#replace field contents

[reiderwriter]

Rumours

A/N: I'm back! I started this one literally in February and then got so distracted by my job I couldn't finish it. Employment is a curse.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Plot: Spencer is displeased about some rumours he hears about you around the office. Only the way he goes about confronting them is clumsy and downright maddening.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, misogyny, misunderstanding, Spencer is a dick for a while, violence (breaking glass etc.), penetrative sex, oral (F receiving), slapping, choking, anal fingering, general BDSM content, Dom!Spencer, sub!reader, breeding kink (tee hee), cock warming, almost exhibitionism?

Masterlist

It wasn't as if you'd made it your life's mission to be the most rumoured about person on your team at the FBI, but you weren't exactly doing anything to correct people's perception of you. Spencer may have been to jail, Emily may have faked her own death, and Luke's past was a big, fat question mark, but nothing caught the attention of the pencil pushers in the office than the string of broken hearts you'd ostensibly left behind you at Quantico.

At one point in time, you'd even promised yourself you wouldn't date anymore law enforcement officers, lawyers, detention officers or anyone even remotely adjacent, but life was short, and you had a decent appetite for a men with guns and badges. It was very convenient to say the least.

Convenient for everyone apart from Spencer Reid.

The FBI was a boys club, sure, but with all the women on your team, the most ridicule you got after a drunken escapade with a distant coworker was a few teasing remarks. The first few months on the team, you'd been able to date, fuck, and play freely without any judgement. And then Spencer Reid had come back from leave, and you suddenly began to doubt your bachelorette lifestyle.

Because fuck was he frustratingly territorial.

It wasn't as though he was interested in you. He was 13 years your senior, fresh from an FBI mandated leave of absence and false imprisonment, and absolutely used to being coddled by every member of the team. If the BAU was a family, he was absolutely the youngest child who'd returned home to find his parents had adopted a dog while he'd been gone to replace him with.

You were the dog.

Spencer took issue with your attitude, your work ethic, your professionally, and with the sheer amount of times he'd been approached by men asking for your number, home address, or if the rumors were true.

He was used to casual oversharing, of course, he'd worked with Penelope long enough to not be phased by much sexual talk. But everytime he stepped into the office - or specifically the offices male bathrooms - he'd end up stuck in the same conversational loop.

“I heard she can do this thing with her tongue…”

“... definitely likes it rough…”

“I could show her a good time…”

“....I'm definitely hitting that by the end of the year…”

He stewed in it for a few weeks before the cracks fully formed in his exterior professionalism. When he heard about how you'd definitely fucked every male member of your team, though, that's when he lost it.

“You need to be more careful,” he said one day, pulling you aside between cases in a rare private conversation.

“Oh, yeah, in the field I can definitely rush in-”

“No. You need to be more careful with men.”

The look on his face sent a flare of shame through your chest, as you found yourself suddenly out of your depth. You didn't know this man well enough for him to be giving you advice. Your body set to full alert, and your fight or flight was in full go, as he cornered you and continued.

“They talk about you in the bathrooms, and I would not like to repeat what they say, but-”

“I don't care what they say.”

“You should.”

You frowned again, as he continued, completely oblivious to your growing anger.

“You should, because now it's reflecting badly on the team, and-”

“The team? I'm sorry what had the team got to do with this?”

To his credit, Spencer at least managed to look uncomfortable after that. He was set on reprimanding you, fine, but you'd make sure he wouldn't try to get so personal again.

“They're saying that you've slept with a number of coworkers-”

“Why should I care if-”

“Including me.”

You managed a half laugh in his face as his frown deepened.

“Oh so this isn't about my reputation, it's about yours. I should be safer with men because I'm reflecting poorly on our golden boy?”

“That's not what I'm-”

“Don't worry, Spencer. I'm safe enough.”

You made sure to push past him as you walked away, and he'd not been quiet about his dislike of you ever since.

Every man on a case you interacted with got you a disapproving glare, a slight turned down lip, a questioning glance. It was like you were being watched constantly, and it felt horrendous.

It was almost worse when the knowing looks he sent you were spot on in their assumptions. If you spoke to a man you had been with, hooked up with, been on a date with, even simply flirted with for a while, you felt his eyes pricking you.

