#i just think it's useful to keep in mind that almost everything involved in writing is an individual process to an extent

[words-after-midnight]

I think people writing self-inserts and self-indulgent pieces is awesome and a great way to create a story and explore writing. I don't think there's anything wrong with it whatsoever and I think people (especially young women) get way too much unwarranted shit for it. But discussions around so many posts about this topic so quickly turn into "when you really think about it every character is a self-insert" and/or "all writing is self-indulgent" and I'm just like... no... you had me, and now you've lost me.

[blueywrites]

soft body, meet sharp teeth

price x plussized!reader x nikolai

content: dubcon; reluctance, power imbalance, manipulation, coercion. reader is from the us (brief mention). inexperienced reader. many descriptions of reader's fat body; reader has body image issues, but price and nik view her body positively. degradation, objectification, brief humiliation; rough sex, spitroast, rimming, edging. aftercare, implied kidnapping /pos (bc apparently I can't help but write some tenderness into every fic lol)

—

You're nervous before you even knock.

You feel a bit silly over it, actually. After all, it's just a quiet little operation tucked inside a very expensive evening, one you're only tangentially involved in— here for a handoff, and nothing more. You’re a cog, not a player.

No one's gonna remember your name.

But the hallway still feels too long, the plush carpet too quiet under your heels, the hotel’s art deco lights warping your reflection almost mockingly in every gold-edged surface as you walk. You've adjusted your blouse three times between the revolving door and here, tugging at the fabric where it clings too tightly to your belly, worrying over the way the waistband of your skirt bites into your soft sides. Maybe it's because this is your first time going solo into the field, or because you'd only been given the assignment late last night, like it'd been meant for someone else and you were just a fill-in. But when you walked by the front desk, saw the pretty concierge tuck her hair behind her ear and reach delicately for the ringing telephone, you couldn't help but imagine yourself a tubby little girl playing dress-up in someone else's clothes.

Your steps trail off as you approach the suite number you memorized this morning, and forcibly, you push those thoughts from your mind. Tonight isn’t about you or your insecurities; you have a job to do. You allow yourself one last centering breath before you knock. The door opens almost immediately.

It isn't the handler you’re expecting.

In their place is a man who fills the frame like it was made for him. Broad in the shoulders, bearded, brows heavy over pale eyes. His sleeves are cuffed at the forearms, shirt slightly wrinkled but neat, like he'd rolled them up himself rather than letting anyone touch him. He looks like someone used to giving orders even when off the clock.

“You’re early,” he says, before you can even think to speak. His voice comes like gravel under boots— English-accented, calm but severe, like the cadence in your training videos. It doesn't matter how quiet he keeps it; authority coils inside every syllable.

“I, um… built in a buffer,” you reply, your voice doing that too-bright thing you hate. “Just in case. You know. Something happened.”

He doesn’t respond. Just looks at you, his sharp eyes sweeping over you, taking in everything from the careful pin at your collar to the way your kitten heels shift slightly on the tiled floor, not quite able to stay still during his examination. You’d dressed to blend in: black pencil skirt, opaque tights, a fitted blouse in a soft green that matched the pigment in your eyeshadow. Professional, understated, but different enough from your usual attire that you can't stop feeling aware of it. You’d worn a trench coat over it on the way in, but that’s folded over your arm now, no longer offering protection.

You feel exposed under his gaze, like your body is saying something about you before you have the chance to speak for yourself.

“She’s not Jacobs,” comes a voice from behind him. Lighter, accented. Russian, you think— lilting, playful in the way it curves up at the end. A second man steps into view, and you have to swallow twice before you can breathe properly again.

This one is even taller; broad-shouldered like the first man, though leaner through the chest, with a long face and sharp nose that gives the impression of someone who knows how to smile and get away with it. His eyes are blue-grey, murky where the other man's are bright and cold, but they're cutting— smirking at you, even if his mouth isn’t.

“You’re not Jacobs, are you?” he says again, like it amuses him personally.

His amusement makes something tighten inside you. Ignoring the feeling, you shake your head. “No. I’m her backup.” You look between them, almost beseechingly, adding quickly, “I've been fully briefed, and I have the dossier—”

“That’s fine,” the first man says, cutting off your spiral. “Come in.”

You step forward, obeying on instinct. The door clicks shut behind you.

“Captain John Price,” the first man says, jerking a thumb toward his chest. “This is Nikolai. You’ll be handing off to us.”

“Pleasure,” Nikolai says with a smile that flashes teeth, gesturing toward the seating area just beyond the doorway. You choose one of the two armchairs, avoiding the couch across. As soon as you sit, he cocks his head just slightly. “Do you always look like you’re about to bolt, or are we just that frightening?”

“Nikolai,” Price warns, tone flat but not sharp.

“What?” Nikolai raises his hands, still grinning, though it’s more cheshire-like now. “She’s cute, all nervous like that. Takaya kisa. Sweet kitty.”

“She’s here for the file.”

You look on helplessly as they go back and forth, unnerved by the Russian Nikolai used that you don’t understand. And there’s something in the tone of Captain Price's voice now, something buried underneath that top note of authority, that you can't quite decipher. It tickles at your hindbrain, feels off-key like a sour note, though you can't pinpoint why.

“And I’m here for the ambiance,” Nikolai retorts easily despite the warning in his superior's voice. “What a lovely little team we make.”

They exchange a look, and you sense there's an entire conversation in it, one that leaves you entirely— unpleasantly— in the dark. Reluctant to draw attention to yourself, you move subtly, draping your coat over the arm of the chair and pulling the satchel with your files into your lap. WIth your pulse hopping in your throat, you look around instead.

The suite is immaculate in the way expensive places always are, gilded by the light filtering through long curtains in muted sheets, turning gold against the walls. The floors are stone tile with warm rugs underfoot, and everything smells faintly of citrus polish and fresh linen. A tray has been set on the low table with two glasses and a decanter already sweating condensation, ice cubes untouched in their crystal bucket. The whole thing feels… unreal. More like a set than a hotel room, suspended in quietude as if waiting for something to begin.

You fidget in your seat, suddenly conscious again of how loud your clothes feel— how every shift of your thighs rubs fabric together, how every breath catches under your blouse like it isn't meant to move that much. You want to sit still. You want to do this right. But you just feel wrong.

“You’ve done this before?” Price asks, pulling your attention to him. He hasn’t moved from the door, but the weight of him follows you.

“Not—” You're about to say ‘alone,’ but pivot at the last second. “—with you. But I’ve run support for this unit before.” Wanting to move on quickly, you add, “My supervisor said you’ll be getting the greenlight for insertion after the gala.”

“Mhm.” He rubs his jaw, sharp eyes still on you. “Where’s the list?”

“In the folder.”

You open your satchel, hands steady even if Captain Price's discerning stare has your stomach in knots. As you reach inside, you feel Nikolai shift closer, see the shine of his belt buckle in your periphery, hear the sound of ice clinking in a glass. Leisurely, he moves to sit across from you, one arm slung over the back of the low couch, sipping his drink like this is a post-dinner chat and not a pre-op intel briefing.

While you gather your documents, you hear the captain approach from behind, but when you open the folder, smoothing it across your lap, Price stays standing at your back rather than taking the second chair like you would have expected. He looms over you like a steady wall of heat and judgment. You clear your throat, doing your best not to be unnerved.

“There’s a ballroom on the second floor, accessed through the main atrium,” you say, tapping the printed map. “Security’s clustered there and at the service corridor junctions. Your entry point should be the staff elevator through the south kitchen. It has the least camera coverage, and no guards are posted there after 8 p.m.”

Price grunts, reaching down to skim a fingertip along the page beside yours. His skin brushes your knuckles, warm and rough; your hand twitches, but you keep it there. You want to look unbothered in front of them, like you’ve done this a million times.

“What’s on the third floor?” he asks.

“Private rooms,” you answer. “A few penthouse suites. VIP bookings. You’ll find the target there— Suite 3C. It's not marked on the hotel’s guest registry, but I cross-checked with event vendors.”

“And backup?”

“Two guards posted outside, unarmed but trained.”

Nikolai hums. “Where are you from?”

You blink. “Sorry?”

“You,” he says, gesturing lazily with his glass. “You’re not from here. American, right?”

“Oh. Um. Yes.” There’s a pause, and you realize he expects more. “Long Island.”

“Aha. I thought so.”

He smiles like he’s won something. You try not to fidget under the weight of it.

“I lived in Brooklyn once,” he goes on. “Russians love Brighton Beach. All the food, none of the Russians.”

He grins, clearly amused with himself, and Price shoots him a look. Not annoyed—just dry. Familiar.

“She’s giving us the layout, mate.”

“I’m listening,” Nikolai says, shrugging. “I just like to know who I’m working with.”

“She’s a contact. Not part of the team.”

“Even so. Doesn’t mean we can’t be friendly.”

You stay quiet, lips parted like you aren’t sure whether to keep talking or wait for permission.

Nikolai’s smile lingers. Price says nothing. Neither of them look away.

And you, to your credit, do your best to quash down the roil of emotions inside. You try to keep things professional, return to the page. Try to ignore how your blouse feels tighter than it had earlier, how the elastic in your tights is digging deep into the soft crease of your belly now that you’ve sat too long. You chose the skirt because it’s black and structured— because it holds things in. But the waist is unforgiving, and your legs have always been wider when seated. You can feel the fabric strain where the hem sits flush against the underside of your thighs. Not riding up, exactly, just… tight. Pressing.

You don't tug on it or adjust your posture, not wanting to draw more attention to it. But you know they can see, and it's hard to ignore that.

“Like I said,” you continue, hoping your voice doesn’t sound as small as it feels, “you’ll want to avoid the ballroom and access through the service corridor. It’s a clean path from there to the elevator, and—”

“What time does the gala start?” Price asks, still looming behind you.

“Half seven. But VIPs start trickling in around six.”

“And no one else has this intel? Staff, guests?”

“Just me.”

Price makes a sound low in his throat, and for a moment, you feel his fingers brush the back of your chair, like he might adjust it, or even reach over it toward you. But he doesn't. He just stays there, standing close enough that if you were to lean your head back even slightly, you’d graze the front of his thighs.

You stay very, very still.

“She’s not used to this,” Nikolai says suddenly.

Startled, your gaze snaps from the page up to him. His expression is amused when you scan his face, trying to puzzle out such an odd remark. He’s relaxed in a way that makes it more unnerving, not less.

“Used to what?” you ask, too quickly.

“Being looked at.”

The silence that follows is deafeningly loud. Your stomach turns cold and hot at once as it lingers— as Price doesn’t contradict him, redirect him like before.

“That’s not—” you start, but trail off. There’s no version of denying it that won't make it worse.

Because he’s right. You aren’t used to being looked at like this, and certainly not by men like them— the kind with square hands and deep voices and war behind their eyes. You’ve grown used to being invisible in your softness, to letting sharp, pretty girls handle the face-to-face work. You know your place: smart, reliable, and firmly in the background.

But now—

Now Nikolai is watching you with a wolfish kind of patience. And Price hasn’t taken a single step back.

“It’s alright,” Nikolai says, voice smoothing out into something velvet-soft. Knowing he can see your thoughts written all over your face is embarrassing enough, but then he adds, “Some of us like a girl with a little more to hold onto.”

Your mouth drops open.

Behind your chair, Price lets out a quiet exhale, something too short to be a laugh. “You want to finish the briefing, love?” he asks mildly, acknowledging nothing of what Nikolai said.

It doesn’t feel like an invitation. It feels like a test.

Reeling, you swallow hard and nod, trying not to show how your palms have started to sweat. But your voice wobbles. Your fingers smudge the paper. And when Price leans down again— this time placing one firm hand on the armrest beside you— your whole body tenses like it expects to be chastised for taking up too much space.

“Easy,” he says, low and close. His breath stirs the fine hairs near your ear. “We’re listening.”

You take a steadying breath, nod again, gratefully latching on to the opportunity Price provides to pretend this situation is still completely normal. Because to acknowledge the strangeness is to acknowledge your discomfort, your insecurity— your shame— and everything in your body rebels against the idea.

Yet, tangled up with those are other feelings. And now, you can't meet Nikolai's eye for a different reason. Not with your cheeks burning, your thighs pressed together under the desk, and— you realize with a flash of mortified heat— your cunt pulsing low and traitorous between them.

Oh, sweet, soft you. Once again, you try to steer the conversation, keep it focused on the mission, you really do try. But something has shifted. Your body may have begun to betray you some time ago, heating under their stares, under the ghost of Price’s breath behind your ear, but now, it's impossible to pretend you’re unaffected.

When you finally drag your gaze from the papers on your lap, you see that Nikolai has already set his glass aside and leaned forward slightly, forearms braced on his knees, the shape of him loose but intent. Not lounging anymore; still smiling, but quieter now.

“You’re sweating,” he murmurs, like he’s noting the weather.

You blink, embarrassed all over again. You hadn’t even noticed, but he’s right. All at once, you can feel the inside of your elbows are damp, the band of your tights sticky against your lower belly. Unconsciously, you press your thighs together again under the folder in your lap. You don't notice the way the motion draws their eyes— fluid and silent, like the swing of a trap that's already set.

“It’s warm in here,” you explain quickly.

“Mm.” Price's voice rumbles behind you. “Or maybe you're just feeling the pressure.”

You turn your head slightly. Not enough to meet his eyes, but enough to make him out in your peripheral vision.

“I’m fine,” you say.

It's clear they aren't convinced.

“Let’s take a break,” Nikolai declares, already rising from his seat. “You look like you could use a breather.”

“I’m okay,” you say again, reflexive, hands tightening on the folder like it might anchor you.

“I didn’t ask if you were okay, kotyonok kitten,” he replies lightly, stepping toward you. “I said you could use a break.”

He extends a hand, rough-worn and lined. A soldier's palm. The offer, paired with more Russian he has to know you don’t understand, makes your brow knit tight. With what emotion, you don't quite know. But the feeling hovers there just like his hand, quiet and yet unignorable.

You look up at him.

His shirt is fitted but open at the collar, unbuttoned too far down, showing off a gold chain cradled in a dark nest of hair; his sleeves are rolled, more carelessly than Price's, his thick forearms lined with more of that dark hair and prominent veins. Your eyes dart back to the v at his collar, watching as his chest rises slow and steady, like he has all the time in the world to wait for you.

And behind you, you feel the air change, and know without checking that Price has shifted— a slight movement, but enough to remind you that you're surrounded.

The pretense of your composure— your ability to act like nothing is happening here— finally falls away.

“I—I should stay focused,” you say softly, almost pleadingly, like a final attempt you don't really believe will work.

“You’re trying too hard,” Nikolai counters, his voice gentle, his eyes gleaming. “You’re not under interrogation, sweetheart.”

The word lands like a thumb on your tongue.

Sweetheart.

“I just want to do a good job,” you mumble, not sure why you say it, or why your voice breaks on job.

“You already have,” Price says. You feel the weight of his hand land firmly on your shoulder; feel both comforted and trapped by it. “We’ve got everything we need.”

“That’s right,” Nikolai murmurs, taking another step closer. “You’ve done beautifully.”

His eyes drop, tracing the curve of your breasts under the blouse, the cinch of the waistband over your rounded stomach, the heft of your thighs where they press outward beneath the hem of your skirt. He doesn't hide it. And for the first time, you realize there’s something like hunger coming off him.

“It’s a rare thing,” he goes on. “A girl like you—”

“What kind of girl?” you ask defensively— a cornered cat, hissing and spitting right before it gets scruffed.

That makes both of them pause.

And smile.

“Soft,” Nikolai says. “Shy. Looks at her own body like it’s a burden.”

“And has no idea,” Price murmurs behind you, thumb brushing once against your collarbone, “how fuckin’ pretty she is when she’s trying not to squirm.”

Your heart thunders in your throat. You want to speak, say something, but your mouth has gone dry. Nikolai’s fingers touch your chin, lightly tipping your face toward him again. With those storm dark eyes looking down on you, and Price’s solid warmth at your back, he says,

“Let us take care of you.”

The words seem to hang in the air. They’re less coaxing than how he sounded before; maybe even, you think, closer to a command than an offer. Again, something in the back of your mind squirms, twisting away from that sour note, even while the heat simmering in your belly flares at the prospect.

It’s confusing; it’s too much. You don’t reply, and the silence that follows is heavy.

Price is the one who steps back first, just enough for his hand to lift from your shoulder and the heat of him to ease off. Finally, you can breathe— sharp, sudden, almost dizzy with the room’s stillness, like you only became aware you were starving yourself of oxygen once you gasped it in again.

“Up you get, then,” he says casually, voice still low but not unkind.

“What— why?” you ask, the question reflexive, almost petulant.

“You haven’t taken that breather. And you look like you need it,” Nikolai says mildly, stepping aside as well, leaving you a narrow path between them. And in that gap, set back against the wall, you see the front door to the suite.

They give you space the way wolves might give a deer a final glimpse of open forest— calculated, careful, almost gracious. But your limbs are too heavy with heat and noise to bolt for it.

Something in you folds instead of flinching.

Slowly, you find your feet. You stand, and your skirt creaks at the hips as it adjusts; your tights cling uncomfortably to the undersides of your thighs now that the fabric has warmed with your body. You feel heavy, clumsy in your own skin. But still, you don’t run.

“There,” Nikolai murmurs, watching you rise. “Better, isn’t it?”

You open your mouth to answer but gasp as fingers brush the fabric of your blouse, just beneath the swell of your breast.

You look down to see Price’s hand there, his thick, squared fingers pressing into the delicate green of your clothing.

“Shirt’s damp,” he says, like he’s pointing out a detail on a map. Like he hadn’t given you that breath of air just so he could press in tighter somewhere more tender. “Warm in here, you said. In’t that right?”

His thumb drags upward, slow as sunrise, pressing into the soft give of your breast through the fabric. You try to step forward, away from the touch, but Nikolai is already there, closing the small gap he’d allowed you like it’s nothing. His hands brace your hips lightly— barely there, but unmistakable.

“I—I really should go,” you whisper, voice thready. “I didn’t think this was… part of it.”

“No? Funny,” Price says, sounding a touch darker now. “It suits you.”

His thumb finds your nipple. Presses once. Not hard, just enough for it to stiffen, traitorous and obvious through your blouse. You suck in a quivery little breath, trying to grasp at the shreds of your composure, to figure out how to get out of this room unscathed, unchanged.

But you’ve already failed in that.

“Sensitive little thing,” Price mutters. “That all it takes?”

You don’t see him move, but you feel it: the weight of his presence peeling away from your back, only for a moment, before he reappears in your periphery. His knuckles graze the side of your throat, calloused and unhurried, as he rounds you with the slow certainty of a turning tide. The shift is subtle, but it leaves you suddenly exposed at the back, your balance teetering.

“She’s shaking,” Nikolai observes, amusement thick in his voice. “Poor thing doesn’t know where to look.”

He's behind you now— when did he get there?— his hand splayed low across your spine like a paperweight, his thumb rising to press at the dimple just above your ass, a barely-there pressure that makes your stomach lurch.

He’s right.

You don’t.

Because Price is right in front of you now, his fingers plucking, teasing the stiffened peak of your nipple through layers of fabric. And Nikolai’s hands are sliding lower— over your hips, down the supple curve of your lower belly, until one snakes under your structured black skirt. It pushes up and makes a home between your legs, cupping, palming the heat that has soaked through your tights. His breath ghosts over the shell of your ear: deep, gravel-warm, and horribly smug.

“You’re wet.”

It isn’t a question.

You whimper.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, flexing his fingers, his palm shifting, rubbing so subtly you could almost be imagining it. “You’re doing so well.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t mean—” you start, shame rising hot in your throat.

“You want to be good, don’t you?” Price asks, pinching lightly again. “That’s why you came here, all dressed up. All trembling and sweet. Trying so hard to be professional with a soaked cunt under your skirt.”

“No! I mean, I—”

“Ah, ah,” Nikolai purrs, hand tightening just slightly. “No need to lie. Not to us.”

You can feel yourself unraveling— stomach bunching, breath shortening, thighs twitching to close but held wide by the press of Nikolai’s thick thigh.

“You don’t get looked at like this, do you?” Price asks softly. “Not usually.”

You shake your head before you can stop yourself. Both of them hum.

“Shame,” Nikolai whispers. His middle finger presses more firmly than the others, right along the seam of your tights. “They’ve no idea what they’re missing.”

“But we know,” Price adds, leaning in, the bristles of his beard feathering against your cheek. “Don’t we, love?”

They haven't even taken off a single piece of your clothing, and you already feel stripped bare.

Nikolai is a solid wall behind you, his palm spread over the heat between your thighs, cupping you like it's his. Price stands before you, crowding you in, still thumbing lazily at the stiff peak of your nipple through your blouse. The fabric is growing more damp now, darkening visibly where sweat gathers under your breasts, under your arms. You clench your jaw to keep from making any more noise, lock your knees to keep them from folding.

Despite your efforts, your body betrays you, trembling anyway. And that's when Nikolai’s voice dips, lilting and coaxing, into your ear.

“Let’s see you, darling.”

“What?” you breathe. Panic floods your chest.

“Off,” Price says simply, nodding once to your blouse. “All of it.”

You freeze.

