” He shook his head, eyes narrowing. “Or to me?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Your silence said enough.

Bucky’s hand came up, not fast, not aggressive, but deliberate. It hovered near your jaw, then gently ghosted along the column of your throat. Two fingers settled over your pulse, barely there. Feeling it. Reading you.

“You think I don’t see you?” he murmured. “Think I don’t know what you’re trying to prove every time you run headfirst into danger like you have nothing to lose?”

“You don’t have to be reckless to be worthy of standing next to me,” he said, and something broke in his voice then. Softer. Almost broken. “You already are.”

Your breath stuttered.

You hadn’t meant to move. You hadn’t even noticed your body leaning forward until your chest brushed his. Until you felt the ragged breath he caught against your cheek, until your eyes met his, and everything stopped.

He looked at you like he was drowning in everything he hadn’t said, rage, fear, hunger, all of it right there in his eyes, barely held back.

His thumb brushed your jaw, tilting your chin up. His touch was light, barely there, but it felt like the only thing tethering you to the ground.

“You keep pushing me,” he said, voice low and quiet, the kind of quiet that carried weight.

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Always testing. Always toeing the line.”

Your throat tightened as you swallowed, pulse fluttering beneath your skin. A slow ache bloomed between your thighs, the kind that only got worse when you held his gaze.

“And what if I’m doing it on purpose?” you murmured. “What if I want you to snap?”

Something shifted behind his gaze, a flicker of heat barely restrained, and the air between you crackled like a live wire. His jaw flexed, his body unmoving, and then, the corner of his mouth lifted. Slow, measured, anything but kind.

“You really want to see what happens when I do?” he gritted out

“Maybe I like seeing how far I can push you.”

You didn’t get a second to breathe.

His hand clamped around your throat, not hard enough to cut off your air, but firm enough to remind you who was in control as he shoved you backward.

You stumbled, caught off guard, and then—without warning, he turned you. One arm braced across your shoulders, the other sliding between your thighs. You barely had time to gasp before he was behind you, chest flush to your back, hips grinding into your ass.

His body pinned you in place, unforgiving and close, and suddenly there was no space, no air, nothing except the burn of him against you and the way your body reacted, fast, instinctive and shameless.

“You want to push me?” Bucky snarled, the words like gravel dragged through his teeth. “Then take it. Don’t you fucking run from it now.”

Your pulse throbbed wildly beneath his fingers. He felt it—you knew he did—because he smiled against your neck. It wasn’t kind. It was the smile of a man barely containing the storm underneath, teeth bared like a wolf on a leash.

You tried to turn your head, to spit something sharp, something defiant, but his metal hand was there in an instant, pinning your cheek to the wall with a ruthless kind of tenderness. Cold vibranium fingers spread across your jaw, holding you still like he was lining up a shot.

“Don’t move unless I tell you to,” he growled. “You don’t get to talk back. Not after the fucking stunt you pulled.”

Then—he tore your suit open.

The front zipper split with a vicious rip, teeth dragging down your sternum, and then the fabric was shoved roughly off your shoulders. Your bra came into view, your skin prickling in the open air, exposed and vulnerable and throbbing with anticipation.

He didn’t hesitate.

His mouth latched onto the side of your neck, sucking hard enough to bruise, and your body reacted instantly, arching toward him, heat coiling low in your belly, wetness pooling between your thighs before you could even think to stop it.

It was humiliating how fast he had you soaked.

“Fucking wet,” he hissed, voice sharp with satisfaction. His flesh hand slid down the front of your suit. Two fingers pressed through your panties and straight into your slit, finding you hot, drenched and needy. “You’re dripping, sweetheart. All that mouth and you still want me this bad?”

You moaned—shameless, high-pitched and he growled like it offended him.

“Pathetic.”

Your suit hit the ground in a heap, shoved down carelessly around your boots. He didn’t bother to strip you completely, he didn’t need to. He just yanked them down far enough to spread your thighs apart, leaving you open, exposed, and trembling.

Then you heard it—the heavy clink of his belt, the hiss of his zipper. Your body jolted at the sound.

“Look at you,” he muttered, low and mean. “Begging to be fucked like a slut after risking your life like a dumb little brat.” The words hit you hard and god, they made your pussy throb.

You clenched around nothing, slick dripping down your thighs, and the worst part was how much you loved it. How much you needed more, needed him.

Your breath stuttered, your hips tilting back instinctively, shameless in how fast you were unraveling for him. You didn’t care what he called you. As long as he didn’t stop. As long as he fucked you like he meant every filthy word.

He pumped his cock once—twice—right behind you. You could feel it already, flushed and hard and heavy, the tip brushing the curve of your ass as he lined himself up.

“You wanted this,” Bucky rasped, voice dragging low and dark. “You pushed me on purpose. You knew exactly what would happen.”

You whimpered, cheeks burning.

And then he laughed, low and cruel and knowing.

“You like it when I’m like this, don’t you?”

His cock dragged through your folds—slick with your arousal, bumping your clit before dipping lower, teasing your entrance with maddening pressure. You nearly sobbed.

“Y-yes… I like it,” you breathed, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs trembled. “I wanted it. I wanted this. W-wanted you like this.”

He slammed into you.

You cry out, the stretch splitting you wide open in one unrelenting thrust. No warning. No mercy. Your nails scraped against the wall as your body spasmed around him, pussy clenching instinctively around the thick length now buried to the hilt.

“Oh my fucking—”

He slapped a hand over your mouth.

“Be quiet,” he gritted out, breath hot on your ear. “They’ll hear you.”

You moaned into his palm, the sound muffled and desperate, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes as he began to move—long, deep thrusts that rocked your entire body.

Each snap of his hips sent you forward, your chest jolting against the cold wall with every brutal push. Your legs shook beneath you, barely able to hold you up under the weight of him, his rhythm, his heat, the relentless way he claimed every inch of your body.

His cock hit every spot inside you—deep, relentless, perfect in its punishment. Each thrust drove you harder into the wall, your palms flattened against the cold surface, fingers splayed like you were holding on for dear life.

The air was thick with the sound of slick skin and broken moans, the wet slap of him pounding into you again and again until all you could do was whimper, body shaking, needing more.

He was ruthless.

“You feel that?” he grunted, fucking into you harder. “You feel how deep I am? Fuck, princess, your pussy’s squeezing me.”

You nodded, eyes rolling back. Everything was too much. Not enough.

He grabbed your hair and yanked your head back, lips brushing your ear.

“You gonna come already? Just from this? From getting fucked like you’re made for it?”

You tried to speak, tried to form a word, a plea, anything but your mouth refused to work. All that came out was a desperate, broken moan, choked off by the force of him inside you.

Every muscle in your body was strung tight, overwhelmed, aching, begging for release, but all you could do was let the sound of your need echo in the space between you, raw and strung out and wordless.

He let go of your mouth and slapped your ass—hard.

“Say it,” he snarled. “Tell me how badly you want to come.”

“I, god—I need it,” you choked. “Please, need your cock, need you to—”

He pulled out. Completely.

You cry, voice raw with frustration.

Bucky laughed, voice thick with dominance.

“Look at you. Falling apart already. And I haven’t even gotten started.”

Before you could respond, he seized your wrists and twisted them behind your back, pinning them there easily with his hand. The cool press of vibranium against your skin made your breath hitch, your chest rising in shallow gasps.

You barely had time to brace yourself before he drove back into you—harder, deeper, with a force that knocked a strangled sound from your throat and sent sparks ricocheting through your core.

Your body jolted. Your mouth dropped open in a silent cry. His flesh hand wrapped around your waist, fingers finding your clit again—rubbing tight, relentless circles in time with each brutal thrust.

You were unravelling, your legs burned and your body trembled. You were a babbling, incoherent mess as your orgasm built again—rising like a fucking tsunami.

“Don’t you dare come,” he growled. You tried. Fuck, you tried.

But he was everywhere—his cock driving into that sweet spot deep inside you with ruthless precision, his fingers working your clit in tight, relentless circles that had you trembling. His voice, low and filthy, poured into your ear like sin itself, each word pushing you closer to the edge.

“Say it,” he rasped. “Say who owns you.”

You sobbed.

“You do, Bucky! You do—”

“Good fucking girl.”

And then he snapped his hips again, slamming into you so deep you felt it in your throat.

You came with a strangled cry, body seizing as pleasure tore through you like a live wire. Your cunt clenched around him in tight, desperate pulses, milking every inch as wetness spilled down your thighs, slicking his cock and coating both of you in heat and ruin.

You slumped forward, forehead pressed to the wall, barely able to hold yourself upright as your orgasm wracked through you.

But he didn’t stop, he kept going—kept fucking you through it like he was trying to brand you from the inside out.

You sobbed, body trembling uncontrollably.

“That’s it,” he snarled. “Take it. Cry if you want princess, I’m not stopping.”

Your knees gave out, barely holding you upright and then the second wave hit. He slammed into you hard, tearing through your body before you had a chance to catch your breath.

You clenched around him again, tighter this time, a cry ripping from your throat as you came all over his cock. Everything blurred, your vision, your thoughts, until all that was left was the sharp pulse of pleasure and the rough sound of him still moving behind you.

“Gonna fill you up,” he muttered, pounding into you with short, broken thrusts. “Stuff you full, just like you deserve. Let it drip down those pretty thighs. Let everyone see who fucked you like this.”

He groaned—loud, rough—and then shuddered, cock twitching as he spilled inside you. You felt the warmth of it, the pulse of his release, the way his entire body seemed to collapse into yours.

The only sound was your wrecked breathing, the whine of your body, and the soft drip of his cum sliding down your thighs.

You were trembling, undone in every possible way—mind blank, body limp, pleasure still echoing through your nerves. Your knees wouldn’t hold you, but he didn’t let you fall. His arms were around you instantly, strong and steady, pulling you into his chest like he could anchor you there, like he needed to.

His breathing was still ragged, chest rising and falling against your back. His lips pressed to your temple, slow and soft, and you felt the way he lingered, like he was grounding himself, too.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded, barely able to speak. Tears still clung to your lashes, not from pain, not even from the intensity, but from the overwhelming ache in your chest.

He kissed your temple again. Then your jaw. Then the corner of your mouth.

“Don’t ever fucking do that again.” he murmured.

You blinked, surprised by the tremble in his voice. He wasn’t angry. Not now.

“I can’t—” he swallowed, brow pressed to yours. “I know you’re capable, I know you’re smart. But I can’t watch you walk into something like that again.”

Your throat tightened.

“I thought I could handle it,” you whispered.

He shook his head. “No. No more of that. If something happened to you out there—”

He cut himself off. Pulled you closer. One hand cradled the back of your head. The other still wrapped around your waist, like he was afraid you would slip through his fingers.

“You don’t get to scare the shit out of me like that,” he rasped, voice cracking. “I’ve lost so much—and, fuck, I can’t lose you too.”

He looked away, just for a second, like the words hurt to say.

“I wouldn’t survive it.”

You nuzzled into his chest, heart hammering. His scent, his warmth, the rasp of his voice in your ear, it was all too much and not enough.

“I’m sorry,” you said, small and hoarse.

Bucky didn’t say anything right away. He just held you tighter, kissed the top of your head.

“I know”

requests are open!

3K notes · View notes

shortnspidey · 13 days ago

Text

CONTAINMENT BREACH

Bob Reynolds X female!reader || WC: 6.6K

SUMMARY: Ever since the day he accidentally voided all of New York City, Bob’s kept his circle tight, trust was a luxury he can’t afford. His teammates were the only ones who get close. That is, until Bucky’s cat sitter shows up. Charming, unshakable, completely unexpected, and completely slipping past Bob’s defenses with alarming ease. Now he’s questioning everything he thought he knew about trust, about himself, and maybe even about second chances.

WARNINGS: Slight Thunderbolts* spoilers! Talks of mental health, depression, self-depreciating thoughts, character death (not reader or Bob) platonic Bucky x reader, Alpine being a little menace and matchmaker, lots of time skips, angsty fic but fluffy ending!

A/N: Just like everyone else, Bob Reynolds has had such a hold on me ever since I watched Thunderbolts, which is how this came to be written! I love that Marvel gave us such a relatable and real character. Enjoy! Divider by @luxifrv <3

➩ main masterlist

➩ bob reynolds masterlist

It wasn’t often that the Watchtower had visitors. From time to time, Valentina or Mel would swing by, typically armed with sharp suits and sharper words, checking to make sure the New Avengers hadn’t shattered another city block or, God forbid, triggered another diplomatic incident. But personal guests? Those were rare. Especially for Bucky Barnes.

Lately, even Sam didn’t visit much, tensions still stretching between them. Which is why the silence in the Watchtower’s main floor was deafening when the elevator chimed and opened with a soft hiss… and Bucky smiled. Not just the tight-lipped, guarded smirk that passed for a grin these days. A real smile. The kind that started in the eyes and softened his whole face, made him look like someone who’d once known peace.

He stepped forward before the doors had even fully opened and wrapped the woman inside in a firm, familiar embrace. She returned it just as easily, arms winding around his shoulders like this was far from the first time. “Thank you for doing this,” Bucky murmured. You pulled back slightly, but not before affectionately squeezing his forearm, flesh, not metal, and giving him a look full of warmth.

“Just add it to the tab of favors you owe me, Barnes.” You teased. The sound of someone clearing their throat behind you broke the moment. You turned, finding a semi-circle of curious, and clearly surprised faces staring back at you. These were the teammates Bucky had told you about over late-night calls. John with the cautious eyes, Ava standing slightly apart from the group, Yelena who assessed you from head to toe, Alexi wearing that unmistakable grin, and then—

Bob.

He stood a little off to the side, arms crossed. He didn’t say anything. Just watched. You gave a small, sheepish wave. “I’ve heard a lot about all of you.” There was a beat of silence. John and Ava exchanged a look that said we’ll be talking about this later. Alexi nodded approvingly, his grin widening like this was the most entertainment he'd had in weeks. And Bob… Bob tilted his head slightly, something unreadable passing through his expression.

You were pretty, he thought, objectively so, but more than that, you seemed to carry an energy that didn’t belong in a place like this. You radiated optimism like it was your default setting. No armor, no edge, no practiced emotional detachment like the rest of them had learned to wear like skin. It unsettled him and intrigued him at the same time. Because in a tower full of jaded heroes and haunted soldiers, you stood out like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

“Wish we could say the same,” Yelena drawled, her Russian accent curling around the words. She leaned casually against the edge of the table, eyes glinting with mischief as they flicked to Bucky. “But Bucky here hasn’t told us anything about you.” Alexi’s laugh followed a beat later, loud and delighted. “About time you brought your lady over and introduced her to us!” You and Bucky exchanged an immediate, mutual grimace.

“Oh, we’re not—” You said at the same time he blurted, “No, she’s—” You motioned vaguely between the two of you, stepping slightly away from Bucky’s side for emphasis. “We’re not together like that. He’s like the overprotective big brother I never had. Annoying, broody, and occasionally helpful.” Bucky rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue. At your words, Bob felt something inside him unclench, something he hadn’t even realized he was holding.

His shoulders eased slightly, tension leaking out like air from a valve. But just as quickly, his own mind betrayed him. Stop it. She would never look at you like that. The thought hit like a sucker punch to the gut. A harsh voice, well-rehearsed and heavy with truth. His posture shifted again, the weight of it all settling across his shoulders. He ducked his head slightly, eyes lowering as he avoided looking in your direction altogether. Across the room, Ava’s sharp gaze never wavered.

She tilted her head, brows drawn together ever so slightly. “Then what are you doing here?” You met her scrutiny without flinching. “Cat-sitting,” You replied simply, lips curving upward into an easy smile. As if on cue, the cat in question trotted into the room. Her white fur gleamed under the overhead lights, tail held high and confident as she padded across the floor. A single approving meow escaped her as she reached you, rubbing against your leg with practiced affection.

“There she is.” Your voice softened immediately. “Hi sweet girl.” You crouched, scooping her into your arms and pressing her against your chest. She purred, loud and satisfied, immediately tucking her face into your neck like she'd missed you for days. Bob’s eyes lifted without permission, drawn to the scene despite himself. Something about it, the calm in your touch, the quiet joy you didn’t bother hiding.

It wasn’t the kind of thing he got anymore. But here you were, in a tower full of ghosts and ex-assassins, holding a damn cat like it was the most natural thing in the world. It made him want to look away. And also made it impossible to. “That monstrous feline is not sweet.” John Walker’s voice cut in like a sawblade, his words practically dripping with contempt as he stared Alpine down like she’d personally offended him. You gasped, clutching the cat closer.

Alpine blinked at John with the casual disdain of someone absolutely unbothered. “Monstrous?” You echoed his words with exaggerated disbelief, gently scratching her under the chin. “I think you’re talking about a different cat. Alpine wouldn’t hurt a fly.” She responded with a low, delighted purr that vibrated against your chest.“Alpine is selective,” Bucky clarified, dry as ever, stepping in like the overprotective big brother he was determined to be.

“Only likes very specific people. Don’t disrespect my cat just because she doesn’t like you.” John scoffed and crossed his arms, muttering something under his breath that you were pretty sure included “spawn of Satan.” Alpine simply blinked again completely unbothered. You bit back a grin and looked down at her. “She’s definitely a good judge of character.” Before John could retaliate, Bucky shifted the conversation. “We should be back in a few days,” He interjected, tone casual.

At those words, Bob, silent, still as ever in the background, tensed so subtly only someone who really knew how to look would have noticed. But it was there. That flicker of alarm. Of dread. Because if everyone was leaving… then it would be just you. And him. In this tower. Alone. “I even got you that god-awful grass drink you like,” Bucky added, smirking slightly. “It’s in the fridge.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically, reaching out to smack his arm. Which, predictably, felt like smacking concrete wrapped in tactical gear. “Disrespect matcha one more time, Bucky,” You warned, faux-serious. “And you’ll see what happens.” The super-soldier simply laughed even when you narrowed your eyes. “This is so weird,” Yelena muttered, arms folded as she eyed the scene.

“You being soft. It’s unnatural.” She gestured vaguely to Bucky, making everyone else in the room nod in agreement. With one final check of their gear and Bucky thanking you for the tenth, or maybe hundredth time, and pulling you into one more hug, the team moved out. The elevator doors hadn’t even fully closed before you heard a chorus of muffled voices instantly bombarding him with a flurry of questions:

“Who is she, Barnes?”

“How long have you been hiding her?”

“Why did the demon cat cuddle her and hiss at me?”

You smiled faintly, shaking your head. Then the quiet settled. Just you, Alpine… and Bob. You cradled Alpine as she adjusted herself like a baby, utterly at peace. You crossed the room, shoes soft against the polished floor, and stopped a few feet in front of him. “Hi,” You offered, voice warm but not too pushy. “I’m Y/N.” Your hand extended between you. Bob glanced at your hand, then at your face, then down at his own sleeves, pale knuckles twisting the hem of his oversized hoodie.

His posture was withdrawn, hunched in a way that felt almost apologetic, like he was constantly trying to make himself smaller. “Bob,” He whispered back quietly, avoiding your eyes, your hand, and pretty much all signs of contact. Then, without another word, he turned and slipped out of the room like a shadow trying not to be noticed. You didn’t take it personally. Bucky had warned you he was quiet.

But still, your smile faltered as your hand dropped, a soft exhale slipping through your lips. You glanced down at Alpine, who pawed at your shirt and yawned dramatically, as if she were unimpressed by the exchange. “That went well." You muttered under your breath. But you didn’t give up. You never really had that in you. You turned the lights down low and settled on the plush couch with Alpine nestled into your side.

You flipped through the Watchtower’s extensive movie archive until you found something comforting, a favorite you’d seen a dozen times, familiar enough to be background noise, comforting enough to combat the eerie silence that blanketed the place once the others left. The quiet was different now. Less filled with activity. You curled up under the soft throw blanket Bucky had left out for you, Alpine’s warmth keeping your chest grounded even as your thoughts began to spiral.

Eventually, the low murmur of the film and the rhythmic rise and fall of the Alpine’s breathing lulled you toward sleep. But even as you drifted off, one image kept slipping into your mind: Doe eyes. A slouched frame in too-big sleeves. A boy trying to be invisible in a room full of larger-than-life heroes. And the ache behind his silence that you couldn’t quite stop thinking about for the rest of the foreseeable future.

The next morning, the Watchtower was nearly silent, save for the occasional soft thud of Alpine jumping from one surface to another. Sunlight poured through the expansive windows of the kitchen, casting long golden rays across the sleek countertops and polished floors. You moved through the space quietly, barefoot, hair tousled from sleep, wearing one of Bucky’s old henley's over your pajamas.

Alpine trailed behind you, tail flicking with approval. You hadn’t expected Bob to be awake yet, which is why you froze for just a second when you saw him. He was sitting on the far end of the kitchen island, hunched over a mug of tea like it might anchor him to the world. His hoodie was the same as yesterday, slightly too big, sleeves pulled down over his knuckles, hair a little mussed like he hadn’t slept much, if at all.

He looked up as you entered. For a brief moment, your eyes met. Then he quickly looked back down, as if the connection had startled him. “Morning,” You greeted gently, not wanting to startle him further. He gave the slightest nod. “Morning.” Progress. You moved with quiet purpose, grabbing a pan and a few things from the fridge. “I hope you don’t mind, I thought I’d make something.” No reply.

“Can’t live off matcha and croissants the whole time I’m here.” He didn’t respond, but he didn’t leave either. That had to count for something. You worked efficiently, the smell of browning butter and cinnamon soon filling the air as you began prepping a small stack of French toast, humming softly to yourself. You noticed the way Bob’s posture shifted slightly, still guarded, but curious.

Alpine perched herself on the windowsill nearby, watching like a supervisor. Occasionally, she meowed at Bob, almost like she was trying to coax him into joining the moment. “I don’t bite,” You smiled softly, keeping your tone light as you slid a plate across the island toward him. “Unless someone badmouths my emotional support drink.” That got a soft huff of air from him. Almost a laugh. He didn’t touch the plate yet, but he looked at it, and that was a start.

You grabbed your own plate and settled onto a stool nearby, not too close, just within conversation range. You didn’t push. Just let the silence stretch comfortably between you as you both started to eat. Eventually, you spoke again. "Do you like the quiet?" His fork paused. For a moment, you thought he might shut down again, but then, his voice, low and unsure whispered. "It's comforting," He paused swallowing the lump in his throat.

“But not always, I-I get too lost in thought, spiral." You looked up, heart catching on the simple truth in his voice. “That’s fair,” You murmured. “Sometimes quiet with the right person is… kind of perfect, makes the voices go away.” His fork didn’t move. You could feel it in the air, the shift, the wall going up behind his eyes even though he hadn’t physically moved a muscle. That one word, voices had tapped something deep, something raw. You didn’t need to ask to know where his mind had gone.