His gaze knew everything it needed to know, almost as if he'd been in the room watching you submit your body for pleasure.

You thought it would be better on cases, that he'd be focused on other things and not worry as much, but when your first case post-argument landed, it landed you uncomfortably close to your childhood home, and included a face from your past you'd hoped not to see again.

Having an ex boyfriend in the police department in the middle of nowhere Washington was helpful for the case, but on a personal level it sucked.

You managed five minutes of personal conversation before you felt his eyes on you.

“Beautiful, you're not paying attention to me anymore. And here I thought fate had sent you back into my life as a little gift for a job well done,” your ex had said, ducking in close to you at your makeshift desk but locking eyes with an approaching Spencer as he spoke.

“Y/N, can I have a word?” he asked, though his jaw was set, and his tone insistent.

“Professionally or privately?”

“Y/N,” he warned, his tone a bit lower as you rolled your eyes and stood, following him to a quiet interrogation room quickly.

“What's wrong with you this time?” you demand as soon as he has the door closed. “Panties in a twist?”

“We are on a case, Y/N. Please at least pretend to be a professional.”

“What? What am I doing that is so wrong?”

He fisted a hand in his hair quickly, closing his eyes as if it would drown out your arrogant tone.

“You can't be serious, Y/N, he was practically fucking you with his eyes in the middle of the precinct-”

“And that's a behaviour he needs to change, not me. What. Did. I. Do. Wrong?”

“What? What, you expect me to sit around here and wait for him to ask you if you can still do that thing with your tongue that makes him cum instantly? Want me to wait around for him to ask you if you're still as flexible as you were give years ago, while we have work to do?” He demanded, stepping so close you had to back up against the wall to avoid colliding with his incoming body.

“I bet you'd love to hear just about everything I can do Spencer, but if you're going to act like a jealous ass, maybe you should take a breather.”

“Jealous? You think I'm jealous?” he chuckled slightly, raising a hand slowly and pushing against the wall as he stepped, somehow, closet to you again.

“You're so obsessed with my personal life that-”

“Your personal life is not so personal when I have people asking me if I've also fucked you on a weekly basis-”

“You're being cruel. My sex life is none of your business, Spencer.”

“That's exactly what I'm trying to tell you. I'm glad we finally agree.”

He was so close you could practically taste his breath, and while your mind raged at his thoughtless words, your body wanted his to press his against it and say all of that one more time with his hand wrapped around your throat this time.

“Jackass,” you said, pushing against his chest and storming out of the room quickly, before you could make any other mistakes.

Part of you wanted to stick it to Spencer after that. Part of you wanted to do something to start an even bigger rumor, something to piss him off more, something that would get him angry and bring him closer to you somehow.

Another part aggravatingly agreed with him. Your behaviour, while nowhere near as promiscuous as half of the male staff, was judged twice as hard as anyone else's. You enjoyed sex, and you wanted to unashamedly keep enjoying sex, but every man you ran into recently had that look about them. Half judgement, half possession, like they were looking at goods to consume rather than a coworker. You weren't obtuse, but you'd allowed yourself to ignore it until Spencer made you face it, which only made you resent him more.

You stopped going on dates, stopped entertaining the men in the office when they flirted with you. You put your head down, and you worked, and it frustrated you to no end.

You ended up snappy in the office, short with every single coworker and not just Reid, who was also (inexplicably) short with you. You'd done what he'd asked, and he was still not satisfied.

Emily, sensing the tension, tried to ease the situation slightly, with a mandatory team dinner, volunteering Rossi for dinner duty.

“Welcome to Casa Del Rossi, keep your hands off the pasta until I serve it, and please do not ask about the wine unless you want to be talking about it all night.”

You felt slightly uncomfortable being forced to play happy families under the watchful eye of 5 profilers and an incredibly perceptive tech support girl, but you tried to be civil over dinner.

Until you couldn't be.

“So, Y/N, any dates recently?” Emily laughed over a sip of wine, genuinely curious about your sudden lack of suitors.

“No,” you said, locking eyes with Spencer, who rolled his eyes as he looked away.

“What, not even a single hinge match?” JJ added, and you suddenly regretted not telling any of your other coworkers the root of your tension with Reid, because they were happily digging your grave.