And, though their gazes press in on you, they don't move— don’t poke, or pull, or push. They just wait, almost insultingly patient, letting silence grind against your nerves until your mind finally catches up with the inevitability they already know:

What you're going to let them do to you.

Your chest rises with a deep breath— bracing, for courage — and Price leans back, giving you space.

It doesn’t feel like mercy; it feels like stepping into a snare.

You unbutton your blouse first, fingers fumbling now, and you hate that they can see how nervous you are, how clumsy you become when eyes are on you. The fabric pulls at your chest as you work down the row, then peel it away with a sound like tearing paper. Your bare arms catch goosebumps instantly, not from the air, but from being so wholly seen. Quickly, as if to distract yourself, your skirt follows. You slide the zipper down and wriggle it past your hips, your thighs rubbing as it falls around your ankles. The tights cling more stubbornly— sticky with sweat, dragging over every curve, every soft fold of skin. Your eyes stay on your feet as you step out of the bundle, the goosebumps now racing down over your midriff and the backs of your thighs.

“Weren’t planning on anyone seeing those, were you?” Price says.

Your head snaps up to see he's looking directly at your bra and panties; automatically, you look down at yourself, too.

Your underwear don't match. The bra is blush pink, one of your older ones— worn and plain, a little too small, so that the band bites into your back more tightly than usual. Your panties are dark blue, cotton, and stretched more than you would want them to be. They hug the crease where your belly meets your thighs and dig just slightly into your hips.

No, you weren't planning on anyone seeing them, and that made you a bit sheepish to begin with. But the fact that he’d say it—

“Pulled from the drawer in the dark, was it?” he adds. His voice is light, teasing, but still a little mean— poking a sore spot, for what? His own amusement?

Your whole face burning, you cross you arms, cinch them tight around yourself, like you could cover everything at once—your stomach, your tits, the deep, soft curve of your inner thighs.

Why would I wear these?

Why didn’t I check?

Why the fuck am I still here—

You take a step back, reaching for the blouse you’d dropped on the floor.

“I shouldn't have— I should go,” you grit, feeling utterly stupid and small. Your throat is tight with humiliation over it all— being the last-minute replacement on this job, losing your composure in front of these two men, being so unprofessional that you actually took off your fucking clothes, and especially— the part that cuts the deepest, makes the sting of angry tears finally rise behind your eyes— letting yourself believe that they would truly mean those pretty lines they fed you.

Would actually want you.

“Fuck this,” you whisper, fumbling for the blouse with shaky fingers, ready to tear it on— tear yourself from this snare and retreat to lick your wounds alone.

But before you can lift it, Price’s palm lands flat between your shoulder blades.

“Bend over.”

Your lips part to protest, but you never get the words out.

He presses, and you fold.

The edge of the table hits the juncture of your hips, sharp and unyielding; your arms fold forward to catch yourself, tits flattening against your forearms. You barely have time to inhale before the flat of his hand cracks down between your legs.

A spank, right over your soaked panties.

Crack— and your knees buckle.

Oh my God—

Your gasp is a ragged, dizzying inhale.

It isn’t the pain that leaves you reeling. It's the wet sound it makes, echoing in your ears like a shot; the fact that he’d aimed straight for your cunt; and the blinding, inexplicable heat that blooms instantly between your thighs.

“There she is,” Price mutters, his voice low and pleased. With the hand that spanked you, he palms your ass cheek, kneading it like praise.

“Now be a good girl for the captain, pet,” Nikolai purrs, “and let him see all of you. Hm?”

You don't move. You don't cry. You don't think about your bra and panties, or the job, or the pretty concierge from downstairs. You lay there for a moment with your arms folded up under you and your chin pressed to the wood of the table, just… existing in your body. It's gone molten and heavy in a way you've never experienced before, trembling from deep within, your cunt slick enough now that you can feel it beginning to soak through the fabric, cooling against the air on the back of your thighs.

You know, then, that from the moment you set eyes on Captain Price and Nikolai in the doorway of their hotel suite, you were never going to leave without taking what they would give you.

Your bra comes off first. You unclip it slowly, hands shaking from adrenaline and anticipation, and your breasts bounce free, sagging under their weight, your nipples already stiff from the rush of blood beneath your skin. You see Price’s gaze flick lower. You see him smile.

Your panties follow. You peel them down carefully, trying to avoid any awkward movements, but there is no elegant way to undress with your thighs and hips and belly, all of you so soft, so unhidden, every inch of you marked by your body’s honest weight.

Price doesn't flinch; neither does Nikolai. They look at you— all of you— and move in.

They have you on your back, laid out on the table, in seconds— Price guiding you down, Nikolai lifting your legs by the backs of your knees. They don’t speak to each other, and don't seem to need to. In silence, your arms are gently, firmly pressed to your sides, your thighs parted, your body arranged.

You lay there, rendered limp by the ease of it.

They unbuckle slowly, almost leisurely, and through it all, you don’t move a muscle out of place. You just watch as they ready themselves: shirts coming unbuttoned or being shrugged from shoulders, hanging open; belts sagging, zippers parting, trouser waists falling slack but held up by the thickness of their thighs. Boxers being tugged down or pushed aside, fabric parting to free what's underneath. The scent of them fills the space— soap, sweat, something like musk and leather. Hair scatters across solid bellies and wide chests, one a shade darker than the other. You look between them and can't decide, from this angle, which of them is stronger, denser, hairier. They both look like more than just men. They look like grizzlies made bipedal.

And they're about to fuck me. The thought makes your head rush in the most wonderful, horrible way.

Then Price steps into your view.

You look down the length of your body—over your jiggling belly, your splayed thighs—and stare.

You'd felt his hand on your shoulder, your waist, your breast; you're acquainted with its width. To now see the way he grips his cock with that hand, how the head stands out from his pale fingers, red and blunt and already glistening as he glides his fist from the crown to the base and back again…

He's stupidly, devastatingly thick.

The sight brings back a sense of reality, of practicality, and with it, a surge of nervous anticipation rises within you. When he steps closer, you grasp for sense. “What about— D-do you have a condom?” you stammer suddenly, voice higher than you mean it to be.

And Price laughs.

He laughs.

Before you can even register it, Nikolai’s fingers are skimming along your temples, thumbs stroking down your cheeks to your shoulders. Gentle. Possessive.

“Don’t worry, kisa kitty,” he croons from above you. You look up at him, see his face upside down, leaning over you. As you stare into his storm-dark eyes, his fingertips press into the hollows of your chest, just below your collarbones— subtly holding you down. “You won't be needing that.”

It's all the warning you have before Price pushes in.

The head of his cock breaches you slowly— hot, silken, impossibly thick, somehow thicker even than it looked. Your cunt seizes around him instinctively, like your body is trying to push him out even as it pulses to pull him deeper. You cry out, the sound punched from your chest at the feeling of him splitting you open. And yes, there is pain, but it's not sharp. Not bad. Just a molten stretch that burns through your whole lower body, stealing your breath as he carves room inside you.

You feel your thighs twitch, your belly rise with each shallow breath as he keeps going, slowly but ruthlessly filling you by inches— dragging his cock through your tight, clinging heat like he’s mapping every dip and fold. And then, finally, you feel his thighs press against the underside of your ass, and know you've taken him to the root.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, flexing his hips to press even more firmly against you, drawing another little cry from your lips. “Grippin’ me like a fist.”

“She’s clenching?” Nikolai asks, voice above your head bright with interest.

“Like she thinks she can stop me.”

He chuckles. “That’s adorable.”

All at once, there are fingers at your lips: Nikolai’s, tapping gently.

“Now, moy kotyonok my kitten,” he says, “let’s keep that mouth busy, mm?”

Attention stolen by the thick, deliberate push of Price’s cock, without thinking, you open.

Nikolai presses in.

It’s awkward at first. The angle is strange; your head is tipped back over the edge of the table, and you can barely flatten your tongue properly. Mercifully, his cock enters slowly, warm and slightly salty, the skin soft but the shape firm. You can feel his foreskin drag against your tongue, unfamiliar and smooth, shifting each time he slides in and withdraws only to come back, pressing further once again.

Your moan around him is wet and open-mouthed— half a sound, half a reflex.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, stroking your jaw as his cock fills your mouth. “Just like that.”

Between your legs, Price starts to move. Tiny thrusts at first, shallow and probing, like he's testing the push and pull of you from the inside. Even that little friction drags fire through your cunt— stretched and slick and full, your pussy gripping around him in twitching, helpless pulses. Every inch he takes and then gives back makes your breath catch, makes your mouth slacken around Nikolai’s cock, makes your thoughts fly apart into something raw and dirty and shameful.

“Told you she’d take it,” you hear Price say, his voice closer now, one hand braced on your belly. “Didn’t believe me.”

“I believe you now,” Nikolai chuckles. “Look at her.”

He pulls back, just far enough to rest his cockhead on your bottom lip. You pant against it, spit-slick and open, your lashes fluttering. A small, sensible part of you tries to make sense of what they mean, until their cocks chase it away again.

“Open,” Nikolai says, looking down at you as he lifts his cock slightly.

At first, you blink at him, confused that he's taking it away from your mouth. Then you feel his hand under your jaw, tilting.

“Open wide for me. Show me how grateful you are the captain’s fucking you so well.”

You obey— mouth wide, throat raw from taking him deep, your tongue falling out like a wet, pink cradle to welcome him back to you. Nikolai lifts his cock and presses it against your chin, then down.

Then he brings his balls to your mouth.

Soft and heavy, they settle against your lips, spreading over your chin, the underside of your nose. You whimper and lick, trying your best, awkward and heat-flushed as you lap at the seam of his scrotum, the sweat-slick skin dusted with coarse, wiry hair, and the firmer swells within it. The salt and warmth of him fill your mouth, your lungs as you work at him. Your thighs shake; your nose knocks gently against his sack as Price fucks you, forcing you to chase Nikolai with your tongue, try to suck the skin between your lips only to lose it again the next second.

But Nikolai doesn’t seem to mind. “There’s a good girl,” he croons, cupping your neck with his other hand, the first slowly jerking his cock against your chin. “So polite. So obedient.”

Price’s thrusts deepen. He grunts low in his throat, hand splayed over your soft belly, pinning you as he fucks up into you harder.

“Jesus, she’s fucking soaked,” he says, almost to himself. “Can feel her fluttering around me. Like she’s trying not to come.”

“She doesn’t want to make a mess,” Nikolai replies; you can hear the smirk in his voice when he adds, “She’s still trying to be professional.”

They both laugh.

“Darling,” Nikolai says sweetly, brushing your spit-slick cheek with his knuckles. “You’ve got a cock in your cunt and another on your chin, with your face buried in my balls. I think that ship has sailed.”

You barely have time to register how that makes you feel before Price abruptly pulls out of you; the slick, wet drag makes your back arch from the table.

“Switch,” he grunts, wiping his cockhead along the soft underside of your thigh.

Empty now, you whine, cunt twitching helplessly around nothing, already clenching as if begging him to come back. But Nikolai is there immediately, knocking your knees aside with the width of his torso.

And he doesn’t wait— he just presses in.

He is a smaller man than Price, but not by much. Though not quite as thick, his cock is longer, and he doesn’t try to ease you into it, just thrusts into your cunt with a sharp, sure rhythm that rocks your body on the table. The wood squeaks against your shifting softness; your tits bounce with every firm smack of his hips.

“There’s my good girl,” he hisses, wide hands gripping your waist harder than Price had, pressing into the ample give of your body. “Taking us in so nicely. Like you were made for this.”

You can’t answer, distracted as you are, because Price has moved to your head.

His cock hovers above your mouth— wet with your arousal, flushed dark and veined, the crown slick from where he’d just fucked you.

“Open up,” he says, his hand spanning you from jaw to cheekbone. “Want you to taste the mess you made on my cock.”

Mouth slack, eyes heavy lidded, your body buzzing like never before, you don’t hesitate for even a second.

You just obey.

The taste hits you immediately— bitter, musky, salt layered over something slick and unmistakably yours. Embarrassment and arousal tangle inside you until you can't separate them, bouncing you between them just like these men fuck your body from both ends. Driving you quickly toward a precipice that, all things considered, should have been much farther away than it is.

I’ve never come like this, you think wildly, even as your stomach begins to tighten with that familiar feeling. I don’t even think I can—

Nikolai’s cock pistons into you faster, harder, his solid hips slapping against the backs of your thighs. His pubic hair scrapes the tender skin of your folds, his balls plapping rhythmically against your ass. There’s no angle you can squirm into that doesn’t bring pleasure, no breath you can take that doesn't make you whimper.

“She’s shakin’,” Price murmurs, his voice a low hum above you as he holds your head still and fucks your mouth. “Think she’s close?”

“She shouldn’t be,” Nikolai laughs breathlessly. “Haven’t touched her clit.”

He’s right— they haven’t even grazed it accidentally. You’ve had nothing but the constant grind of cock inside your holes, the friction of your back and ass against the table, and the thunder of your own heartbeat in your ears.

And yet—

Your thighs keep twitching. Your cunt spasms around Nikolai with every thrust. Your nipples have drawn tight despite the warmth building in the room, dark with blood, scraping the air with every bounce.

“That it, sweetheart?” Price asks, cupping your face with both hands, digging his fingers into your scalp and canting his hips to drag his cock more firmly against your tongue. “You gonna come just like this?”

You whine, your whole body wound tight, your hips twitching to meet Nikolai’s thrusts, so fucking close—

He pulls out.

You cry out in sharp dismay, the sound garbled around the cock still in your throat.

“Switch,” Nikolai pants, his voice a touch more hoarse now. “Not done with her yet.”

They do it again: Price at your cunt this time, his girth stretching you anew, driving a brutal rhythm into your already swollen hole.

You moan in relief, your eyes scrunched closed, too glad to have someone hitting that spot inside you again to react to Nikolai tapping your lips with his cock. He lets the tip smear prespend across your lips and chin instead, chuckling, “Look at her. Fucked stupid. Face a mess. Is that her mascara?”

“Was,” Price mutters.

“Desperate little kitty,” Nikolai croons at you. “Crying just from cock.”

You hadn’t realized you were crying until he said it, but now you notice your face is wet from every angle— saliva leaking from the corners of your mouth over your cheeks, tears streaking black through your ruined lashes, catching in your hairline. Your mouth has gone puffy from effort, jaw sore and slack. And every time they edge themselves— pulling out, groaning, trading places— they drag you closer too, without even trying.

It’s torture of the most exquisite kind.

You want to scream, beg, tell them to just keep going, to fuck you through it—

But your mouth is full again.

“That’s it,” Nikolai purrs, sliding his cock back into your throat. “Just like that, pet. Show us how grateful you are. Show us what that fat little mouth was made for.”

Price thrusts harder into you, his grip on your thighs tightening. “She’s ready, Nik,” he grits, his voice rough from affect and effort. “Pussy’s fuckin’ beggin’ me to come, mate. Drippin’ all over the goddamn table.”

And you are. It pours from your cunt in strings, smearing his thighs and yours, soaking the wood beneath you. You can feel how wet you are, how slick your skin has become with sweat and arousal; can imagine how far gone you must look, used and wet-faced and wrecked. Laid out across the table, bookended by their masculine frames, twitching and writhing on their cocks like a thing possessed.

Then Price hits something deep, something bright. You squeal helplessly around Nikolai’s cock, a broken, animal sound.

And that makes things escalate quickly.

Price snarls something low and wordless, slamming himself fully inside you, and you scream— muffled, guttural, the sound pulled from the depth of you. Your whole body jolts forward, the force flicking your jaw upwards; not quite a bite, but enough to scrape against the meat in your mouth, which promptly slips free.

Nikolai pulls back with a wet pop, breathing hard. Startled, with a flash of worry, your eyes pop open to see his tip, slick and flushed, hovering above your face as he fists his cock roughly at the base.

“Teeth,” he pants, drawing your wide-eyed gaze to his face. His dark brow is furrowed and sweat-slick, but more from exertion than annoyance. He flashes you a teasing smile. “Didn’t want to ruin my fun just yet.”

Reassured, you manage a nod, gasp in air— but not for long.

Because his balls are suddenly in your face again, and this time, there’s no hesitation.

You latch.

Tongue sloppy, drooling, tasting every inch of him, you suck and kiss and lick with no rhythm, no grace— just sheer want. Your arm even snakes up next to your ear, your hand wrapping around the back of his thick, hairy thigh, urging him closer. You chase the salt and musk of him like you’re starving for it, lavishing him with unspoken praise— a wet, messy, earnest worship.

“Fuckin’... Christ.” You feel Nikolai’s broad hand cup underneath your skull, keeping your mouth pressed close to him. “Filthy fuckin’ thing. Sovsem s uma skhodit. Completely losing her mind,” he mutters, the words slipping rough and low. “Little animal.”

Your hips react to the affect in his voice, bucking out of rhythm with Price’s thrusts. “Hold still,” he growls, voice sharp with effort. Your ankles kick out once, uncontrolled, before his grip steadies your hips again, pressing you down against the table almost hard enough to grind your bones.

He drives into you now like he’s trying to knock the orgasm out of you with brute force, the sound of flesh meeting flesh loud and constant. Your tits bounce violently with the impact, the table underneath you jerking in time with his rhythm. Your softness is everywhere— your belly rippling with every thrust, thighs quaking with the force of it, skin slapping loud and wet in the heat-thick air.

If you weren’t flesh, your body would break into pieces.

You can’t think, can’t make a sound; can barely even breathe. You feel it coming— a white heat blooming in your pelvis, a deep, unbearable twist building in your gut. You whimper again and again, high-pitched and frantic, against Nikolai’s balls, nose buried in the sweaty skin, tongue flattened and desperate. Your toes curl, cramp, slip uselessly against Price’s legs, searching for purchase so you can try to bring your orgasm forth yourself if they decide to take it away again.

If they do… you think you might die if they do.

Please, you wail wordlessly. Please—

“Now,” Price snarls, low and final. “Fuckin’ give it to me.”

You shatter.

It rips through you like a crack in glass— fracturing something fundamental, white-hot and irreversible. Your body stops being yours to control, overtaken by the force of it, the raw inevitability.

It’s not graceful. It’s messy; ugly with need.

Your breath punches out of you in sharp, stuttering gasps, everything pulling taut from the inside out as your cunt clenches in violent pulses around Price’s cock. The sounds you make… you don’t know if you’re begging or thanking or praying. You just know it’s pouring out of you, choked, wordless, and raw, against Nikolai’s sweat-slick skin.

But Price doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t even slow down.

His hands lock around your wrists— one in each fist— and pull.

You jolt, your spine dragged flat against the table again with the momentum of it, and realize with a broken sob that he’s using your body for leverage. Hauling you down into each savage thrust so you don’t slide up from the sheer force of him.

Quickly, your arms begin to ache, stretched taut between them. Your body bucks, tits jerking wildly, belly rippling, thighs slapping wet and slick against his hips. He’s fucking you through the aftershocks like he needs it— like he’s wringing your orgasm out by the root, forcing every last tremor from your cunt.

And your mouth is still on Nikolai’s balls.

The pleasure within you peaks. Your head swims; your vision blurs. You’re licking and moaning around Nikolai’s balls with a mouth too full to close, slick and open, your tongue insistent and hungry. You don’t notice him shift until the angle changes— his hips tilting just enough, the muscles in his thighs flexing against your cheek—

And your tongue slides lower.

Past the seam.

Past the curve of his perineum.

Right to a part of him you never expected to reach.

You realize it at once. But you don’t stop.

You just lick— broad, deliberate, right over the tight heat of his asshole— and the reaction is immediate. Nikolai lets out a stunned, guttural sound, his hand clenching hard in your hair.

“Ohh,” he gasps, his body shuddering.“Ebat’. Bozhe moi. Fuck. My god.”

The Russian makes you freeze, unsure how to interpret it until he adds, voice thick and choked, “Good girl, lyubov’ love.”

You do it again— sloppier, more eager. Nikolai groans low in his throat, the sound almost drowning out the wet shlick of him working his cock. “Good girl,” he repeats. “Just like that— eat my ass.”

You feel Price falter; his rhythm staggers.

“Well, fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, trying for flippant, but his voice is rough, threadbare. “Didn’t even have to be told.” He doesn’t stop thrusting, but now each movement feels heavier, more ragged.

“You know how to pick them, kapitan,” Nikolai throws back, though the words stutter, barely held together as he fists himself faster now.

Because you’re panting through your nose, tongue working desperately to fuck deeper between the clench of his cheeks, your spit gluing your mouth to his skin in wet, filthy strings. You’re so far gone, aching for more of him, any part of him; licking him like you want inside. Like if you can just press a little harder, he’ll let you in.

And then you feel it. With a stifled curse, his thighs tense against your ears, and a hot pulse splashes across your tits.

You gasp, dazed, and keep licking. Keep worshipping. Nikolai grunts again; another spill lands across your skin.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he pants. “Just like that, sweetheart. You’ve earned it.”

He shifts forward, dropping his cock between your tits, gathering them in both hands. Your soft flesh spills through his fingers, slick and shining with his come as he rocks his hips, dragging himself through the heat and weight of you with a low, broken groan.

“Perfect tits,” he murmurs. “Perfect, filthy little tongue.”

A pause, breathless.