You saw it in the sudden tightness of his jaw. The way his gaze didn’t land on you, but somewhere around you, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for you to recoil. Waiting for the disgust or fear he was sure would come. He didn’t speak, but his body did, stiff, guarded, breath shallow. Then finally, with your voice quiet and even, you spoke again. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.” His eyes flicked to yours, fast, searching. “I just know sometimes… the quiet can feel more like a trap than a comfort,”

“Especially when your thoughts won’t turn off.” His posture eased. Barely. But it was enough for you to notice. “I didn’t mean your voices,” You clarified, almost a whisper. “I meant mine.” You reached for your mug, sipping slowly to let the weight of your words land without pressure. You weren’t here to interrogate him. You weren’t here to fix him. You were just… here. He watched you. You could feel it, his gaze heavy and unmoving.

As if he was seeing you for the first time without the filter of assumptions. You were still radiating light, he thought, but it was softer now, not the blinding kind. A more human kind. Like sunlight after rain. Warm, but gentle. His brows drew together as if something inside him hurt a little. You watched his jaw twitch, the flicker of conflict in his features as your words processed. There was no way, he thought. No way that someone like you could carry shadows, too.

Yet there you were, cracks and light, both and you weren’t hiding either. He stared at you like he didn’t understand what he was seeing. How had this happened? How had someone like you, all open warmth and gentleness, who cooed at cats and smiled like it didn’t cost you anything, gotten in? His guard was steel-reinforced. Always had been. It had to be. That’s how he survived, how he kept others safe from him, and himself safe from the world. But somehow, without him even realizing it, you’d slipped right past it, in less than twenty’s four hours no less.

Not with force. But with kindness. With patience.

And now, there you were, sitting across from him with your mug and your quiet understanding, and the wall that had taken years to build suddenly had cracks in it wide enough for sunlight to bleed through. He hated how fast it had happened. And how natural it felt. And yet… he didn’t want to rebuild the wall again. Not right now at least. “I’m not afraid of you, Bob.” He blinked. Once. Twice. His eyes darted to yours, then away again, like the truth of that statement was too much to look at head-on.

You weren’t afraid of him. And that terrified him more than anything. Because if you weren’t afraid… that meant you saw him. Not the Void. Not the Sentry. Not the stories people whispered behind closed doors. Just Bob. Just the broken, stitched-together, half-repaired version of a person who wasn’t sure if he was worth caring for. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Something sharp and bitter lodged itself somewhere behind his sternum.

Why did his walls let her in?

Why her?

And why, for the first time in a long time… did he not want to push her back out? His fingers twitched on the table, restless, as though caught between the urge to retreat and the aching need to stay. You didn’t press. Didn’t push him to speak or to make some grand declaration. You just watched him, quiet, calm, like you were willing to wait. Like he was worth waiting for. And for the first time, maybe ever… he started to believe someone, most importantly you had meant it.

Later that night, you found yourself curled up on the couch once more, Alpine nestled along your side. The glow of your phone lit your face as you scrolled aimlessly through social media, half-reading posts, half-dozing off. Then you heard it. A soft, pained whimper, almost like a cry. Muffled, strangled, fragile. You sat up instantly, ears straining. Alpine’s head lifted too, eyes alert.

“Bob?” You called out gently, not loud enough to startle, just enough to be heard. No response. But the rustle of bedsheets and the creak of the floorboards told you enough. You didn’t hesitate. Padding barefoot down the hallway, you knocked once on his door. No answer. Another whimper. You slowly opened it. The room was dark save for the spill of moonlight across the floor. Bob was tangled in his sheets, face damp, brow twisted in agony, chest rising and falling like he was drowning in air.

“Bob,” You tried again, a little firmer now. He jolted awake with a gasp, eyes wide and wild, but unfocused. Disoriented. Still halfway in whatever nightmare he had just clawed his way out of. His breath came in sharp, panicked gulps. He shoved himself upright, fists clenched in the sheets like he was bracing for impact. “Hey, hey…” You coaxed, crossing the room slowly, palms lifted. “It’s okay. You’re safe.” He blinked rapidly, vision clearing.

When he saw it was you, just you, the panic didn’t vanish, but it changed. Turned inward. Like he was ashamed to have been caught so exposed. “I’m sorry,” He rasped. “I didn’t mean—” You shook your head. “You don’t need to apologize,” You interrupted softly, settling on the edge of the bed. “You had a nightmare. It happens.” He turned his head, jaw tight, avoiding your eyes. But you saw the way his hands trembled. The way his body practically vibrated with the need to pull away and collapse at the same time.

“You’re shaking,” You murmured, not accusing, just acknowledging. “Would it help if I got Alpine?” His head whipped around at that, confused. You offered a faint smile. “Animals help. They can bring your nervous system back down. Petting them, just being near them, it grounds you.” He looked at you then. Really looked. Eyes still wide and full of something raw. “…How do you know all this?” He whispered.

“I work at the VA,” You replied quietly. “That’s how I met Bucky.” Something in his face shifted, not a crack this time, but a softening. Like your words had just unlocked a door he didn’t even realize had been sealed shut. “I’ve seen people fight battles even after the war’s over,” You added. “And I’ve seen what helps, even if it’s momentarily. Let me help.” He didn’t answer. Not with words. But when Alpine padded into the room moments later, hopping gracefully onto the bed, he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t turn her away. His trembling hand hovered for a second before he hesitantly laid it on her back. She pushed into his palm instantly, as if she knew. Purring loud enough to fill the silence. You stayed still. Let the quiet do what it needed to. After a while, Bob’s shoulders sagged. The tension bled out of him slowly, like air leaking from a balloon. His breathing evened out. And though he wouldn’t meet your gaze, he didn’t ask you to leave either.

So you didn’t. Instead, you shifted closer, careful not to overwhelm, but near enough to offer warmth. “You don’t have to talk, just… let someone be here. Let yourself not be alone tonight.” Your voice was soft, softer than the darkness around you, yet it filled the space like a promise. Not loud, not forceful. Just steady. Just there. You didn’t reach for him, didn’t press closer. You waited.

Tentatively, you watched as his hand inched along the rumpled bedding, fingers twitching. He moved slowly, like he was afraid the act of reaching out might break him. His index finger brushed yours, barely a whisper of contact almost like he hadn’t meant to, or wasn’t sure he had the right. Your breath caught, but you didn’t move. Not yet. Then your fingers slid closer, bridging the gap. And this time, he didn’t pull away. It wasn’t a full grasp. Not a hand-hold. Just the side of your fingers against his, warm and unmoving.

A silent offering. A quiet, unwavering truth: you were here. His hand was cold. A little clammy. But he didn’t retract. He let the touch stay, as if testing the idea that maybe, just maybe, physical touch didn’t have to hurt. The fear hadn’t left him. Not entirely. But it had receded enough to let something else in. Peace, maybe. Or at the very least… permission to breathe. He just sat there, pale in the moonlight, shadows clinging to the hollow angles of his face.

With Alpine curled trustingly in his lap and you by his side, your fingers brushing his in quiet solidarity. You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t need to. And as the minutes passed and Alpine’s purring filled the air, you swore you saw something in Bob’s shoulders, not relax exactly, but release as his head lolled to the side, fighting sleep. Almost as if he wasn’t carrying the weight alone anymore. Not tonight.

It was safe to say that after that night, something had shifted between you and Bob. Nothing dramatic, nothing loud, but it was there. Real. He didn’t flinch when you entered a room anymore. He didn’t avoid eye contact or disappear without a word. His hoodie still swallowed him whole, but now he stood a little straighter. Walked a little closer. He didn’t speak often, not at first, but he stayed. And that meant more than any words could. You’d become something like a routine for him.

A calm one. Mornings started with pancakes, a small victory you were still gloating over. He claimed he didn’t know how to cook, and yet, he took to it like muscle memory, flipping with quiet precision while you chattered beside him. Perks of the Sentry serum, he claimed. Sometimes, you caught him sneaking chocolate chips into your batch when he thought you weren’t looking. He never admitted it. You never called him out. Evenings belonged to the couch.

You and Bob, Alpine curled between you, and whatever movie series you’d decided to marathon. You weren’t sure when he started sitting closer, or when the silence between you stopped feeling awkward and started feeling like safety. But it had. And you weren’t about to question it. Tonight was no different. Blankets tangled around your legs, Alpine’s tail flicking lazily over Bob’s thigh, and the familiar glow of another Twilight movie painting the room in silver and shadow.

"Twilight is a cinematic masterpiece," You declared with mock-seriousness, eyes fixed on the screen as Edward Cullen and Bella Swan made their appearance. Bob’s brows furrowed, eyes narrowing in both confusion and disbelief. “I don’t know about that.” He muttered dryly, the corners of his mouth twitching in what might’ve been the very beginning of a smirk.

You turned your head sharply, gasping as if personally insulted, hand flying to your chest in dramatic offense. “Excuse me?” Your smile had dropped instantly, but only for show. He could tell. Still, there was an almost guilty flicker in his gaze as he looked at you, unsure if he’d crossed a line until you threw a kernel of popcorn at him. “Jacob just imprinted on a baby,” He added flatly, motioning to the screen. “You’re calling that a masterpiece?” You blinked.

“That’s Breaking Dawn, and that’s not the point, Bob.” You huffed, throwing a pillow into his lap. His laugh, quiet, breathy, but real slipped out before he could stop it. It was soft and short-lived, but it froze you in place all the same. You turned toward him slowly, smile creeping back in its full, delighted form. “Was that a laugh?” you asked, eyes shining. “Did I just hear you, Robert Reynolds laugh at Twilight?” His face flushed instantly, but he didn’t deny it.

He simply just rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, slumping back into the couch like it could absorb him. “Alpine, did you hear that?” You stage-whispered, petting her head. “History was made tonight.” Bob glanced down at the cat now lounging half on his lap, half on yours, and then to your surprise looked back at you with the faintest trace of warmth in his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.” He scoffed, but there was no bite to it. If anything, it sounded like affection.

You leaned your head against the cushion, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “Maybe. But I’m also right. Keep watching, it gets better trust me.” He didn’t argue. Instead, he let himself lean ever so slightly into your side, not enough to seem intentional, but not accidental either. Some time during the movie, right as Bella stared longingly at Edward for the hundredth time your fingers brushed his again, both of you reaching for more popcorn.

It should’ve been nothing, just another soft moment in the quiet rhythm you’d found together. But in an instant, everything shifted. The room vanished. Gone was the flickering TV light, the warmth of the blankets, the hum of Alpine’s purring. Instead you were back in that sterile, humming hospital. The air was too clean, too sharp, filled with the muted beeping of machines that had haunted your nightmares for years.

God, the sound. Steady. Constant. Mocking. In the corner of the room, your mother was laid out in the hospital bed like a stranger, tubes in her nose, bruises blooming along her collarbone from too many IVs. Her skin was dull. Her hair thinned. The woman who used to dance barefoot in the kitchen with you to 80s music was just… fading. And you stood frozen in the corner of the room, watching. Always watching. Too afraid to move.

Too afraid to touch her, as if you might cause the last thread holding her here to snap. The doctor had already given the odds. Words like “aggressive,” and “systemic,” and “prepare yourselves.” But you clung to hope the way a child clings to a blanket, desperate, naïve, and fraying at the edges. Then she turned her head just slightly and looked at you. Really looked at you. She smiled. And it was wrong. Too calm. Too peaceful. Like she knew something you didn’t.

Like she had already made peace with the fact she was leaving, and all that was left was to make you okay with it, too. Suddenly, the room went quiet. The memory ended. But the ache in your chest didn’t. And just as quickly as it came, it was gone. You were back on the couch, but breathless, your chest tight, your hand trembling where it still hovered above the popcorn bowl. The movie still played, but the world felt distant.

Bob had already pulled away, his entire frame hunched and tense like he was waiting for a blow. “I—I’m sorry,” He stammered, voice cracking under the weight of shame. “Shit, I’m so sorry, Y/N. I s-still don’t know how to control it, sometimes when I feel too much or get distracted it just… happens.” You blinked back the tears stinging your waterline, still trying to catch your breath as your reality settled again around you.

The last image of your mother still echoed in your mind, but it wasn’t jagged or cruel. It wasn’t weaponized. It was just… a part of you. A scar you’d kept covered. Your gaze snapped to him, to the way he had recoiled from you like your touch had burned him. His arms were wrapped tight around himself now, fingers clutching the sleeves of his hoodie as if he could shrink himself small enough to disappear. He couldn’t meet your eyes. He was braced for disgust. For fear.

But you didn’t feel either.

“Hey,” You whispered, the word breaking the silence like glass. Still, he wouldn’t look at you. You couldn’t handle it, not again. You shifted closer, slow and deliberate, reaching out to gently rest your hand on his knee, grounding both of you. “Bob, look at me.” He hesitated, eyes flickering to yours, filled with panic and self-loathing. “It wasn’t your fault,” You stated firmly, voice steady despite the slight shake in your hands.

“I’ve been carrying that moment for years. You didn’t force it out of me. It was… already there.” Yet he shook his head, mind spiraling right in front of you. “I didn’t mean to invade your thoughts,” He rasped. “I hate that I do that, just rip people into their worst—” You squeezed his knee, stopping him mid sentence. “You didn’t rip me into anything,” You cut in softly. “You touched my hand, and for a second, my mind gave in. That’s all. You didn’t show me something I didn’t already live through.”

He stared at you like you were speaking another language. Like kindness itself didn’t make sense coming from someone who had every reason to walk away. His eyes were glassy, wide, as if he was expecting you to scream, to flinch, to at him curse. Instead you didn’t move. You didn’t raise your voice or look away. “Bob,” You called his name softly, your voice full of a tenderness he’d only ever seen in other people’s lives, never his own.

“Sweetheart, come here.” The nickname hit him like a freight train. He blinked, stunned, like he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it. Your arms were open, welcoming. No threat. No edge. He didn’t move. “I’m sorry,” He whimpered again, like it was all he had left. His voice cracked in the middle, fragile and full of every emotion he couldn’t name. “I didn’t mean to—” You shook your head gently, shushing him like, and then you reached.

Your fingers found his wrist, slowly, gently, and when he didn’t pull away, you guided him forward. The moment his body made contact with yours, he froze. Stiff. Breath held. He didn’t know what to do with it, your warmth, your hands in his hair, your chest rising and falling against his. But he didn’t stop it. Couldn’t. Your nails scratched delicately into his scalp like a grounding rhythm, the other hand running in soft, steady circles between his shoulder blades.

His breath hitched. It had been so long since someone touched him like that. Not out of obligation. Not for necessity. Just to comfort. And God, he hadn’t realized how much he needed it. His arms, wrapped around you tightly, too tightly, like if he loosened his grip even a fraction, you’d disappear. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, breath shaky and uneven. Every part of him trembled under your touch.

You held him tighter. “It’s okay,” You whispered into his hair. “You’re okay. You’re here. I’m here.”He made a sound then, a quiet, broken noise that wasn’t quite a sob, but close. Maybe it was relief. Or grief. Or both. You felt it in your own throat, that heavy lump of emotion neither of you could name yet. Minutes passed. Maybe more. Neither of you moved. And finally, in the low hush of the living room, Bob spoke.

So quietly you might’ve missed it if you weren’t already tuned to every fragile part of him. "I d-don't deserve you." It wasn’t just guilt in his voice, it was certainty. Like it was fact. Like someone, somewhere had etched it into his bones and he’d spent every day since then believing it was true. That sentence alone shattered something inside you. Because you had fallen, not in the surface way, not in some passing infatuation, but in a slow, aching unraveling for the man in front of you.

For his quiet strength, for the storm of self-hate he carried in silence and the flickers of hope he didn’t know he was allowed to hold. You’d fallen for all the versions of Bob, the terrified one, the broken one, the funny one who made dry little comments at the screen when he thought you weren’t listening. You saw every cracked piece of him and loved him more for it. And he thought he wasn’t worthy. Your hand gently cupped his cheek, guiding his gaze to yours.

“Don’t say that,” You whispered, voice barely audible, like you were afraid the moment might break if you spoke too loud. “Don’t ever say that again.” He flinched, eyes flickering between yours, and you saw it, the war behind them. That desperate need to believe you, battling a lifetime of voices that told him otherwise. You leaned in just a little, your forehead resting gently against his.

“You deserve everything, Bob,” You declared, eyes closing as the gravity of your words landed. “You deserve safety. And peace. And someone who sees all of you and stays.” You felt him exhale, a slow, shuddering breath that seemed to come from the deepest part of him. Your lips barely brushed his cheek when you spoke again, softer now. “And if you'll let me… I want to be that someone.” He didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

But his eyes searched yours like he was trying to memorize them, like they might be the one thing anchoring him to the present. And then, slowly, cautiously, his hand found the side of your neck, warm and trembling, thumb brushing just under your jaw. You tilted your head, giving him space, and that was all it took. His lips met yours with the hesitancy of someone who hadn’t kissed in a long time, or maybe had never kissed like this. It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t hurried.

It was a whisper of vulnerability. Your hand slid behind his neck, drawing him closer, and he exhaled into the kiss like it physically hurt to let go of the air between you. He tasted lwarmth and fear and something unbearably tender, like he’d been waiting his whole life for someone to meet him in the quiet, in the ache. You tilted your head, deepening it just a fraction, your lips molding to his with a tenderness that made his shoulders sag.

Like the weight he’d carried for years had just been handed off, piece by piece, into your keeping. His breath hitched against your mouth, and your fingers slid into his curls, anchoring him to the moment. He melted under your touch, leaning into you like you were something breakable he wanted to protect but didn’t know how. When his other hand found your waist, it was clumsy and careful at once. He held you like you might vanish, like this might all be a dream, and kissed you again, slower this time, more certain.

When you finally pulled back, foreheads still touching, you whispered. “You’re not alone, Bob. Not anymore. I'm not going anywhere, I promise." He didn’t cry. Not exactly. But he closed his eyes, nodded, and exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for years. “C’mere, let me hold you.” You coxed, voice thick with tenderness and exhaustion as you tugged him gently down onto the couch with you.

There was no hesitation anymore. No flicker of doubt in his eyes. Bob let himself be pulled, let himself fall, not just onto the cushions, but into the warmth of you, into the safety net of this fragile, blooming thing between you. Your arms wrapped securely around his waist, hands smoothing over the soft cotton of his hoodie, anchoring him like a lifeline. Without needing to be asked, he folded himself around you, holding you like something precious.

One arm around your back, the other settling protectively along your waist. Your legs tangled together as if they’d been doing that for years, as if your bodies already knew how to fit together. He clutched you gently but firmly, like he still didn’t quite trust the world not to take you away. “You’re warm.” You sighed, nuzzling into the space beneath his collarbone. His scent, faint cedar, old cotton, a whisper of something herbal from the tea he always made, filled your senses.

“I—um, I run hot. S-sorry.” His voice was muffled by your hair, and his hand twitched nervously against your back. You shook your head where it rested against his chest. “Don’t you dare apologize,” You scolded playfully. “You’re perfect.” He didn’t say anything at first, but you felt it. The way his chest rose and fell differently, heart thumping under your ear, as if your words had hit something he didn’t know how to name.

And then, soft and uncertain, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. His face flushed, visible even in the dim light of the television screen still flickering forgotten in front of you. He pressed one last chaste kiss to your forehead, lingering there. Then, finally, you both surrendered to sleep, curled up and wrapped around one another like if it were second nature. The elevator hummed to life hours later, the quiet of the Watchtower broken by the low clunk of boots on metal.

Bucky stepped out first, duffel slung over one shoulder, scanning the empty common space for any sign of Alpine’s prancing form or your cheerful presence. His brow furrowed. The lights were dimmed, the room untouched. Not even a half-drunk mug of matcha in sight. Then his gaze landed on the couch, and the corner of his mouth curled. There you were. Tucked into Bob’s chest like you belonged there, legs intertwined, his chin resting atop your head.

His arms were locked around your waist with the kind of protectiveness Bucky hadn’t seen in Bob since… well, ever. And the kicker? Bob’s lips were still pressed softly against your forehead in sleep, the image of peace incarnate. “Are they—?” Yelena’s whisper broke the stunned silence as the rest of the team piled in behind Bucky, slowing to take in the sight. “They are." Bucky nodded, unable to keep the grin off his face.

Ava blinked, completely stunned. “Wow.” Alexei gave a low whistle, while John looked vaguely like he wanted to protest before Yelena elbowed him in the ribs. Hard. Bucky raised a finger to his lips, motioning for them to be quiet. He stepped forward, carefully scooping Alpine into his arms from her perch at the foot of the couch. She purred instantly, tail flicking with smug satisfaction, as if to say I told you this would work.

Then without another word said, Bucky promptly ushered the entire team out of the room, leaving you and Bob undisturbed in the glow of something new, something fragile and hard-earned, something definitely worth holding on to. And as the door slid shut behind them, the only sound that remained was the steady rhythm of two heartbeats, finally at peace in each other’s arms.

Thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! Feeling generous? Leave a tip!

Remember you are NEVER alone! Do not hesitate to ask for help if you are struggling with your mental health, reach out to your loved ones, check in on people who have been too quiet, and always remember to be kind because you never know what other people may be dealing with! 🤍

Mental Health Help Hotline: (833) 317-4673

1K notes · View notes

itendtothinkalot · 3 months ago

Text

in this economy? (part 1)

summary: you needed money. he needed a fake girlfriend. easy deal, right? except he’s your best friend’s boss. and you’re one minor inconvenience away from setting something on fire. he’s cold, rich, emotionally unavailable. you’re loud, broke, and very good at pretending this isn’t slowly turning real.

genre: fluff | fake dating

characters: ceo!heeseung x f! broke ass reader

words: 12k?

warnings: none in this part

a/n: damn didnt know tumblr had a word limit so heres a 2 parter i didnt realise would be a 2 parter

part 2

You were in your final year of college, living what could only be described as the off-brand version of Hannah Montana. Two jobs, endless assignments, zero glam. You had the double life down—student by day, overworked part-timer by night—except instead of rocking out on stage, you were rocking a polyester apron and a mild caffeine addiction.

Despite working like a hamster on an espresso wheel, your bank account stayed somewhere between “embarrassing” and “haunted.” Thanks, student loans. They followed you like an ex who couldn’t take a hint—except this one charged interest and occasionally sent you emails that made your eye twitch.

Still, you powered through. Broke, yes. Sleep-deprived, absolutely. But functioning? Debatable.