“Perfect,” he repeats, and something in his voice makes your lungs pull tight. “Moy kotyonok. My kitten.”

It makes you want— not for you, but for him. He’s still dragging his cock through the come-slick heat of your chest, slow and indulgent, and now, your hands come up to join him. You cover his, your smaller fingers slipping over his knuckles, urging him to squeeze harder, tighter, pressing your breasts together around him. Giving him everything he wants and more.

The effect is immediate.

Nikolai moans low, and you feel the tremble in his thighs as he fucks your tits with slow, indulgent thrusts, each one slicker than the last, the mess of him smeared thick between your breasts.

And Price— he falters. You hear it in the hitch of his breath, feel it in the sudden jolt that interrupts his thrusts. A low curse breaks from him, shaky and raw.

“Fuck,” he mutters. Then, like he’s losing the fight against himself:

“Jesus— fucking hell.”

He surges forward, hips snapping once, twice, before he drives in deep and stills.

The noise he makes when he floods you is nothing like the others— less a growl, more a sound torn out of him. With it, you feel the thick heat of him spill inside you, the rhythmic twitching of his cock as he comes. Reflexively, your walls pulse around him, spent and soaked, clinging greedily to every drop and drawing yet more sounds from him until they finally subside.

And then it’s quiet.

Everything stills except the pant of breath, the tremble of muscle, the soft, sticky sounds of skin parting from skin. Your mouth slips open where it rests against Nikolai, swollen and wordless. When he lifts himself off you slowly, carefully, you gasp in a lungful of air as the weight of him finally eases. The cool air hits your wet skin; you shiver, utterly spent.

Yet, through the haze of exhausted satisfaction that covers you, there’s one last thing you still want.

Your fingers twitch where they lie on the table— reaching, searching. Your mouth opens a little wider, your brow pinching in subtle supplication. Your throat is too raw to form words, but you try to make your intentions clear: you lift your chin, eyes fluttering shut again as you whisper out a breath, a faint hum of desire.

Nikolai murmurs something in Russian; you can’t understand it, but the words sound soft, indulgent, almost amused. Then you feel sticky, heated skin against your lips— his cock, one last time. You hum, mouth twitching into a brief smile, pleased he understood what you were asking for. He presses closer for you, and you suck lazily at the head, tasting the mess you helped make.

Then Price— grunting quietly, still catching his breath— guides himself to your mouth next. You lick at him too, slow and grateful, until he hisses through his teeth and pulls away.

“Insatiable,” someone mutters. You can’t tell who; you’re too tired to even consider opening your eyes.

Helpless, blinded by the dark of your eyelids, you feel hands on you again, gentle this time. You’re dead weight, limp and satiated as you are, the soft rolls of your skin fever-warm beneath a sheen of sweat and spend. Yet they lift you from the table with surprising ease. You feel like a wisp as strong arms gather you close, cradling you against a chest that smells like smoke and salt and sex, the steady thrum of a heartbeat echoing dimly through your cheek.

As you rise, your head lolls, weightless, to the curve of a shoulder. Something ticklish like whiskers feathers your temple; a blunt nose presses to the crown of your head.

With the tiniest of sighs, you slip under— weightless and willing.

—

You wake to the sound of movement: the low rustle of fabric, the metallic clink of gear, the murmur of voices pitched low with purpose. Boots thud softly against tile, measured and unhurried. Somewhere nearby, a strap cinches tight; the teeth of a zipper rasps into place.

You stir, slow and disoriented, your body aching in that deep, satisfied way that makes time feel irrelevant. Your skin is tender-warm, sore and slick, and for a long moment, you can’t place where you are and why the air smells thick with something primal.

Then it returns in a rush— everything they’d done to you, everything you let them do. The hours between then and now blur into a molten wash of sensation, so thick with memory that it almost hurts to breathe.

You sit up too quickly, a dull throb blooming through your thighs. “Shit— I should’ve gone— hours ago—” you murmur, scrubbing shaky hands over your face, trying to wake yourself quicker. “I need to check in, find out what’s next, Laswell’s probably—”

But before your feet can hit the floor, Price is there. He crosses the room in two strides and presses a steady hand to your shoulder, keeping you down with ease.

“No,” he says, quiet but certain. His blue eyes—sharp and unreadable beneath the edge of his lashes—hold you fast. “You’re staying here.”

You blink up at him, still trying to clear the sleep from your head. “But I was only meant to make contact—pass off the intel. I wasn’t supposed to—”

“To what?” he asks, one brow lifting ever so slightly.

You open your mouth, but the words stick behind your teeth. Heat creeps up your chest, writes itself into your expression before you can stop it.

“I didn’t think I was meant to stay,” you finish, weakly.

A second shadow enters your periphery, and then Nikolai crouches in front of you, balanced easily on the balls of his feet. His sleeves are rolled, forearms bare, eyes lit with something almost like humor.

“Darling,” he says with a tilt of his head, “you think you’re getting up and leaving after that?”

You hesitate, brows furrowed, unsure if you should be embarrassed or offended. But he only looks entertained— pleased, even. It catches you off guard. The room has become a different world since you first entered it; now, somehow, you aren’t sure where you’re meant to go next.

Your mind, still hazy, circles back to a line that had confused you when you first heard it— something said while you’d been too far gone to question it.

And you didn’t think she’d take it. Look at her now.

The words bloom with new weight now, taking root.

You look between them, a slow unease beginning to knit itself through your ribs. “You said—” Your voice catches, then steadies. “Back when I was… when I had your cock in my mouth. He said you ‘didn’t think I’d take it.’” Your gaze catches on Nikolai. “But… when—?”

You don’t need to finish the sentence for him to catch your meaning: When could you have said it that I didn’t hear?

Price is the one who answers, offering you the faintest smile. “Laswell called,” he says. “Told us about the change. Jacobs was out; you were in.”

Lightly, Nikolai remarks, “Called us before she called you, I believe.” Your eyes cut back to him, wide and stunned as he grins, sharing a look with Price.

“She said you were solid. Smart. Reliable.”

“Said you looked sweet.” Nikolai’s mouth curves. “That was the part we liked most.”

You don’t know what to say. Your mouth opens, and when nothing comes, you let it fall closed again.

“And,” Price adds mildly after your silence, “you did take it.”

Nikolai chuckles. “The second I saw you at the door, I knew. You looked like the type who would.” His grin sharpens just slightly. “Soft little thing. Polite. Looked like you’d do what you were told.”

“And you did,” Price echoes with finality. “Right from the start.”

Your heart is pounding again, but not from panic. The heat curling low in your belly is too thick, too delicious for that.

Then Price steps in closer, and suddenly his hand is under your jaw, guiding your chin upward with one rough knuckle. “Get some rest,” he murmurs. “We’ll be back before morning.”

A second later, Nikolai leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth— brief, but deliberate. The kind that lingers long after it’s gone.

And then Price kisses you— slower. Firmer. His mouth claims yours like punctuation, sealing the moment with a heat that startles, even after everything.

You sit there motionless after they pull away, already moving with purpose— jackets zipped, weapons checked, movements efficient and quiet. But before reaching the door, Nikolai turns back.

“Don’t worry, kitten,” he says lightly. “We’ll lock up. No one gets in but us.”

Price glances back too, expression unreadable save for the faint edge of something like amusement behind his eyes.

“And you don’t need to go anywhere, darling.”

You just stare at them, blinking, still reeling from the feeling of their mouths on yours. For the first time, you realize, and the knowledge burns through you, leaves you breathless.

“Wait here,” Price finishes, slinging his rifle into place. “You’re ours now.”

There’s no smirk in it— no hint of smugness, no flourish or performance. Just the certainty of a man saying something he considers self-evident.

Like it’s fact. Like it’s always been.

And maybe it has.

When the door clicks shut, you touch your fingers to your lips. They’re still tingling. And they keep tingling as you sink slowly back into the sheets— to relish the scent of your men still on your skin, and wait for them to come home.

[moonstruckme]

you rang for steve requests!!!

you write him so soft and boyish and nice, i've been wanting to request something and i just got an idea!

maybe some hurt comfort about reader coming to the starcourt parking lot to pick up steve (and robin and dustin) as soon as they hear abt the fire? or the emts asking steve who they should call and he just says rs phone number, and then like a "you came" "you called" moment?

I did ring, thank you for requesting lovely!

cw: season 3 canon events, reader is in the dark but won't be for much longer, mentions of physical injury, fire, suspicious governement folks covering shit up as suspicious government folks do

Steve Harrington x fem!reader ♡ 868 words

Your throat is impossibly dry the whole drive to the mall. Dry, and tight, like you couldn’t swallow if you tried. The parking lot is filled with everything from firetrucks to military helicopters, which you won’t think to wonder about until later. You’re scanning the smattering of people for Steve before you’re even out of the car. 

You don’t actually remember parking. Or pulling your keys from the ignition, or opening your door. The next thing you know you’re breathing in smoke and bumping shoulders with firefighters, your focus narrowed on the back of an ambulance. 

“Steve?” 

Your voice is hoarse, but he looks up like he can sense you. You see his lips form your name, brow bunching in that cute way of his. You start running. 

“Steve!” 

“Hey, hi.” He stands from the chassis of the ambulance, rocking back a little when he catches you. You hug him fiercely. “What’re you doing here?” 

He smells like smoke and oddly like iron, his skin damp with sweat. You don’t care; you curl your face into his neck. “I saw the fire on the news.”

“So you…drove towards it?” 

“I knew you were here!” You pull away from him, suddenly furious. “Why do you always have to work on your stupid project at night?” Steve’s been up to something lately. He won’t tell you about it, but you know it involves Robin and Dustin and something to do with translation. Steve says it’s not important but he acts like it is, and he’s been uncharacteristically tight-lipped about the whole thing. “Where’s Robin? Is she—” 

“She’s fine, she’s over there.” Steve juts his chin to the right. Through the smoke and chaos, you can just make out her familiar silhouette. She’s standing with a couple of kids about Dustin’s age. 

You let out a breath that turns into a shiver, and Steve cups your arms, rubbing up and down almost thoughtlessly. It melts down your anger into something wetter. When you look at him again, your voice is rough. 

“What happened to you?” 

“I’m fine, honey.” 

“Steve, your face.” 

He touches it, as though the tableau of black and purple bruises had slipped his mind. It’s hard to tell if his wince is from pain or remorse. “Right, yeah. Um…” 

“Mr. Harrington.” A voice comes from behind you, brusque and tired-sounding. You press closer to Steve instinctively, protective, but Steve’s face lights with recognition. 

“Oh. Hey, Doc.” 

You turn, too surprised to do much for covering your bemusement. Why would a doctor be wearing military gear like this, and be followed by a soldier carrying a gun? 

“Can we speak to you for a minute?” 

“Sure,” Steve says, but you talk over him. 

“No.” 

The man—Doc, whoever he is—looks at you as though just noticing you’re there. You steel yourself, but his gaze is more kind than hostile. Sympathetic, even. 

Steve squeezes your hip gently. “Y/n—” 

“No.” 

You don’t know what these people want with Steve, but you know you don’t like it. Your instincts are screaming at you not to let him go. To keep him close, preferably forever. 

Steve looks past you. “Can you give us a minute?” 

They go without a fight, seemingly assured in your boyfriend’s ability to placate you. You don’t want to be placated. You feel patronized and pent-up, and you blame that for the stinging tears that invade your vision. You cling to the fabric of Steve’s shirt like a vice. 

“Hey,” he lowers his voice, head dropping to meet your eyes. “It’s fine, they just wanna talk to me.” 

“Why? Can’t it wait? You just got out of a burning building, you—” 

“It won’t take long. They just want me to tell them what happened.” 

“You haven’t even told me what happened.” Your voice tightens and splinters, fist clenching so hard in Steve’s shirt you can feel your own nails through the fabric. Steve grabs your face in a panic. 

“Honey, it’s fine. Okay? It’s fine. I’ll tell you,” he says in a rush, then pauses. Something new comes over his expression, and he drops his forehead to yours. Lets out a breath. “I’ll tell you, I promise. Later, okay? This’ll just take a minute, and then we’ll go back to my place and talk. Alright?” 

You feel silly, sniffling and with tears on your cheeks, but you nod. 

“Okay,” Steve breathes out. His grip on your face gentles, cradling your jaw as he bends to kiss you. 

It’s meant to be a brief, conciliatory kiss, you know, but with all your overwhelm and all Steve has no doubt been through it heats up fast. You’re both gasping when he pulls away, using a thumb to wipe the wetness from your cheeks. 

“I’ll be right back,” he promises you. 

“You better be,” you threaten. You’re really quite serious, but Steve smiles, and naturally the sight of it makes your lips tug too. 

“I will,” he says. “Just, wait here, okay? Right back.” 

You hop up on the ambulance as he goes, making his way through the smoke to where Doc and his armed buddies wait for him by a helicopter. You couldn’t take your eyes off him if you tried.

[theonottsbxtch]

PRIVATE | LN4

an: requested by @bhuijnbhuijn-blog this was so fun to make! it feels to good to make a smau after a few days of straight writing

fc: random girls on pintrest and isabel larosa

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thank you london and thank you to my beloved

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appartment in monaco

You were perched on the edge of the kitchen counter, barefoot, legs dangling as you watched Lando move around the open kitchen. The soft click of cabinet doors and the muted thud of a cereal box landing on the counter are the only sounds, apart from the faint music playing from your speaker. It was your calm playlist, just background noise, a playlist you curated 100% but one Lando pretended he created to wind you up. He didn’t mind—he hummed along sometimes, absentmindedly, just like now. The late afternoon light filtered through the windows, casting a warm, golden hue over everything, making the moment feel even more private, more intimate.

Lando was shirtless wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. It was a version of him few people ever get to see. No fireproof suit, no helmet. No world watching his every move. Here, in this quiet corner of your shared world, he was just... him. And you loved him like this, more than anything.

As he fumbled with the coffee machine, you leant back on your hands, your fingers curling against the cool granite of the counter. The smell of coffee mingled with the lazy warmth of the afternoon. You were both settled into this comfortable rhythm of being together, the kind of domesticity that felt almost foreign when you thought of your lives outside these walls—your career, his racing, the flashing lights and the fans.

But here, it was different.

You’d been thinking about it for a while now. The thought had been on the tip of your tongue for weeks, and today felt like the right time to broach it. Or maybe it was just that the stillness of this moment made you feel brave. You took a breath, voice soft as you broke the quiet.

“I’ve been thinking…” Your words drift into the space between you, casual but with a certain weight that you know will catch his attention. Lando looked over at you, coffee cup in hand, waiting for you to continue. You smiled, trying to keep it light. “Maybe it’s time we go public… on Instagram.”

He froze for a beat, his eyes locking on yours as if he was trying to read your face, gauge how serious you were. Slowly, he set the cup down on the counter, his brow furrowing in that familiar way that meant he was already thinking too much.

“Public?” he repeated, like he was testing the word, feeling it out. His voice was calm, but you could sense the undertone of concern, the hesitation that came with anything that involves exposing more of your lives to the world outside. “You sure about that?”

You nodded, even though you knew he was not just asking for the sake of it. There was more behind his question than the words. It was not just a simple post to him—it was a line you were crossing, a step into a world he was all too familiar with, and not in a good way.

“I am,” you said softly. “We’ve been so careful, keeping things private, but… I don’t want to hide us anymore. I don’t want to pretend we’re not a part of each other’s lives.” You watched him as you spoke, searching his face for any sign of agreement, but he was still quiet, arms folded across his chest, his gaze drifting somewhere just past you.

Lando shifted his weight, leaning against the counter, his fingers drumming lightly against the granite, a telltale sign that his mind was working through what you’d just said. After a moment, he sighed, running a hand through his curls, the kind of movement that let you know he was trying to choose his words carefully.

“I get it,” he said finally, his voice softer now, but there was still a trace of reluctance. “But… it’s different for you. Your fans, they’re supportive. You’re already used to the attention. My world… it’s not like that. It can get ugly fast. And once we put it out there, it’s out there. We can’t take it back.”

You slid off the counter and moved toward him, your bare feet silent on the floor. Standing in front of him, you reached for his hands, threading your fingers through his. “I know, love. I know how hard it can be for you. But I’m not asking for some big, dramatic reveal. Just something simple. A photo. Something that feels like us, something quiet.”

He looked down at your joined hands, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. You could see the conflict in his eyes—the protective instinct he’d always had when it came to the life you’d built together versus the part of him that wanted to trust in your strength, in the fact that you could handle it.

“I don’t want them coming after you,” he said quietly, almost more to himself than to you. “I don’t want you to deal with the kind of hate I get.”

Lifting one hand to his face, cupping his cheek gently, your thumb grazed over his skin. “I’ve been in the public eye for years now. I’ve had my share of negativity, too. But we’ve got each other, right? We can handle it. I can handle it.” You paused, letting your words sink in. “And I’m tired of hiding something that makes me so happy.”

He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes for a moment, as if he was trying to imagine what it would be like—the backlash, the media storm. But when he opened them again, there was something softer there, a quiet surrender. He still looked hesitant, but there was an acceptance in his expression now, like maybe, just maybe, he was willing to trust you on this.

“A photo,” he repeated, his voice almost resigned but not unkind. “Something simple.”

You nodded, your smile growing. “Just one.”

He chuckled softly, pulling you into his arms, his chin resting on the top of your head. “You really want this, huh?” His voice was a little lighter now, though you could still feel the weight of the decision lingering between you.

“I do,” you murmured into his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of him—clean and warm, like home. “We don’t have to make a big deal out of it. Just something that feels like us. Something honest.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands resting on your waist. “Alright,” he said, his eyes searching yours. “But if it all blows up in our faces, you’re the one dealing with the PR disaster.”

You laughed, the sound soft and full of relief. “Deal. I’ll take full responsibility.” You leant up and kissed him, your lips brushing his with a gentleness that said more than words ever could. “Promise.”

landonorris

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enjoyed the final show of the break, time for austin

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yeah, my boyfriend's pretty cool but he's not as cool as me

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appartment in monaco

It had been a few weeks since you had gone public, and the house felt the same. The kitchen still smelt like coffee in the afternoons, and Lando’s laughter still echoed through the rooms. But outside, in the world that wasn’t contained by these walls, things had shifted.

The first few days after you had posted that picture—a simple, candid shot of you two tangled on the couch, laughing at something neither of you can remember now—felt like a blur. Your Instagram blew up instantly, flooded with comments, some gushing, some not so kind. The had media picked it up, headlines spun their usual stories, and of course, his world—Formula 1, with its intense, relentless scrutiny—had its own opinions. Most of it was harmless, but some of it... wasn’t.

Lando was standing in front of the window, staring out at nothing in particular. You could tell from the way his shoulders were tense, from the way his hand kept moving to rub the back of his neck, that something had been weighing on him. He’d been quieter these last few days, not in the way that shut you out, but in the way that let you know he was overthinking, worrying about things he didn’t need to.

You were sprawled on the couch, phone in hand, pretending to scroll through Instagram, but your attention was on him. You watched as he checked his phone again, probably seeing another headline or some new wave of comments. His jaw tightened, and that was when you knew it’s time to say something.

“Lan,” you called out softly, trying to break the tension in the room. “Come over here.”

He hesitated for a second, like he was debating whether to pull you into his worry or let it be, but then he walked over, his feet dragging slightly on the wooden floor. He sank down beside you on the couch, letting out a long, tired breath. His arm came around your shoulders instinctively, pulling you closer, but his mind was clearly somewhere else.

“Talk to me,” you said gently, tilting your head to look up at him.

He didn’t meet your eyes at first, he just stared at the floor. “I’ve been seeing some of the comments,” Lando admitted, his voice low, as if he was trying to keep it casual but couldn’t quite manage it. “There’s a lot of hate. A lot of people saying… awful things. About you, about us.” He paused, running his hand through his hair. “I didn’t want this for you.”

You felt his arm tighten around you, like he was trying to protect you from something that was already out there, something he couldn’t control. It broke your heart a little, the way he carried that weight, like he was responsible for every cruel word thrown your way.

You shifted in his arms, turning to face him, one hand reaching up to touch his cheek. “I know,” you said softly. “But, darling, it’s not getting to me. Not even a little.” You smiled, trying to get him to see the truth in your eyes. “I’ve been in this business long enough to know that people are going to say whatever they want. But they don’t matter. You do.”

He finally looked up at you, his brow furrowed, still sceptical. “But some of it’s brutal,” he insisted, his voice tight. “They’re dragging you through the mud just because we went public. I didn’t want you to deal with this part of my life, the ugly part.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head, and the sound seemed to catch him off guard. “Honestly? I’ve dealt with worse. You should’ve seen the comments I got after that one music video,” you teased lightly, hoping to ease his worry. “But this? This is nothing.”

He didn’t look convinced, but you could see him trying to process what you were saying, like he wanted to believe you but couldn’t quite let go of his own guilt. So, you decided to prove it to him in a way you knew would get through that thick head of his.

With a sly smile, you grabbed your phone and opened Twitter, your fingers moved quickly over the screen as you pulled up your account. He watched you, confused, until you glanced up at him with a mischievous glint in your eyes.

“What are you doing?” he asked, suspicion lacing his tone.

You bit your lip, pretending to think about it, then you tilted the phone toward him so he could see the tweet you’d just typed out. In bold letters, it read:

"how i sleep knowing i get to sleep with this hunk of a man at night and you don’t "

Below the text was the picture you’d been sitting on for a while—one of him sleeping in the paddock last season.

His eyes widened as he read it, then flicked to the photo. “You’re not serious,” he said, though there’s a laugh hidden in his voice now.

“Oh, I am very serious,” you said, grinning at him as you hovered over the “Tweet” button. “If people want to hate, let them. But I’m going to remind them who I get to come home to every night.”

He stared at you for a second, then shook his head, a small, incredulous smile finally tugging at the corners of his lips. “You’re unbelievable.”

You shrugged, your finger tapping the button before he could say another word. “It’s out there now,” you said, holding up the phone in triumph. “Let them come for me.”

He leant back against the couch, running his hands over his face, but you could see the way his shoulders had finally relaxed, the tension ebbing away. He laughed, a real, genuine laugh, and it warmed you from the inside out. “You’re actually insane,” he said, pulling you into his chest, kissing the top of your head. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

You looked up at him, beaming. “Sweetheart, they can say whatever they want. It doesn’t change anything. I’ve got you, and that’s all that matters.”

For the first time in days, the worry in his eyes faded completely. He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you tightly, his breath warm against your hair. “I love you,” he murmured, the words soft but full of meaning.

“I love you more.”

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haters gunna hate, anyway check out my new song x

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[shaiyasstuff]

so hawoo, i saw your writings and i lurv it QuQ and I saw you accept requests for a tiny bit?

if ish okay, i had an HC idea in mind QuQ so sometimes, just sometimes, when we are travelling with someone, particularly a close family, we might get... into a certain disagreement and sometimes argument yea?

so let's say each of the LADS boys and you had an argument while in a holiday, how would both make up? QuQ what will each men do?

it's totally okay to make it either headcannon style or story? whichever you're okay with ✨ and if it's too many, you can just write mr. crow and mr. apple-sunshine since i like them both ><

ps: this is random but... since i read that other request that involves size difference... 😳 i mean i likey >< and being a 5‘3 (i think? since i use cm and foot measures are so confusing @u@) plus being a sylus girlie (and a bit of caleb girlie) well, you know i'm almost a whole foot away from both these men QAQ)

sorry for writing a lot in the ask section QwQ thank chu for taking the time to read all these and i hope you're having the nicest holiday ✨( ´∀｀)

Aww thank you!! Don’t apologise for anything sweetie. Here, you ask and I deliver, no apologies needed🥹🫶🏻 unfortunately I do not write for Caleb because I can’t really get a grasp on his character yet. Perhaps in the future, I’ll do a rewrite of this just for you (or maybe ehem @blessdunrest can help)

Here is how the LADS boys would try to make up after an argument during your holiday getaways.

(I will leave the circumstances of the argument up to you, I wrote the scenes to be set after the argument itself, focusing more on how they would make it up to you, enjoy!)

Zayne

The guest room is quiet when you return. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that settles after something sharp, something unresolved. Your bag’s still unpacked by the door.

The sun has long dipped beneath the line of trees beyond the window, casting the room in a low amber glow that pools in corners and slips across the floor.

You sigh and start to change out of the clothes from earlier—still rumpled from walking too far and talking too little.

And then you see it.

A cup. Your favorite warm drink, placed neatly on the nightstand. The steam has thinned, like it’s been sitting a while, but the effort is unmistakably him. No note. No explanation. Just the smallest bridge, laid gently between you.

You don’t touch it. Not yet.

Outside, the wind stirs the branches. You catch a glimpse of him through the glass door—on the balcony. Hands in his coat pockets.

The same coat he wore when the two of you first arrived, when he offered you the window seat on the train without saying a word.

You open the door quietly. Step out.

He doesn’t turn to you. Just keeps his eyes on the horizon where the last of the light fades.

“I was wrong,” he says after a long silence. “About what I said earlier.”

The words come slowly. Like it costs him to admit them, but he does it anyway. For you.

“I didn’t mean to shut you out,” he continues.

“Sometimes I… I think too much. I try to stay in control of everything, and I forget that I’m not the only one in this.”

You watch him carefully, noting the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers curl in his coat pocket like he’s holding something in—something heavy.

“I don’t want this to ruin the time we have here,” he says softly.

“I don’t want you to remember this trip as the one where I hurt you.”

Finally, he turns his head, eyes meeting yours. In them, something raw flickers. Quiet remorse. That particular tenderness he never shows to anyone else.

“I’m not great at fixing things,” he adds. “But I want to try. With you.”

He hesitates—then offers a small, almost shy suggestion.

“Maybe tomorrow we could start fresh. Just the two of us. Somewhere quiet. You can pick.”

And for a long moment, he holds your gaze. Like he’s hoping you’ll say yes. Like it matters more than he can put into words.

Sylus

You don’t slam the door when you come in, but the silence that follows is louder than anything you could’ve said.

The villa is dim—just the flicker of one dying candle on the table, shadows curling along the walls. Rain taps against the tall glass windows, steady and unrelenting. The storm outside hasn’t let up, and neither has the one still simmering in your chest.

You expect him to be gone. Or brooding somewhere far away, like he always does when things fall apart.

But he’s there.

Sitting in the armchair by the fire, shirt half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, a glass of something amber untouched in his hand.

He doesn’t look up when you enter. Just speaks, voice low and smooth like velvet dragged over broken glass.

“You’re late.”

You don’t answer. You’re not in the mood for his games.

His head turns slightly, just enough for you to catch the glint in his crimson eyes. “I didn’t realize sulking in the rain was part of our itinerary.”

That earns a glare from you, sharp enough to slice through steel. But he doesn’t flinch. He never does.

“You’re infuriating,” you mutter.

He stands.

Slowly. Deliberately. As if the weight of everything unsaid finally pushed him to move.

“I know,” he says, walking toward you with that infuriating calm. “And yet, you love me anyway.”

You want to push him away. Shove him back into that fire and let him burn with every careless word he said earlier.

But then he’s right in front of you. Taller. Warmer. More real than ever.

“I’m not good at being soft,” he says. “I say the wrong things, I let pride get in the way, and when it comes to you—”

He stops, jaw tightening. “You terrify me. You make me forget the edge I built my world on.”

He brings your hand to his chest, where his heart beats too fast.

“I won’t ask for forgiveness,” he murmurs. “That would mean pretending I didn’t mean what I said.”

You stiffen.

“But I didn’t mean to hurt you. There’s a difference.”

And then, softer, almost vulnerable beneath all that bravado.

“I missed you the second you left the room.”

He leans down, brushing his lips against your temple, breath trembling just enough to betray him.

“Let me make it up to you,” he whispers. “Breakfast in bed. An apology written in kisses. You name it, it’s yours.”

And then, with a crooked smirk, “I draw the line at begging, though. Even I have limits.”

Rafayel

You storm out before either of you can say something unforgivable.

The screen door slams behind you, wind tangling your hair as you make your way down the gravel path, past the rows of tall pines lining the edge of the lake.

The sky is still pale with late afternoon light, but your chest is a storm all its own—loud, spiraling, tight.

Rafayel had laughed.

Laughed, while you were trying to talk about something that mattered.

And maybe it wasn’t malicious. Maybe he was trying to ease the tension, deflect like he always did when things got too raw. But it hurt.

You find a quiet patch of rocks by the water’s edge and sit, hugging your knees, breathing hard.

You’re not sure how long you’re out there when you hear footsteps. Fast. Uneven.

“There you are,” Rafayel breathes, slightly out of breath, like he’d been running. “You can’t just vanish after a fight—my heart’s not built for this kind of cardio.”

You look away.

He exhales, kneels beside you, and gently places something warm-wrapped in a towel on your lap.

“…Is this a bribe?” you mutter.

“A peace offering,” he says, grinning sheepishly. “Handmade. Still warm. Possibly edible.”

You raise a brow, suspicious. “Did you poison it?”

He gasps, wounded. “I slaved over a tiny stove in a tiny kitchen with even tinier pots—for you. There’s rosemary in there. Do you know how much I hate rosemary?”

You don’t reply. But your fingers tighten slightly around the towel. The warmth seeps into your skin.

Rafayel sobers, voice quieter now.

“I shouldn’t have laughed,” he says, and his usual lilt softens into something tender. “I panic when things get serious. Especially when I care too much.”

You glance at him. His expression is still boyish, teasing—but his eyes give him away. Bright, worried, sincere.

“I thought I had time to figure out how to be good at this,” he says. “Turns out, I really, really don’t want to waste any of it.”

You stare at the food, then at him. He nudges you with his shoulder, coaxing.

“One bite,” he says. “If you hate it, I’ll let you throw me into the lake.”

A pause.

“…Twice.”

You crack a small, reluctant smile.

And just like that, the storm begins to clear.

Xavier

You lie in bed facing the wall, stiff beneath the sheets, arms curled tightly to your chest.

The argument still burns behind your eyes, echoes of sharp words and colder silences stretching across the room like invisible scars.

You hadn’t meant for it to get so heated.

But Xavier—stoic, unreadable Xavier—had shut down when it mattered most. Again.

And he hadn’t followed you when you left the table.

Not then.

But now you hear the quiet sound of the bedroom door opening. His footsteps. Hesitant. Careful.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just slips under the blankets on his side of the bed, slow and deliberate, the way he does everything. The silence tightens around you like a second skin.

You close your eyes, willing yourself to sleep, to forget, to not care.

And then—you feel it.

His arm curling around your waist. Tentative at first, then firmer when you try to squirm away.

“Xavier,” you say, low and angry, “don’t.”

He doesn’t let go.

You twist slightly to glare at him over your shoulder, but he’s already there, face inches from yours, eyes unreadable in the dark.

“I’m not letting you fall asleep like this,” he says quietly. “Not again.”

Your throat tightens. “You’re the one who—”

“I know.”

The two words drop heavy between you, flat and final.

He exhales slowly, forehead pressing gently to the back of your shoulder. You can feel the way his hand rests against your stomach now—hesitant, as if unsure he has the right. But he keeps it there anyway.

“I didn’t know how to say the right thing,” he murmurs. “I always think too long and speak too late.”

You don’t answer.

“I was wrong,” he says finally. “And I… I’m sorry.”

The words sound strange coming from him. Like he’s still learning how to shape them, how to offer them without flinching.

But he means them. You can feel it in the way he’s holding you now—not loose, not gentle, but like something anchoring. Something meant to keep you here.

Stillness settles over the room.

And then, quieter, “I don’t want to lose you. Even if I don’t always know how to say it.”

You don’t turn around.

But your hand slides over his, lacing your fingers with his beneath the covers.

And he holds on like it’s the only thing that makes sense in the world.

[venus-haze]

Sick as a Dog (Soldier Boy x Reader)

Summary: Day 25 - Underwear stealing/sniffing. Soldier Boy is America's first superhero. The greatest man who ever lived. Larger than life itself. A sleazy chauvinist who's getting off on your panties in a motel bathroom. [AO3 link]

Note: Written for @cozycornerevents Kinktober! Female reader, but no other descriptors are used. I think this is my first Soldier Boy fic set in modern day…anyway it was fun writing mean and gross Soldier Boy🤭

Word count: 1k

Warnings: Soldier Boy-typical misogyny. Sexually explicit content involving masturbation, panty stealing/sniffing, degradation, voyeurism.

You couldn’t relax around Soldier Boy, not when Butcher and Hughie left you alone with him in that damn motel room. It was almost impossible to focus on the TV with him so blatantly eyeing you like a piece of meat. Tried to do the arm-over-the-shoulder move so he could grope your breast, and called you a prude under his breath when you scooted further down the couch. 

Sure, he was attractive, but you weren’t about to mix business with pleasure—especially not with a guy who, when introduced to you, asked Butcher if they only kept you around as “stress relief,” as if you weren’t even standing in front of him. Maybe you should have gone with MM and Annie after all.

“I gotta use the can,” he grumbled, scratching his crotch before standing up from the couch.

The tension slowly released from your body the further away he got from you. Picking up your phone from the coffee table, you saw a missed text from Hughie: Sorry to leave you on supe-sitting duty. Everything good?

You sighed, your thumbs hovering over the keys before sending back: Yeah. Nothing I can’t handle.

Threw in an emoji at the end so he wouldn’t feel too bad. It was kind of your own fault, anyway. You decided to go along with Butcher and Hughie because part of you still naively believed in Soldier Boy’s heroism, his authenticity. And then you actually met him. Heard the shockingly crass way he talked, a relic of a time you had no interest in reliving.

You were just about to text Annie when you heard it.

A name. Your name. Low and gruff and mean coming from his mouth.

Putting your phone down, you glanced in the direction of the bathroom. 

You knew your best option was to just ignore it when you heard him say your name again—turn up the volume on the TV and ignore the way heat flared up between your legs at the grunts he didn’t even try to keep down. Instead, you stood up, your heart beating faster with each step you took. The motel room wasn’t all that big, didn’t take very long at all to get to the bathroom door, look in where he’d left it open a crack. 

Had he been careless? Or did he want you to watch?  

You gaped openly at him, pumping his hard cock with a pair of your used panties bunched up in his hand, sliding it up and down his length. Black, satin with a little bow, it was one of your favorite pairs you brought with you, too, and you weren’t sure how to feel about him having chosen that one to get off with, to ruin. You looked back at your duffel bag, wide open and clearly rifled through. Supposed you were trying too hard not to pay attention to him to pay any mind to his violating your privacy.

“That’s right, take it, you fucking slut,” he growled. “You might not be their stress relief, but you’re gonna be mine.”

How the hell was this the same guy whose PSAs you watched throughout your school years, telling you to pledge allegiance to the flag and say no to drugs? He was sick, hypocritical, a symbol of the worst of American debauchery. Every subsequent word that came out of his mouth was vile, objectifying—should’ve repulsed you instead of going straight to your pussy. Your brain was screaming at you to go back to the couch and pretend you didn’t see anything, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him.

“I’ll make sure you can’t fucking walk tomorrow, have to carry you over my shoulder and tell everyone what a slut you are for my cock.”

Your breath caught in your throat. He squeezed his cock harder, his pumps more punishing, frustration radiating off of him as his precum soaked through your ruined panties. Could you even bear to wear them again, knowing all the things he said and did with them bunched up in his hand, picturing you in their place, bent over the motel room sink, or anywhere else he could think of in that deviant mind of his.

“How bad do you want it? C’mon, I wanna hear you beg.”

“Please,” you whispered despite yourself.

“I know you’re out there,” he taunted, startling you. “I can hear you panting like a bitch in heat. Why don’t you come in and give me a hand?”

With a gasp, you found your legs again and ran back to the living area. Fell over yourself to get onto the couch and make the TV louder, anything to drown out the sound of his groans, your name mixed with curses as he came just a few feet away. 

Your face was on fire, and you sat with your hands folded between your legs, trying desperately to ignore the want that had overtaken you while watching him. You were better than that, better than debasing yourself for someone like him. Still, a shiver ran down your spine when you heard a gruff, drawn out “Fuck” over the sound of the stupid Vought A Burger commercial that was on.

The sink ran. Toilet flushed. Your head was pounding when he walked out of the bathroom and back to the couch. 

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he said, throwing your panties at you.

The balled up garment landed on your lap, wet and heavy with his cum. With a reluctant, trembling hand, you pushed it onto the floor.

Your voice cracked as you half-heartedly told him, “You’re disgusting.”

He scoffed, his arm draped across the back of the couch, the tips of his fingers brushing your shoulder. “You should take it as a compliment. There’s plenty of other broads I could’ve jacked off to—Hayworth, Bardot, Fawcett—”

“But none of them had their panties lying around here, did they?”

“No, they didn’t.” He was silent for a moment before breaking into a grin. “I’m gonna get you to fold sooner or later. Then, I’m really gonna make you beg for it.”

“Don’t bet on it,” you mumbled.

[synthetickitsune]

Could I kindly and respectfully request mafia!Hao with very dramatic angsty number 37? (Insert smug cat here SKCJFKDJDJ it now feels freaking weird texting u being unable to use that) Just without anyone actually dying, PRETTY please ✨✨✨

here you go for kindly and respectfully being my writing company when this was made uwu

Mafia!The8 (SVT) | "Who did this to you?" angst | 0.8k | gn!reader cw: injuries, murder, guns

You’re alive. Breathing. Blinking. You can hear your heartbeat deafeningly loud in your ears. The organ itself pushes against your ribs with each pump. You feel your pulse pound in your temples. You can see but everything’s blurred together.

And then, a snap of fingers.

Suddenly the image is sharp. You gasp when your vision focuses and you see his eyes right in front of you. Cold. But you don’t make the mistake of being fooled by appearances. Under the carefully pieced together facade, there’s a beast roaring for revenge.

He takes the handkerchief from his breast pocket and gently dabs at your bloody lips. As you’ve tried to explain, as best you could without speaking a word, the lips are your doing. Partly because you knew this is the situation you’ll end up in, so your anxiety got the better of you and you chewed them raw. You weren’t really that hurt. The doctor confirmed as much to him too. Really, this was an overkill.

“Now, I’ll ask one last time and then I’ll start shooting,” Minghao says, slowly, deliberately, like it truly didn’t matter to him if you respond or not, “Who did this to you?”

The suspects are in the next room. You can see them through the one-way mirror but you don’t look. Truly you don’t want to see them. The less you know, the better.

“My heart,” his voice softens. It’s only you two in the room, so he doesn’t mind getting on one knee in front of you. His hands are gentle, careful not to touch any discolored patch of skin where bruises bloom as he cradles your face. You sniffle and barely stop yourself from wincing. It hurts. “You won’t get into trouble. Just tell me. I’m not mad at you, I’m not disappointed with you.”

Usually you’d hate that he’s talking to you like you’re a child but his earnest eyes and soft touch, softer voice, and most importantly your altered state of mind make you crumble. The dams break, no mercy on your battered and bruised body, and from relative calm you go into hysterics within a fraction of a second. 

Minghao’s on his feet immediately, pulling you closer to his body while still mindful of your injuries. It doesn’t matter. The sobs wrecking through your body cause enough agony. He guides your head to rest against his stomach, gently running his fingers through your hair. You can’t say you really feel it, though. It’s like someone’s stabbing your stomach with every move, every breath. 

He tries to be your pillar to lean on, he tries to keep you from falling apart but it’s a losing battle. You slip through his fingers, you can feel it. You don’t know what to do but cry. Is there even anything to do? You’re in pain. It hurts so much, inside and out. Layer after layer, the pain cumulates. You’re scared of what he’s going to do.

“You can’t be soft with them,” he whispers, almost as if he’s chiding you but his voice is too gentle, “They wouldn’t treat you kindly either. They didn’t.”

He’s right, but what does it change? Violence only spurs on violence.

“My reputation is on the line too,” he adds, voice dropping. You barely hear it. The tears come in streams again. 

How are you supposed to break free of this paralysis? Naturally there are appearances to keep. Powerful men don’t let their family get hurt. And if such an act against who could very well be a god is committed, there needs to come a retribution.

What does it change if you speak up?

Minghao has the capacity for cruelty. He tries to shield you from it. You know, though. You’ve heard. You’re smart enough to realize. You used to think it doesn’t concern you. You made yourself believe it. And then you get involved with evil, albeit against your will, and suddenly you can’t ignore the truth right before your eyes. 

“Your loyalty could be questioned,” his voice keeps getting harder to hear. 

The way he says it. Like there’s some third party to witness this moment. Like it’s the anonymous them judging your actions and picking them apart. 

So you say a number.

Because what he’s doing hurts more than the bruises, than the cuts, than the pain. 

A shot echoes through both rooms, then panicked screams muffled by the gags in their mouths. You hear it under the ringing in your ears and the imaginary water you’re drowning in.

“Thank you,” Minghao tells you. He leans down to press a kiss to the top of your head. 

“I’ll have someone else clean up,” he says like he’s talking about cleaning up the basement of your home, “But you’re my pleasure to take care of.”

It should be reassuring. It is. You want to go home. You want to be away from all this. 

You want your Minghao. The real one. The one that’s getting further away each day.

He takes some version of you with him. They’re both escaping to safety. Somewhere you can’t follow.

[reiding-writing]

Well, basically, it would be a "Spencer × female reader" One Shot and in it, the reader should be a woman (as I already said) the same age as Spencer. She is not an FBI agent, though. She is a stay-at-home mom and together, she and Spencer have two kids, a 2-year-old twin girls (you pick the names, just keep the age and gender the same. I picked age 2 because I love that age and I'm also about to start to work with kids that age). And Spencer arrives home after working on a case on his birthday. He is exhausted and isn't expecting to get anything, but his wife and daughters welcome him with cake and presents. It's not exactly a party, but they are all together and that's what matters to him. What do you think about this idea? I think it would be cute, so if you'll write it, thank you🙂. — @lucreziaq2001

SURPRISE! — S.REID

what better thing for spencer to come home to on his birthday than his girls?

spencer reid x wife!reader | 1.5k | fluff | masterlist.

a/n — fluff was promised, and fluff has been delivered 🙂‍↕️

Spencer had seen many things in his life—more than any one person should ever have to witness.

His job as a profiler meant he spent more time immersed in the darkness of human nature than anyone should. Yet, despite the chaos and the constant threat of danger that shadowed his every step, Spencer knew there was one thing that made it all worthwhile: you.