Fortunately, your best friend Jake—resident golden boy, and somehow always suspiciously well-rested—had just landed a Big Boy Job. He was now the personal assistant to the Lee Heeseung. Which sounded impressive… you guessed. You wished someone had warned you what a big deal this guy was, but no one did. You didn’t know. You really didn’t.

You were three bites deep into your third roll of bread, barely chewing anymore. It wasn’t about manners—it was about survival. Tuition was due, your rent deadline loomed like a jump scare, and your bank account balance looked like a bad joke.

Jake sat across from you at the glossy conference room table, watching you with an expression that landed somewhere between mild horror and disbelief.

“Slow down,” he said, nudging the breadbasket just out of your reach. “The bread’s not running anywhere.”

You glared at him, a crust still stuck to your bottom lip. “Easy for you to say. You’re not living on instant noodles and silent sobbing.”

He wrinkled his nose. “You literally had coffee and a spoonful of peanut butter for breakfast.”

“Because I couldn't afford a second spoonful.”

Flipping through your notes with one hand and clutching a half-eaten roll with the other, you tried to cram half a semester’s worth of marketing strategy into your already overloaded brain. You were multitasking. Efficient. A legend, if legends were broke and hungry.

Jake looked personally offended. “This is a workplace, you know. There are millionaires walking around here. You’re dropping crumbs on a seven-thousand-dollar chair.”

You paused mid-bite. “Seven what now?”

He tossed you a napkin with the kind of disappointment only a best friend could perfect. “Just—try not to look like a starving Dickens orphan if my boss walks in.”

You frowned. “Your boss?”

And that’s when the air changed—like a cold draft had slinked in through invisible cracks. Jake straightened. The playful glint in his eyes flickered out.

Speak of the devil in designer slacks.

The door creaked open, and in walked the heir to Luxen Technologies: Lee Heeseung.

Cold. Polished. Annoyingly symmetrical.

You promptly choked on your bread.

"That's your... boss?" you asked, staring as the man strolled in like he was walking on a Calvin Klein runway in slow motion, his coat flaring just slightly, hair annoyingly perfect.

Sure, he was good-looking. Objectively. Like, if you had a dollar for every sharp angle on his face, you could maybe afford two spoonfuls of peanut butter.

But you didn’t have time for men. You barely had time for yourself.

Here you were, fully dependent on your best friend and roommate’s snack stash and corporate pantry privileges, inhaling free carbs like your life depended on it—which, honestly, it kind of did. This had become your daily routine: roll out of bed, survive uni, raid Jake’s office for bread and maybe some emotional support tea every morning.

Jake sighed, already bracing for impact like someone who'd lived through this exact scenario too many times. “Look, you have to leave before he comes over and kicks you out.”

You snorted, entirely unbothered, and waved him off like he was being dramatic—which, to be fair, he usually was. Reaching for another roll from the meticulously arranged snack spread (which you were absolutely not supposed to touch), you said breezily, “He wouldn’t do that. Right?”

Jake didn't answer immediately. Instead, he gave you the kind of look reserved for people about to learn something the hard way. “He’s kicked people out for less,” he muttered, casting a wary glance at the growing constellation of crumbs you were generously distributing across the sleek, glass conference table—like you were decorating it for a carb-themed holiday.

Your chewing slowed. “Oh,” you said, mid-bite, hand frozen halfway to your mouth.

Silence.

The kind of silence that prickled.

Something shifted in the air, and you felt it—like animals sensing a predator approaching. You turned your head slowly.

And there he was.

Lee Heeseung. In the flesh. A few steps away and looking like he’d just walked into a crime scene. He was tall, sharp, and immaculately put-together, holding a tablet in one hand like it offended him. His eyes scanned the table, then landed on you—the uninvited guest currently mid-chew, hoarding bread rolls like it was your last meal.

If disapproval had a face, his was it.

Your brain, bless its useless soul, screamed: Run.

Your stomach had other plans: Finish the bread first.

And your hands? They casually reached for two more rolls while maintaining steady eye contact with the most terrifyingly attractive man you’d ever seen.

Honestly, if you were going to get kicked out, you might as well be full.

You glanced at Jake. With as much dignity as one could muster while chewing, you gave a dramatic bow, wiping a suspicious smear of butter off your cheek with the back of your sleeve. “Good day, Mr. Sim. I shall see you again tomorrow. Absolutely lovely businessy chat. So productive. Okay. Bye now.”

Jake snorted. Loudly. But you ignored him, choosing instead to hoist your laptop bag like a makeshift shield, holding it in front of your face in an attempt to avoid the burning scrutiny of one Lee Heeseung. Eye contact was the enemy. Recognition was a death sentence. And above all else: pantry access must be preserved.

If he ever put two and two together—that the very person chewing her way through his conference table like a feral carb-goblin was you—you were done for.

Goodbye, free bread. Goodbye, Jake’s fancy office snacks. Goodbye, dignity… not that there was much left to begin with.

You began edging toward the door, sidestepping like a raccoon caught red-pawed in the middle of a kitchen raid, trying not to look suspicious. Which only made you look so much more suspicious. And to make matters worse, the more you tried to vanish, the longer Heeseung stared.

His eyes followed you with a slow, assessing calm—like a predator trying to decide whether the strange creature in his territory was worth the energy to chase. He didn’t say a word. Just watched. Silently. Intensely. Unreadable.

Probably wondering who let the help in.

“Smooth,” Jake muttered behind his hand, clearly enjoying every second of your descent into awkwardness.

“Shut up,” you hissed, tripping slightly over your own bag strap on your way out, a quiet wheeze of panic slipping from your lips.

You didn’t dare look back until the elevator doors had closed behind you, safely sealing you in a metal box where embarrassment couldn’t reach you. Heart pounding. Mouth dry. Still tasting sourdough.

So that was him, you thought. Jake's boss.

And if he ever figured out who you were? You were screwed.

Meanwhile, back in the war zone formerly known as the conference room, Jake turned back around slowly to face his boss.

Heeseung didn’t look up. He was scrolling through his phone like none of that had just happened. “What time’s my meeting again?” he asked casually, thumb gliding across the screen.

“Three,” Jake replied quickly, slipping back into assistant mode with the smoothness of someone who really needed to keep his job. “Then another one at five with the UX development team. They’re presenting the wearable AI prototype.”

Heeseung gave a brief nod, still scrolling.

There was a beat of silence. Jake almost allowed himself to exhale.

And then—“Who was the girl?”

Jake blinked. “Girl?”

Now Heeseung did look up. One perfectly shaped eyebrow lifted just a fraction. “The one eating the bread like it owed her money.”

Jake choked. “She's just...she's my friend.”

Heeseung narrowed his eyes, the phrase clearly not satisfying. “Your friend. In my conference room. During working hours. Helping herself to my carbs.”

“To be fair,” Jake offered, voice cracking like a freshman in choir, “they’re technically Luxen’s carbs. Also, you don’t even eat the bread—”

“She wiped her mouth with her sleeve,” Heeseung said, looking deeply betrayed. “Do people do that?”

Jake had no idea if he was supposed to laugh, apologize, or call security on your behalf.

“She’s harmless,” he said quickly. “You won’t even see her again. I think."

Heeseung hummed, a noncommittal sound that somehow said everything. His gaze drifted back to his phone.

But Jake caught it.

A flicker at the corner of Heeseung’s mouth—so quick it almost didn’t happen.

Not irritation. Not disapproval.

Curiosity.

Almost.

—

Heeseung sighed.

It wasn’t that he hated his life. Far from it, actually.

He liked working. Loved it, even. There was something deeply satisfying about losing himself in spreadsheets, contracts, and a calendar so tightly packed it could give a scheduler heartburn. He was good at it—no, great at it. The kind of great that turned heads in boardrooms. The kind of great that earned nods of respect from executives twice his age. Even his notoriously competitive older brother and stone-faced father begrudgingly acknowledged his brilliance when it came to the company.

They weren’t jealous of his success—not exactly. Just… quietly resentful that their grandfather, the patriarch of the empire, seemed to have written Lee Heeseung in bold letters at the top of every metaphorical will, wish list, and family legacy blueprint. Heeseung was the golden boy. The prodigy. The one who could do no wrong.

Well—except in matters of the heart.

His grandfather, a man of steel nerves and silk pocket squares, had one tragic flaw: he was a hopeless romantic. The handwritten-letters, crying-during-Hallmark-movies, “Love conquers all” kind. Back in his youth, he had famously eloped with Heeseung’s grandmother after her parents forbade the match. It was the tale he recited at every family dinner like a dramatic bedtime story, wine glass in hand, pausing for emphasis with misty eyes and unnecessary violin music playing in everyone’s heads.

Now, he’d made it his personal mission to marry off every last descendant like he was casting a period drama.

And naturally, he took particular offense to Heeseung—the youngest, most accomplished, and most emotionally unavailable—refusing to so much as glance at romance. Not a flicker. Not a whisper. Not even the vague interest of someone who knew love existed in the same universe.

So imagine Heeseung’s horror when, despite all logic, he found himself distracted. Haunted, even. By the mental image of some girl with a mouthful of carbs, an unapologetic sleeve-wipe, and crumbs on her cheek like a personal brand.

Utterly ridiculous.

Infuriating, even.

There were precisely three things Lee Heeseung could not abide during work hours:

Unexpected visitors.

Long-winded conversations.

Family.

So, naturally, all three arrived in one dramatic flourish when the office doors slammed open with the subtlety of a wrecking ball wearing designer shoes.

“Seung!”

Heeseung didn’t glance up. He didn’t need to. That voice had the energy of a Broadway debut and the volume to match.

“Why is he here?” Heeseung asked flatly.

Jake froze mid-sip of his iced Americano, nearly choking on the absurdity of being blamed for something he had very clearly tried to prevent. “I told him not to—he didn’t even call—”

Heeseung finally looked up, just in time to watch the hurricane make landfall.

Grandpa Lee swept into the room like he still ran the place, all charisma and cologne, his cane purely decorative and his expression full of self-satisfaction. Former CEO. Founder of Luxen Technologies. Current full-time menace to his grandson’s blood pressure.

“Grandpa,” Heeseung said through clenched teeth, voice just shy of a groan. “You can’t keep barging in here every time you have a thought.”

“Of course I can,” the old man said cheerfully, already heading for the plush chair across from Heeseung’s desk. “It’s my building. My company. My bloodline. And also, you left Sunday dinner early, again, so I brought the discussion to you.”

Jake slowly sank into his seat, doing a decent impression of a man attempting to fuse with office furniture. He opened his laptop, not to work, but to pretend like he was somewhere—anywhere—else.

Across the room, Heeseung dragged a hand down his face, the weariness in his expression not from deadlines or meetings but from the familial storm that had just rolled in, all bluster and dramatic flair.

It wasn’t that Heeseung didn’t love his grandfather. He did. Deeply. He’d grown up listening to Grandpa Lee’s stories—some romantic, some insane, all borderline exaggerated. He loved the old man’s fire, his flair for theatrics, his unwavering belief in love.

But the thing was, Heeseung didn’t believe in love. At least not for himself.

Love happened, sure. It was cute in theory. Like puppies. Or those couples who held hands in grocery store aisles. But for Heeseung? The concept belonged in other people’s lives. He had things to build. A company to run. An empire to uphold. There wasn’t room in his carefully scheduled, emotionally vacuum-sealed world for candlelit dinners and grand declarations.

“Seung,” Grandpa Lee began, already digging into the contacts on his ancient phone like he was summoning a spell. “One of the kids—from—uh—SunTech, I think. His granddaughter—”

“Not interested,” Heeseung groaned, dragging his chair out and dropping into it like a man preparing for battle. He turned on his computer and focused all his energy on his Google Calendar, as if the overlapping blocks of color could protect him from whatever matchmaking scheme was brewing.

“She’s your age,” Grandpa insisted, swiping through what looked like a very poorly lit photo. “Exceptionally bright. Lovely eyes. Probably fertile—”

“I don’t care,” Heeseung said, without even blinking.

Grandpa Lee scoffed so hard, Jake briefly checked the air conditioning to make sure it wasn’t just the vents.

“Jake, my boy,” the old man thundered, turning to Jake with the dramatic flourish of a stage actor mid-soliloquy, “you best prepare an umbrella for tonight. The ancestors are going to cry from how rude my grandson is.”

Jake coughed behind his hand, clearly losing the battle not to laugh.

“Rude?” Heeseung repeated, eyes still fixed on his screen. “Didn’t you run away from your family to marry Grandma?”

“She was the love of my life,” Grandpa snapped, puffing out his chest like he was about to monologue about moonlight and destiny. Again.

“And didn’t you yell something along the lines of—what was it?” Heeseung pretended to think for a beat, then smirked. “Oh right. ‘Kiss my ass.’”

Grandpa Lee’s face wrinkled into an affronted frown. “You little—!”

He stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor, cane in one hand like he was about to duel.

Jake peeked up from behind his laptop, eyes wide, mildly alarmed.

Heeseung leaned back in his chair, looking irritatingly calm. “Just saying, if rebellion for love was good enough for you, maybe rebellion against love is good enough for me.”

“You’re twisting my legacy, you arrogant little–” Grandpa snapped.

Heeseung let out a long-suffering sigh. “I love you, Grandpa,” he said, not without sincerity, “I really do. But I don’t think—”

Whack.

The cane came down with expert precision, connecting with the top of Heeseung’s head before he could finish the sentence.

“Ow—! What the hell?! Grandpa!” Heeseung hissed in pain, one hand flying up to his hair as he recoiled in disbelief.

“That,” Grandpa Lee said, lowering his cane with the pride of a seasoned warrior, “was for being stupid. I may be old, but I’m not senile.”

Jake, valiantly trying to remain neutral, let out a sound that could only be described as a muffled snort, quickly masked behind his coffee cup. He was, unfortunately, enjoying this far more than his employee handbook allowed.

“You assaulted me,” Heeseung muttered, rubbing his scalp and glaring at the very man who used to tuck him in with bedtime stories about elopements and destiny.

“That wasn’t assault,” Grandpa countered, straightening his lapels. “That was discipline. You’re welcome.”

“You could’ve said something.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Jake quietly slid a packet of ice from the mini fridge toward Heeseung’s desk like a peace offering. Heeseung took it with a scowl, pressing it to his head as Grandpa settled back into the chair he had so dramatically abandoned.

“I’m not saying fall in love today,” Grandpa continued, voice a touch gentler now. “But open your eyes. One day, someone is going to walk into your life—and she won’t give a damn about your meetings or your title or your five-year plan. She’ll probably be a disaster. A whirlwind. And exactly what you need.”

Heeseung stared at him, unimpressed. “You’ve been watching those stupid dramas again, haven’t you?”

“I like them,” Grandpa sniffed, unbothered. “They speak to the soul. And unlike you, they have range. Emotional range."

Jake lost the battle with his laughter, letting it escape in a quiet wheeze.

Heeseung gave him a sharp look. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Not at all,” Jake said, already typing something into his notes app with far too much amusement. “Should I call Legal and ask about emotional damages from relatives?”

“Call a therapist while you’re at it,” Heeseung muttered.

Grandpa Lee stood again, “I’m not cancelling the date with SunTech’s granddaughter,” he announced, as if this declaration were final, written in stone, sealed by the ancestors themselves.

Heeseung groaned, already feeling the migraine bloom behind his eyes. “Grandpa. Cancel it. I’m not sitting around awkwardly sipping tea with some random girl—”

“Not random. SunTech’s granddaughter,” Grandpa corrected, his tone haughty, as though the corporate pedigree alone should be enough to send Heeseung into a frenzy of romantic interest.

“You don’t even know her name.”

“It’s something to do with the sun,” Grandpa said, waving a dismissive hand. “Sunny? Sunrise? Sunhwa? Something celestial. The details aren’t important.”

“Oh, I think they are,” Heeseung deadpanned.

“Seung.” His grandfather’s voice softened with a rare touch of sincerity. “Please. Just one date. One.”

Heeseung hesitated. Not because he was considering it, but because he was trying—desperately—to find a way out that didn’t involve disappointing the man who once taught him how to drive and also how to spot a bad merger.

“I can’t,” he said finally.

“And why not?”

Heeseung opened his mouth, then closed it. Thought. Thought harder. Came up with absolutely nothing. His brain was a clean whiteboard where excuses usually lived, but today, apparently, they’d taken the morning off.

He glanced at Jake. Still in his chair. Still sipping his iced Americano. Still laughing silently behind his laptop like this was a free improv show with catered snacks.

“Because…?” Grandpa prompted, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Jake?” Heeseung said, turning toward his assistant like a man clinging to the edge of a lifeboat.

Jake blinked. The sip of coffee in his mouth stalled somewhere in his throat.

Oh, no. Oh, no no no.

Heeseung’s eyes screamed Help me. Jake’s brain screamed Why do I work here. But somewhere between panic and pity, an idea emerged—terrible, reckless, and unquestionably effective.

Jake cleared his throat. “Because,” he said slowly, “Mr. Lee already… has a girlfriend.”

The room went still.

Utterly, impossibly still.

Heeseung blinked once. “I what.”

Grandpa Lee's gaze sharpened like a hawk spotting prey. “You what?”

Jake could feel the weight of both their stares, but he pressed on, fully embracing the reckless commitment of a man now in far too deep.

“Yes,” he nodded, his voice unnaturally bright. “He has a girlfriend. Very real. Extremely non-fictional. You just haven’t met her yet.”

Heeseung turned to him slowly, his face a portrait of stunned betrayal. “Jake.”

Jake gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Go with it.”

Grandpa folded his arms, skeptical. “And why haven’t I met this girlfriend?”

Jake hesitated for only half a second—just long enough for his brain to spin a web of half-truths and whole lies. “Well, it’s still new. They only started seeing each other last month. And Heeseung’s, you know…” He looked at his boss meaningfully. “Shy.”

Heeseung let out a sound that could only be described as internal screaming.

“Shy?” Grandpa repeated, eyebrows raised like the concept was foreign.

Jake nodded solemnly. “Very reserved when it comes to feelings. Doesn’t like to share until he’s sure. That’s why he hasn’t said anything. It’s still early, and he’s trying not to mess it up.”

For a moment, Grandpa said nothing.

Just stood there, his sharp eyes narrowing, gears visibly turning behind them like he was piecing together a very juicy puzzle.

Then—“It’s that… Bread Girl, isn’t it?”

Heeseung blinked. “Bread girl?”

The name rang a bell. Faintly. Something Grandpa had muttered earlier about a chaotic woman who’d been assaulting his company’s carb inventory with reckless abandon. Right. Jake’s friend. The one who'd been in his conference room. The one who chewed like it was a competitive sport and wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

Jake’s eyes widened in alarm. “You… you saw her?”

“She knocked into me on her way out of the conference room just now,” Grandpa said, nostrils flaring like he was reliving the moment. “Nearly knocked my cane out of my hand. I was ready to launch into a full lecture on manners and public decency—until I saw the amount of bread she had crammed in her arms.”

He smiled, clearly delighted. “That’s when I knew. She wasn’t being rude. She was just in love. Hungry and in love. My favorite combination.” And without further warning, he pulled Heeseung into a firm, proud hug. “Keeping my granddaughter-in-law well-fed. That’s my boy.”

Heeseung stood there like a mannequin in a hostage scenario, arms limp at his sides, staring over Grandpa’s shoulder with wide, blinking disbelief. His gaze locked on Jake, who looked dangerously close to either exploding with laughter or faking his own death.

Was he going to throw his best friend under the bus?

Apparently, yes.

“Yep,” Jake said with a helpless shrug. “That’s her.”

Heeseung opened his mouth to protest—but then paused. The wheels in his brain, previously stuck in panic mode, began to turn. Slowly, reluctantly, but undeniably. There was an idea forming. A stupid, dangerous, possibly reputation-ruining idea.

But it might just work.

“She’s… shy,” Jake added, already spinning the web a little further, clearly hoping Heeseung would not kill him in his sleep later. “Which is why she hasn’t been introduced yet. It’s still… new.”

Grandpa pulled back just enough to give Heeseung a squint of suspicion. “New?”

Heeseung hesitated.

And then, with the kind of sigh one gives right before jumping off a metaphorical cliff, he nodded. “Yeah. We, uh… only started seeing each other last month.”

“She’s still adjusting,” Heeseung continued, falling into the role with the grim acceptance of a man who’d rather fake a relationship than go on another one of Grandpa’s curated matchmaking setups. “Not really used to… all this.”

“All this?” Grandpa gestured around the office.

“The… CEO thing,” Heeseung said, waving vaguely. “The attention. The—uh—pressure. You know how it is.”

Grandpa narrowed his eyes further, scrutinizing his grandson with the intensity of a man deciding whether to believe a magician or demand to see what’s up his sleeve.

Finally, after a beat of silence: “So you’re saying the girl who wiped her face with her sleeve in your conference room... is your girlfriend.”

Heeseung nodded once. “Yes?"

Grandpa considered. Then smiled. “Well, damn. That explains the crumbs.”

Heeseung exhaled slowly, like he’d just avoided death by PowerPoint. “So you’ll cancel the SunTech date now?”

Grandpa chuckled, already heading toward the door. “Of course, of course. I would never interfere in true love. But now that I know she’s real…” He paused dramatically at the door. “I expect to meet her properly next week. Bring her to dinner. No excuses. And tell her to bring an appetite. There will be baguettes.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Silence.

Then Jake leaned forward, voice dry and just the right amount of judgmental. “You do realize what you just did, right?”

Heeseung leaned back in his chair, groaning as he pinched the bridge of his nose like he could physically squeeze the consequences out of existence. “Jake… I’m gonna need your friend’s phone number.”

Jake stared at him. Blinking. Processing.

“She’s going to kill me,” he muttered.

—-

You were halfway up the street, your backpack tugging at your shoulder and your feet dragging after a long day, when someone came jogging toward you from the bus stop.

“Hey! Hey hey—!” Jake’s voice rang out, breathless but chipper, his hand waving like he was flagging down a taxi.

You squinted at him. “Why are you running like I owe you money?”

He didn’t bother answering. Just grinned—way too wide, way too bright—and looped his arm through yours, tugging you along.

“I brought you dinner,” he announced, tone suspiciously light.

You stopped walking, brows pinched. “What?”

Jake held up a plastic bag in front of your face with exaggerated pride. The aroma hit you first, warm and familiar. You peeked inside.

Your eyes widened. “Is this—Sue’s? As in the good roast chicken?”

“With the chili oil packets,” Jake said smugly, clearly pleased with himself.

“You went all the way across town?” you asked, mouth falling open as you cradled the bag like it was gold.

He nodded, almost bouncing. “And there’s more.”

You narrowed your eyes. “More?”

“I ordered your bubble tea too. It should be here any minute.”