You weren’t an FBI agent. You weren’t involved in his cases, never surrounded by bloodstained evidence or haunted by the victims’ stories. You were a stay-at-home mom, and together, you and Spencer had built a life that brought him peace.

His mind was always working, always calculating, always trying to figure out what made people tick. But when he came home to you, when he saw the sparkle in your eyes and felt the warmth of your touch, the world slowed down. It was a calmness he treasured.

And tonight, after a long and exhausting day of chasing down leads, after the case had gone longer than expected, Spencer was coming home to something more precious than any solved mystery.

—

As Spencer pulled into the driveway, he noticed the house was dark. It was almost 9 PM, and he knew his girls, Julia and Ava, would be sound asleep by now.

You, too, would likely be tucked into bed, content to have a quiet evening after the chaotic day of caring for the girls. It was a routine that worked for you, the silent and subtle balance of home life.

You had everything under control while Spencer was gone.

He hated that he wasn’t there more, but he made it work. He made it work because he loved you and the girls more than anything else in this world.

Opening the front door with a quiet turn of the handle, Spencer slipped inside, trying not to make a sound. The house smelled faintly of vanilla and lavender, the scent of candles you liked to burn in the evening.

As he stepped deeper into the house, he could hear muffled voices coming from the kitchen. Curious, he followed the sound, silently walking down the hallway.

When he reached the kitchen, he stopped short, blinking in surprise at the scene before him.

There you were, standing near the kitchen table, smiling up at him with that warmth in your eyes he could never quite get enough of. And in front of you, perched on high chairs, were Julia and Ava, both girls grinning from ear to ear with cake smeared on their faces and hands.

“Happy birthday, Daddy!” Julia called out, her little voice echoing with excitement. Ava immediately chimed in, “Happy birthday!” The two of them clapped their hands in unison, giggling in the way only two-year-olds could.

Spencer’s heart swelled at the sight. He had been expecting nothing. He was used to spending his birthday alone, at the office, working cases that kept him up late into the night. But this—this was the last thing he expected.

You stepped forward, holding a small cupcake with a single candle flickering brightly atop it. Your smile was soft and genuine, your eyes filled with love and adoration.

It was the kind of birthday celebration Spencer had never allowed himself to want, but the kind he realised he needed more than anything.

“I’m sorry it’s not much,” you said, your voice warm with affection. “I know you’ve had a long day, but we wanted to make sure you knew how much we love you,”

Spencer’s chest tightened, his throat going dry as he took in the sight of you and the girls. The exhaustion of the case, the stress, the dark thoughts of the day all melted away in an instant. It wasn’t much, but to him, it was everything.

“Mommy helped us make cakes!” Ava announced proudly, her voice still full of excitement.

“Wish, Daddy!” Julia urged, her eyes wide with innocence.

Spencer blinked and then looked down at the cake, its candle flickering gently. He felt a lump form in his throat as he made his silent wish, his heart full of gratitude.

You had done this for him. After everything, after a long day and the stress of his work, you had taken the time to create something small and beautiful to remind him of what truly mattered. His family.

Spencer blew out the candle, not taking his eyes off the girls as they giggled and clapped again.

“Wish, Daddy! Wish!” Julia repeated, her voice high-pitched with excitement.

“I did,” Spencer said quietly, still caught in the beauty of the moment. “I can’t tell you though, because then it won’t come true, hm?”

The words were barely out of his mouth before both girls came charging toward him, arms outstretched. He kneeled down to meet them, his arms opening wide as they both threw themselves into his embrace.

The smell of their baby shampoo filled his nose, the soft warmth of their little bodies against his chest filling him with an overwhelming sense of love.

“I missed you both so much,” he murmured, pressing his face into their soft hair.

“You’re home, Daddy,” Ava said, her voice filled with contentment as she pulled back to look at him.

Spencer’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, just taking in the feeling of them in his arms. The world outside didn’t matter here. The cases, the crimes, the endless work—it all faded into the background. What mattered was this. What mattered was the family he’d come home to.

You were standing a few feet away, watching them with a soft smile on your face, arms folded over your chest. You were so beautiful in that moment, so at peace, that Spencer couldn’t help but stare at you.

It didn’t matter that he was tired, that his brain was fried from the long day. The sight of you and the girls filled him with a sense of calm that no case could ever take away.

“This is all I ever needed,” he said quietly, his voice full of sincerity as he looked up at you. “You and the girls.”

You walked over to him, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder gently. “I know,” you replied, your voice soft with affection. “We know you’re always thinking about us, Spencer. We think about you too,”

Spencer smiled up at you, his heart racing with love. “I don’t deserve you,”

You shook your head, a playful smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “Yes, you do,”

Ava tugged on his sleeve then, her little hand reaching up toward him. “Cake, Daddy! Please?” she demanded, her voice all but pleading.

Spencer laughed, nodding as he stood up to cut the cake. Julia helped him by handing him a fork, and the three of them made sure to pile his plate with an obscene amount of cake, all of them giggling as they served him.

The cake was messy—mostly frosting with a little bit of cake in between—but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except that they were all here together.

As Spencer sat down to eat with his girls, you watched from the side, your heart swelling with love. You hadn’t planned anything extravagant, no party or guests to help celebrate. But you didn’t need to.

Spencer’s happiness wasn’t found in expensive gifts or big gestures. It was found in moments like this: quiet, simple, and surrounded by love.

The evening passed slowly, filled with laughter and stories as the girls played with their toys and Spencer told them about his day—filling in the details in a way they could understand. As tired as he was, Spencer was so thankful to be home. To be with you.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, leaning toward you after the girls had started to doze off, their energy finally fading after a sugar-induced high. He kissed your forehead gently. “This was more than enough. This... is everything,”

You smiled softly, your fingers brushing against his cheek as you leaned into him. “I’m glad you’re home, Spencer,”

[rekino2114]

Can you do prompt 34 and 31 with fami and Asa/yoru

Ways the csm 2 girls tell you they're in the mood/NSFW headcanons

A/n:.....ok so basically I was writing prompt 34 and it just kinda.....got out of hand and I started writing straight up NSFW headcanons I had in mind for the girls cause I realized the post would have been too short otherwise...so I just added NSFW headcanons to prompt 34 cause.....yeah

for all of those who asked me how suggestive my posts can be....I think this is the limit

I don't know if I'll do prompt 31 too request again if you want me too and also I don't know which fami you wanted since this was requested after the reveal so I just did both of them......that's definitely not an excuse to add death who I am very down bad for

A lot of NSFW stuff below

Everyone involved is over 18

Asa mitaka/yoru

Asa is so awkward even at asking for simple affection, so she will almost never ask for sex even when she wants to.......meanwhile yoru will take you wherever and whenever she wants

Whenever asa's body starts feeling hot, both of them can feel it, and yoru will continue pestering asa until she asks you to fuck or just take over and start making out with you and stripping while asa yells in jealousy from inside her

It's funny how different they are, too, cause asa is very vanilla and likes to take her time and is, in general, a very gentle lover in that way.....meanwhile yoru is pretty rough most of the time and is into some very kinky stuff (definitely knife play and the like) only if you're OK with it too of course

Ok.......so how does sex with both of them work exactly? Do you think they switch in the middle or do they have like turns, like one night it's asa's time and the next one it's yoru's? Cause if they do I'm sure as hell yoru isn't following the schedule and randomly takes over during asa's turn just cause she wanted to have you to herself

Also, does the one who isn't in control of the body in the moment just...watch? And does it leave her pissed off that her other persona is having fun with her lover....or is she turned on by that? I feel like it's a mix of both, even if yoru will continue screaming until asa lets her have her turn.....even if it's not

Fami

Take everything I said about asa and multiply it by 100. This girl is soooo nervous and anxious about anything and everything. she was sweating bullets and insanely red in the face the first time you held hands. Imagine how she is during intimacy

The first time you asked her to have sex she genuinely had a nosebleed imagining the scene and fainted....when she woke up and you told her why she fainted.......she fainted again.....look she just needs a loooot of time to mentally prepare herself

Whenever she gets in the mood she actually prefers to relieve herself (usually using pictures of you) so she doesn't have to go through the embarrassment of asking you for help, but she genuinely thinks she'd self combust out or awkwardness if you walked in on her....which is a bigger problem than you might think cause she moans a lot and is generally very loud during intimacy

I'm sorry to say this but she's the bottomest bottom ever. She wants you to take her and fuck her until she's screaming your name.....she's somehow both into being praised and humiliated at the same time. she also does keep crying while doing it but don't worry it's mostly tears of happiness

One of her main dirty secrets is that she's actually into you leaving hickeys on her and claiming her, even if she always covers them and blushes whenever someone asks about them she likes the thought of everyone knowing she's yours

Death

Will straight up ask you "can we fuck?"

The thing about death is that she doesn't have any shame....like at all, she thinks sex between you is a completely normal and natural part of of your love life so there's no issues if she starts saying how good what you did last night felt or everything she wants to do to you that evening right?

Death actually doesn't get horny that often, so the times she actually asks you to have sex aren't that common but on the other end she's more than happy to take care of you whenever the mood strikes you. You could walk up to her at any time of day and any place and tell her you're feeling pent up and she will drop whatever she's doing and start pleasuring you right there and then

Speaking of pleasuring you, you cannot tell me she wouldn't give some absolutely insane head. Her two favorite things are you and tasting things you have no idea what that mouth can do. She thinks you taste amazing and will ask to use her mouth on you pretty often not because she's particularly horny she just wants to feel how good you feel in her mouth again......you have also woken up multiple times to her giving you head to "help you wake up"

For a very similar reason she really likes leaving hickeys all over your body. Not only does she think every part of you tastes amazing, but she also gets a kick out of knowing she left marks on you so that everyone knows what you did and that you're hers it's kind of the opposite of her younger sister. Of course however if you think she bites too hard or are not into it she'll stop and resort to licking you and making out with you during almost the entire experience

[st4rdustblogs]

A deal is a deal.

🪔 Bucky Barnes x South Asian! Reader fic

𖥸 With your sister’s wedding on the line and everything needing to be perfect, the last thing you needed was Bucky telling the couple about how you gave him an ear-full when you thought he was one of the staffs not doing their job properly. So, you made a deal: you’ll do anything Bucky asked if he kept his mouth shut. Too bad for you, Bucky had a few ideas in mind—and none of them involve making this easy.

8k words

🏷️Romance, Brief Intimacy, Fluff, Humor, Tension, Kissing in the storage room, Lingering touches, Light hearted, Meet cute, Bickering, Bucky is a flirt, Bucky chokes on ladoo, Reader and Bucky dance to Ishq Wala Love, Reader in a saree, Bucky in a Sherwani, Bucky smooth talking all the auntie-jis, Mention of Bucky’s vibranium arm, No use of y/n.

A/N: Omg once I start writing I actually can’t stop. Idk why it took me so long to write another fic since my last one. I just couldn’t think of anything other than a wedding setting and well, here we are. Read this as if you’re watching a bollywood film cus I think that’s the best way to enjoy itt hehe :3 Have fun!

“Oh-ho beti! If you keep worrying like this, you’ll get wrinkles by the end of the wedding!” Your auntie clicked her tongue, physically dragging you away from the kitchen where mountains of biryani and sweets were being prepared.

You huffed, but resistance was futile—Auntie’s grip was ironclad, her tone the same one that had terrorized you since childhood. The wedding had to be perfect… but at this rate, you’d be gray before the first shaadi drumbeat.

Today was your sister’s wedding and you’d sworn nothing would go wrong. Not on your watch.

From the moment the wedding planning began (or from the moment she’d said "yes"), you’d appointed yourself Chief Protector of Perfection.

Every detail from the decorations, to the food, to the guest list, to the wedding cards, to the make up artist to pretty much everything had to be ran by you and of course, the bride and the groom.

After being unceremoniously shooed away by Auntie, you trudged toward the main wedding venue—each step heavy with the dread of impending aunty interrogation. The scent of rose attar and jasmine garlands hung thick in the air, almost masking the distinct aroma of unsolicited life advice wafting from the gossip circles.

Right on cue, a flock of aunties materialized around you like they had a sixth sense for unpaired bridesmaids.

"Oho, look who’s finally here!" Aunty Meena clapped, her bangles jingling like alarm bells. "Tell me, beta, when will we dance at your wedding?"

Before you could even fake a smile, Aunty Priya swooped in, her grip vice-like on your shoulder. "Such beautiful decorations! You must bookmark this florist for your big day!" She winked like this was subtle.

You clenched your teeth so hard your jewelry rattled. "Actually, Aunty, I’ve decided to become a nun," you deadpanned.

The horrified silence lasted exactly two seconds before they burst into peals of laughter, patting your head like you’d told a joke. "So funny! But seriously, beta, your mother and I were just discussing—"

Your eye caught movement by the floral arch—one of the staff members was meddling with the marigold garlands, and now half of them dangled limply completely messing up the look.

"Just a minute auntie-ji— Areh! Be careful!" You hurried over, holding your saree up trying to be as fast as you could without stepping on it and tripping over. The man in the blue-and-white kurta (matching the catering staff’s uniforms exactly) didn’t even turn around.

You tapped his shoulder. "Excuse me bhai sahab—the guests are waiting, and you’re here rearranging decorations?"

He turned, eyebrows raised. "You talking to me?"

"Nehi, I’m talking to the flowers behind you," you deadpanned, gesturing to the drooping flowers. "This was perfect before. Now it looks like a bhera (goat) chewed on it."

He opened his mouth, but you were already snatching a tray of jalebis from a passing waiter and shoving it into his hands. "Accha bas—take these to Table 4. Nani-ji is sitting there.”

The man stared at the tray, then at you, his expression caught between amusement, disbelief and not understanding half of the words you were saying. "Nani…ji…? You’re really mixing me up with someone."

"And you’re really not helping," you countered, already stepping back. "Ab jaldi! (Now quickly!) Those jalebis won’t serve themselves!"

As you spun away, your braid gently hitting him, you missed his quiet chuckle—and the way he shrugged before obediently heading toward Table 4, tray in hand.

The dhol beats of Bole Chudiyan kicked in, and the dance floor erupted. Aunties in glittery saris, uncles with awkward hip shakes, even the groom’s side had joined in, this was your moment.

You grabbed your sister’s hand, pulling her into the center as the lyrics pulsed: "Bole chudiyan, bole kangana…" Hips swayed, bangles clattered, and you spun under the fairy lights like this was your own Bollywood number.

You spun gracefully, stopping and facing the bride and groom’s stage—there he was.

The "staff" from earlier. Except now, he wasn’t holding a tray or fixing flowers. He was leaning against the groom’s chair, whispering something that made your soon-to-be brother-in-law laugh. And when he caught you staring?

A slow, knowing smirk while taking a sip from the drink in his hand.

Your foot missed the next step. Who the hell was this guy?

What was not helping was that you could have sworn you had seen that face somewhere. Like in the newspaper or an online article.

As the final beats of "Bole Chudiyan" faded, you guided your sister back to her throne-like seat, adjusting her lehenga train with practiced ease.

"Need water? Tissue? Makeup touchup? A taser for Jiju’s third round of Kajra Re?" you muttered, earning a giggle from her—until her gaze flicked over your shoulder. "Oh! I totally forgot to introduce you!"

Before you could react, she gestured beside you. "This is James Barnes."

Your head snapped toward the man in the blue-and-white kurta—the staff imposter—now standing alarmingly close. And that name.

Where did you recognise that name from?

"Call me Bucky," he said, extending his hand with a smirk that screamed Got you. "The groom’s best friend. And, y’know… his best man."

Your fingers froze mid-reach.

Best man.

Groom’s best friend.

BUCKY.

Like Captain America’s friend, Bucky.

The guy you’d ordered to serve jalebi like a catering boy. Quite rudely at that, was THE super soldier, James Buchacan Barnes. The man you read about in the museums.

Your soul briefly left your body.

You prayed at one point today he wouldn’t pull out his metal arm and just choke you to death for the disrespect.

You—the self-appointed guardian of perfection, the overbearing architect of this flawless wedding—had just orchestrated your own downfall.

Bucky’s outstretched hand paused mid-air, then deliberately changed course. His fingers enveloped yours, warm and unyielding, before lifting them to his lips with the practiced grace of a man who’d once charmed his way through a different century.

The kiss he pressed to your knuckles was featherlight, mockingly and maddeningly polite, yet his eyes never wavered from yours—dark with amusement and something far more dangerous.

Your stomach dropped.

The grasp of your saree silk crumpling in your grip was the only sound as your body locked in shock. Every cell screamed: You not only cursed out the groom’s best man. You cursed out an Avenger. You handed him a dessert tray. You embarrassed h—

Bucky’s smirk deepened, thumb tracing a single, searing circle over your pulse point before releasing you.

A shiver raced down your spine, and you couldn’t decipher whether it was from the lingering heat of his lips against your skin—or the sheer terror that he’d tell on you.

He was relishing this.

And you were utterly at his mercy.

Bucky had been at the venue for exactly eleven minutes when he decided south asian weddings were a special kind of warfare.

The groom had warned him—"It’s chaos, but in a fun way!"—but nothing could’ve prepared him for the sensory onslaught of drumbeats, shrieking aunties, and no less than three separate girls "accidentally" dropping their dupattas near him. He’d retreated to the only quiet corner he could find, back pressed against a garland-strung pillar, when you caught his eye.

You had your back to him, hands gesturing sharply as you argued with the older woman in a rapid-fire language he didn’t understand—something about "too much ghee" and "the garland colors." The saree fabric draped over your shoulder shimmered like liquid gold under the lights, and the flower braided into your hair glowed against the dark strands.

Bucky memorized you just in case he ran into you later.

Lucky him—he didn’t have to wait long.

After retreating to a quieter corner (or so he thought), Bucky absently tugged at a marigold strand—just to admire it only to trigger a floral avalanche. Petals rained down like confetti, and before he could curse, there she was.

The mystery woman from earlier, now fully in front of him, eyes blazing.

"Excuse me?"

Up close, you were even more striking—gold earrings (jhumkas) swinging with every sharp gesture, the delicate bindi between her brows furrowed in fury. His gaze almost dipped to your blouse again, but he forced it upward, throat tight.

"You talking to me?" Bucky tried.

"Nehi, I’m talking to the flowers behind you," you snapped, then thrust a tray of jalebi into his hands. Bucky wanted to laugh at the misunderstanding but he was enjoying this too much to tell you his identity.

Bucky did look different.

Out of all the Avengers, he was the least popular. Plus like this—no tactical gear, no metal arm on display, no perpetual scowl (maybe a little). The crisp white kurta and navy sherwani made him blend in with the party, though he’d never admit how long it took him to figure out the damn buttons. Though he had to admit, as fancy as the fit was, it was twice as itchy.

Bucky knew he should be paying attention to your actual words. You were saying something about ruining the wedding decorations, but he kept getting distracted by little things.

Like how your hair kept slipping out of whatever fancy braid you had done, those loose strands bouncing every time you gestured angrily at him. Or the way the colours of your saree made your skin look warmer and glow like some sort of magic. Even the way your necklace caught the light when you moved was weirdly fascinating him.

And your voice—that was the worst part. You could’ve been reading a grocery list and he’d still listen just to hear the way you shaped your words, with a little accent.

Focus, Barnes.

Bucky opened his mouth—"You’re really mixing me up with someone"—but you were already storming off after instructing him to take a tray to table number 4.

Leaning against the groom’s chair, he watched you dance with the bride. Your swift movements, hips swaying in time with the dhol’s accelerating beat, saree flaring as you spun, laughter bright as the fairy lights strung overhead.

“So,” Bucky nudged his best friend, eyes never leaving you. “Who’s that?”

���My fiancée’s little sister,” the groom grinned. “Total firecracker. You know, before the wedding she probably asked her sister about a million times if she was sure about this wedding. Why’d you ask?”

Oh, no reason.

Bucky bit his lower lip, the gears turning. Feisty. Protective. And already predisposed to hate him. Perfect.

Then, as if sensing his plotting, you locked eyes with him mid-spin.

He raised his glass in a silent toast, mischief dripping from every inch of his expression.

Your sister’s worried frown hit you like a ladoo to the face. “Everything alright, sis?”

No. Absolutely not. But you’d be damned if you let this ruin her wedding.

“Yeah, of course!” You forced a laugh, brittle as overcooked jalebi. “I—uh—already met him before. Nice to see you again, Bucky-ji.”

Your handshake was a vise grip, nails just shy of drawing blood. A silent scream in your eyes, pleading: Don’t. Open. Your. Mouth.

Bucky’s tongue clicked, the picture of innocence—except for the devilish glint in his gaze. “Oh yeah, we met. Such a warm welcome—how could I forget?”

He matched your grin, thumb brushing your knuckles just long enough to make your eye twitch. Reveling in the way your nostrils flared.

"Hey, Bucky!" You plastered on a smile so sweet it could’ve curdled the lassi on the nearest tray. "Since you’re jiju’s (brother in law’s) best man, I have some uhh wedding stuff to discuss with you. Why don’t we let these lovebirds be?"

Bucky’s eyebrow arched, but he played along, offering an exaggerated bow. "Sure," His voice dripped with faux innocence, that flirty lilt sending warning bells clanging in your skull.

You barely resisted the urge to yank him by his kurta sleeve—until he disarmed you completely. At the stairs, he extended his hand like some storybook prince, palm upturned. "After you."

You gripped his fingers, your other hand clutching your saree pallu like a lifeline as he guided you down—his thumb brushing your wrist, just once, as if to say:

This isn’t over.

Bucky’s gaze kept snagging on the stray strands of hair caught in your jhumka, the way they glimmered under the fairy lights. It shouldn’t have bothered him. It did. His fingers twitched at his side—fix it, touch it, something—but he clenched his fist.

You, meanwhile, were a woman on a mission.

With a grip that could rival his vibranium arm, you hauled him through the wedding chaos, face carefully neutral for the guests. Bucky stumbled once, just to see if you’d notice (you didn’t), before letting himself be dragged into the shadows beyond the venue.

The second you stopped, the mask cracked.

"Okay, listen—" you began, then froze.

Because now, alone, with Bucky’s full attention on you—those storm-cloud eyes, that infuriating half-smile—your speech that you were mentally preparing evaporated. Your fingers twisted the bangles on your wrist, the clink-clink loud in the quiet.

Bucky crossed his arms, leaning back against a tree.

"What's this about? Wanted some private time with me, or...?" Bucky tilted his head, arms crossed, that infuriating smirk carving dimples into his cheeks.

"Kiya? —NO!" You took a sharp step back, nearly tripping over your own saree. The worst part wasn't his arrogance—it was the traitorous heat crawling up your neck.

Since when did you get flustered by a smooth talking blue-eyed gora with a jawline that belonged on a damn coin?

"I'm...sorry," you muttered through clenched teeth.

Bucky leaned in, close enough that his cologne, something woodsy and expensive, wrapped around you. "What's that? Couldn't hear you—"

"I SAID SORRY—" You caught yourself, lowering your voice to a hiss. "...Sorry. Okay?"

Bucky’s grin widened. "About what, exactly?"

You fantasized about knocking that perfect front tooth loose. "For mistaking you for a staff. And. Being. Rude." Each word tasted like bitter karela.

Bucky’s smirk didn’t waver. He was savoring this. The way your jaw clenched, the frustrated flush on your cheeks.

Bucky hummed, tapping his chin. "Hmm. See, I think I deserve a real apology. Maybe over dinner—"

"OVER MY DEAD BODY—"

Bucky held back from laughing out loud. "You were quite rude. ‘Sorry’ isn’t enough." He tapped his chin, feigning deep thought.

You saw red. This motherfu—

"Listen." Your voice dropped, deadly serious. "Today cannot go wrong. I fucked up, fine. But it’s my sister’s wedding. Stay mad at me, scream at me, I don’t care—just please don’t tell my sister or jiju."

The desperation in your tone startled him. Bucky had been aiming for flirty, but the raw plea in your eyes was… unexpected.

Then, an idea struck.

"I’ll keep my mouth shut," he said slowly, "on one condition."

Your spine straightened. "Fine. Anything."

"Anything?" His grin turned wolfish.

You braced yourself—personal servant for the day? Human shield against overeager aunties?—

"You do everything I say," he purred, "until the last guest leaves."

You searched his face for hints. Was this a trick? A trap? but his expression gave nothing away. Just that infuriating half-smile and eyes like polished steel.

Whatever. The wedding came first.

“Deal.” You thrust out your hand, businesslike.

Bucky stared at it for a beat, then clasped it, his grip warm and deliberate. His thumb brushed your knuckles—once—a silent promise.

“Pleasure doing business, Jaan.”

The moment the word "Jaan" left Bucky’s lips, your serious face crumbled, bursting out laughing so hard you nearly toppled over, gripping his hand for balance.

“Who taught you that?” you wheezed, holding your stomach.

Bucky, who’d been smug and in control just seconds ago, blinked, thrown off guard. “What? Did I pronounce it wrong? What’s so funny?”

“No, no, you said it right,” you managed, clutching your stomach. “It’s just—that’s something you say adoringly. Like ‘Meri Jaan—’ ”

Your voice softened mockingly, elongating the word with dramatic sweetness and Bucky’s brain short-circuited.

The way it rolled off your tongue, languid and honeyed, like a secret. It did something to Bucky.

Bucky cleared his throat, suddenly hyper-aware of his own heartbeat. “I heard your sister and, uh, relatives use it. Thought it was your nickname or something…” His hand rubbed the back of his neck, the tips of his ears turning pink.

“People do call me that,” you grinned, leaning into his space now. “But coming from you? With that face?”

Bucky scowled. “What’s wrong with my face?”

“It’s a murder face, not a ‘mera jaan’ face.”

“I can be adorable,” he muttered, so earnestly offended you almost felt bad.

"You and I need to be in a very different relationship for you to call me Jaan~," you cooed, sashaying past him with a smirk, noticing the way his ears darkened to the shade of laal mirch.

Bucky had never scrambled to recover from anything faster. He caught up in two strides, voice low and gruff: "First task. Be my translator."

"Fine, Jaanu~~" you sing-songed, rolling your eyes without noticing how his jaw clenched every time you weaponized that word.

Somebody help him.

"And stop—" He caught your wrist, then immediately released it like you’d burned him. "Just. Stop saying it like that."

You blinked up at him, all faux innocence. "Like what, Jaanu?"

A muscle in his cheek twitched. This was going to be the longest damn day of his life. He almost pondered whether this deal was a bad decision for him. You wondered the same.

The wedding was a riot of color and chaos, just like you’d planned. But Bucky’s stupid deal had you stuck playing babysitter instead of enjoying it.

"Your Auntie Pammy’s got stamina," Bucky mused, nodding to where the woman was still dancing like the dhol would stop beating if she did. "Think she’d share her secret? I could use that kind of energy."

"Pfft lame super soldier,” You muttered to yourself. “Plus I don’t do small talk," you said, arms crossed.

"Yeah?" He leaned in, "What do you do, then?"

"Definitely not entertain goras who blackmail me at weddings."

Bucky’s grin was all teeth. "Liar. You’re gonna love it."

The music shifted then—Ishq Wala Love—and the dance floor transformed into a sea of swaying couples. Your sister laughed as her husband spun her, her lehenga flaring like a sunrise. You didn’t realize you were smiling ear to ear to yourself while longingly looking at all the couples being all lovey-dovey until Bucky’s voice cut through your thoughts.

"Dance with me."

"What?"

"You heard me." He held out his hand, all false innocence. "Deal’s a deal."

"That’s for couples," you hissed, face burning.

"So pretend I’m your jiju’s really hot cousin." His fingers brushed yours, sending a jolt up your arm. "Or pretend I am your boyfriend. I’m flexible."

You glared, but let him pull you close—too close.

Bucky’s metal hand settled at the small of your back, his fingers brushing the bare skin where your saree’s blouse dipped low. The contact sent a jolt through you—warm, even through his gloves—as he guided you into a slow sway.

"Relax," he murmured, his breath stirring the loose hairs at your temple. "I don’t step on toes."

You scoffed, fingers tightening on his shoulder. "Just on nerves, apparently."

He spun you suddenly, your back now pressed to his chest, his arms loose around your waist. His chin hovered just above your shoulder, close enough that you once again caught the scent of his cologne—that woodsy and expensive scent.

"You’re still stiff," he teased, his thumb tracing idle circles over your hip where the saree’s pleats had shifted. "Scared I’ll drop you?"

"No, but I am scared you’ll talk me to death," you shot back, but your traitorous body leaned into his touch anyway.

Facing him again, Bucky caught your hand and twirled you under his arm—slow, deliberate—before reeling you in closer than before. Your pallu slipped, the silk pooling at your elbow as his fingers found the stray hair tangled in your jhumka.

"This was driving me crazy," he admitted, tucking it behind your ear with a gentleness that didn’t match his smirk.

Your cheeks burned. "Focus on your feet, Barnes."

"Oh, I’m focused." His gaze dropped to your lips. Just for a second.

His palm slid down your arm, fingers threading through yours as he lifted your joined hands. The move forced you to step closer, your saree brushing against his legs.

"Admit it," he said, voice low and playful. "You’re having fun."

You glared. "I’d rather get food poisoning from the buffet."

He laughed, rich and warm, and damn him, it made your stomach flip.

The song swelled, and Bucky dipped you low, one arm secure around your waist. His face hovered inches above yours, eyes crinkled at the corners.

"Say it," he goaded.

"Never."

He hauled you upright, his nose brushing yours as you collided against his chest. "We’ll see."

The music faded, but Bucky’s hands lingered at your waist a beat too long, his grip just firm enough to make your breath hitch. You stepped back quickly, smoothing your crumpled pallu with shaky fingers.

"Wow," Bucky deadpanned, rolling his shoulders like he was the one who’d just survived a trial. "For someone who didn’t want to dance, you’re surprisingly—"

"Don’t." You pointed a warning finger at him. "Finish that sentence and I’ll rip your kurta’s sleeves off."

He grinned, opening his mouth to say something dumb like ‘Bet you’d like to see that view’ —then paused, frowning at his cuff. A bright orange smudge stained on the crisp white fabric.

"The hell…?"

You grabbed his wrist, inspecting the mess. "Oh. Probably happened from Ayana’s mehndi,” You snorted. "Kid’s got good aim."

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. "You dragged me past the kids’ area when you were yelling at me outside."

"And?"

"And now you’re fixing it. That’s your next task." He shoved his sleeve toward you, all false innocence. "Deal’s a deal.”

"Oh come on, you can just wipe it off yourself!" you groaned, throwing your hands up. The jhumka in your hair swung violently with the motion.

Bucky nodded solemnly. "You're right."

Your eyes lit up. Finally—

"But I also wonder where your jiju went..." He craned his neck, pretending to scan the crowd. "Should we go ask him about—"

You inhaled so sharply you could’ve inhaled some of the flower petals in the air. Control. Control. CONTROL—

"FINE!" You snatched his wrist hard enough to make him stumble, dragging him toward the nearest place to get some napkins from. "Chup! Not a single word about jiju."

Bucky let himself be manhandled, grinning like he’d won the lottery. "Knew you’d see it my way."

Deal’s a deal. Just a few more hours. You repeated it like a prayer, nails digging into his sleeve.

You dragged him into the nearest bathroom, slamming the door shut with your hip. The sudden privacy made Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Bit early to get this intimate, don’t you think?” He leaned against the sink, that infuriating smirk playing on his lips. “Unless you’ve got other plans—”

“Shut up,” you hissed, snatching his wrist.

Bucky opened his mouth to retort—but the words died when you stepped closer, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture was casual, domestic, and it knocked the air right out of him.

He didn’t even realize he was staring until your fingers brushed his pulse point, your touch feather-light as you dabbed at the stain with a damp cloth.

“Usually,” he murmured, voice rough, “after a dance like that, women aren’t this… pissed at me.”

You didn’t look up. “Usually, men don’t blackmail me at my sister’s wedding.”

Bucky reached up, gently gathering the loose strands of your hair to keep them from falling forward as you worked. His touch was unexpectedly careful—no teasing, just quiet assistance.

You let him.

The mehndi stain was stubborn, but you wiped at it meticulously, your fingers brushing against the intricate embroidery of his sherwani sleeve. "Vibranium arm, huh?" you remarked casually, glancing up just long enough to catch him already looking at you.

"Comes with a century's worth of baggage," he replied, his usual smirk absent. "We'd be here past the, what you guys call, the bidaai, if I got into it."

Something about the way he said it—the quiet resignation—made your fingers still for a moment. "I know the highlights," you admitted before you could stop yourself.

Bucky's eyebrows lifted. "You've read up on me?"

"Don't get excited," you deflected, focusing extra hard on a particularly stubborn spot of dye. "I know all the Avengers' files. Even the... less publicized ones."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "And here I thought I was special."

"You're something," you muttered, but there was no bite to it.

His expression sobered. "Does any of it... bother you?" The question was quieter than you expected from him.

You finally met his gaze squarely. "Should it?"

For a long moment, the sounds of the wedding outside—the music, the laughter—faded to nothing. Then the door handle jiggled violently, making you both jump.

"Occupied!" Bucky said just loud enough for the twisting of the door handle to stop.

Most of the stubborn mehndi stain was already gone. There was no reason to be alone together anymore.

The bathroom had gone too quiet, the sounds of the wedding muffled behind the door.

It was obvious that something in the air had shifted. It had shifted since the dance ended but now, being confined in a small space together made it hard to ignore.

Bucky's fingers were still tangled gently in your hair as you worked on getting the stain off even though there wasn’t much else to take off, his other hand now braced against the sink beside you. Close. Too close.

"You missed a spot," he murmured, voice low. His thumb brushed over your knuckle where you gripped the damp cloth, guiding your hand to a last stubborn fleck of henna. The movement made you look up—and suddenly his face was right there, just inches away, his breath warm against your lips.

You froze. So did he.

For one impossible second, the world narrowed to the space between you. His eyes—usually so sharp and teasing—had gone soft, uncertain. Your fingers curled instinctively into the fabric of his sherwani, whether to push away or pull closer, you weren't sure.

The faucet dripped. Someone outside laughed. The moment stretched, fragile as spun sugar.

Then your phone buzzed violently in your pocket, making you both jerk back.

"Shit—" You fumbled for it, your pulse hammering. The screen showed five missed calls from your Ma. "Ma needs me."

Bucky released your hair like he’d been burned, clearing his throat, just a flustered nod, his fingers flexing at his sides like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

You didn’t dare check your reflection before stepping out. If your saree was crumpled or your lips were bitten red, you didn’t want to know.

The hallway blurred as you hurried toward where your Ma waited, but your body hadn’t forgotten the dizzying realization that you’d wanted him to close that last inch. The contrast of his vibranium fingers cool where they’d brushed your wrist versus the heat of his other hand, rough with calluses.

"And this one is for your jiju, and this— Beti, are you even listening?"

Your Ma’s slap to your arm snapped your attention back—mostly. "Hah? Yes, yes, the ugly vase goes to Auntie Priti—"

"That’s the antique from your nani!" Ma hissed, shoving a glittery gift box into your hands. "Focus! These will break!"

You nodded absently, eyes drifting again to where your cousin Leena stood waaaay too close to Bucky, laughing at something he’d said. His metal arm glinted under the lights as he leaned against the dessert table, that half-smirk on his face.

Not that you cared.

"Hold this string while I— HAYE!" Your Ma gasped as the twine snapped between your white-knuckled grip. "Why did you rip it? This was for the gift boxes!"

"Sorry, sorry!" You snatched the nearest gift boxes, nearly upending a tower of mithai tins in your haste. "I'll wrap them. You go... rest."

Ma eyed you suspiciously but left, muttering about "modern kids and their short tempers."

Not that you were actually angry. Not at all.

Not even when your cousin—that traitor—leaned so close to Bucky her tikli nearly brushed his cheek as she whispered something that made his eyebrows shoot up.

You watched her touch his vibranium arm and gasp, “So cold!”

Relax. It’s just Bucky being Bucky. That’s what you told yourself, anyway. He was known for being a smooth talker and have ways to make any woman swoon.

You stole another glance—just in time to see him laugh at something your cousin said, his fingers carefully working to untangle her dupatta from his watch. All effortless charm and focused attention, made your stomach twist.

Why did it bother you?

You didn’t know. And that pissed you off more.

Grabbing three gift boxes at random, you stalked off before you did something stupid like throwing a box at her and ruin the wedding.

You walked into the storage room, humming "Tere Naina" under your breath as you wrestled your pallu into a hasty tuck. The boxes weren’t going to wrap themselves, and frankly, you needed the distraction—

"HAAHH—!"

A hand clamped onto your shoulder, and you nearly launched a tin of sweets at the intruder’s head.

"It’s just me. Calm down." Bucky’s fingers pressed lightly against your lips to stifle your yelp, his other hand steadying the wobbling gift tower.

That was the problem.

You swatted him away, turning your back to stack boxes with unnecessary force. "Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be with jiju ?" A beat. "Or getting busy with my cousin?"

Bucky froze. Then slowly a grin crept across his face.

"Ah, yes, your cousin," he mused, circling you like a shark. "She’s quite… nice. You should introduce us properly."

Your fingers dented the ribbon you were tying, muttering to yourself, "I’d rather introduce you to a flying chappal."

“What was that?”

You bit the inside of your bottom lip, nostrils flaring at his audacity. Thank God he couldn’t see your face. But the way your shoulders tensed—knuckles whitening around the ribbon you were strangling—betrayed you.

"Oh, is that my next task?" you snapped, voice dripping with faux sweetness. "Be your personal Shaadi.com and introduce you to my cousins? Wow. Lucky me." You yanked another box toward you with unnecessary force. "Plenty of aunties out there who’d love to play matchmaker for Captain America’s bestfriend. No deal required."

Bucky’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it widened—like he’d just won a prize.

"Huh." He stepped closer, his vibranium hand snagging the ribbon you’d just murdered. "Funny. You didn’t seem this pissed when I was fixing flowers earlier."

Your breath hitched. Bastard.

"I wasn’t pissed," you lied.

"Could’ve fooled me." His thumb brushed yours as he pried the ribbon from your grip, “Let me help.”

You snatched your hands away from him, jaw clenched. Silence.

Bucky didn’t take the hint.

He kept working beside you, stacking boxes, adjusting ribbons, like your irritation was just background noise.

The worst part wasn’t his presence. It was the creeping realization that you liked bickering with him. That without his teasing, the air felt too still.

So you waited. Watched. Every flick of his wrist, every shift of his weight—just one misstep, and you’d pounce.

Bucky noticed. Of course he did.

The way your eyes kept darting to him, the way your breath hitched when his arm brushed yours—it was all terribly obvious. And he would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t find it adorable.

Bucky couldn't resist turning the knife.

"You're really bad at avoiding me," he murmured, stepping closer under the pretense of reaching for the shelf behind you. His body caged you against towers of mithai boxes, the heady scent of ghee and sugar clinging to the air between you.

You refused to let him win.

"And you're really bad at taking hints." The retort would've landed better if your voice hadn't cracked when his knee brushed between yours, the heat of him searing through your saree.

With infuriating calm, Bucky plucked a ladoo from its box and took a deliberate bite. "Want some?"

"Those weren't meant for—"

"So sweet," he interrupted, rolling the dessert on his tongue. "Almost as sweet as you—"

"I will vomit." You shoved at his chest, the embroidery on his kurta scratching your palms. "That's the worst line I've ever heard."

Bucky laughed around a mouthful of ladoo, crumbs dusting his stupidly perfect lips.

Even his failures were charming, which just pissed you off more.

His mouth-full laugh—half-choked, half-delighted—sent an unexpected giggle bursting from your lips. You watched, torn between concern and amusement, as he struggled to swallow the ladoo without inhaling it.

"My God—are you okay?" You reached out instinctively, patting his back with more force than necessary, your grin mirroring his despite your best efforts.

So much for Bucky's smooth-talking moment. Instead of swoon-worthy charm, he'd nearly been taken out by a sweet ball.

"Wow," you teased, hand lingering between his shoulder blades. "Did I just save an Avenger?"

Bucky coughed out a laugh, wiping crumbs from his lips with the back of his hand. "My saviour," he rasped, voice still rough from near-death-by-dessert.

The shared laughter faded into a quiet, comfortable silence—the kind that felt rare at a bustling wedding. For a moment, it was just the two of you, surrounded by towers of boxes, the air still sweet with sugar and something softer.

A terrifying thought crept in—what if the man you swore you couldn't stand was becoming someone you... liked?

Bucky's hand rested on the shelf behind you, caging you in without touching. Your palm still lingered on his chest, the steady thud of his heartbeat betraying his calm exterior.

"You don't have to help me here," you said softly—no bite, no sarcasm, just warmth. "You should be enjoying the wedding. It's not often you get to experience a desi wedding like this."

Bucky's smile softened, his eyes holding yours. "True." A pause. Then, voice dropping, he leaned in slightly, "But do you want me to go?"

Damn him.

You couldn't answer.

It was impossible to look away—from his storm- blue and gray eyes, from the scent of sandalwood and something uniquely Bucky, from the way his sherwani stretched across his shoulders.

And his lips that you'd only allowed yourself one glance. Any more felt dangerous.

Say yes. He should leave. Let your cousin drag him to the dance floor. Let him charm someone who hadn't spent the entire day pretending not to care.

But your traitorous fingers curled into his sherwani, holding on.

Your silence told him everything.

A low chuckle escaped Bucky’s lips as he watched you struggle—your brows furrowed, your breath uneven, your fingers still fisted in his kurta like you hadn’t decided whether to shove him away or pull him closer.

As if he hadn’t had you wrapped around his finger since the moment you’d yelled at him for "ruining" the floral arrangements.

But Bucky was no better.

From that first glimpse of you—your saree gliding behind you like liquid gold, your voice sharp enough to cut glass—to the way you’d moved on the dance floor, hips swaying to a rhythm only you knew, to the way you shone under the fairy lights like the wedding was just a backdrop for you…

“Mesmerized” didn’t cover it.

Bucky’s vibranium arm slid around your lower back, tugging you flush against him. Your gasp was muffled by the sudden proximity, your palms flattening against his chest like you could steady yourself and your racing heart.