You gasped, hand flying to your chest. “Taro oat milk with brown sugar pearls?”

Jake mimicked a solemn oath, placing a hand over his heart. “Taro oat milk. Brown sugar pearls. No ice. Less sweet. Just how you like it.”

Your face lit up immediately. “You’re my favorite person. EVER!”

“I know,” he said, leaning into you with an overly sweet smile. “Just remember...that I love you. I love you. Deeply. Eternally. Unconditionally.”

You snorted, nudging him away with your elbow. “Okay, drama queen.”

But then he paused. His voice dipped just slightly, soft but steady. “I’m serious. I love you.”

You froze for a second.

Your smile faltered.

There was something off in his tone—too sincere, too heavy for a roast chicken and bubble tea run. You turned to look at him properly.

“Jake,” you said carefully.

He straightened, schooling his face into something resembling innocence. “Yeah?”

Your eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”

Jake blinked, feigning confusion. “What do you mean?”

“You only say ‘I love you’ like that when something’s wrong. It’s your guilty voice. So what is it? Did you clog the sink again? Spill something on the couch? Sign me up for something I didn’t agree to?”

His laugh came out high-pitched and thin. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Jake.”

“It’s not bad,” he said quickly, holding up both hands.

“Oh my God,” you groaned. “What did you do?”

“It’s not illegal,” he added, stepping back slightly as you took a slow, threatening step forward.

“Jake.”

He held out the roast chicken bag like a shield. “Eat first. Yell later.”

You snatched the bag but kept your gaze locked on him, lips pressed into a flat line. “Talk.”

He scratched the back of his neck, clearly stalling, eyes darting around like he was hoping a car would hit him and end the conversation.

—

The door to your shared apartment swung open with a slam, and you stormed in like a woman possessed.

Jake had barely made it through the front door before you launched yourself at him like a sleep-deprived hurricane.

“YOU—YOU ABSOLUTE MENACE—”

“Wait—WAIT—THE CHICKEN—!” he squeaked, still trying to kick his shoes off as you flailed your arms with righteous fury.

You were half-thrashing, half-swatting at him with the plastic bag still clutched in your hand, the scent of roasted garlic and chili oil trailing behind every slap. Jake yelped, stumbling backward as he grabbed the nearest couch cushion to shield himself.

“IT’S FIVE HUNDRED PER DATE!” he shrieked. “WHY ARE YOU YELLING—”

“I’M YELLING BECAUSE YOU SOLD ME LIKE I'M SOMETHING YOU CAN BUY FROM THE STORE!” you cried, swinging the chicken like it owed you rent.

Right then, Jungwon’s bedroom door flew open with a bang. His hair was sticking up in all directions, eyes wide with panic, an oversized hoodie hanging off one shoulder like it had lost the will to live.

“WHAT’S GOING ON?” he demanded, voice still hoarse with sleep. “Is someone dying?!”

“HES A FUCKING IDIOT, THAT’S WHAT’S GOING ON!” you shouted, jabbing a finger at Jake like a prosecutor presenting Exhibit A.

From behind the couch cushion, Jake winced. “Okay, I understand that you're mad."

Jungwon blinked, processing. “Dude, what the hell did you do?"

"HE WANTS ME TO FAKE DATE HIS BOSS!” you screamed again, nearly vibrating with rage.

Jake raised a finger. “For money,” he added helpfully, as if that made the entire situation perfectly reasonable.

Jungwon stood there for a beat, then tilted his head. “...Is the boss hot?”

The entire room fell into silence.

You turned to Jake slowly, brows lifting. “Wait. Is the boss hot?”

Jake’s grin spread, lazy and far too pleased with himself. “You tell me. You met him.”

Your brain stuttered. Froze. Replayed the memory of a tall man in a dark suit, judging you with cold eyes while you stuffed your face with carbs like a gremlin.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, dropping onto the couch like gravity had finally won. “You’re all insane.”

Jungwon wandered over and sat beside you, already reaching for the plastic bag. “I’m just here for the roast chicken,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Can someone pass me a leg?”

Jake, still crouched like a man dodging emotional bullets, gently placed the bag on the coffee table like it was a sacred offering. Then he looked over at you, head tilted, eyes wide and hopeful.

“So,” he said softly, “can I explain now? No hitting this time?”

You stared at him.

He grinned anyway.

And unfortunately for him, he was still within arm’s reach.

—

You sat on the couch like a judge ready to deliver a life sentence, arms crossed so tightly your shoulders were starting to cramp. The look on your face could’ve wilted houseplants. Jake, for once in his life, had the good sense to sit on the floor at a safe distance, hands folded on the coffee table like he was about to pitch a startup you were morally opposed to.

Jungwon sat cross-legged between you, gnawing on a chicken leg and swiveling his head left and right like a referee at a very dramatic tennis match.

“So,” Jake began carefully, voice high and overly gentle, “first of all, I just want to say that I love and appreciate you—”

“No,” you cut in, eyes locked on him. “Start with the part where you volunteered me—your best friend, your roommate, your tragically broke companion in poverty—to pretend to date Lee Heeseung. The CEO. The multi-billionaire. Your boss.”

Jake opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again.

Jungwon, through a mouthful of chicken, offered, “That guy’s scarier than my thesis supervisor. And mine once made someone cry over a missing footnote.”

“THANK YOU!” you shouted, pointing at Jake like you were about to sentence him to community service.

Jake threw his hands up. “Okay, okay, yes, I panicked! Grandpa Lee was in the office, demanding to know why Heeseung was single, and I didn’t know what to say! So your name just—came out!”

“Like a demon leaving your body?” you snapped.

Jake pointed a finger at you. “Also, this is kind of your fault!”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“HE SAID YOU BUMPED INTO HIM!” Jake practically shouted, voice cracking. “And he saw, like, four bread rolls in your arms!”

“It was three!” you yelled, scandalized.

Jake flailed. “Okay, THREE! Doesn’t change the fact that Grandpa Lee saw you, assumed you were stealing company bread, and decided obviously you and Heeseung were secretly dating.”

You stared at him. “In what world does that even make sense—”

“SO THIS IS YOUR FAULT!” Jake yelled dramatically, pointing like you’d been caught on a crime scene.

You gaped. “I didn’t know the old man I bumped into was Heeseung’s grandfather! How is that my fault?!”

“I don’t know!” Jake shouted back. “But somehow it is!”

Jungwon raised a hand without looking up. “To be fair, you did look suspicious carrying that much bread.”

“I WAS HUNGRY!” you barked.

Jake groaned. “Look, I didn’t plan this, okay? It happened. It’s done. And now we just need to go along with it for a few fake dates—three, four tops—and we’re good.”

You glared. “This is literally fraud.”

Jake held up a finger. “This is capitalism—and you get paid. Five hundred per date.”

You opened your mouth to yell again—then paused.

Because five hundred… times four…

Your gaze dropped to the roast chicken on the table, suspiciously thoughtful.

Jake leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “You’re doing the math.”

“No.”

“You are.”

Jungwon didn’t miss a beat. “Two grand.”

“Shut up,” you and Jake snapped in unison.

You sagged into the couch like the weight of student loans had finally won. “He’s not even going to like me.”

Jake tilted his head. “He already noticed you. Asked about the girl who ‘wiped her mouth with her sleeve like she was raised in the wild.’”

Jungwon snorted so hard he nearly choked.

You exhaled, long and slow. “...Fine.”

Jake’s face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.

“But if this backfires,” you said, pointing a chicken drumstick at him with all the gravitas of a loaded weapon, “I’m shitting in your room.”

Jake didn’t even blink. “That’s fair.”

Jungwon nodded solemnly. “Reasonable terms.”

—

As Heeseung always said—often, and with great pride—he wasn’t the relationship type.

Too much work. Too much noise. Too many unnecessary emotions clogging up the schedule.

People around him dated like it was a seasonal hobby. Fell in love in spring, broke up by fall, recycled the whole cycle again by winter. But for Heeseung? It had never been appealing. He didn’t need anyone. He liked being alone. He thrived alone.

He was an expert at sidestepping dating scandals. A pro at slipping out of flirty conversations with a well-timed smile and a conveniently urgent phone call. He could survive dinner parties full of “When are you getting married?” aunties without so much as a twitch in his left eye.

Composed. Controlled. Untouchable.

Until now.

Now, he was sitting in his office—his very sleek, very expensive office—surrounded by floor-to-ceiling glass, watching the Seoul skyline stretch out like a smug reminder that his life was supposed to be pristine.

And it was. Mostly.

His suit was charcoal grey, custom-tailored. His coffee, bitter and scalding, sat in its perfectly symmetrical spot on the table. His hair, of course, was slicked back with enough precision to win a military medal. Everything in his life was polished.

Everything… except this one absurd detail.

He exhaled slowly.

Jake.

Jake and his chronically reckless mouth.

This wasn’t the usual “Oops, I told the intern you’d review their pitch” kind of trouble.

This was “Oops, I told my grandpa you’re dating a girl you don’t know, and now she’s coming to a meeting at 2:30” kind of trouble.

Heeseung had handled high-stakes mergers. He’d stared down stone-faced investors and charmed half a dozen billionaires before lunch. But now? Now he was apparently in a fake relationship.

And paying for it.

Five hundred dollars per date.

He wasn’t sure which part offended him more—the relationship, or the invoice.

Jake had made it sound like she was some half-wild creature who pillaged the office pantry and vanished into the wind. Which… wasn't entirely inaccurate. But what Jake didn’t know—and what Heeseung would rather jump out the boardroom window than admit—was that he had noticed her.

Actually, he’d remembered her quite clearly.

Big eyes. Crumbs on her cheek. Confidence like she owned the place, despite clearly not belonging there. She’d looked him dead in the eye with a mouthful of bread and the pure, unbothered energy of someone who’d never been told “no” in her life. Honestly? It was a little bit impressive.

And yes. Fine. Maybe she was cute.

Not that it mattered.

Because Heeseung didn’t do feelings. He didn’t get involved. He didn’t believe in all that heart-fluttering, stars-aligning nonsense.

Cute or not, this wasn’t going to turn into anything.

It was just a favor. A fake setup. A temporary solution to a very loud grandfather.

That was all.

Heeseung leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and breathed through his growing irritation. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to perform feelings. He didn’t want to drink overpriced coffee with some girl pretending to be his girlfriend so his matchmaking grandfather could sleep peacefully at night.

A quick glance at his watch: 2:27 p.m.

—

You were pinching Jake’s side like your entire financial future depended on it.

“Ow!” he yelped for the third time, swatting at your hand. “Okay, I need those ribs!”

You didn’t care.

You were terrified.

No—beyond terrified. Every synonym in the English language applied. Petrified, horrified, on-the-verge-of-spontaneous-combustion. Your heart was trying to launch itself into space. Your soul was threatening to exit your body via sheer panic.

“Breathe,” Jake said gently, trying to peel your claw-like grip off his hoodie. “You’re gonna be fine. You look amazing. Honestly, if you weren’t my best friend, I would've totally tried to kiss you by now.”

“You’re not helping, Jaeyun,” you hissed, teeth clenched, eyes wide and manic like you’d just seen the end of civilization.

“Right, sorry,” he said quickly—still grinning, because Jake had zero fear of death, apparently.

You glanced at your watch.

2:25.

Ten minutes until showtime.

Your heart was doing Olympic-level gymnastics. Your stomach was performing Cirque du Soleil. Your brain was stuck on a loop of elevator music and “what if” scenarios.

You looked ahead—at the sleek, modern glass door of Heeseung’s office. Too clean. Too intimidating. Too expensive-looking. Even the potted plants screamed, You don’t belong here.

The panic hit like a freight train.

Without thinking, you grabbed Jake’s arm and yanked him back, nearly slamming both of you into a very offended-looking potted plant near the elevator.

“I can’t do this,” you whispered, voice shaking, hands clammy. “I cannot do this.”

Jake blinked. “Whoa—okay. Deep breath. You can do this. You’re just nervous.”

“Nervous is messing up a group project. This is like—I don’t know—faking a relationship with a corporate cyborg while praying I don’t end up blacklisted from every job ever.”

Jake made a soothing gesture. “He’s just a guy. A guy in a very expensive suit with the social skills of a brick and a caffeine addiction that’s borderline medical.”

You let out a half-sob. “Jake, what if I say something weird? What if I trip? What if he hates me on sight and then cancels the whole thing and somehow calls my school and gets me expelled just for existing—”

“Hey.” Jake grabbed your shoulders, firm but gentle. “Look at me.”

You did. Barely.

“You’re smart. You’re funny. You’re gorgeous. You’re the only person I trust with this because you’re the only one who could handle him. Even when he’s acting like some emotionally stunted AI in a suit.”

You sniffed. “I hate you.”

Jake smiled, soft and annoyingly sincere. “Love you too. Now breathe, princess.”

You inhaled. Exhaled.

Inhaled again. Slower.

It helped. Barely. But it helped.

Jake stepped back and nudged you gently toward the glass doors. “Go in there. Pretend you like him. Pretend you’re not thinking about chicken. Smile. Look mysterious. Say something deep like, ‘I don’t really believe in love.’ He’ll be confused. That’s how you win.”

A dry laugh escaped you—half squirrel, half dying engine. But still. A laugh.

Your watch blinked again.

2:28.

Showtime.

You straightened your shoulders, fixed your expression into something halfway pleasant, and took a step forward.

Let the corporate fake dating games begin.

—-

Heeseung sat alone in his office, posture perfect, fingers wrapped loosely around a coffee cup. His suit was sharp, pressed so crisply it practically gleamed. His expression, as always, unreadable.

Except for the slight crease in his brow.

Because she was late.

He glanced at his watch.

2:31.

Not catastrophic. But still. He didn’t like being made to wait. Especially not by someone he was paying.

He exhaled quietly, sipped his coffee, and shifted his gaze to the window—

—just in time to watch a girl crash headfirst into the glass office door.

He blinked.

There was a muffled thud, followed by a dramatic, “OW, MY FACE!” and Jake’s voice yelling, “OH MY GOD, ARE YOU OKAY?!”

The girl stumbled back, one hand pressed to her forehead, the other still valiantly clutching a bubble tea with a bent straw and a leaking lid. Her dress was cute, her hair a little windswept, and her face was lit up in full, blazing embarrassment.

Heeseung stared.

“This is your fault,” she snapped at Jake, rubbing the growing red mark on her forehead.

“If you hadn’t roped me into this, I wouldn’t have walked straight into your invisible death door.”

Jake gasped, wounded. “My fault?! Are you blind?! The door wasn’t even moving!”

“I was panicking! I thought you were going to shove me through it like a sacrificial lamb!”

“You were already walking!”

“You said, ‘smile and act normal’ right before I hit it. What part of that was helpful?!”

“You looked cute! Until, you know… the impact.”

Inside the office, Heeseung remained still. Coffee in hand. Silent. Watching.

Through the glass, their chaotic little argument carried on without shame. You were waving your hands in frustration; Jake was holding your elbow with exaggerated concern, both exasperated and wildly entertained.

It was loud. Messy. Unprofessional.

It was… oddly funny.

A faint tug pulled at the corner of Heeseung’s mouth before he even noticed it.

Not quite a laugh. Not quite a smirk.

Just… the suggestion of something warm.

Jake finally spotted him and started waving like a man trying to signal an aircraft.

“Let’s go already! He hates tardiness.”

You turned.

Your eyes met Heeseung’s through the glass—annoyed, wide-eyed, bubble tea still clutched like a fallen soldier in one hand.

Heeseung raised his coffee in silent acknowledgment.

And nodded.

You swallowed. “Great,” you muttered. “He saw all of that, didn’t he?”

“Every second,” Jake said cheerfully.

You groaned and took a cautious step forward. Jake placed a hand on your back and gently—but undeniably—shoved you through the door like you were an offering to royalty.

He guided you across the room like a handler walking a nervous show dog.

“Mr. Lee,” Jake said smoothly, already shifting into his polished Assistant Mode. “This is my friend.”

Heeseung didn’t respond right away. His gaze remained fixed on his coffee mug, fingers tapping lightly along the rim like it was conducting an orchestra only he could hear.

You stood stiffly in front of him, hands clasped like you were about to deliver a public apology. Jake stood beside you with the smug energy of a man watching chaos unfold exactly as he planned.

Finally, Heeseung looked up.

His eyes moved from Jake to you.

To your forehead.

Back to your eyes.

“…You’re late,” he said flatly.

You blinked. “It’s 2:32.”

“Yes,” Heeseung replied. “Which is not 2:30. Like we originally planned.”

Your jaw twitched. “Psycho,” you muttered, just loud enough for a small god to hear.

Heeseung raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

You straightened. “Sorry. I meant… yes, I know. Won’t happen again.”

Jake nudged your side and whispered, “Off to a strong start.”

—

The past five minutes were the longest of your life.

You stared at your feet. Then your thumbs. Then the floor again, like something might appear to save you. A trapdoor, maybe. Or the sweet embrace of the earth swallowing you whole.

Heeseung, meanwhile, had been staring at you. The entire time.

Not speaking. Not blinking. Just… watching.

Jake sat between you like a silent referee, sipping his coffee with the energy of someone watching a sitcom he’d accidentally created.

It was weird. Weird. Weird. Unbearably weird.

Finally, mercifully, Heeseung cleared his throat. The sound cut through the silence like a scalpel.

“I prepared a contract,” he said, voice calm. Businesslike. As if you weren’t about two minutes away from passing out in his office.

You blinked. “A contract? For something as—” you stopped, but it was too late—“as stupid as this?”

There was a pause.

Heeseung’s brow lifted. Just slightly. “Stupid?”

You froze. Your mouth opened. Nothing helpful came out.

“I didn’t mean—it’s not—I’M stupid,” you blurted, clapping your hands over your face. “That’s what I meant. I’m stupid. Please ignore everything I say for the next ten years.”

Jake choked on his drink.

You kept your face buried in your palms, wondering if anyone in the building would trade places with you. Janitor? Security guard? Plant in the corner?

Heeseung said nothing. For a long second.

Then, very dryly: “Good to know.”

You groaned.

Jake leaned over, voice low and unhelpfully cheerful. “You’re doing great.”

“Mr. Lee has written up a draft of the contract,” Jake said, slipping into full assistant mode, posture straight, tone clipped and professional.

You squinted at him. “Ew. Why are you talking like that?”

Jake glanced at you, then back at Heeseung with a sigh. “I’m working, you idiot,” he muttered under his breath.

“Oh. Right.” You scratched your neck, sheepish. “Forgot.”

Across the table, Heeseung bit his bottom lip—subtly, quickly—but it didn’t go unnoticed. His gaze lingered on you, and for the first time since you walked into the room, something shifted. His eyes didn’t look annoyed anymore.

Amused, maybe. Just slightly.

Dangerously close to smiling.

Jake cleared his throat, snapping back to task. “In the contract,” he continued, “you’ll find a breakdown of the terms—including Mr. Lee’s expectations, your responsibilities as his… companion—” he winced a little at the word “companion,” “—and a list of things you’re explicitly not allowed to do.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Like what? Wear Crocs in public?”

Jake didn’t miss a beat. “Actually, yes. Clause six.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”

Heeseung finally spoke, smooth and unbothered. “I don’t joke about footwear.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Jake leaned back in his chair, sipping his coffee again like he was watching live theatre.

“Okay… and what else?” you asked, trying—and failing—to sound chill.

Jake cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “Clause five…Physical…”

Heeseung looked up, expectant. “Yes?”

Jake made a face like he was already regretting his entire existence. “Do I… have to explain it?”

“Yes,” Heeseung said calmly, without even looking up from the contract. “It’s in the terms.”

You squinted at him. “Terms? What is this, fake dating or joining the military?”

Jake pressed on. “Physical contact. Mr. Lee has stated that there should be… none. Or at least not without clear, mutual agreement. No uninvited touching. No sudden… anything. Basically—don’t grope the CEO.”

You choked. “What?! I wasn’t—Why would—That wasn’t even on the table—”

Jake raised both hands. “I’m just reading the clause!”

Your face went red. Hot. Instantly.

You turned to Heeseung, eyes wide. “Not that I was planning to touch you or anything! Like, why would I—Not that you’re—okay, you are technically—”

You made a sound that wasn't even a word and slapped a hand over your own mouth.

Jake let out a slow, gleeful exhale. “This is so much better than I imagined.”

You groaned and sank lower in your seat. “I hate it here.”

Heeseung, annoyingly composed, glanced up at you. His expression unreadable… but his lips twitched. Barely.

You swore he was enjoying this.

You had been in the office for an hour.

One full hour.

Sixty minutes of your life you were never getting back, spent listening to Jake read through a contract like a local news anchor trying to make tax reform sound exciting.

“…Clause twelve: Should the second party—meaning you—be asked to attend any corporate function, you will refrain from referring to the first party—meaning Mr. Lee—as ‘my sugar daddy,’ even in jest.”

You blinked. “That… needed to be clarified?”

Jake didn’t look up. “You’d be surprised.”

You slowly slid further down in your seat, gripping your bubble tea like it was the last tether to your sanity. Your legs had gone numb. Your dignity had long since packed its bags and fled the room. And the worst part?

You still had to sign this thing.

All this—for a whopping two grand.

Across the table, Heeseung was unmoved. He hadn’t spoken in the last twenty minutes, just sipped his now-cold coffee and occasionally made a small note in the margins like he was preparing for a stockholders’ meeting instead of a fake relationship.

Jake flipped the page. “Clause thirteen…”

You groaned. “There are thirteen?”

Jake looked up. “We’re only halfway through.”

You dropped your head to the table.

This was your life now.

—

You had officially entered hour two of your Fake Dating Orientation.

Jake, your overly enthusiastic best friend and traitor to your dignity, was seated across from you like a talk show host who’d been waiting all day for the drama. He’d already gone through the entire contract. Twice. And now, unfortunately, it was time for the “chemistry test.”

“We’re going to do a little practice,” he announced, clasping his hands together. “Let’s see how well you two can sell this.”

You blinked. “Sell what, exactly?”

Jake beamed. “That you’re in love, of course.”

You visibly recoiled. “Oh god.”

Heeseung, seated beside you, didn’t say anything, but his entire body tensed like he’d just been told he had to perform on a game show. His fingers gripped the armrest, jaw tight.

You glanced at him.

He glanced at you.

Then you both looked in opposite directions so fast it would’ve given a chiropractor whiplash.

Jake leaned forward, utterly enjoying himself. “Okay. Pretend you’re on a casual third date. You’re into each other. You’re comfortable. There’s hand-holding. Eye contact. Smiles. Soft laughter. Possibly some light touching of the knee if you're really ambitious.”

You turned your head just enough to catch Heeseung already looking your way. Your eyes met. Instantly, you looked back at the floor.

Your cheeks were burning.

So were his ears.

Jake let out the loudest, most exaggerated sigh in human history. “You two haven’t even held hands yet.”

“I don’t—this is ridiculous. I don’t need acting lessons,” Heeseung muttered, running a hand through his hair in mild frustration, clearly more flustered than he was willing to admit.

“Clearly you do,” you mumbled under your breath.

He turned his head slowly. “Your face is flushed.”

You raised a brow. “Your ears are red.”

That shut him up.

For a second, the two of you just stared at each other. Not blinking. Not smiling. Like two cats waiting to see who flinched first.

Then you both sneered. Simultaneously.

Jake, watching from the corner of the room like a director overseeing a painfully awkward indie film, clapped once. “Amazing. So natural. This is going great. Really convincing chemistry.”

You and Heeseung didn’t look away from each other.

He raised an eyebrow like this was some kind of silent battle.

You narrowed your eyes in return, mouth twitching.

Jake clapped his hands together like a game show host about to announce the bonus round. “Alright. Let’s take it out there.”

You squinted at him. “Out where? Hell?”

Jake ignored the comment. “The office. The hallway. The real world. You two need a test run.”

Heeseung exhaled through his nose. “This is stupid.”

Jake raised a brow. “Should I just go ahead and reschedule that SunTech date, then? I’m sure she’d love a Thursday dinner.”

Heeseung shot him a look. “You’re forgetting you work for me.”

Jake smiled sweetly. “And you’re forgetting you need me to fix this mess.”

You, meanwhile, were sprawled on the couch like an exhausted Victorian heroine. “I’m bored.”

Jake turned, hands on hips. “You’re getting paid five hundred dollars per date to fake-date a CEO. Try to look alive.”

“Fine,” you groaned, hauling yourself up. “Let’s get this over with. What exactly do you want us to do? Gaze longingly into each other’s souls and whisper sweet nothings about fiscal responsibility?”

Heeseung rolled his eyes. “She’s really dramatic.”

“And you’re really uptight,” you shot back.

Jake clapped again, delighted. “Perfect. Just like a real couple.”

You both glared at him.

“Okay,” Jake continued, stepping into director mode. “Stage one: casual physical affection. We’re going for subtle intimacy. Nothing over-the-top. Just enough to make people go, ‘Hmm. They might be sleeping together.’”

Heeseung nearly choked on air.

You blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”

Jake gestured between you like a choreographer. “Heeseung, arm around her waist. And you, try not to look like you’re being taken hostage.”

Heeseung looked vaguely alarmed. “Do I have to?”

“Yes,” Jake said cheerfully. “Like you’ve touched another human being before. Preferably without looking like it’s a tax audit.”

There was a long pause.

Then, reluctantly, Heeseung stepped closer. His hand hovered awkwardly near your waist like it had never been introduced to the concept of touch.

You raised your eyebrows. “You’re not disarming a bomb.”

He cleared his throat. “You’re… shorter than I thought.”

“I’m wearing flats.”

“Still. Noted.”

Jake watched with glee as Heeseung finally, finally placed his hand on your waist—so lightly it was barely there. You tensed anyway. Because apparently your nervous system hadn’t signed off on this level of contact.

Jake turned to you. “And you, sweetheart, try not to smile like you’re being held at gunpoint.”

You bared your teeth in what could only generously be described as a grimace.

Heeseung glanced at you. “That’s your fake dating face?”

“It’s a work in progress.”

“You look like you’re about to offer me life insurance.”

You sighed. “Okay, let’s not pretend you’re Mr. Suave. You touched me like I’m made of porcelain and trauma.”

“I didn’t want to overstep.”

Jake, now leaning on the doorway like a proud parent at a talent show, was positively glowing. “This is amazing. I should be charging admission.”

You groaned. “Are we done yet?”

“Almost,” Jake said, eyes twinkling. “Now walk out there. Just a quick lap around the office. Arm around her waist. Maybe whisper something flirty if you’re feeling bold. Bonus points if someone drops their coffee.”

You turned to Heeseung, who looked like he’d rather be hit by a bus.

He glanced back at you.

You both exhaled.

And in perfect, miserable unison, you muttered, “Let’s just get this over with.”

—-

At the entrance of Heeseung’s office, Jake had—because of course he did—another brilliant idea.

“Let’s try a… scenario,” he’d said, eyes gleaming like he’d just discovered a new form of social torture. “Something romantic. Circumstantial. Like you just got caught in a moment. You know, one of those ‘oh, didn’t see you there, just happened to be holding each other and laughing softly’ kind of deals.”

You and Heeseung stared at him in silence.

Jake pointed to the glass wall just beside the door. “Over there. That’s your stage.”

So now, here you were—pressed awkwardly to the side of the office entrance, standing shoulder to shoulder with Lee Heeseung, the human embodiment of a luxury watch ad.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

“I’m gonna be completely honest,” you whispered, glancing up at him. “I forgot the plan.”

He looked down at you, the corner of his mouth twitching. “There shouldn’t be a plan.”

You frowned. “What?”

“This kind of thing,” he said, voice lower now, thoughtful, “should be natural. If we rehearse every little move, it’ll look fake.”

You didn’t respond right away.

Because honestly?

You had no idea how to make it look real.

You’d never been on a fake date before.

Actually, you’d never even been on a real date.

You’d spent your entire life chasing deadlines, side gigs, tuition payments, and discount ramen packs—love had never exactly made it into the schedule. Flirting was an optional elective you never had time to take. The closest you’d ever gotten to romantic tension was arguing with a vending machine.

And now here you were. Being gently stared at by a man with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and eyes like he was actually trying to understand you. You had half a mind to pull the fire alarm and flee.

Instead, you cleared your throat and said, “Right. Natural. Got it. So should I just… laugh at nothing? Flip my hair and pretend you said something charming?”

Heeseung smirked—actually smirked—and looked away. “You’re really bad at this.”

“I’m trying,” you hissed.

“I can tell.”

You gave him a sharp look. “Well, you’re not exactly oozing romance either, Mr. Emotionally Constipated.”

He huffed a small laugh through his nose, shaking his head. “Do you always insult the people you fake date?”

“Just the ones who critique my performance before the show starts.”

He glanced back at you then, gaze lingering a bit longer this time. “You’re nervous.”

You stiffened. “No, I’m not.”

“You’re fidgeting.”

“No, I’m—”

“You keep tapping your fingers.”

You looked down. Your hand was, in fact, tapping against your thigh like it was performing a solo.

“…It’s called rhythm,” you muttered.

Heeseung just gave you a look.

And for a moment, just a moment, the tension shifted. Slightly softer. Slightly less unbearable.

Heeseung exhaled slowly and said, almost reluctantly, “Let’s just… be still for a second. Pretend we’re mid-conversation. Look relaxed.”

You nodded.

Neither of you moved.

From inside the office, Jake was pressed dramatically against the glass, holding his phone up like he was filming a nature documentary.

You both ignored him.

Mostly.

Then, quietly, Heeseung said, “You’ve never done this before, have you?”

You blinked. “What, pretend to be someone’s fake girlfriend?”

He didn’t say anything, just raised an eyebrow.

You hesitated. Then sighed. “I’ve never been any kind of girlfriend.”

Heeseung looked at you.

Not judgmental. Not surprised.

Just… quiet.

And for the first time, you wished this moment wasn’t fake. Just for a second.

Then Jake knocked on the glass like a proud zookeeper.

“THAT LOOKS AMAZING!” he yelled. “Now do a forehead touch!”

You turned back to Heeseung, mortified.

“Don’t,” you warned.

Heeseung nodded. “Absolutely not.”

But when he looked at you again, his ears were pink. And this time, yours were too.

—-

The next few days were absolutely unhinged.

When Jake told you Heeseung was meticulous, you thought he meant the occasional Google Calendar reminder. What he actually meant was: this man plans your fake relationship like it’s a Fortune 500 company launch.

From Monday to Friday, he had everything scheduled down to the minute.

Monday

"Coffee shop. 2 p.m. Look approachable."

Those were his exact words. Not cute. Not casual. Approachable. Like you were a storefront. You showed up early—naturally—and promptly spilled oat milk across the table trying to jab your straw into your cup. It exploded like a dairy crime scene.

Heeseung just stared at you. Then slid a napkin across the table, deadpan. You muttered, “You're welcome for the entertainment.”

You made fun of his black coffee. “You drink it like a bitter old man who’s lost faith in humanity.”

He looked at your lavender oat milk iced monstrosity. “And your drink choices are one of a six-year-old’s.”

You laughed.

He didn’t.

But his eyes softened. Just a little.

Tuesday

PR strategy, according to Jake: “Be seen. Look adorable. Pretend you like each other.”

You: showed up in his office.

Also you: immediately raided the pantry and stole three muffins.

Heeseung watched from his desk. Said nothing. Pretended to type very seriously while clearly watching you.

You plopped down on his couch, opened your laptop, and made very dramatic “working” noises.

At one point, your laptop screen dimmed. Before you could even react, he walked over silently and plugged in your charger.

You blinked. “Oh. Thanks.” He just shrugged and returned to his desk. But you caught it. The ghost of a smile as he sat down. Like he was trying not to like you. Failing, obviously.

Wednesday

You accompanied him to a fake business lunch.

There were women in designer outfits, expensive perfume clouding the air, and stiletto heels you were sure doubled as weapons. They looked at you like you’d crawled out from under the table.You sat there in an old blouse your mom gave you, heart thumping in your chest, suddenly hyper-aware of the ketchup stain you thought you removed.

You fidgeted. Overthought. Considered hiding under the table.

Then Heeseung leaned in, so close his breath grazed your ear. “You’re doing fine.” That was it. Just those words.

And you didn’t remember a single thing after that. You just nodded and smiled and let those three words replay in your head like a calming song.

Later, in the car, you kicked off your heels like they’d personally betrayed you. He raised an eyebrow.

“A little dramatic, no?”

“I’ve suffered,” you whined.

He handed you a water bottle and rolled the windows down.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

You rested your feet on the dash. Caught him looking at you at a red light.

He looked away too fast. Suspiciously fast.

Thursday

You brought takeout to his office, unannounced.

He looked up when you entered, blinking like you’d just done something absurd. “You brought food?”

“Yes. Humans eat. Shocking, I know.”

You sat on the floor beside his desk. He joined you. In a full suit. Cross-legged like a model student, tie undone, sleeves rolled to his forearms. You offered him a dumpling. He took it. No hesitation.

You grinned. “Isn’t it so good?”

He chewed. “Greasy.”

“But good?”

He hesitated. “If I say yes, will you stop bothering me?”

“No.”

“Then yes.”

You pretended not to notice the way his eyes lingered on your face longer than they needed to.

Friday

You were late. By five minutes.

He texted: “Late.”

You texted back: “Cry about it.”

He didn’t reply.

You arrived out of breath, annoyed, hair windswept and bag hanging off one shoulder like you’d run a marathon to get there.

He just handed you a drink. Your favorite.

Didn’t say anything. Didn’t look smug. Just passed it to you with one hand and opened the door to a rooftop garden with the other. Of course he had a rooftop garden. Because he was secretly the male lead of a tragic romantic comedy and you were starting to hate how well the role fit.

You sat on the bench beside him, knees brushing under the table. “You’re so serious all the time,” you said, teasing. “Do you even know how to smile?” He scoffed.

“Do you even know how to tell a joke?”

“Excuse me—I am hilarious.”

“You’re… something.”

—-

You lay in bed, burrito-wrapped in your blanket, one arm tucked under your head and the other dramatically thrown across your eyes like a Victorian ghost overcome by mild emotional instability.

Your ceiling stared back at you like it knew.

And unfortunately, your brain did that thing it loved to do: play a full highlight reel of the past week.

It had been five days.

Five fake dates.

You were getting paid five hundred dollars per day to pretend to like Lee Heeseung.

That was the deal. The entire deal. Nothing more, nothing less.

And honestly? Not a bad one. Amazing hourly rate. Low stakes. You just had to hang out with a man who looked like a luxury perfume ad and acted like a spreadsheet given life.

You could do that.

You had survived retail during Christmas and three years of sharing a bathroom with Jungwon.

And yet… somehow, you were the one spiraling.

Because Heeseung wasn’t awful.

Actually—he was kind of…

Nice.

Underneath the sleek suits and emotionally stunted persona, he was… oddly considerate. The kind of guy who noticed when your laptop was dying and plugged it in without comment. Who remembered your coffee order after one chaotic spill. Who didn’t flinch when you shoved dumplings into his mouth like a sleepover buddy instead of a business partner.

And okay, fine. He was also really easy on the eyes.

With his annoyingly sharp jawline and those lips that were probably illegal in several countries. And the way his tie loosened around his neck by Thursday, and how he laughed—actually laughed—at your dumb joke on Friday.

You groaned and rolled onto your stomach, burying your face into your pillow.

“Nope. No. Absolutely not.”

You barely knew him. You’d been fake-dating for a week. You didn’t even know what kind of music he liked. For all you knew, he could be a hardcore jazz saxophone guy. Or worse—he liked podcasts about finance.

This wasn’t real. You were faking it.

Professionally.

And still…

You wondered what it would feel like to hold his hand with no one watching. No “scene” to pull off. No Grandpa to impress. Just… you. And him. And the quiet weight of something unsaid.

You wondered—horrifyingly—what it would feel like to kiss him.

Just once.

Just to see.

You smacked your forehead. “I need therapy.”

The worst part? It wasn’t even entirely about Heeseung.

You were realizing, in a slow, sinking kind of way, that your romantic life was… embarrassing.

Jake, your best friend-slash-chaos goblin, didn’t count. Jungwon, your honorary brother, sure as hell didn’t count. And your last date had been someone who said “let’s split the bill” and then left you with it.

You hadn’t been around someone kissable in a long time.

And now you were being paid to fake-date someone who might actually ruin your life if you let him.

You groaned into your mattress again.

At this rate, you were going to fall for your fake boyfriend before your first paycheck cleared.

—

Heeseung was not sleeping.

It was after midnight. The city outside was quiet. His entire house was dark.

And all he could think about… was you.

Which made no sense.

You had shown up in his life like a whirlwind. Unpredictable. Loud. Crumb-covered. You drank rainbow-colored lattes and wiped your mouth on your sleeve and called his contract “stupid” without blinking.

But you’d also fed him dumplings on the office floor—the office floor—which he’d never sat on in his life. But then you’d whined, kicked your feet like a brat, and said, “Just join me. Or are you too much of a rich bitch to?”

And that was all it took for Lee Heeseung—the picture of corporate perfection—to sit beside you, cross-legged, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You’d teased him until he smiled without realizing. You’d let your legs rest on the dashboard and talked about nothing like it mattered. And you hadn’t cared who he was. Not the CEO. Not the heir. Just… Heeseung.

He exhaled, staring at the ceiling with all the enthusiasm of a man confronting his own emotional shortcomings.

Was he really catching feelings after five “fake” dates?

Apparently, yes.

Which was alarming.

He had spent his entire adult life navigating business galas and high-end blind dates with elegant, polished women. The kind who wore heels taller than his emotional range. He knew how to charm. How to play the part.

And yet none of them had ever stuck.

None of them made his hands twitch when they leaned in.

None of them made him smile like an idiot when they were five minutes late.

But you?

You with your loud opinions and easy laughter and tendency to steal muffins like they were currency?

You were dangerous.

And you were fake.

A fake girlfriend, in a fake arrangement, for a fake relationship.

And yet here he was—imagining what your hand might feel like in his. What your laugh might sound like in his apartment, in the morning, when you were still sleepy.

Heeseung groaned and dragged a hand down his face.

This wasn’t good.

He was supposed to be managing this. Keeping things professional. Keeping his head clear.

Instead, he was lying awake at 1:34 a.m., thinking about your smile and the way your voice got all soft when you called him out for being too serious.

God help him.

He was catching feelings.

And he was completely, utterly screwed.

part 2

1K notes · View notes

suliigwp · 26 days ago

Note

Hello! Could you do the “I’m defending you because you’re my woman” with Charles and Lewis as well? I just read the max, lando and Carlos versions of it and I’m in love hehe

MY WOMAN

Charles Leclerc x Reader

Other versions: Carlos Sainz, Lando Norris, Max Verstappen, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton

SULI: Hi anon, thank you for your request! Alright, lasto three and we're moving on because I'm loosing ideas to make them different lmao. This will be the Charles version, lewis will be posted separately <3

Warnings: Men.

It started with a shift. A quiet one. One that felt too familiar.

She’d been invited to present at a cross-team coordination meeting. It wasn’t flashy. Not a press conference, not some public announcement. But it mattered to her.

She’d spent nights perfecting the pitch, scribbling ideas and corrections in the margins of her notebook. Charles had watched her pace the hotel room in socks, chewing her pen, murmuring strategy points under her breath. She wanted this one to be sharp—efficient, clean, undeniable.

So when she walked into the meeting that morning—file in hand, hair neat, eyes focused—she wasn’t expecting to feel so… dismissed.

They smiled, of course. That fake, managerial kind of smile that never quite reached the eyes. They nodded at her introduction. Waited for her to begin.

And then, slowly, they dismantled her confidence—not directly, not even cruelly. Just enough interruptions. Just enough condescending jokes masked as banter. One man suggested she “simplify the jargon for everyone’s sake.” Another tilted his head and said, “Maybe passion’s clouding your objectivity.”

And every time she tried to steer the discussion back to the actual points—the facts, the structure—they steered it away. Her research was “ambitious.” Her projections “optimistic.” Her tone “a bit intense.”

Charles hadn’t been supposed to attend. But he’d shown up halfway through and slipped in quietly, standing near the back wall. She hadn’t even noticed at first. But he saw everything. Every narrowed glance. Every barely concealed smirk. Every time she swallowed a rebuttal to keep the conversation civil.

He didn’t say a word then. Didn’t make a scene.

But when they walked out of that room, and she gave him a thin, practiced smile and said, “Well, that could’ve gone worse,” he just took her hand and brought her back to the car without a word.

...

She didn’t think about it again until hours later, when her email pinged.

> Meeting Follow-Up Notes – Updated

Proposal has been submitted for reevaluation. Clarification provided by Mr. Charles Leclerc regarding external presentation alignment and conduct expectations moving forward.

She blinked. Read it again.

She read it three times.

She turned around from the hotel desk chair, slow and steady. Charles was lying on the bed, scrolling through something, his reading glasses slipping down slightly.

“Charles?” she asked.

“Hmm?”

She tried to sound casual. “Did you… talk to someone after the meeting?”

He looked up. Paused.

“Yes.”

She blinked. “What do you mean ‘yes’?”

“I had a conversation.”

“With who?”

He set his phone down, sat up slowly. “With the ones who spoke over you.”

Her heartbeat kicked up. “Why?”

“Because they were out of line.”

“Charles…”

“I wasn’t going to let it go.”

She stood up. “You weren’t even supposed to be there.”

“I’m glad I was.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can fight my own battles.”

He looked at her. Calm. Centered. But something sharper brewing beneath the surface—like water just before the boil.

“I know you can.”

“Then why step in?”

Charles stood. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t move suddenly. But he was in front of her now, close enough for her to smell the cedar in his cologne.

“Because it wasn’t just a battle. It was disrespect. And you don’t deserve that.”

She looked up at him, frustration tightening her chest. “You don’t get to walk into rooms and fix things behind my back.”

“I wasn’t fixing it,” he said. His voice was soft but firm, each word deliberate. “I was reminding them who they were talking to.”

She exhaled hard. “I don’t need you to defend me because I’m a woman.”

There was a beat of silence.

Charles tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing with something darker. Not anger. Just clarity.

“I didn’t defend you because you’re a woman.”

He stepped closer.

“I defended you because you’re my woman.”

The room went quiet. She blinked.

“And if you think I’m going to watch people minimize you,” he said, voice lowering, “treat you like you’re less, speak to you like you’re temporary—then you don’t know me as well as I thought you did.”

Her jaw clenched.

“You didn’t even tell me.”

“Because I knew you’d be mad.”

“You were right.”

He smiled faintly, brushing his thumb against the back of her hand.

“I’d do it again.”

She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. She hated how warm his words made her feel in the middle of her frustration.

Charles’s expression softened. He leaned in, forehead to hers, and when he spoke next, it was a murmur.

“You’re strong enough to handle everything. But that doesn’t mean you should have to.”

She swallowed.

“I know you want to do it alone. I just want to be beside you when you do.”

And just like that, the fire in her chest cooled. Not extinguished—just redirected. Grounded.

She leaned into him slowly. Let his arms pull her in. Let the silence settle around them

#f1 #f1 imagine #f1 fic #formula 1 x reader #f1 x reader #formula 1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc x yn #charles leclerc x female reader #cl16 x y/n #cl16 x you #cl16 x reader #cl16 imagine #cl16

644 notes · View notes

thisrots · 13 days ago

Text

thinkin about puppy girl vi humping the couch while ur gone!

𐂯 warnings: puppy play(?), brat!sub!solo!vi, in a relationship/lives with you, modern au(?), she’s pretty pathetic in this, the title says it all… lol

𐂯 word count: 620

vi absolutely adored you. loved you so much she truly couldn’t stand to be apart from you. every time you left for work, your precious girl watched from the end of the hallway, bluer than normal puppy eyes begging for you to stay.

“I’ll be home later, okay? Be good while I’m gone!”

shut.

she was alone, once again.

though this time, there was a familiar warmness spreading between her plush thighs. a flutter in her lower tummy, making her bite down on her bottom lip as her legs rubbed together to create friction.

god, you should’ve fucked her before you left.

“Ngghh!” vi mewled out, an obscenely loud shlick of her puffy pussy sliding across the couch arm echoed in the living room. she was ass naked, mindlessly grinding her hips back and forth against the couch, sharp canines sinking into her pouty bottom lip.

this was totally your fault. for leaving her again, not thinking of her needs before you decided to go make money to keep a roof over your heads or whatever. her pretty, swollen clit blushed pink, dragging it up and down against the arm, tongue lapped out and slobbering drool onto the ground.