"I—I still have some tasks left," you whispered, the words barely audible.

Bucky’s thumb traced idle circles over the delicate embroidery at your waist. "Lucky for you,"he murmured, "so do I."

The air grew thin, Bucky’s mint-laced breath fanning over your lips.

“Bucky—”

“This can be part of our deal,” he murmured, sealing the words with a kiss.

The taste of ladoo—cardamom and ghee—lingered on his tongue as your lips moved in perfect sync. His vibranium arm banded around your waist, hauling you flush against him until the edge of the table bit into your lower back, the only anchor keeping you upright.

You fisted his kurta, silk crumpling under your grip, then slid your hands up to tangle in the hair at his nape, pulling him deeper. The storage room filled with the sound of ragged breaths and the clink of mithai boxes shifting dangerously.

Bucky broke away first, his voice rough. “Took every ounce of self-control not to do that the second you started yelling at me.” His lips were stained with your smudged lipstick, a light brown streak that made your stomach flip.

“I hate you so much,” you lied—because of course the one thing that could derail your focus tonight was a face like his.

Bucky chuckled, his fingers tracing the edge of your pallu with deliberate slowness. “Y’know, this thing’s been bothering me all night.”

“Pagal.” You swatted his hand away.

You dragged him back into the kiss, fingers threading through his hair—now gloriously disheveled, thanks to you. Bucky groaned into your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, but he was painfully careful with your own hair, despite how badly he wanted to ruin the intricate braids.

Later, he promised himself. Somewhere with fewer aunties and more privacy.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

"Beti? You in there?"

You jerked back like you’d been burned, your pallu slipping off one shoulder.

Bucky’s lips were swollen, his pupils blown wide, and the look he shot you—pure frustration—almost made you laugh.

"I— We—" You floundered, panic rising. How to explain being locked in a closet with your brother-in-law’s unfairly attractive best friend?

Bucky pressed a finger to your lips. "Don’t. Say. Anything," he whispered, then kissed you again—deep and desperate—to silence your protests.

The doorknob rattled.

Bucky groaned against your lips, the sound vibrating through you. Second time tonight a damn doorknob had ruined the moment. You couldn’t help but smile into the kiss, feeling his annoyance in the way his fingers dug into your hips—like he was tempted to say screw it and keep going.

The rattling finally stopped.

“We should go,” you murmured, arms still looped around his neck, making zero effort to move. “Before someone notices we’ve both gone missing at the same time. Don’t want aunties coming up crazy rumours.”

“We should. I want to hear what they’re saying about us,”Bucky agreed, thumb swiping at the smudged lipstick on the corner of your mouth—his actions directly contradicting his words.

Then, with a slow, wicked grin:

“Next time, we pick a hiding spot where we won't get interrupted by a doorknob." His thumb lingered on your jaw. "I'll break it beforehand if I have to."

"Pagal," you scoffed, pressing a hand to his chest to push him back—but the way your fingers curled into his sherwani betrayed you.

You slipped out first, smoothing your crumpled saree with shaky hands. The hallway was mercifully empty, though the distant sounds of dhol and laughter served as a reminder: The wedding wasn't over yet.

Neither was this.

"Where were yo— Areh ye kiya? Why’s your hair a mess?" Ma blocked your path, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like she could smell the scandal on you.

Because I just had Bucky Barnes’ tongue down my throat in a storage closet.

"Uh, some of the boxes fell on me while I was organizing," you lied, patting your braid—now half-undone, thanks to a certain super-soldier’s fingers.

Ma facepalmed so hard her bangles clattered. "What am I going to do with you?" She shook her head, then brightened. "Go talk to the guests. I heard Raj’s mother is here somewhere."

"Ma!" You groaned. "How many times? Raj has a girlfriend."

She waved a hand, dupatta fluttering. "Girlfriend, shirlfriend. Until there’s a shaadi, it’s nothing." Leaning in, she stage-whispered: "He’s an engineer, beti. Worked on the new Avengers base!"

You tuned out the rest—something about grandchildren and his "very nice salary"—and scanned the crowd for an escape. Or, better yet, a certain smug gora who’d gotten you into this mess.

From the corner of your eye, Bucky emerged—your knight in slightly rumpled sherwani. You cut off Ma mid-"beta, just meet him once!" with a desperate wave. "Bucky!"

His head snapped up like you’d yanked an invisible leash.

Within seconds, he was at your side, all dimples and deceptive innocence. Your Ma blinked up at him, momentarily stunned by his height. "Hello-ji. Are you from the groom’s side?"

"Yes," Bucky said, pressing a hand to his chest and bowing slightly—the picture of old-world courtesy. "Nice to meet you, Auntie."

You rolled your eyes. Century-old super-soldier, my ass. The man had charm dialed up to eleven, and your Ma—usually a steel trap for unsuspecting goras—was blushing.

"I actually needed your daughter for something," Bucky added, flashing a smile so sweet it could’ve curdled lassi.

Just like that, Ma forgot Raj, the Avengers base, and her future engineer grandchildren. "Of course, beta! Go, go!" She shooed you away, then whispered loudly: "He’s very tall."

You gaped. Since when did Bucky Barnes outmaneuver a desi mom?

You let Bucky steer you to an empty table, collapsing into a chair with a huff. "You’re unbelievable. I don’t even think my dad ever made my mother blush like that." You propped your chin on your palm, elbow digging into the tablecloth.

Bucky smirked, stretching his arms along the back of the chairs like a king holding court. "I’m a man of many talents," he boasted. "Back in the ’40s, I had to beat women off with a stick just to get a moment’s peace."

"And here you were, begging me for a dance." You grinned, admiring the way the fairy lights caught the stubble along his jaw. "How the tables have turned."

A chuckle rumbled in his chest, but his eyes darkened with intent. "Can’t take jabs at me yet, beautiful," he murmured, leaning in. "I’ve got one more task for you."

Your smile vanished. "You’re seriously not going to stop until the last baraat leaves?"

Bucky’s thumb brushed your knuckle—a silent promise. "Not a chance."

He shook his head, the picture of innocence. "My shoe’s loose. Need your help fixing it."

"Are you serious?"you deadpanned. Since when did the super-soldier’s shoes magically come undone? But the glint in his eyes—and that infuriating smirk—told you everything. Kuch toh gadbad zaroor hai…

With a huff, you knelt to fix the jutti, only for Bucky to lean down and murmur: "Careful. People might think something else is happening here."

Your head snapped up, eyes wide. "You son of a—"

You slammed your stiletto onto his foot—hard—and launched yourself at him. Bucky bolted like a man who’d just declared war, weaving through tables as you chased him past horrified aunties and cackling uncles.

"You looked good like that!" he called over his shoulder, dodging a waiter carrying rasmalai. "It was a compliment!"

"Compliment? Teri ma ki—!" You hurled a gulab jamun at his head.

It missed.

Bucky winked. "Admit it—you’re having fun."

Bucky skidded to a stop as the dead-end hallway loomed before him. The left turn was a mistake.

He turned just in time to see you step into the corridor, blocking his only exit.

The sound of your payal echoed like tiny bells with each deliberate step. Your jhumkas swung with the rhythm of your movement, your bangles clinking like a countdown to his doom.

Your hair had come undone from the chase—strands cascading over your shoulders, the tikka barely clinging to its place, a few stubborn flowers still tangled in the waves. The saree that had once been perfectly draped now looked like it had survived a storm—his storm.

And he believed he deserved a beating because even now all he could think about was how breathtaking you were.

Bucky’s back pressed against the cold brick wall as you closed the distance. For the first time in his long, long life, the Winter Soldier felt something rare:

Pure, unfiltered fear.

And, if he was being honest, something else too. But it was too inappropriate to even think about in this moment.

"Jaan," he tried, voice rough, hands raised in surrender, praying at least this time he used the word correctly. "Let’s talk about this—"

You didn’t stop.

"You’re even prettier when you’re murderous," Bucky blurted, because apparently his survival instincts had taken a vacation.

You seized his sherwani collar, silk crumpling in your fist as you yanked him down to your eye level. "Say. Sorry."

For a heartbeat, Bucky just grinned—all dimples and defiance—until you tightened your grip.

"...Sorry," he rasped, not sounding sorry at all. His gaze dropped to your lips.

"Not good enough," you hissed, fingers twisting deeper into his sherwani collar. "Say it like you mean it."

Bucky tried for a smirk, but it wavered when you didn’t budge. "Or what?" His hand slid toward your waist—

Smack.

You slapped it away so hard his vibranium fingers clinked. "Or I march straight to jiju," you said, leaning in until your noses almost touched, "and tell him his best friend’s been mingling with his sister-in-law."

Bucky’s bravado evaporated. "You’re bluffing."

"Try me." Your free hand mimed a gun at his chest. “No more deals. No more kisses." You let your thumb drop like a hammer. "No more me."

His throat moved. Finally—real fear.

"I’m sorry," Bucky choked out, palms pressed together in mock prayer. "I’ll behave."

You bit your cheek to stop the laugh threatening to ruin your victory. Pathetic. Adorable. Yours.

Bucky watched your grip loosen, your lips twitching—just a fraction—and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

"You’re terrifying when you’re winning," he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair for dramatic effect. He even managed a wounded expression, like he was the victim here.

You rolled your eyes so hard your jhumka swung. "Drop the act, super soldier," you said, tapping the invisible gun against his chest. "I’ve read your files. You’ve survived worse than me."

Bucky’s pout vanished, replaced by that signature smirk. "Yeah, but none of them looked this good threatening me."

His smirk was insufferable—right up until it vanished.

One second, you were glaring. The next, Bucky’s hands framed your face, his mouth crashing into yours. The kiss was all heat, no apology—his teeth catching your lip, his fingers tangling in the loose strands of your hair.

You shoved at his chest, but he didn’t budge. Instead, he walked you backward until your hips hit the wall, his vibranium arm banding around your waist to keep you there.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was ragged. "Tell jiju," he dared, voice rough. "Won’t stop me from feeling you."

Your payal jingled as you swayed forward, chasing his lips.

A/N: I finally finished this holyy shit😭. Sorry to anyone who’s been waiting for me to come out with another desi!reader fic. I scrapped so many ideas cus i just didnt like half of the stuff I wrote. Like i randomly just get writer’s block😐 and plus with my habit of procrastinating, i end up taking forever to write😣. Anyways! Thank you soo much for reading! I had so much fun writing this! As always my asks are open for any requests!

SEE YA IN MY NEXT POST MY BEAUTIFUL DESI GIRLS❣️ — তারা/Taara⭐️

If you enjoyed this, check out my previous desi!reader fic <3

Bucky at the baraat🪔

[gatitties]

Hello there! This is simply a brainrot, and I'd like your opinion/thoughts on it if you don't mind! Sort of inspired by the platonic yandere Bonten writing!

Imagine being platonic yandere Sanzu's darling aka best friend, and surprisingly you ended up in Bonten with him as a fellow executive. Sanzu values loyalty, and the fact that you remained good friends with him for THAT long showed that you passed his loyalty test. How can he not adore you? In his eyes you're perfect.

How would you think the dynamic would be like considering that darling is also an executive of Bonten? I honestly can see things going from something simple like you missing your office supplies/ weapon the second you look away to more extreme things like Sanzu abusing those who he sees as getting too close to you behind your back if they're not a Bonten executive.

I can also see the other Bonten members, especially Akashi helping you hide from Sanzu if he's being too overbearing.

Have a nice day/night!

─Platonic!Yandere!BFF Sanzu x reader

─Summary: The paranoia that you will disappear out of nowhere or someone will hurt you eats away at Sanzu's troubled mind.

─Warnings: obsession, toxic behaviors, mention of drugs

I couldn't just give an opinion, I needed to write about this!! So here's some content for you <3

─ Sanzu appreciates few things in life, he has always followed Mikey like a faithful dog, even if that means getting his hands dirty doing the hard work, but besides his boss, you were always there despite everything.

─ You got involved for him more than you originally thought, starting in the teenage stage with the gangs, committing some small crimes almost in adulthood, until becoming one of the executives of Bonten, all because of caring about your best friend.

─ You also appreciate his loyalty to you, he has been one of the only friends who has not abandoned you or put you aside, although you knew that he was not the best company sometimes due to his violent tendencies, you decided to deliberately avoid that subject, you never had an excessive amount of friends, and you gave yourself the whim of, despite being a little scary, keeping Sanzu's long-lasting friendship.

─ Unknown to you, he was much worse than a plain violent person, at least regarding you, he hid his most twisted thoughts so as not to scare you, he didn't need to take drastic measures at the last minute if he revealed to you all the atrocities he had committed for you.

─ Extortion, breaking and entering, kidnapping, murder… he could list them all, none justified for work but for your safety, even though you were an executive of Bonten, in Sanzu's eyes you were still that adorable friend who worries when sees him hurt.

─ He would like you to think of him as you always have, that your treatment of him does not change, therefore, it is better that you do not know what he does behind your back, that you think that he is still the same fool who came to your house crying at night because he had been hit too hard in a gang fight.

─ He knows you well enough to know that you will not like what he does.

─ He'll totally steal you random stuff, like if he has a mission away from you, he'll take that pen you've been using lately so he has something to "connect" you two when you're not around, and who knows, maybe he can use it as a weapon.

─ Even though he tends to steal your clothes because he can't get enough of your scent, he likes to smell like you, it makes him feel at home, of course, he also insists that you wear some of his clothes so that others can relate the smells and not poke their noses into something that's his.

─ He's a cry baby when you're not paired up on some errands, maybe he'll complain to Mikey, but if the boss doesn't want to, he'll let it go on the condition that the next day you have a day just the two of you doing some hobby.

─ The relationship with the other executives is quite neutral in your view, a little closer to Akashi or Kakucho because they are a little friendlier once you take your time to get to know them, you don't see Kokonoi and Mochizuki much, but you maintain a cordial relationship with them, as well as with Mikey, you don't see him much either.

─ On the other hand, the Haitani brothers are another story, Sanzu doesn't seem to like them very much when they are around you, they tend to be too flirtatious, although your best friend doesn't care if you have a romantic relationship, it has to be him and only him who approves whether that person is suitable or not to receive so much affection from you.

─ The Haitani are not on his good list, they are delinquents (a bit hypocritical bro), they run brothels, you deserve better.

─ Sanzu is very open to touch, in fact, whenever he can he is stuck to you like a sticker, like your shadow, he needs to have your body against his to know that you are still there with him and that you will not disappear like smoke.

─ You turn to his brother a lot when Sanzu is going overboard with all that stuff about keeping you in his sight so that nothing bad happens to you, in addition to when he is drugged, you prefer not to see that state of his and you have had many arguments with him because of that, even though he always says that he will get better, Akashi will be your shoulder of comfort in those moments.

─ Everyone knows how obsessed your best friend is with you, but they won't say anything unless you discover something and you are extremely anxious, as long as his obsession doesn't interfere with their work, Sanzu will be able to keep his best friend until death do them part.

[oizysian]

Hey, i have request, can you write it?

It's with Wanda, where she is engaged with Vision but having a affair with Yn.

They met in a bar, Wanda had an argument with him and wanted to have a a night for herself, and in there she met yn. Yn was charming but didn't want a to be in a relationship, so she always did a one night stand, that works for Wanda in that moment but after that they were having more moments together, It was like she didn't love Vision but with Yn, it was easy she thought, even if Yn was didn't share things about her private life or didn't want to get involve with anyone, she couldn't anything about it, she was falling in love with Wanda but knowing she was getting marry soon, she tried to cut every contact with her until Wanda came to her house saying if she ask her about not marrying Vision, she wouldn't do it but Yn says nothing and Wanda took that as a answer and she get out of the house, yn regrets that and went to find her on her car and kiss her, saying that she didn't want her to get married and want her to be with her, so that was she did.

And you can write like five years later, they were talking or having a moment, and ending with a "i didn't regret doing that because you're the easiest choice i've ever made" or something like that.

The Easiest Choice | Wanda Maximoff

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!reader, Wanda Maximoff x Vision

Warnings: cheating, sex, drinking

Word count: ~2.5k

•

Wanda’s POV:

Vis and I had yet another fight today. I can’t keep going like this. I need time for myself - time to think about everything. So, tonight is going to be a ‘me’ night. I’m going to spend time thinking things through, thinking about us as a couple.

I finally finished the drink I had been nursing for the past twenty minutes, sighing as I placed the glass back down on the table in front of me.

Vision and I had been dating for five years, but it felt like we were actually on the verge of breaking up every time we were together. We always found something new to fight about, something new to hate each other over.

I hated how he made me feel. He used to make me feel beautiful and loved, but now he made me feel unwanted.

“I’m sorry to bother you, miss,” a smooth voice spoke, pulling me out of my thoughts. “But, a beautiful woman like you shouldn’t be sitting here all alone.”

I looked up and met the beautiful eyes of a woman. My words got caught in my throat at the sight of her and she smiled at me, gesturing to the chair across from me.

“May I join you?”

My mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water before I finally managed to nod at her. She was breathtaking and I had no idea what she was doing talking to me.

“I’m Y/N.” She switched her glass from her right hand to her left and extended it out to me to shake.

“W-Wanda.” I said shakily, taking her hand and smiling back.

“Wanda. Beautiful.”

I felt the heat rise to my cheeks as we retracted our hands, and I reached for my empty glass.

“Looks like you need a new drink. What’re you having?”

“Just a Malibu pineapple.” I said, almost embarrassed. I went out to drink just to have something so simple.

She gave me a nod and stood from the table, leaving her drink behind and approaching the bar. I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding and looked down at my shaky hands. Why was I so nervous? She - Y/N - seemed nice and charming.

I bit my lip and considered leaving when she returned, a fresh drink in hand. She placed it down in front of me and sat back down in her chair, picking up her own glass and taking a sip.

“You look like you’ve got a lot on your mind.”

I nodded, but stayed silent, rubbing my finger over the edge of the glass.

“A few more of those and you won’t have a worry in the world.”

I let out a soft chuckle, smiling up at her. She seemed proud of herself for making me laugh and I thought it was cute that she was trying to make conversation with me.

“I’m hoping that’s true.” I raised my glass and took a sip. “What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a bar all alone?”

I flirted with her and I could almost see the blush covering her cheeks in a pink hue.

“I, uh,” she spoke nervously, a smile on her face. “I came out looking for a beautiful girl to take home with me tonight.”

She sipped at her drink and it was my turn to blush.

“Have you found one?” I asked shyly, my eyes moving from her own to her lips as she licked the liquor off of them.

“I think I might’ve.” She said with a smirk. “What do you think?”

“I think you did,” I said with a smile. “But, I might need a few more of these to know for sure.”

“Not too many.” She laughed. “I want you to remember everything tomorrow.”

“Make it a night to remember then.”

•

“Oh, fuck Y/N, harder.” I whimpered as she fucked me, pressing my body down with her entire body weight, keeping me pinned in place.

I could feel her hot breath on my neck as she pounded into me, her hands interlocked with my own as our bodies practically became one.

“Fuck, Wanda, I’m close.” She grunted against my ear and I nearly came just from the sound of her voice.

I pulled her closer to me with my legs, moaning lowly as she touched the deepest part of me with her strap.

“Cum with me.” I almost begged her, turning my face to look into her eyes.

Her eyes were dark with lust and I pressed my lips to hers as I felt my third orgasm of the night rush through me. My brow furrowed as she continued to fuck me through the delicious tremors, making it last longer than it probably should have.

“Unh, Wanda!” She screamed as she came, her hips jerking against me as she rode out her high.

I slipped my hands out of hers as she collapsed against me, bringing them up to her face and cupping her cheeks, kissing her softly. This was probably the best night of my entire life.

She kissed me back passionately, our teeth and tongues clashing clumsily as if we just couldn’t get enough of each other.

I pulled away from her so I could catch my breath, and watched as she relaxed, her eyes falling shut and her breathing becoming even.

I peppered her face with kisses and she smiled, holding me close to her as we became comfortable. She was still inside me, but I didn’t want her to pull out. I wanted her to stay for as long as she could.

She rolled us over and we laid on our sides, facing each other. I wrapped my leg around her and pressed the cock deeper into my wetness, and I heard her chuckle.

“Can’t get enough of me, huh?”

“Nuh uh.” I responded with a smile, kissing her again. “I just wanna feel you for as long as possible.”

“We have all night.”

“And all morning.”

“You’re gonna end up killing me.” She joked and I giggled.

“What a way to die.”

She nodded against me and sighed, pulling me closer to her.

“Just give me five minutes and I’m yours again.”

“Just five?” I teased.

“Just five. I promise.” She pressed a kiss to my forehead and rested comfortably next to me.

We fucked numerous times afterwards, well into the early morning hours before finally passing out on each other, content.

When I woke up, the sun was shining in through the windows and I was alone. It took me a moment to realize where I was and what I had done, and I couldn’t deny the ache between my legs was now a dull throb, a reminder of my new lover.

The door to the bedroom opened and in came Y/N, dressed in just a pair of boxer shorts, with a tray of food. The spread looked delicious and quite frankly, I was starving.

“I figured you’d need to refuel.” She smirked as she put the tray down in front of me; fresh fruits, bacon, eggs, waffles and sausage all called out to me.