“Feels s’good—Guhh! Please, please, puhlease!”

poor, helpless mutt sounded like such a desperate slut, begging at an inanimate object, plump ass jiggling with each buck of her hips. she always did have a humping problem, constantly waking up to vi and her hot cunt pressed up against your thigh in the middle of the night, or walking in on her coming all over your pillow. if she was a real dog, at this rate, you’d probably have to get her fixed.

her calloused palms pawed at the couch, fingers gripping onto it so she could fuck herself better against it. it didn’t compare to your pussy, of course, but she’d take whatever she could get.

fuck, did vi miss you. you’d just left about an hour ago, but she still missed you. she remembered your sweet scent, and how your voice would melt into her ears like syrup. she imagined your pussies colliding, desperately rutting her puppy cunt against yours. or how you’d let her lap on your clit when she was a good girl, rewarding her with coming in her mouth.

but, there’d be no reward tonight. all because your stupid pup just couldn’t keep it in her pants.

her other hand groped at her own breast, fingers twiddling with her nipple, moaning from her own sensitivity. she could feel her climax creeping up, slick hole weeping onto the couch, big palms sweaty and thighs shaking. she’d been restlessly humping for more than an hour now, her little bundle of nerves twitching with urgency, needy whimpers bouncing off the walls.

“C-coming, coming, uunghh!” vi’s eyes glossed, unfocused on the world around her, the only concern she had at the moment was cumming with her heart’s desire. her hips lifted up, slimy string of wetness sticking to her swollen, abused pussy, dribbles of squirt painting the couch a darker shade of grey as she came.

the warmth spilling out of her pussy was addictive, rubbing herself raw, spurts still leaking as she rode out her orgasm on the now saturated couch. she truly was just a dog marking her territory.

she stared at the dampened stain as it seeped into the sofa arm. it was completely ruined, obviously, and she should be scared. should be absolutely petrified of what’s to come when you get home.

instead, she smirked. taking a picture of her artwork and immediately sending it to you, along with a couple other pictures that involved her nude parts.

vi: guess you should stop leaving me alone, huh?

divider credit!

538 notes · View notes

wendichester · 17 days ago

Note

Hii, could I please request where reader is childhood best friends with Sam and Dean and they all stumble across a hunter who reader finds attractive and starts hitting on (the hunter doing it back) and Dean getting jealous and just being very stingy and rude to the hunter??.

THANKSS

⋆˚꩜｡ territorial tendencies,

summary. dean gets extra territorial when you flirt back with another hunter.

pairing. dean winchester x reader genre. fluff with a lil spice of jealousy

wordcount. 615

notes / warnings. mild language, dean being a jealous menace, implied feelings, mutual pining, light possessiveness but in that "he's always loved you but wont say it" kinda way

You've been on the road with Sam and Dean since you were all knee-high and chasing monsters with BB guns and flashlights. It’s always been the three of you: one brain (Sam), one blunt object (Dean), and one charming distraction (you, obviously). You’ve slept in more crappy motels than you can count, faced death more times than you care to admit, and still—still—nothing prepares you for this.

A hunter. A tall, cocky, leather-jacket-wearing, non-Winchester hunter. With dimples.

He strolls into the roadhouse while you’re all grabbing intel on a werewolf case, eyes scanning until they lock with yours. And oh, he’s trouble.

“Hey,” he says with a wink that should be illegal. “Didn’t know heaven let hunters walk the earth.”

Dean chokes on his beer.

You smile sweetly. “Wow. Cheesy line and still landed. You always this smooth?”

He leans on the table, way too close, voice dropping just for you. “Only when the view’s worth it.”

Sam, bless him, immediately stands up. “I’m gonna go… anywhere else.”

Dean stays glued to his chair. Eyes narrow. Jaw clenched. Vibes? Hostile.

The hunter—Leo, apparently—laughs when you flirt back. He even offers to compare scars, which, let’s be honest, is peak hunter seduction. You pull your shirt just enough to show that one slash from the banshee hunt last year.

Dean doesn’t like that.

“You done playing doctor, Leo?” he snaps suddenly, tone sharp enough to draw blood. “We’ve got a job to focus on.”

Leo raises a brow. “Relax, man. Didn’t mean to interrupt the holy trinity dynamic.”

“We’re not a trinity,” Dean growls. “She’s with us.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Excuse me?”

Dean’s already standing. “Look, I get it. You think you’re cute. You think you can just swoop in and throw some lines, get a little attention.”

Leo holds his hands up. “Didn’t realize she came with a leash. My bad.”

You put a hand on Dean’s chest, trying to defuse the ticking time bomb with green eyes.

“Dean,” you say, slow and even, “are you seriously getting pissy because someone flirted with me?”

“I’m not pissy,” he lies, straight-faced and terrible at it.

You look him dead in the eye. “I can handle myself.”

He doesn’t back down, just glares past you at Leo like he’s imagining twelve different ways to salt-and-burn him.

Leo snorts. “Okay, I’ll take a hint. Catch you around, sweetheart.”

He disappears out the door, and you swear Dean only breathes once he’s out of sight.

You cross your arms. “Wanna tell me what that was?”

Dean won’t meet your eyes. He shifts his weight, scratches the back of his neck. “Guy’s a tool.”

“And?”

“And nothing. Just don’t like it.”

You step closer. Close enough that he has to look at you. “Why?”

He hesitates. His jaw works. Then he finally mutters, “Because you’re not his to flirt with.”

Your stomach does a little flip.

“You jealous, Winchester?”

He scoffs. “Pfft. No.”

You tilt your head. “So if I go outside and invite Leo to go back with me to the motel…”

Dean moves in—close enough that your noses almost brush. His voice dips, soft and low.

“I’d rather kiss you until you forgot his name.”

You blink. “Okay. Damn.”

He smirks. “Yeah. Damn.”

And then? He turns and walks off like he didn’t just rearrange your entire emotional landscape in four seconds.

You stare after him.

Sam passes by with a coffee and deadpans, “You gonna kiss him or should I start placing bets on how long you two keep dancing around it?”

You flip him off without looking away from Dean.

So yeah. Maybe the real monster tonight was jealousy. And maybe—just maybe—you’re into it.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester fic #supernatural #spn #.docx #.req #d : territorial tendencies

713 notes · View notes

viperify · 27 days ago

Note

CONGRATULATIONS ON 1K!!!!! Your writing is so amazing, you deserve it and I’m so excited for you!!!

Do you think could you write a brother’s best friend trope using the dialogue prompt “careful. You are starting to sound jealous”? And have it be smut? 👀 (no specific kink request)

I’m so so happy for you and excited to see what you write (even if it’s not this request!)! Congratulations again!!!!!! 😊🫶🩷

1k celebration | ᴛᴏᴍ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ x ᴍᴀʟꜰᴏʏ ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⋆♕₊˚Anything For You.

Short Summary: To many of Abraxas’ friends, you are just his little sister. But to Tom, you are everything—and he will prove it to you if he has to you.

Warnings: 18+ only! jealousy, oral f!receiving, light impact play, praise, Tom Riddle is completely obsessed with reader, fingering, overstimulation, Tom Riddle is a munch.

A/N: Totally obsessed with this ask and brother’s bsf!Tom. Thank you so much for requesting and your sweet words! 🩷 I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I loved writing it. <333 Also I am in love with bratty, spoiled reader. UGH.

wordcount: 2,0k (yes, I said I would write shorter works—only drabbles, in fact. Yall know me. Sigh.)

in this fic, you will find HINT NR #2.

You don’t even glance up when the door to your bedroom creaks open and footsteps approach, old wooden panels creaking under the weight—because you already know who it is. Tom always does this—sneaks away from the others when they are at your place, looking both ways before he walks up the stairs leading to your room instead of going to the bathroom like he says he would.

“You’ve been seeing her again.” You remark, trying to sound as emotionless as possible as you paint your nails with dark red polish, not looking up at him once—not even when he stands right before you.

He doesn’t reply, and it’s silent between you two until you are done with your nails. You sigh, deciding to be the less stubborn one of the both of you for once and finally meet his expression—closed, calculated.

“I am tutoring her.”

You raise a brow at him. “So? You promised.”

“Dippet’s orders. I don’t choose to spend time with her—believe me, I have more important matters to attend to.”

You hate how smugly he says it. As though he doesn’t remember when you told him how much you despised her—always acting like she owns the place, as if she is the object of desire for everyone.

You think of the one time you entered the library in search of a book you needed for your studies—and they were there. That stupid witch practically pressed up against your man, laughing and smiling as though she meant something to him. Now, Tom didn’t respond to her advances. Obviously he didn’t, because great Tom Riddle doesn’t want to be seen being affectionate with anybody—not even you.

But that’s for a different reason.

However, you couldn’t stop the uncomfortable feeling forming in the pits of your stomach at the sight of them together. You still wonder if, behind closed doors—

“Then why don’t you? She’s clearly failing classes just to get tutoring sessions with you.” You glance away from him again, putting the nail polish and nail file back into your drawer, fixing your hair in the mirror of the dressing table you are sitting at.

“I just— hate how much time she gets to spend with you only because she is not intelligent enough.”

You sigh as you catch his expression from the corner of your eye. His eyes are slightly darker than usual, eyebrows furrowed just enough to form a slight crease between them. Hands casually tucked in his pockets, posture perfectly straight as always. Sometimes, you hate how good he looks even when you are mad at him. Like right now.

“Careful, you are starting to sound jealous.” He says, and you huff.

Did you now? You wonder why. Tom Riddle, nerd and know-it-all, finally catches on. You often wish he’d spend more time engaging in meaningful social interactions rather than his boring literature he reads every evening.

You shoot him a sharp glare. At that, the corner of his lips lifts into a smirk, and he nods.

“You are jealous.”

“M’ not.” You reply, trying to sound convincing—but it comes out sounding more like a pout.

Damn it.

Tom laughs at that, and you cross your arms over your chest, looking at your reflection in the mirror. You look pathetic with the scowl on your face, but you don’t care. He should feel it.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He drawls, pulling you up from your chair and into his arms. “Let me show you just how much you mean to me.”

You don’t find yourself resisting as he takes your hand in his, leading you towards your queen-sized bed. Tom presses a soft kiss to your glossy lips before taking a look at your outfit—the one you spent 30 minutes choosing after hearing that Tom would be coming to Malfoy Manor today.

A soft pink top, revealing just enough skin, hugging your curves perfectly. And the skirt—his favourite—white, and very short—too short for you to wear outside your own room, anyway. You are still a respectable woman, after all. That’s what your parents say, at least. A Malfoy.

Although the things he does to you each time you meet are anything but respectable.

They don’t have to know about that, though.

He makes a low sound of approval as his eyes roam over your body, his hand smoothing over the curve of your hip, resting just below the hem of your skirt—on the exposed skin of your thigh. The contact of his skin on yours, so close to where you are aching for him, sends a shiver down your spine.

“All for me?” he asks, eyes fixated on your skirt—the familiar fire igniting behind them.

Not only he could play smug.

“No, I was thinking of Avery.” You reply, batting your eyelashes innocently at him, a grin playing on your lips.

Tom merely scoffs at that, quick to turn you around and bend you over the bed, a firm hand between your shoulder blades keeping you pressed to the softness of your mattress. He hikes your skirt up, bunching it up around your waist, leaving you exposed—the pretty little thong you are wearing on full display for his eyes.

His next movement isn’t what you expect, though—you jolt forward as his flat palm meets the curve of your ass, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.

“Brat. Don’t even deserve what I am going to do to you.”

You whimper softly at the sting of the impact, even though he didn’t hit hard—he knows just how sensitive you are. His pretty little doll, as he likes to call you. And normally, he is always careful with you—but sometimes he needs to give you a little reminder to tone that attitude of yours down.

“Get on the bed and spread those pretty legs for me, darling. I will be right there.”

You do as he says, crawling to the middle of your bed, leaning back against the stack of pillows you have on your bed. He is quick to follow—though still dressed. You are about to ask what he is doing, but when he positions himself in between your legs, pressing a kiss to the soft skin of your inner thigh—your breath catches in your throat.

“Don’t they miss you already?” You try, but he is quick to shut you down.

“Do you think they dare question me when I come back?”

You shake your head. Of course they wouldn’t.

“Exactly. Let me take it from here. Just feel.” He purrs, thumb tracing over your still-covered pussy, groaning as he feels how the fabric is soaked with your arousal—when he has barely even touched you. “Could never replace you. Look at you, so eager for me already.”

He instructs you to lift your hips and pulls down your skirt and panties in one smooth motion, leaving your lower body completely bare in front of him. You feel your cheeks heat up as he runs a finger through your folds—eyes following his every move. Instinctively, you try to close your legs, but he is quick to stop you— wrapping his arms around your thighs, anchoring you to the mattress as he spreads you wide. So wide, you feel the sting in your thigh muscles.

“Not going anywhere now, darling. That pretty head of yours needs some rest. Clearly you have too much time overthinking.” He murmurs, trailing kisses down your lower tummy, ending with a kiss on your clit—making you gasp. “Perfect. So perfect.”

You wish to complain and argue with him, but when he gently parts your folds, warm tongue licking a stripe up your slit, finally looking you in your eyes as he does—you feel as though heaven and earth collide. And suddenly, all your problems are somewhere in the very back of your head, locked away.

“Merlin, Tom—“ you gasp as your fingers curl into your sheets, back arching off your bed. It’s all too much—too good, too intense, and yet, too little. He’s never done this before with you—youhave never done this. But fuck— it feels heavenly.

“Be good and hold still,” he instructs, and without further warning, his lips wrap around your throbbing clit. He first circles your entrance with his finger, then slowly pushes inside. His eyes meet yours again, and he grins just slightly as he scans your expression—lips parted, panting, eyebrows furrowed—you are a sight. Completely at his mercy, whimpering so sweetly at everything he’s giving you.

Oh, how could you even think for a second he’d consider leaving you? No, no. You are his. His only. And soon, your brother will realise that too.

Your walls clamp down tightly around his finger when he finally starts sucking on your clit—but he is not done. A second finger soon follows, and then he moves them—slowly at first, letting you adjust. Not for too long, though. Soon, he curls them inside of you—pads of his fingertips pressing into your sweet spot, rubbing against it with every thrust of his hand. And most importantly, his eyes never leave yours. These dark brown eyes that you have grown to love, urging you to look back at them. Watch how he takes you apart with his tongue.

“Tom, please, I—“ you manage, breathing laboured. He is too good at this. Always has been.

Merlin, he is gorgeous. Dark curls dishevelled, messily falling over his forehead, veins in his hand standing out at the effort to keep you still. And God, the way the muscles in his jaw tense as he feasts on you—that sight alone almost sends you over the edge.

Tom knows you too well, knows every single spot that has you trembling and shivering—and when he has found a rhythm, a perfect mix of his digits stroking along your walls, tongue licking and sucking on your clit—you feel like you can’t take more. Vision growing black at the edges, eyes rolling to the back of your head. And yet—he keeps you open for him, continues tending to your most sensitive spots.

Naturally, it’s not long before you convulse around him—fingers tangled in his dark curls as your orgasm crashes over you, a strangled moan leaving your lips. You try to keep silent, but with the sheer intensity of your climax, it’s nearly impossible. He doesn’t stop until you whimper and your thighs tremble in overstimulation, only then does he pull back, admiring the mess he’s made of you.

“Gorgeous. Did so well for me.” He praises, kissing you gently, making you taste yourself on his lips. Tom is about to pull back, casting a quick spell to clean you up—

You are still out of breath but can’t stop yourself.

“Is this what you do with her when you study in private?”

You shouldn’t have said that.

Because just a second later, he is back between your thighs. “Still haven’t learned. Don’t worry, I will make you forget—even if it takes five more orgasms to get there.”

You wince when his tongue laps over your swollen clit once more—still sensitive from before. His hand finds yours then, interlocking his fingers with yours as he works your body towards another orgasm—eyes on yours, always.

By the third, you don’t have the energy to tease him.

Tom cleans you then and gets down beside you, pulling you closer to him, letting your head rest on his chest.

“Better now?” He asks softly, wiping a strand of hair from your face.

You shake your head as best as you can, pouting. “I am still mad at you.”

Tom sighs in defeat.

“What is it that you want?”

“Hmmm,” you hum, pretending to think—smiling as you look up at him.

“You’ll go to London with me tomorrow. Shopping.”

He nods, kissing you. “Anything for you, Princess Malfoy.”

thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3 — masterlist. | 1k celebration. <- event masterlist.

#ᯓᢉ𐭩 ᴍᴀʀ’ꜱ 𝟣ᴋ ᴄᴇʟᴇʙʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ .ᐟ ₊ 𝜗𝜚 ⟡˚˖#ᯓᢉ𐭩 ᴍᴀʀ’ꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ✎ᝰ.ᐟ #I love you dear anon!#kissing you through my screen <3 #tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle smut #tom riddle fanfiction #tom riddle fanfic #tom riddle fic #tom marvolo riddle #slytherin #slytherin boys #slytherin boys x reader #slytherin boys smut #harry potter #harry potter fandom #tom riddle imagine

369 notes · View notes

yuwuta · 2 years ago

Text

AFTERGLOW. — JJK BOYS + JEALOUSY

❝tell me that you’re still mine, tell me that we’ll be just fine, even when i've lost my mind

featuring. gojo, inumaki, nanami, okkotsu

content. a character study in jealousy, no content warnings, no smut in this version, fem reader

word count. 2.8k

SATORU GOJO You’re attempting to finish getting ready for the evening and Satoru has taken his favorite activity: filing through every crevice of your room like he’d been hired as a private investigator. Even though he knows that you know that he’s nothing more than a nosy idiot, Satoru claims that it’s an important and intimate routine that he should know the ins and outs of your living space just as well as you know his—“You know exactly where I keep my boxers, and I don’t even think I’ve seen the inside of your closet—oh, hey, this is cute,” he grins, sticking out his impossibly long arm to shake a thin, lacy bodysuit on a hanger, “How come you’ve never shown me this, huh? Maybe you should wear this instead, it seems easier to take—ouch.”

He groans at the impact of your hairbrush against his shoulder, then swiftly proceeds to pout and whine about how mean you are to him when you return to ignoring him in favor of applying the final touches to your makeup. Your closet seems to be of little interest to him after that, as Satoru crosses the room to hover around you at your vanity instead. He leans in too closely, as if watching you apply bronzer was a novel sight to him. You flip your brush quickly, barely tapping at his nose and laughing at his scrunched reaction.

“Your reflexes aren’t so sharp today,” you tease. You’re prepared for a witty response, and when you glance, there’s a familiar mischief shimmering in your boyfriend’s eyes; but, then his gaze ventures slightly past you, and all signs of playfulness drain from his face. Instead of getting revenge, or annoying you further, Satoru reaches over your body and into a shallow jewelry dish to pick up the bracelet he’d spotted. It’s a dainty little thing, thin gold with a small heart in the middle glittering with shiny stones, that he threads along his fingers with scrutiny before standing up straight to dangle it in front his face for further inspection, “This is new to me.”

Perhaps you’d spoken too soon, because only Satoru would spot that one piece of jewelry amongst the others swimming the tray. His eyes flutter between the bracelet and you, and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head, and the accusation he won’t say outloud—did you buy yourself heart-shaped jewelry, or is there something else going on here?

You sigh and keep your expression and voice neutral, your attention seemingly still focused on the finishing touches of your makeup, “It’s new to you because I haven’t worn it in years,” you tell him, “My ex gave it to me.”

There’s a beat of silence, and you occupy yourself with your mascara, before Satoru speaks, “That makes sense, it doesn’t look all that promising. What is it—barely gold plated?” he taunts, sweeping away his air of concern with one of mockery, standing up straight to twirl the bracelet around his index finger, “Figures your ex boy toy had no taste for the finer things in life. You’re worth more than this, my darling.”

You shake your head with light laughter, patting in the remnants of your setting spray before standing. Satoru continues on, rambling about the poor construction of your commercially produced bracelet—holds it between his index finger and thumb like it’ll poison him if he exposes it to too much of his skin, and you can’t help but smile as you reach for the lapel of his blazer to pull him down for a kiss. He has no words of objection to this, pulling you in by the waist for another and another and another, before you finally pull away, “Come, let’s go. I don’t feel like getting lectured by Utahime for your tardiness again.”

You’re too preoccupied for the rest of the evening to notice the item missing from your jewelry dish. What you do notice, two afternoons later, shortly after Satoru has left to pick up Nanami from the airport, is a blue velvet box with your name written in pretty, gold cursive along the top—and inside, a gold tennis bracelet, glittering with diamonds, with a necklace to match. You have no doubt they’re legitimate, if not for the way the sparkle, then by the text that rings through on your phone after you question Satoru:

from: satoruwu 🫧🩵 — only the best for my baby <33

TOGE INUMAKI

Toge knows that the price of coffee has gotten way out of hand, but what bothers him more is the decreasing pace of said coffee getting made and the increase of crazy, caffeine addicted people who feel the need to be loud around him while he’s waiting for his drinks. You, however, seem to take pleasure in his suffering, as you always thank him and coo, saying he looks cute despite his grumbly demeanor, “You always look like you fought a war for two cups of coffee, Toge.”

He rolls his eyes as he steps into your apartment, not minding the sound of your giggling behind him. He sets the drinks on your island, and pulls out a stool to sit on. You round the marble, reaching him just as he’s pulled down his mask for a thank you kiss to his cheek. He wants to make you suffer for longer, but when you lean against him, he can’t help but to return the hug and kiss your forehead—you’re welcome, always.

Still, he pokes at your head, waits until you dig your head out of his shoulder with curious eyes, before he points to the Keurig sitting in the corner of one the wall-mounted counters, and moves his hands to sign, “Why keep that if you spend all my money on coffee?”

“Rude. I offer to pay all the time,” you chide, poking at his collar bone and standing straight. You make your way back to the opposite side of the counter, and reach to a drawer to fetch a straw, before shrugging, “My ex left it here when we broke up. I keep it for the aesthetic—I’m not even sure if it works.”

A myriad of thoughts runs through Toge’s mind—most importantly: had your ex left other things here, and how quickly could he get rid of them?

“Besides,” you break his murderous train of thought, “None of the pods make good espresso. Couldn’t even make my hot girl latte if it worked.”

“Your ‘hot girl latte’ is iced,” Toge signs.

Under normal circumstances, a comment like that would earn him a flick to the forehead, but you can tell that behind the sarcasm, Toge is actually upset. So, in lieu of teasing him, you walk back over to him; settling yourself behind his stool to give him a back hug. You lean your cheek against his shoulder and press a small kiss there, “You’re cute.”

Toge huffs, shaking his shoulders for dramatic effect. You laugh, leaning up to give him another kiss on the cheek. “You’re cute and you have nothing to worry about. It’s an old coffee machine.”

He hums, taking another sip of his coffee before turning, barely bumping the top of your forehead, so you can see his raised eyebrow. You lean up to press a kiss to his lips, “You’re cute, and you have nothing to worry about, and I love you.”

He finally smiles again, content, and grants you another kiss to your forehead. With his mood back to normal, the two of you finish your coffee and carry on with your scheduled study session as normal (normal being Toge leaving you alone for all of twenty-seven minutes, before he starts taking videos of you with various outrages Snapchat filters on).

However, the following day when you return from your classes, there’s four new items on your kitchen counter: a silver espresso machine, a reusable Starbucks cup (already filled with your usual drink), a neatly folded apron decorated with cartoon Shiba Inus, and a small card with Toge’s bubbly handwriting on it: “Don’t worry, I’ll still pay for you $6 pink drinks, but if you wanted to thank me by making coffee in just the apron, then I wouldn’t complain ;)”

KENTO NANAMI Kento is a rational man; he favors using logic to carry out decisive actions, rather than letting his emotions get the best of him. So, the rational part of him knows that it’s not a big deal that the lunch bag and bento-style tupperware you bring to work was a gift from your ex-girlfriend; but there’s a small, ugly, green part of him overrun with jealousy and another bitter-tasting feeling he can’t quite name.

Because it’s not that important. It makes sense that you keep using them—the lunch bag is nice, leather, sleek, and insulated, and the tupperware is sturdy and functional. The whole system is sustainable, practical. It was a good present, one that objectively serves a good purpose whether or not it was given by an ex or not.

Maybe that’s what he hates so much. That this person still has room in your life, even though you haven’t spoken to them since you’ve met him. Kento doesn’t like that reminder—that there are people out there who might be a good fit for you, a better one than him. Those ugly feelings aside, there’s a sour taste in his mouth when he packs your lunch now; knowing that the food he cooked for the two of you—the meal you’re both going to indulge in—sits in a container gifted to you by an ex-lover.

Irrational to the point of being unfocused, he doesn’t realize how close the glass is to the edge of the counter, and when he turns to scoop more rice, he accidentally knocks it over with his elbow. It breaks into tiny pieces on the ground, the small portion of rice and chicken spilling onto the ground. The sound draws you out of your bedroom, mascara wand in hand and robe still on to call for him, “Kento? Everything okay?”

“I… it was an accident,” he explains, setting the spoon down in favor of reaching for a napkin, dropping to his knee with a light sigh, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to break it.”

Your laughter surprises him, prompts him to look up at you with broken glass shards pooled in his palm, “You don’t have to worry so much! It happens, we have a million more.”

There’s something about the way you don’t seem to acknowledge it being special to you in any way—Kento’s not even sure if you recognize what broke—that reassures him. Because it really was an accident, but Kento doesn’t mind that he managed to break this particular plate.

When he shoos you back to getting dressed, he finishes picking up the broken glass shards. There’s a certain lightness to his actions now, petty as it may be, he’s happy. Spends extra time writing a note for you to see when you unpack your food before he retires to the bathroom to start getting ready himself.

Maybe he could do something about that lunchbox next. You don’t seem to mind.

YUUTA OKKOTSU Thursdays are Yuuta’s favorite day of the week because on Thursdays, you two meet up at your spot, which is really just a set of twin benches in the west quad, but it’s your place and Yuuta loves it. You will have reserved a study room in your favorite library, and Yuuta will buy snacks for your study session before you both head to the library in an attempt to finish up your work for the week in order to keep your Friday evenings free.

Yuuta usually gets to the bench before you, a combination of the engineering building being a little bit closer, and his legs being a lot longer. He doesn’t mind waiting for you, as it’s usually his first time seeing you in two days (your Tuesdays are too packed for anything other than a shared coffee break between lectures, and Wednesdays are his hell days), and spotting you through the crowd of dissipating students always brings a smile to his face.

You look cute today, an oversized sweater enveloping your frame that Yuuta can imagine you cozying into and nearly dozing off in your dreaded microbiology lecture. He laughs to himself at the mental image, just as you stop in front of him to ponder, “Something funny?”

Yuuta shakes his head, leaning down to kiss your forehead with a proper greeting. “Nothing,” he reassures you, reaching around to pull your backpack off of your shoulders, and slings it over one of his, “You look cute. Did you mean to buy a sweater big enough to double as a blanket?”

“The oversized look is in,” you scrunch your nose and roll your eyes, letting Yuuta take your hand in his despite his teasing, “I don’t even think I bought this, honestly. It might be Todo’s? Or Toge’s—it might even be Maki’s at this point.”

Yuuta freezes. He feels the world stop and a million different emotions surge through him at once, but the most prevalent of them all is something ugly and green. He could deal with Toge, though he doubts he’s the culprit. While you two shared a penchant for oversized clothing, Toge was more often than not the thief, rather than the lender, and he’s pretty good at keeping his collection of stolen goods under lock and key. Maki was out of the question, too, because you shared a class with Nobara earlier today, and there’s no way you’d have made it out of there wearing her girlfriend’s sweater.

So it probably was Todo’s. And Yuuta had said you looked cute. Though he wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole, his moment of self-pity is waning, and overcast by something steely, something too-hot bubbling in his chest. The question of why you have it goes over his head—he’s not concerned with that, nor will he fault you for it—the matter at hand is that you’re wearing it. And, sure, Yuuta thought you looked good in it before, but he could name sixteen other things you’d look better in at this very moment.

You’ve gone on to ramble about something that happened earlier, but Yuuta’s not listening. He drops your hand first, then both of your backpacks on the bench behind him, before tapping at your wrists. You don’t seem to understand him, cocking your head to the side with a pensive expression, but Yuuta only taps at your wrists again with a simple command, “Up.”

It doesn’t seem like you understand, but you follow anyway, and Yuuta is pulling the sweater up and off of your body before you can question him. He tosses it onto the bench with little care, then removes his white jacket and places it atop your backpacks. “What are—” you don’t have time to finish before he’s pulled his own hoodie off his body, and slid it over your head.

Yuuta smooths out the fabric under his palms with a satisfied grin on his face. Much better.

“Aw, Yuuta!” you bring a hand to tug at the strings of the hood, a wicked smile replacing your dazed blinking, “I didn’t know you were so possessive.”

You tease him until he’s red up to his ears, embarrassed and borderline bashful, a complete 180 from the looming jealousy that took over him moments before as he shimmies on his jacket again and picks up your back backs. He huffs, as you tease him, circling an arm around his as you begin to walk to the student center. He doesn’t know if he agrees with your declarations of him being a possessive boyfriend, but he does know that he’s your boyfriend, and your boyfriend only.

“So, you think I look cute, still?” you question, picking up a pack of gummy worms. Yuuta lets out a breath of laughter, pressing another kiss to your forehead, “Even cuter than before.”

(Two days later, Todo can be found screaming wildly to Itadori when he comes across a familiar hoodie strewn across a random bench on campus—who considers visiting the Student Health Clinic to make sure an eardrum wasn’t ruptured—because, “Bro, what the hell? I swear I fucking lost this thing!”)

5K notes · View notes

tomriddleslovergirl · 1 year ago

Text

Hands on Me

Benjicot Blackwood x Fem!Reader x Aeron Bracken

Warnings: threesome, this is just pure smut, fingering, oral (male recieving) probably ooc because we don't see much of them

Summary: Aeron and Benji have a difficult time sharing.

a/n: this is my second time ever writing smut, so don't come at me lol. @lovebabe18 @cypherpt5fttaehyung

The hot air in the tent was shared by three naked bodies.

You lay between the two men — Benji to your left and Aeron to your right. Benjicot’s lips were on yours, muffling your moans, while Aeron’s were on your breast, sucking on the hardened nipple. One of each man’s hands were between your thighs, rubbing at and finger fucking into your wet cunt.

Their hands accidentally overlapped each other's many times as they attempted to pleasure you.

Benji released your lips. “Back off, Bracken,” he practically growled the words out. His pale face was flushed and you couldn’t tell if it was because of his usual shyness or because of the fact he was sharing a girl with his sworn enemy.

Aeron let out a small grunt as he reluctantly looked over at Benjicot, his hand now resting on your thigh.

“You back off, Blackwood.” You knew Aeron was trying to be intimidating, but his soft voice was not aiding him in doing so.

You had this peculiar arrangement with the two boys. During times of sexual need, the boys would come to you for help and you to one of them. Neither were fond of their enemy fucking the object of their desires, but you were not ready to commit yourself to anyone. And besides, you liked the drama.

You let out a small, annoyed whine. “Must you two argue right now?”

“Blackwood started it.”

Benji scoffed. “Me? You were the one getting your fat hand everywhere and hogging her.”

You roll your eyes and rest your weight on your elbows so you can get a clear look at Benjicot and Aeron.

“You two are acting like children,” you say, perhaps regretting this scheme of yours. When you had sex with Benji, it felt pleasurable, and the same could be said for when you fucked with Aeron. You had thought it would feel even better with the both of them, but you were beginning to feel impatient. You’d not finished once!

Aeron and Benji opened their mouths to form a rebuttal, but you beat them to it. “Perhaps, I should find another man to help me finish, if you two won’t.”

Instantly, Benji flipped you over so you were laying on your stomach. You let out a pleased grunt in return and rested on your hands and knees.

“I think something ought to be done about that sharp tongue of yours,” Aeron says, situating himself in front of you.

Ben grabs your thighs and spreads them to fit his body between your legs. One of his hands held onto your hip as the other grabbed his cock, rubbing it against your slit. He let out a small moan, feeling how wet you are. “Fuck.”

You lean forward and take the tip of Aeron’s cock in your mouth. The Bracken lets out a moan as he shuts his eyes, focusing on the way your tongue feels on his cock. Aeron reaches one hand out and digs his fingers into your scalp, tugging on the strands of your hair.

Suddenly, you feel Benji thrust his cock into your cunt, forcing you to fully take in Aeron. They both whisper profanities as you gag on Aeron’s dick. Benicot gives you a moment to get used to the feeling of his dick in you before moving in and out.

Your upper body is delightfully pushed towards Aeron in time with Benji’s thrusts. You try not to neglect the man in front of you by focusing on the sparks of pleasure shooting through you because of Benji, and instead focus on Aeron.

As best as you can, you hollow your mouth and swirl your tongue around Aeron’s cock, sucking him off. He lets out small moans and — when he can form them — words of praise. “Just like that,” he gasps out.

You move your head back and forth on Aeron’s dick, helping him face fuck you. You rest one of your hands on his thigh for stability as you continue to pleasure him with your mouth.

You moan when you feel Benji’s fingers rubbing circles on your clitoris, bringing you closer to ecstasy. Your sounds of pleasure eventually lead Aeron to his release first. You feel him tense before finally cumming. The salty liquid invades your mouth and you sputter. It dribbles down your chin and onto the ground underneath you. Slowly, he moves out of your mouth.

You and Benji are quick to follow Aeron in finishing. Your cry out in pleasure as you cum, Benji’s fingers and cock bringing you to completion. You can feel Ben’s balls slap against you and the sound of his heavy breathing. You grind against Benji’s cock and pelvis before he finally releases. He quickly pulls out of your hole and paints your ass and thighs in his cum.

You slump forward and lay down on your stomach, mind hazy from everything that’s just happened.

Someone’s hand wraps around your shoulder and tugs you toward their chest. Your eyes flutter open and see that it’s Aeron. Suddenly, Benji’s hand wraps around your waist and pulls you towards him, trying to force you away from Aeron.

You could already hear the argument that was about to begin.

#benjicot blackwood x reader #ben blackwood x reader #bloody ben x reader #benjicot blackwood #aeron bracken x reader #aeron bracken #hotd #hotd x reader #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon #hotd season 2 #hotd s2 #hotd x y/n #benjicot blackwood x y/n #benjicot blackwood x fem!reader

1K notes · View notes

withleeknow · 4 months ago

Text

lemuria.

pairing: hyunjin x reader genre/warnings: established relationship; fluff; unedited bc i suck, self-indulgent etc etc, this is pretty straightforward idk word count: 0.7k note: SO! the only reason i wrote this was bc of a certain purple-haired artist who altered my entire brain chemistry just by saying the words "ma petite artiste" 🫠 iykyk! but please tell me someone knows bc i am dying to talk about this with more people. even the title of this drabble is another desperate attempt to find my people lmao

as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

navigation / masterlist / ko-fi

In your head, you have a list of favorite things that can’t easily be topped: Saturday mornings (it’s the best time of the week, argue with the wall), cuddles with Hyunjin, and cuddles with Hyunjin on Saturday mornings. Not necessarily in that order though. You’re a simple woman.

You’re in bed, draped over his chest like a lazy house cat, watching as the sunlight slowly filters into your bedroom. Hyunjin’s got one arm around you and the other reaching for his lap, where he’s balancing a pencil and his open sketchbook, gracefully dragging the pointed graphite head across the page until the doodle is detailed enough for you to recognize. It’s nothing special — just the (dying) plant that sits in the corner of the room. At first glance, it seems healthy, lusciously green and thriving but really, it’s grown too leggy to be able to survive on its own.

You call it Viv, short for Vivian, which obviously is an unconventional name for a plant. Hyunjin says goodbye to it every time he leaves the house. In a way, you suppose it’s like a child that you care for with him, something that you try to keep alive and nurture together.

You sigh, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. Your artist, your love. Your muse too if you were even one tenth as gifted as he is.

The sun ventures further into your safe space, tiptoeing across the wooden floors like slowly-skipping stones, brushing against every object in sight until it reaches the two of you. You lean back when the light lands on him, smoothing over his soft, soft hair, caressing his cheeks, weaving itself in the tiny spaces between his fluttering eyelashes. You’d put him in a museum if you could.

You don’t know what compels you to reach out, but your hand has a mind of its own anyway. It makes him pause the sketch, your fingertips tracing the slope of his nose and the curve of his lips. His chiseled jawline and the beauty mark that you love to kiss. Hyunjin, Hyunjin, Hyunjin – important things must be repeated thrice.

“What are you doing?” he asks, a glint of amusement in his sharp eyes.

“This is my way of drawing you,” you say, completely unbothered, enamored with the way his smooth skin feels under your finger.

He hums, abandoning the pencil and the sketchbook in favor of catching your wrist and pressing his lips to the palm of your hand.

“Ma petite artiste,” he murmurs against your skin.

For some reason, it floors you. Flabbergasts you, stuns you into silence for a few seconds.

When you come to, you make a show of dramatically arching an eyebrow, a silent accusation despite the way your face flushes with a rosy tint, burning you from the inside out. You can barely suppress the smile that tugs on your lips, and Hyunjin catches it oh so easily.

“Where did you learn that?” you probe with affection. “Who are you trying to impress?”

“Duolingo,” he says as he moves to press you against the bed, ignoring the second question in its entirety because it simply doesn’t warrant an answer. Who else would he do anything for but you? Who else would it ever be for?

“Duolingo,” you repeat in amusing disbelief, barely containing the laugh that threatens to escape from your throat even though the heat on your cheeks is still painfully obvious to the both of you. You’re shy, embarrassed that all it took to melt you was a couple of cheesy French words he learned on Duolingo of all places, but Hyunjin is endeared, always so damn endeared by you and everything you do. “That owl teaches people how to flir–!”

He doesn’t let you finish your sentence, doesn’t let you get to the quip before he’s kissing away whatever remaining wit you have in your flustered state. The kiss, deep and slow and intimate in a way that sets fire to the heart inside your ribcage; his lips, addictively soft and wonderfully warm, much like the caramel sunlight that dances over the two of you.

It’s Saturday morning, and your plant is still (probably) dying but you can’t really bring yourself to care about it right now, not when you’re drunk on his pillowy smile pressed against your own, on his quiet giggles as he tries to make you blush.

It’s Saturday morning, and Hyunjin is your favorite person in the world.

#stray kids fic #stray kids imagines #stray kids fluff #stray kids x reader #skz fic #skz imagines #skz x reader #skz x you #hyunjin fluff #hyunjin scenarios #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin imagines #hyunjin x you #hwang hyunjin x reader #hwang hyunjin x you #stray kids #hyunjin #hwang hyunjin

460 notes · View notes

justauthoring · 11 months ago

Text

GENSHIN IMPACT - WHO DID THIS TO YOU?

includes: kaveh, diluc, alhaitham & childe all x fem!reader

a/n: i couldn't decide who to write for between these four so i did all of them :)

warnings: asshole boss in kaveh's, asshole stairs in dilucs, (not a) asshole cat in alhaithams and assholes (plural) in childes :) also not spell checked!

Kaveh:

You try to sneak in without being noticed, but it seems the fates are against you.

The door squeaks loudly the second you push it shut, a grimace falling on your face as you let out a soft curse. There's instantly a distinct sound of footsteps heading your way, so you give up trying to be quiet and let the door slam shut behind you.

Not without childishly sticking your tongue out at the inanimate object though.

"Darling?" Kaveh's voice carries through the house, soft and light with that twinge of warmth that's always there when kaveh is speaking to you. "Are you home?"

You brace yourself mentally for what's about to happen, back turned towards kaveh as he reaches the entrance.

You can feel his eyes on you and his growing presence as he steps towards you, still oblivious to anyhting wrong as his hand falls on your shoulder.

"Y/N? Is everything okay—"

With a gentle tug, he turns you to face him. not one to ever be able to deny kaveh of anything, you easily let him maneuver you, meeting his eyes apprehensively as you try to attempt to smile up at him.

His face instantly falls. "What's wrong?" He rushes, hands reaching for your cheeks where he cups them, gently, brushing the stray tears from your eyes as he takes in your puffy, red eyes and paled complexion.

You wrap your hands around his wrists; "nothing, Kaveh," you assure gently, finally finding your voice. It's still hoarse from the crying you'd been doing before, cracking at the end which mentally makes you wince. "Just a rough day."

"Did something happen?" He rushes to ask, shaking his head. "Did someone do something to you?"

You swore to yourself you wouldn't tell Kaveh – it wasn't that you didn't trust him, but when it came to anything concerning you, Kaveh tended to get overly protective. It was endearing, honestly, but you didn't want to dump all your problems on him. Especially something as silly as this.

At least, that was the plan. The second Kaveh asks if someone upset you, you're reminded of events that happened just minutes prior and kaveh's always been good at understanding you without you even having to say anything.

Your face twists, just faintly, and Kaveh's eyes harden.

"Who?" He asks, voice uncharacteristically low and sharp. "Who did this to you?"

"Kaveh—"

"Y/N," he cuts in, not leaving any room for you to argue. It stuns you, pulling your eyes on him with a blink as you take in the serious expression in his eyes. "What happened?"

So, you explain. you explain how awful work had been that day – how your boss had had it out for you all day, berating you and borderline harrassing you. How you'd tried to be strong and not let him see how much his actions and words were effecting you, but you'd ended up leaving work early because it all became too much.

By the end of it you're a sobbing mess once more, incoherent and deeply upset.

Kaveh holds you through it, brushing your tears and rubbing your back and not once interrupting you or making you feel silly for how upset you'd gotten.

You ask him not to do anything, especially because it seems it's taking everything from Kaveh not to – and he promises, says that he won't and instead gently shushing you with the promise that he'll get you a hot bath and some dinner and the two of you can spend the night together doing what you want.

And he means it. Kaveh won't do anything.

Tonight, at least.

Diluc:

"M-Master Diluc!"

The distressed voice of one of his maids gives Diluc pause, halting in front of the door to his home only to see Adelinde rushing towards him. There's a wild, panicked look on her face and instantly Diluc is turning towards her.

"What's happened?" He asks, "are you alright?"

"I-I'm fine," she breathes, out of breath from racing down the stairs the second she'd heard Diluc making his way in. "It's Mistress Y/N!"

That's all Diluc needs to hear. Adelinde lips part to explain more, but before she can even get a word out, Diluc is already at the top of the stairs and quickly making his way to your shared room. There's the distinct feeling of his heart racing madly with worry against his chest and Diluc's vision closes around him, focused on only you, until he finally reaches you.

You're sat in the bed, propped up by a couple of pillows but Diluc's attention is quickly shifted to your leg; more specifically, your ankle. It's wrapped up in bandages and propped up by a few more pillows.

The second you meet Diluc's eyes, you're sighing; "honestly, Diluc, I'm—"

Diluc is beside you in seconds.

"Who did this to you?"

The question is uttered with a sharp, dark tone and you blink, lips left parted as Diluc reaches for you. His heart is still poundly madly against his chest and it physically pains him to see you in any sort of discomfort or pain.

The only logical thing he can thing is that someone hurt you. One of his enemies, maybe... Diluc was careful about keeping his life private, especially when it concerned you, but he supposed villains had their ways and he absolutely crushes his heart to think you'd been attacked because of him—

He's pulled from his thoughts at the feeling of your hand in his, your fingers threading through his own as you squeeze reassuringly.

"Diluc, honey," you call softly, a smile on your lips that confused Diluc. "No one did anything to me."

Frowning, Diluc eyes your ankle and then meets your gaze. "Then...?"

"I tripped," you explain with a slight flush, obviously embarrassed by your own clumsiness. "I was helping Adelinde with something when I tripped over my own feet. We were walking down the steps so I sort of tumbled down... I think I sprained my ankle. I told Adelinde not to bother you with it because really, I'm fine."

Diluc hesitates; "no one hurt you?"

"No one," you smile, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "I promise."

Relieved, Diluc feels his body ease at the assurance that you weren't attacked. Still, he sees your wrapped up ankle and frowns. "Still," he calls out a moment later. "You're hurt."

"A little," you shrug, glancing at your ankle. "The throbbing has stopped. I just can't walk."

"Then I'll carry you."

You let out a soft giggle that flutters Diluc's heart; "I don't need to go anywhere."

"When you do."

Alhaitham:

"Who did this to you?"

You're surprised by how angry Alhaitham sounds. A quick glance in his direction tells you he looks just as angry, and you have to pause for a moment, trying to think about just what the hell he was talking about.

Conclusion? You have no idea.

He's looking straight at you — practically burning a hole through you with his glare. But you have no idea what he's staring at.

"Haitham..." You mumble apprehensively, baffled. "Who did what to me?"

"That," he presses, stepping towards you and nodding.

Just... nodding.

"What?" You ask, exasperated as you try to glance at yourself and see just what Alhaitham is talking about.

Huffing, short of patience as always, Alhatham grabs you by the wrist, grip gentle but pressing as he shifts so your palm is upwards. Then, his thumb swips lightly across a long, red and somewhat angry scratch across your inner forearm.

"That," he repeats, frowning at you.

"Oh," you calls with a laugh, stunned for a brief moment before a smile curls onto yourself. "I found a stray cat yesterday on my way home. It looked hungry so I fed it and then, I thought that it deserved a home so I tried to take it with me..." You grimace faintly, rubbing the back of your neck bashfully. "The little guy didn't seem to like that idea as much."

You expect Alhaitham to... well, not laugh, because he rarily did that, but you expect him to at least ease somewhat. But he doesn't. The frown remains heavy on his face, eyes set into a nasty glare as he stares at the scratch.

"Where?"