“Thank you.” I said as I eyed the food hungrily. “Come eat with me.” I tugged on her hand and brought her into the bed with me, cuddling close as I nibbled on a strawberry.

“Wanda,��� her voice was low and I didn’t like her tone at all. “We need to talk about last night.”

I looked up at her, innocently sucking the strawberry juice off of my fingers as I did so.

She groaned softly at the sight of me teasing her, but regained her composure quickly enough to remember what she was saying.

“Last night was … incredible.” I could tell our time together was replaying in her head. “But, I’m not ready for a relationship.”

I looked into her eyes and nodded, realizing this was perfect. She wasn’t expecting anything from me and I could still try to fix things with Vision.

“That’s okay,” I assured her, stroking her cheek softly with my hand. “We can still see each other though, right?”

“Yeah,” she said as if she just snapped herself out of a stupor. “Yeah, absolutely, of course. Just, y’know, casually.”

I smiled up at her.

“Casually. That’s perfect.” I took a pause. “But, now …” I hooked my fingers in the waistband of her boxers and tugged on them gently. “Let’s get you out of these.”

•

I’ve seen Y/N almost every weekend since that first night. I always tell Vision I’m going to visit my brother, Pietro, and he doesn’t suspect a thing.

Every time we’re together, we try a new position, a new food to eat afterwards, and to be completely honest, I think I’m falling in love.

I know Y/N doesn’t feel the same. She’s committed to keeping our relationship completely physical. So, I’m trying to do the same, but it’s hard when she takes care of me in and out of bed. She’s kind and comforting - you’d have to be insane not to fall in love with her.

Vision wanted to go out for dinner tonight, so I agreed. We hadn’t been fighting as much anymore and we had actually been on speaking terms, so I figured nothing could go wrong.

“Wanda,” Vision spoke softly, reaching across the table and taking my free hand. “We’ve been together for a while and I think it’s time we furthered our relationship.”

I blinked blankly at him, watching as he dug inside his coat pocket and pulled out a box. Oh no.

“Wanda Maximoff, will you marry me?”

I gaped at him, trying to register his words. He smiled at me and then looked down at the ring.

•

“He asked me to marry him.” I said softly, playing with my fingers as we sat in silence.

I told Y/N I needed to talk to her about something important and instead of getting together to have a good time, we had to have this discussion.

She was quiet, staring at her feet instead of looking at me.

“What’d you say?” She finally spoke and I swallowed roughly.

“I didn’t know what to say.” I told her honestly.

“What answer did you give him?”

I was silent for a second before responding.

“I said yes.”

You could cut the tension in the room with a knife. I didn’t understand why it was such a big deal. She wasn’t going to fall in love with me, nothing had to change.

“I think you better go.”

I looked over at her, tears in my eyes, as I realized what she was actually saying.

“You don’t want to see me anymore?”

She shook her head and I stood from the couch we had been sitting on and left without a word. My heart was broken when it shouldn’t have been. I had failed in not catching feelings for my friend with benefits.

I ran to my car and cried. I cried for Y/N, I cried for Vision, I cried for myself. I could’ve fought for her, for us, but what good would it do? She didn’t have feelings for me and she never would.

•

There was only a few days until the wedding and I couldn’t stop thinking about Y/N. I missed her terribly, the pain of not being near her like I used to be crept into my bones and caused them to creak with every movement I took. Vision didn’t suspect anything, but I knew it was obvious that I wasn’t as happy as I was when I was with her.

I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t go through with it without talking to her one more time.

I rushed to get dressed, throwing on whatever clothes I could find, and ran out of my apartment to my car. I had to see her.

I pulled up in front of her place and double parked, throwing my hazards on and almost barreling down an old lady to get to her.

I pounded on her front door frantically, tears building up in my eyes as I realized that this could be the end of us forever. This would be our last chance to be together.

When she opened the door, she looked panicked, and when she saw me there was a glimmer of happiness in her eyes before it was replaced with a coldness I wasn’t familiar with from her.

“Wanda. What are you doing here?”

“Tell me not to marry him.”

“What?” Her gaze softened and I felt as though I had a chance.

“Tell me not to marry him. Say you love me.”

She let her eyes fall from my own to the floor and her silence was the only answer I received. The tears fell before I could stop them. I turned and ran, nearly tripping over my own feet to get back to the safety of my car.

Once I was inside, I screamed, slamming my fists on the steering wheel. This was the worst pain I had ever felt in my life. I had lost her forever. The tears blinded me, flowing freely as I sobbed alone. I had to pull myself together so I could drive back to Vision and act like nothing happened.

A knock on the window scared me straight out of my skin. I turned to look and it was Y/N, looking almost as disheveled as I did.

I opened the door and she moved back, letting me out. She grabbed me by the shoulders and looked into my eyes before pressing her lips against mine in a bruising kiss.

“Don’t marry him.” She said as she pulled away from me, looking deeply into my eyes.

“Tell me you love me.” I whimpered and she smiled, and tears began to fill her eyes.

“I love you, Wanda.”

I wrapped my arms around her neck and cried as she held me.

“I love you, Y/N.”

•

Y/N and I have been together for five years now, finally engaged and happily living together. We never fight and we even talked about having children.

Right now, we’re happy just having each other, laying together after making love, having our meals in bed, and just doing what other couples usually do. We’re content with our lives and it can only get better from here.

“I never regretted running after you that night.” She said as she stroked the hair from my face. “You were the easiest choice I’ve ever made.”

[stupidlittlespirit]

trying to find any semblance of privacy with ford while he's still living with his brother, especially over the summer when the kids are there. just. tugging him into empty rooms and closets during the day, waiting for stan to go to bed and take his hearing aids out, maybe even sneaking out to his car and going for drives to secluded places at night. god. trying to keep quiet when there's no other choice or fool proof way of hiding. ford feels like a teenager again sneaking around like this- well, the kind of teenager he never was, he was sneaking around to stay up studying, but he can see why stan was climbing through the window to meet his girlfriends.

also getting caught but that's just my kind of thing i like to read about in fic since it's both funny and embarrassing for everyone involved

dwasjkhdsakjfhjsdf oh my god how did you know..... My main weakness...... Tearing my skin off at the thought /pos

I'm so, so obsessed with the concept of sneaking around like this (and getting caught), it's literally a main feature of mtb because I love it so much. There's something very fun (and sexy) about having to sneak around, either behind someone's back or just for privacy reasons. I think Ford is a bit of a thrill seeker too, so this plays really well into that concept as well.

I have this little scenario in my mind with mtb!Reader which I'll very likely write as a one shot eventually but it's similar to what you've described here:

In this silly daydream, the house is very busy. People are everywhere, and neither you nor Ford have had the opportunity to even brush up against each other because of it. You've had to keep each other at arms length and every time you have tried to get a little closer, someone has barged into the room and spoiled the moment/almost caught you.

So, things are tense and you're both desperate to off-load some of it on each other.

You end up being invited to stay after work and watch a movie with the family. Maybe the kids are having their other friends stay over for the night too and they've roped everyone (Ford, Stan and you) into joining them for it in the living room.

Stan is snoozing (already) in his favourite chair. Some of the kids are sprawled out on the floor. Mabel is lounging on the couch beside Ford, but the moment she spots you, she shuffles up to give you room and you take a seat beside her.

Everything is very kosher. Everyone settles in to watch the movie, everyone is glued to the screen or making silly comments etc, but.... You're hardly paying attention: your mind is full of thoughts of Ford and you find your gaze drifts a little halfway through the movie. You use the excuse of readjusting in your seat to sneak a glance at Ford, or you *ahem* stretch your neck and just so happen to look over towards him, but it doesn't seem as though the favour it returned. Frustrating, however not the end of the world. He's probably just focused on the film.....

And yet, after you've given up on trying to very subtly check him out, something touches the back of your neck. It's feather light and very gentle, and you almost jump right out of your skin (though you're saved by the fact a scary scene is playing and the kids all jump too). You turn to look but Ford is resolutely still engrossed in the screen and pointedly not looking at you. Except..... his arm is stretched along the length of the back of the couch. It's super casual, as though he's only resting it there for convenience sake, but his hand has crept up from its place behind the cushions and he's very softly caressing the side of your neck.

You're surprised, but you don't move away. If anything, you lean imperceptibly closer. It's a pretty bold move on both of your parts, even though it seems like no one else is paying enough attention to notice.

Ford's fingers gently ghost the side of your throat and your trapezius muscle. They draw out goosebumps and you have to supress several dramatic shivers as he skates his fingertips back and forth over your skin. It's a light touch really, hardly even there at all, but it's intimate and risky, and it makes you hot all over. Your heart beats faster and your skin feels like it's on fire, and after barely ten minutes of it, you have to clear your throat and announce that you're going to get a drink refill.

Ford snatches his hand away very carefully because the kids turn to look at you the moment you speak, and they beg you to get them something too so they don't have to miss anything on screen. You oblige and then turn to him, and for a moment, Ford looks as though he's concerned that you might not have received his touch in the way that he hoped you would.

You can't comfort him in front of everyone, of course, so instead you ask very sweetly: "lend me a hand, would you? I don't think I can carry everything by myself...."

Ford nods wordlessly, always ready and happy to help you no matter the task. He follows your lead and strides after you into the kitchen, kicking the door shut behind himself and already quietly babbling his apologies for "-being inappropriate. I'm terribly sorry, my love, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or-!"

And he's silenced instantly when you drag him down by the collar into a very hot, very eager kiss the second you're out of sight. The kitchen is mercifully empty and there's no risk of anyone else catching the two of you in the moment. You're as alone as you're going to get for this evening and you're ready to take advantage of that.

Ford's panicky words are cut short and replaced with a very happy little groan, and he wastes no time at all in cornering you against the kitchen counter. You throw your arms around his neck and encourage him closer, and Ford obliges without hesitation. It devolves rapidly into a very heated makeout/heavy petting session; lots of groping and grasping and sighing and gasping. You make it last as long as the two of you feasibly can without arousing the suspicion of the others with your absence or letting things get too far, and you both have to spend a good five minutes calming down after you decide to put a pin in it so you can return to the movie.

You're both visibly flustered when you pull apart: hair and clothes astray, hot all over, rumpled to high heaven. The second you catch sight of each other, you're both laughing at the other's messy look. You have to de-fog and straighten poor Ford's glasses before re-entering the sitting room, too, bless him.

By the time you return, no one notices you've been out there for twenty minutes or so. The kids are still far too focused on the movie and Stan is fast asleep. You and Ford refill the drinks and retake your seats, and only the two of you know why you're both smothering smug little grins behind your hands for the rest of the evening.

[thowawayuntilfurthernotice]

CW: Racism and slavery.

Alright, let’s open up this can of worms.

Let’s talk about race and how it pertains to Viv’s shows.

No, I don’t think Viv and Adam are inherently racist, they just don’t know how to write for a BIPOC audience.

Viv’s shows (Like most western shows) are written with a white audience in mind. Because let’s face it, white folks don’t like to talk about race. That’s why a lot of shows that do tackle the issue of race and racism do it in a way that’s very surface level, as they don’t want to make white folks uncomfortable.

Even shows that are written by BIPOC writers have to dumb everything down when it comes to race because that’s sadly one of the only ways to get white folks to listen.

For example the Brooklyn Nine Nine episode Moo Moo (Which was written by a black writer) does tackle the issue of racial profiling, but it does so in that after school special way. Where it’s so basic and surface level that it almost feels insulting? And the fact that the episode completely ignores all the systemic racism that’s prevalent in the NYPD somehow makes it even worse.

Seriously, the episode ends with Terry’s application for a liaison job getting denied because he filed a complaint against a racist cop. And Holt’s all like “At least you did the right thing.”

Now, I haven’t really talked about any of the Hazbin/Helluva lore in great detail because it’s a hot gigantic mess of titanian proportions. And trying to make any sense of it from a narrative perspective is headache inducing, but for the sake of this analysis I decided to make an exception.

It’s pretty obvious that the Imps are supposed to represent the lower class, the majority of Imps we see in the series are stuck with low level jobs, involved in shady activities or are willing to kill to survive.

A good writer would have used the concept to highlight the many injustices that are caused by systems that are hell bent on keeping systemic racism alive to ensure that white elites stay in power.

But Viv and Adam don’t give a shit about that, as they know that tackling those sorts of issues is bound to upset their white audience. So they just don’t bother.

The lore feels like set dressing, i.e something that’s only there to make the audience think that there is much more to Viv’s shows than meets the eye, but there really isn’t.

Helluva Boss’ racist class system is introduced, but it isn’t really all that fleshed out. Because Viv doesn’t really care about exploring themes that mirror real world issues, all she cares about is watching her characters fornicate or make out with each other.

Not saying that every adult show has to have a deeper meaning or challenge people’s worldviews, but having a toxic relationship between a slave and his slave master in a dumb demon cartoon is pretty fucked up, not going to lie.

[the-s1lly-corner]

oh i thought anon was going to be disabled-- yknow what. might as well out myself.

yeah i suggested a lot of rnd stuff because like. look at them. i love them so much ough

so.... razzle & dazzle fluff alphabet for I, R and Y? injury, risk and yearn?

I R Y w/ Razzle and Dazzle (fluff alphabet)

It was disabled and tbh it was gonna be disabled for longer but I wanted to open reqs and ik majority of people don't like sending them off anon (understandable)

Prompts: injury, risk, yearn

Notes: gn toon reader, mix of pre and post for the prompts, short and bittersweet, they have separate sections for ease of writing and reading purposes, written on computer

CWs: injury, Canon typical horror

RAZZLE

INJURY

if you asked him out of curiosity he would say hed be able to keep it cool. maybe he said that out of confidence that hed be able to keep himself under control to keep the situation from getting worse... but..

the truth is, hes scared. hes terrified. itd be one thing if you were just knocked real good by a twisted, its another when you return to the elevator dripping ichor because one of them got the jump on you. hes definitely trying to not sink in his panic for your sake- because if hes freaking out then youd probably start panicking more

as much as it kills him on the inside dazzle is better in the face of these situations, razzle tries to reassure you that everythings going to be fine and take your mind off of the pain

RISK

he doesnt like the idea of you being put in any sort of danger, maybe thats why he distracts when its his floors... sure he has average stealth but hes going to be hoarding air horns whenever he finds them just to make sure the twisteds dont ever stop chasing him

....this has led to some sticky situations for him- on at least one occasion hes stolen a particularly dangerous twisted from you when they got a little too close, and sure he might have gotten hurt ... and by extension so did dazzle... but they both agree that if they can help, theyre going to

as for plans that involve putting you in any sort of danger? hes always the first one shutting it down before they can be put into motion

YEARN

its so... weird being away from someone you care a lot about. hes so used to dazzle being there- of course the relationship is different there, but you get the point. "it feels weird having someone i care so much about be so far away", even if youre just one a run, or maybe this is before everything went wrong and youre just doing an activity with the kids

hes.... okay at hiding his yearning for you, at least he is until he makes it a bit of a show. what did you expect? hes a theatre guy! of course hes going to be a little dramatic, and sure its partly to downplay how much he missed you and how... melancholic he felt... but...!

razzles yearning is heavily dependant on several factors though. how long youve been gone, if this is pre or post game, how close you guys are and how new the relationship is

DAZZLE

INJURY

of course hes scared just like his brother, but nothing is going to be fixed if all three of you are panicking- so between the twins, dazzle is the one taking charge to make sure you get the medical attention you need, whatever that may be

despite being so quiet he'd be your advocator. you need to go back up? hes not the type to raise his voice or shout at others but hes not going to make you keep descending if you guys can turn back and recover. but if the elevator cant go back up? youre not leaving their side, and the instant they find a bandaid or medkit its being brought to you

its almost... out of character, the way they take charge. but again- if he doesnt take control when his brother is panicking then who will?

RISK

just like his twin he doesnt like the idea of you being put in any danger... but hes so... slow... he cant rush in like razzle can- though id imagine that in the face of an emergency dazzle would hand off control to razzle just to get to you quicker... i dont think hed feel bad about being too slow himself to make it to you, though. he knows his limits and hes going to try not to guilt himself over it

instead he focuses on his strengths. the faster a machine is completed the faster you can get off this floor, the faster this run can end and you can all recover on the upper floors

unfortunately... injury is an aftermath. in the face of the danger itself dazzle had the habit of freezing for just a moment. if it werent for razzle keeping him moving something horrible would have happened by now

YEARN

he yearns. he yearns bad. number one yearner right here. longing sighs and wandering gazes as he tries and fails over and over to focus on the current task at hand. his script, or maybe the valve in his hands. theres nothing more he wants now than to be in your presence

unlike razzle though he doesnt dump all of his feelings on you- of course he missed you, he missed you so much... but he doesnt want to come off as too much and overwhelm you. thats the last thing he wants to do, especially if there are other... things.... going on...

oh he is 100% the type to write and the words loop back to you. dazzles always given off poet vibes to me. hes definitely written about you

[offbranddrpepsi]

Hi! Can you write yandere Vyse like you did for yandere Chamber and Reyna?

Hella! First HC request in a hot minute I hope I do well! As usual SFW above the cut, NSFW below.

Content: Blood, Free use, Vines, Restraints

SFW

Vyse is the type to act overly uninterested in you, what you do, what you like; basically anything to do with you to the point she is dismissive should these topics be brought up

Yet, oddly, she knows nearly everything about you down to what perfume you wear and what type of socks you prefer. You'll groan about misplacing something and she knows exactly where it is, she remembers the last time you did laundry, the last time you ate and what you ate. Despite giving the impression of giving a fuck less its clear she gives a fuck, quite a big one.

She is 1000% the type of Yandere you're convinced hates you. Complains about you a lot. Always finds something to find fault in. Even is over critical of the simplest things to the point you're anxious the moment she addresses you.

But here's the trick, only she gets to be like this at you. Only she gets to be your #1 hater. Only she gets to critique you. Only she can find flaw in you and if anyone else does they are entirely wrong and she will point out their own flaws in turn.

Its never really clear to you when she started having an interest in you, you still aren't sure if she hates you or not, but its clear she at least has some sort of affection towards you? Even if that's rooted in getting to be the only one that bullies you. You get head pats, stuff that sounds like hollow praise, she even gets onto others for being hard on you. It's weird but oddly pleasant?

At the same time its clear after a while that nearly all of her ridicule is to try and make you better, to try and support you as well as keep you healthy, safe, and the best version of yourself you can be. She may be insulting your form during training but shes also the one that trains privately with you so you get better. She noticed you were eating only take out for a week and gave you an ear full but is also making you both healthy and amazing lunches. Picking on you about not doing laundry? Shes already, bitterly, loaning you her own clothes while still telling you to wash yours now since she made sure no one was hogging the machines.

When you're upset she does genuinely listen, especially when its clear its not just some low level sulking, and shes ready to confront who ever she needs to to avoid you being miserable again.

On the battlefield you're almost running into her vines, her scolding you to be careful, but no matter what they are always there where ever you are as if shes protecting you. Just when you think you're about to get shot there's a wall up and shes coming around the corner, as if she was there the whole time, yelling at you to not walk off alone.

Every agent becomes well aware of her eyes on you regardless of where you are. She just appears, sat quietly minding her own business with that business being you. Ready to bite should someone push their luck.

You never really 'start' dating her. Shes simply so involved in your life you forget her not being there. Should she be asked, by others, what up she will tell them to mind their own business. If you should ask she might be a tad rude, not directly answering you until you plead with her and admit your own interest/willingness to date her. At that point she acts like its a burden but does accept directly before scolding you for not eating on time.

NSFW

Sexually Yandere Vyse takes possessive to a new level.

Her vines are used near religiously. From the moment she can you're bound with thorns either teasing the skin or just barely pricking it.

She has you on display often and by on display I mean bound up with vines just in her line of sight ready for her when ever she wishes to take you. Fully nude, as always, of course.

She never critiques your body but will critique your behavior as well as how well you bleed for her. Impatience leads to tighter restraints that pierce your skin just enough to sting. Being good for her gets you both praise and attention, be it by her or one of her less thorny vines.

Her favorite places are scarred from the punctures of her vines but are all easily hidden under clothing. No one needs to know how easy it is to restrain you let alone how easy and willing you are to let them make you bleed.

She toys with you using everything at her disposal. You are hers, that's so very clear, and that means she can use you as she wishes. Most often this leaves you an overstimulated exposed mess and her as happy as a well fed cat.

Youre encouraged to be nude from the moment you step into your living space. You're encouraged to come to her should you 'need' her. Free use is just another thing that becomes normal for you, not that you don't enjoy it. Waking up to her vines fondling you often even though she may not be there.

Speaking of not there, its hard to know if she really is or isn't. You've been strung up, fucked within an inch of your life by metal vines that leave you so badly bruised and crying out, all while she was off on a mission. Sometimes you've been kept on display, just on edge, for several minutes until she walks in just off the plane back. It's unclear if this is to treat you, to apologize for her being gone for so long and unable to please you herself, or if its some twisted game to keep you on edge. either way you do get used to these sex traps, enjoying them even, which only encourages her to place more.

Vyse is also demanding but subtle. When she wants you there's a vine just creeping up your clothing, letting you know where you need to be. Sometimes this vine doesn't wait and you're forced to stay quiet as it rests or slowly fucks you. Its yet another way she exerts control over you. Control that shes not going to let up any times soon.