"Hmm?" You call, raising a brow as you meet his eys.

"Where was this cat?"

There's something about the way he asks it that makes you hesitate. "...Why?"

Alhaitham just lets your hand go, huffing as he crosses his arms across his chest. "So I can teach it a lesson for hurting you."

He says it so seriously because it's Alhaitham, but it's still the most ridiculous statement you've ever heard so the laugh that bursts out of your lips is truthfully beyond your control.

"Haitham!" You giggle, "it's a cat!"

"And?" He raises a brow, looking at you like you're the crazy one. "The cat hurt you. That's not okay."

You bite your lip, holding back your laughs as you take in how serious Alhaitham is — he looks genuinely bothered and upset that you were hurt. And honestly, despite the fact that his anger was now directed towards a random stray cat, is care for you is endearing.

Stepping towards him, you press a kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you for defending me," you say genuinely. "But it's just a cat. I shouldn't have tried to pick it up."

Alhaitham frowns and it looks like he wants to argue, but he lets it go. "Fine," he says, "but if you see the cat, let me know."

You let out a snort, nodding up at him; "I definitely will. I promise."

Childe:

"Who?"

"Ajax—"

"Who did this to you?"

Sighing, you try to turn your face away, finding Childe's never wavering gaze intimidating but his grip on your chin keeps you in place. His face is inches away from your own, eyes narrowed and face set with barely contained rage as he waits for you to answer.

You don't even know why you were arguing. Maybe it was because you were jsut tired and wanted to sink into your bed and forget any of this had even happened. But it was impossible with Childe.

The second you'd come home with a black eye, bruised cheek and over all just dishevelled, Childe had been on you. He'd been his usual happy self up until he saw the state you were in, taking in your ripped clothes and injuries.

"I don't know," you sigh, sinking into his touch as he reach for him. Your body hurts and you're exhausted; honestly, you're still scared. "It all happened so quick. There was a whole group of them and they came at me, pulled me into this alley or something and just..."

Your voice trails, hands shaking.

Childe lets go of your jaw then, arms shifting to wrap around you as he pulls you into an embrace. He holds you tight, pressing a hand to the back of your head as you let yourself break a little in his grasp.

"I was so scared, Ajax..." You breathe, pressing your face into his chest so your words are muffled.

"I know, Y/N," he calls softly, voice gentle and soothing. It had lost that dark edge it had had before, Childe finally coming to his senses and realizing how you needed him more than he needed to get revenge for you. That would still come, of course, but right now he needed to be here for you.

Pulling back, Child pulls your eyes on him; "where does it hurt?"

"...Everywhere," you whisper, wincing as a shoot of pain travels across your body. "I think my ribs might be broken."

Childe's heart breaks and he swears he see's red, but the pressing matter is you. He can find the idiots who hurt you later and he'll make sure they pay in full for what they did to you. Right now, he needs to help you.

"Here," he calls gently, "we'll get you in the bedroom."

You nod up at him, weakly, letting him wrap his arm around your waist and the other under your knees to bring you into his arms. The movement jostles you slightly, and Childe lets out an apology but you brush him off, knowing he didn't mean to.

"I'm sorry," you whisper a moment later, head bowed into the crook of his neck.

"You have nothing to be sorry about," Childe shakes his head adamantly. "I'm gonna take care of you. And I'll make those bastards pay for ever laying their hands on you."

1K notes · View notes

kenwio · 5 months ago

Text

Joker's kid! reader and how they life in manor started

Author's note 1: This part is huge, and it was a huge struggle for me to write (and rewrite), so I apologize if it feels crumpled T^T and there will be other author's notes

Warnings: long read, grammar mistakes (English is not my first language), mental issues, abuse

Bruce knew that eventually you will leave the madbay, you were there long enough to heal, but he had no idea how to bring you to the manor and he can't predict your reaction, seeing your reaction of everything in medbay, your confusion and fear that you showed looking at the simplest things. But other things concerned him even more.

Firstly, he knew that taking you to manor would include revealing of his identity to you, and identities of rest of the family. Secondly, the family.... he was worried about how they would react on you being there. So far, non of the kids interacted with you, and only Dick visited you while you were in the medbay, but he never saw you awake, thanks for the side effects of medicine that made you incredibly sleepy. And thirdly, you were a child of a villain, who knows what you are capable of? So what if you seemed harmless in the madbay? Plus, Bruce knew Tim and Jay expected only bad for you and Damians opinion of you was as bad if not worse somehow. Bruce knows it's going to be tough and he is not sure he can deal with it

Today was the day he would let you see his face and lead you up to the mansion. So, why did the world greatest detective was feeling icky? Was he afraid of you? No, you are just a kid, yes Joker's kid, but still a kid. Was he afraid your potential reaction? Not really, but he was troubled that he could predict it.

Maybe you didn't really show emotions, which was concerning, but also was made him feel more at ease, since you didn't show any signs of acting like your father.

You were sitting at your bed in medaby staring at your blurred reflection in the mirror. You couldn't clearly see yourself, but you were sure you looked a bit different and the clothes you were wearing now, simple t-shirt and pants, were much more comy and much more suited for a child, unlike that horrible suit.

- Hey, little one, how are you feeling? - he asked with strained gentleness

- I'm okay - you answered simply

- Since you are mostly recovered you will have to leave the medbay - he started saying. You were expecting something like that to happend, because why would he let you stick around? He alredy done much for you. As you were staying in the medbay you remember that Batman had a rule - a rule of not killing. Maybe that's why he helped you and healed you up, he probably just didn't want to let you die. You knew your father wouldn't really care of something happened to you, and he wouldn't even avange you, because why would he? You are just a pawn and he has bigger cards to cards to care about.

- So you will bring me back? -you asked, simply, which shoked Batman. You just now simply and dully asked him if he will bring you back to the crime alley ? How? Why? He felt his heart stinging at your emotionless reaction.

- No, I want to give you your new home

- New home? - you asked, confused. What did he meant by that?

- Yes. You will live with me, Alfred, and my sons. - he said calmly, looking at you, studying your reaction, he moved his hands closer to his mask. - that means you will know who I'm, and who are my allies are, which brings me to the point, before we could go to your new home, you must learn few rules, you understand right? - you only nodded in response. You were really confused. Why he wants you to live with you? Why is he okay with it? What was his reasoning?

The rules included: do not reveal our dentities to anyone, no wepons, no sharp object, no violence, no disobedience, mandatory emotional check-ins, mandatory seek of help when you need it, respect of boundaries and few other. You listened carefully when he explained every rule, trying to remember every detail, but you couldn't really understand that all. And you didn't really understood what will happened if you break the rule, but you didn't wanted to take chances.

After he explained the rules and you nodded to confirm you got the idea, he finally took his mask, and his face seemed to be familiar, and after few sections of thinking you said

- Oh, you are a man from newspapers - you remember seeing his face on some of the newspapers you used as blankets back in the crime alley.

- So I guess you know me? And you know my name - he asked, a bit confused by your reaction and use of wording

- uh.. I saw you, I don't really who you are - and it was true, you may saw him on newspapers, but you didn't really read them, there was too much words you didn't understand

- My name is Bruce Wayne, you can just call me Bruce. And since I introduced myself, it's time for you to introduce yourself too - he gave you a slight, gentle smile, encouraging you to speak up

- my name is (your name)

- Follow me, (your name)

So now you were following Bat...uh Bruce into various corridors of ... giant house? Castle? You didn't really know, but it was. You looked around, trying to take in at least some of the surroundings, but it was too much for you to remember. All you could say, the place was really luxurious... really like a castle, like one you saw in story book you manage to found one day.

Finally you arrived at the corridors there you assumed lived residents of the place. If you understood correctly while listening to Bruce, here manor two of his sons lived permanent: Tim and Damian, and two others, Richard and Jason, occasionally payed a visit. As you looked around corridor, you suddenly heard unfamiliar voice

- Father, you really decided to let them live here? - that voice sounded annoyed and angry

- Damian, we've talked about it - answered Bruce. You looked to father and son, who started conversation, taking in the appearance of short boy with spiky hair, and bright green eyes. So this is Damian.... as you looked at him, you noticed that his angry gaze never leaving you. His cold anger mixed with with annoyance made you visibly flinched.

- and I still stand my words, they are dangerous - young boy said, walking past his father, stopping in front of you - I was raised by assassins, don't think I won't see through your games - he said closing walking in his room and closing his door. You looked at him go, you expected this kind of greeting.

- Damian can be a little hostile at first- Bruce tried to soften up the atmosphere Damian created

- oh, it's fine, I understand -you answered calmly.

- so, most of those rooms are free so, feel free to chose one.

You walked through the corridor, checking if the room was taken or not, and you stopped at the far away room in the end for the corridor. Knowing that you would probably annoy others with your existence in the manor, you decided to choose exactly this room. You understood that your life here depended on how Batman, or how he told to call him Bruce, and his sons, and if you wanted to live peacefully you needed to try hard and not make him angry.

Bruce wanted to encourage you to take a room closer to others, but decided not to, so he would not discourage you

As you and and him walked in, you couldnt stop looking around. You would be living here now, and it felt like a dream.

- if you need anything call Alfred, and if you need me, just say so to him. - said Bruce as he left you to settle down. You looked around, taking in a surroundings by a bit empty previous guest room that just became yours. You sat down on the bed, feeling it's softness. You were still a confused, you felt fear as always, but also there was something else in the mix of your feelings, something much more lighter.

--------------------- ♤ ♡ ◇ ♧ -----------------------

In the morning you was woken up by the rays of sun. You didn't figured out how to close the curtains. Previously you didn't feel like going to dinner, so Alfred brought you sandwiches in your room so you at least could have a bite.

You looked out if the window, seeing beautiful geen garden. The sight was new to you, who grew up in the surroundings of dirty bricks and broken concrete. You watched sky, which looked more clear than in crime alley, clouds, birds, trees. It felt surreal, and it made this light feeling in your chest become stronger.

Alfred knocked soon after, he reminded you to wash your face and brush your teeth (something old butler had to explain you how to do) and said that he would lead you to the dining room.

Damian was already there, he tensed up once he saw you. You sat far away from him, sinking in your chair under his gaze.

Soon after you heard yawning coming form the way you've just walked in.

-Morning, Dams, morning Alfred - you heard the sleepy voice say - B left already?

- yes, master Tim - said the old butler putting coffee on place on the table near Damian's one.

- Drake - Damian said through teeth

- oh, look someon in a bad mood since morning, how - the boy sat down, suddenly stopping when he noticed you. He looked at you, not a word leaving him as he quietly staredat you for a few seconds with unreadable expression. Not knowing you decided at least to try to make the situation more strange

- hello? - you mumbled. And he just nodded. His gaze lingered a bit longer on your hair, before he looked away, looking visible uncomfortable. Alfred served the food soon after. It was one of the most tasty things you've ever ate, even if you could feel tension in the air that could be cut with the knife.

After Alfred was lead you back to your room and Bruce made a quick check up on you few hours latter you were left alone. You didn't really had anything to do: the books that were in the room were a bit difficult for you, and you didn't really had an idea what to do with crayons, because all the paintings that came in your mind were ones that were present on your father's "show scene". As you were loking at the window, you heard a sudden knock on your room's door. You turned around, awaiting too see an old butler, but was greeted with the sight of tall young man with wavy black hair, blue eyes, and slightly akward but nonetheless friendly simile.

- Hey, little one - he greeted - what are you up to.

- Hello - you mumbled rather shyly, looking at the window, when back at him.

- Oh, good-old window watching huh - you nodded, soon after adding

- You are?

- Right, I'm Dick, and what's your name?

- (your name)

- Nice to meat you. So, how are you here so far - he tried to striked up the conversation, before you heard familiar annoyed voice of Damian

- Grayson, I require your presence, now!

- Dami, just a minute - he answered

- now! - Damian repeated

Richard gave you an apologetic look - sorry, gotta go, but I would like to hang around you next time, if you Don't mind.

-I do not mind - you mumbled as you watched him left. The way he talked to you was unusual for you. It reminded the way how Bruce or Alfred talked with you, but it was warmer. It made that light feeling in your chest stronger for a bit, until it was taken away. It was strange to be talked with like that, but it was nice. Suddenly, you couldn't help but wish but to be talked with like that more.

--------------------- ♤ ♡ ◇ ♧ -----------------------

As day went by, you started slowly getting used to the life in here and rutine. You mostly spend your time around Alfred, following him as if you were a little ducking. He helped you around, explained how to do one or other things, helped you to find books you could read through, also old butler introduced to tw, but you quickly found out that cartoons were a bit much to you, so insted you settled on nature documentaries.

So here you were in the living room watching about life of animals in tropical jungle, when you heard heavy footsteps behind door, after that you hears how doors were heavily pushed open, you turned around, and saw tall and built tall and muscular guy, with short black hair with few white strands on them and book in his hands. Judging by his looks and what Alfeed told you so far you guessed it was Jason. Though, he seemed somehow familiar to you, yet you couldn't understand why...

- hello - you mumbled, looking at him.

He instantly frowned, you could see the same expression of anger on his face, the one you noticed on Damian constantly.

- what, old man really had his sanity kicked out? - he grumbled.

You were unsure of how to react, what to do. On one hand you could clearly see that Jason was mad at you the same way Damin were, so the plan was ether to hide in your room, or to stay quiet. On the other hand, even if you really didn't understand how to interact with others, in a short time you've been in the manor Alfred told you some basics of social interactions and politeness, one of which was to iniciate conversions, which made you want to give it a go.

- I just found out that some animals pretend to be dead so they wouldn't become a prey - you mumbled quietly, you really just learned that fact so you decided to share it. But it.your words seemed to make Jason even more mad.

- tsk, I see you, little psycho, are not so different from your crazy Dad - he spat out angrily, leaving you feeling down. You weren't like your dad, were you?

- I uh - you struggled to say, but you couldn't form your thought. What to answer to that? You weren't sure.

- don't even try, I don't like clowns -he spat out. Before you could say anything or he could continue saying things that left you sad, Alfred walked in.

- Master Jason, master Bruce awaits you in a batcave

- thanks - he said as he walked out, leaning you alone with your confusion and sadness, or so it was until you heard Alfred's cautious voice

- Master (your name)? Are you feeling alright? You seem to be a in your thoughts.

- I'm okay - you answered immediately, not wanting to worry old butler

- I see. - he answered, a bit thoughtfully, before speaking again - would you like to have some tea with cookies? - you nodded eagerly, remembering their sweet taste -when follow me to the kitchen

While you were enjoying tea with cookies, and looking how Alfred was busy preparing lunch, cutting greens with cooking scissors and chopping vegetables. He done this all fast and gracefully, leaving you amazed by his skills. In the middle of him cutting yet another green leaf, Alfeed was asked to go down to the cave by Jason, who walked away immediately after. Old butler put scissors near the edge of counter, and asked you if you knew how to get back to your room, before leaving. You just finished eating last cookie, when you heard metallic ring of fallen scissors. You walked to pick them up, but seeing your blurred reflection in them gave you an idea difference of original idea. Now you were on the way in your room.

Honestly speaking, you understood why your father was hated in this house, and you could understand why they hated you too, Joker is your dad after all, but you didn't like him to. In fact, he only brought you suffering. And you knew there wasn't a way to undone it,

But there is one thing you could do.

You walked in your room, I'm your bathroom, and in mirror you saw that one thing that reminded you of your father's the most. Your damaged green hair. Although while you were staying here, your hair grew longer and you could see your original color of hair, but green was still there and you hated longer green parts of your hair, his parts of your hair. Damian, Jason and Tim probably hated them too.

Chop.

You started cutting the green parts, leaving only strands of YOUR hair. It took awhile, it was hard. But few minutes after you were without them, and with fluffy uneven mess of a haircut on your head.

Putting all your green hair in a trash, you hurried back to kitchen. To your surprise, Alfred wasn't there yet. You put scissors in the sink, and returned to your tea, happy thay now you didn't had reminder of your dad on your head.

------------------- ♤ ♡ ◇ ♧ -----------------------

After your sudden haircut, scolding, and another, but more professional haircut latter, Alfred decided to keep an eye on you. He had to admit that your desire to show difference form your dad finally made him warm up to you. But he was even more surprised when you said that you wanted to help him with tasks around the house and managing requests of boys and Bruce. Bruce found it a welcome change, but not all boys agreed with him

Which leads you to the present moment, you were cautiously carrying tray with coffee and snacks for Tim, since he skipped lunch yet again making Alfred worried yet again, when you were walking past Damian.To avoid him, you took a little to the other side, almost kicking off some sort of sculpture, which he caught, stopping in front of you, glaring at you

- Tt... use your eyes when you are going anywhere, pay attention - he grunted.

- I'm sorry - you said calmly, - cool move by the way - you said in attempt to soften the move

- I wasn't asking for your opinion. - he said, glaring at you one more time and saying - One false move and you'll find yourself dismantled faster than these figurines could hit the ground. Touch anything else in Father's collection, and you'll be practice dummy for my katana.

You tried not to flinch at Damian words, but did so anyways. It took you few minutes to calm down and continue your way towards Tim's room. You prepared to knock, but door was slightly agape.

- Tim? - you called, imitating Alfreds tone of voice. You saw how his hand gestured you to come in, so you did. You placed tray with coffee and snacks on his table. He glanced at you only for a second, before his eyes returned to the screen of his laptop, in that moment some sort of text appeared there, making him jolt, put laptop down and run away. You just stood there, not knowing what to do, you looked between door from which he left, and screen of his computer device, when another text appeared on it, and this time you could read it - "low battery. connect the charger"

Thanks to Alfred, you already knew what charger is, you just have to find it! You looked around, seeing too many wires around the room. You looked at the laptop, and saw too many ports. As you were unsuccessfully trying to find the right wire and right port, laptop's screen went dark. In that moment Tim walked in.

- What did you do?! - he asked almost yelling. Immediately going to the laptop

Nothing! - you panicked, and stepped away. He raised a hand and wave it. Not noticing yor flinch.

- just go, go away! You are messing all up!

If you thought you were shaky after encounter with Damian, this one definitely did.

Judging by Tim's reaction, you broke his computer. You didn't mean to, and you didn't knew if anyone will believe you that you didn't mean to do so. Maybe you'll need to apologize later, but right now, all you wanted is to talk with Alfred or to use up Bruces offer and talk with him if you needed it. In the state of panick you must have took the wrong turn, and bot seeing clearly before yourself, you bumped into Jason, after what you was pushed back and fell down in the process.

- you, little psycho! Don't you dare to touch me! - he yelled, making you flinch. For a second you felt like you was back with your father, pushed around, beaten and yelled at. As you were processing what happened, you didn't hear soft footsteps,

Jay, it was an accident. They just didn't not you - said Richard, trying to calm Jason down -yes, little one? - he said turning to you, but you were already running back to your room.

You cruled up in your blanket, hiding from the world and trying to calm down. You felt like crying. You probably did cry. It was all your fault. You almost broke figurine from Bruces collection, you probably broke Tim's computer, and you made Jason angry, so , Dick too was probably angry at you. Why had you just break thing, make everything worse. Maybe you should talk to Bruce.

--------------------- ♤ ♡ ◇ ♧ ---------------------

You didn't even notice how you feel asleep for a short time, but when you woke up, you decided to see Bruce, if anyone, he should know how to get allong with boys. And that's what you really wanted, to get along with them, just to feel safe.

The problem however was to find Bruce. You remember Bruce showing you where his cabinet and room was, however, you don't remember where exactly they are. You managed to find Alfred, who gave you a concerned look, but explained you where he was. He also said that all of them were having a movie night - Richard decided that everyone needed at least one bounding day a month, where all of them would gather and do something together. That got you a bit worried, because what if you ruin their movie night just like how you ruined everything today. But maybe you could apologize in front of everyone for being inconvenience and making them angry? You'll have to brace yourself . While thinking about it, you walked through various corridors, until you reached movie room.

There they were: While movie were playing on a big screen they sat on cozy sofa and armchairs. Bruce sat in the armchair, occasionally looking on the boys. You could see smile on his face. Dick sat in the middle of the sofa, watching with enthusiasm and actively commenting on the plot, eating popcorn. On one side if him, putting his head on Dick's shoulder, sat Tim, who was lazily laying on sofa. He sometimes corrected Dick or commented on CGI, whatever it is. On the other side of the Dick sat Damian, who tried to make an impression that he didn't like being here, yet even you could see through his act, and who tried to keep Tim's and Jason's hands away from popcorn. And near Tim, in the corner of sofa sat Jason, who teased Damian and Tim most of the time, argued with Dick on which character is better and successfully stole Dick's popcorn.

You've never seen a sight, that was as warm as this. It felt so warm, so cozy, so homy

It felt like family.

And here you were: in the shadow, not daring to make a step, to come in to join them, to afraid to ruin this perfect moment

You've never had a family in that sense of word, and what you had as a family, you wouldn't dare to call as such. In your family was no warmth, no care. There weren't a moment like this. But you needed them.

After you were taken in my Bruce you found out what care was, but even so it felt like it still was too far away from you, so far that you couldn't reach it. Maybe you didn't deserve it, but you wanted care you wanted love. You wished you could be a part of family you see right now. You want to come in. But you know you can't, you know you will ruin the moment if you will walk in now. You know that Damian will add another threat to a previous one, Jason will yell, Tim will shoosh away, and probably Dick and Bruce will silently agree with them and will say to you to come another time.

Your father is Joker, that's instantly makes you undeserving of care and attention. Well, whay to say if your own mother left you. And as for the batfamily, it's only natural to hate a child of their main enemy.

But what if you can prove you are not like your father? What if love and care are earned, and that's exactly why you didn't get them. When you will have to try and earn it. But for now, all you could do now, is to hide behind the door in another room, listen intently on every sound they make, cry silently, afraid of making any noise so you couldn't ruin the moment and wish you could be with them. Wish you was loved at least once in your life. Wish you were a part of their family.

--------------------- ♤ ♡ ◇ ♧ ----------------------

Thank you for reading and feel free to share your opinion 💖 have a good day

Author's note 2: I really badly wanna draw Joker's kid. I'd you are interested in my artworks , please let me know

Author's note 3: (1) In one of anonymous asks (here) one user had similar idea of what I had in mind. I hope I've done it good > - < (2) And I wanted to fit this idea from another ask (here) in the plot to, but I couldn't done it fully, I'm sorry T^T

Author's note 4 : to be honest, I have no idea what is tag list and how it works (I'm really sorry, but I'm not active social-media user), but few amazing people asked to tag them, and i hope I'm doing it right: @socially-embarrassing , @leovergurl , @deathbynarcisstick , @cryptic-arr0w , @lynns-cornerr

988 notes · View notes