“Come on, we all love your stories, Y/N,” Penelope laughed, prodding you with a finger as you smiled feebly.

“No, not all of us do,” Spencer mumbled under his breath, still loud enough that the room fell silent.

“Relax, Doctor Reid, I'm not going to regale you with tales of my conquests.”

“Good, I get enough of that in the male bathrooms,” he said, standing up from the table and excusing himself.

You stared slack jawed at him as he walked away, simmering anger getting ready to explode. You stood as well, and followed him, aware of every set of eyes watching you intently as you searched for Spencer.

You found him in a spare room, following him in and closing the door behind you with a thud so he would know you were there.

“What the fuck is your problem, Spencer?”

“Oh, it was Doctor Reid earlier, but now we're friends, huh?” he said, not bothering to look at you as he picked up a book and sat in a chair at the edge of the room.

“You can't just disrespect me in front of the team like that, and… and what? Slink away to read?”

He looked up at you with an annoyed glance, and you almost lunged at him. You'd probably be able to gouge out an eye before he could react if you wanted.

“You know, when we first talked about this, I was seriously worried for you. The way those men talk about you-”

“How do they talk about me? What do they say about me specifically that's any worse than usual misogynistic bathroom talk, huh?”

You stepped closer, leaning over him and poking his chest. You wanted him to react, wanted him to get angry. You wanted a fight, not for him to walk away shaking his head in resignment.

“You really want to know?”

“Yes. I'm a big girl, tell me what's so bad that has you acting like such a spoiled brat.”

“Okay. Okay, fine.” Putting down the book, he looked up at you, locking eyes with you as he started.

“They talk about how well you take it. How much you love cock, and how if they got the chance they'd fill you up with so much cum you'd be leaking for days. Some of them even talk about using you as a human toilet.”

“They mostly talk about your body, about how flexible you are, about how flexible they'd force you to be, how-” he had to stop to look away, clear his throat and start again.

“Mostly they talk about your lips,” he said, finally risking a look down at them before dragging his eyes back up to your own.

“My lips?” you asked, mentally scolding yourself when you hear the breathy whisper you let out.

“They talk about your lips a lot. I'm sure you can imagine.”

You take a second to think about it, reeling at how close he was, how open he was being, how….

How turned on you were hearing these words fall from his mouth. Every sentence from his mouth felt like a confession.

“I don't believe them though,” he said finally.

“What?”

“I don't believe them. I don't believe you're as good as they say you are, as they're fantasising about you being.

Your mouth opened in shock, and the indignity of the accusation had your heart beating out of your chest.

“Say that again,” you demanded, forcing him to meet your eyes again.

“You're not that good, Y/N. I'm sure of it.”

Quickly, you snaked your arm up and around his neck, grabbing him and pulling him down to meet your lips. You'd hoped to take him by surprise, to enter his mouth as he lost himself in the feel of you pressed against him. You'd hoped for the upper hand, until you realized you'd played right into his.

He kissed back immediately, hotly, insistently. His hands roamed your body for any hold of you they could find, settling on your waist and your ass as he pushed you back into the wall you stood in front of.

Frustrated by his attitude, you pushed back, twisting your bodies around until you'd switched positions, nails digging into the tender skin at his collarbone. You wanted to grab him hard enough to draw blood, you wanted to permanently scar him to remind him how good this felt.

He growled into the kiss, and you momentarily lost focus. He swung you around again, hands pushing your shirt up and roughly grabbing your boobs as he bit down on your lower lip.

With a moan, you hiked a leg up around his hips, rolling into him as he pinned you to the wall.

Your final act of defiance was pushing him away with all your strength.

Taken aback, he stumbled once or twice before hitting a dresser behind him. It shook, and with the tremors, the lamp that had been sat on it fell to the floor with a crash.

You stared at him panting as your coworkers ran to you both, opening the door with a loud bang as they assessed the situation.

You kept your eyes on him as Emily scolded you both, putting the two of you on BAU time out.

You quickly left the party after that, apologising to Rossi and tucking your tail firmly between your legs as you retreated.

Desk duty for the next two weeks was exactly the punishment you were expecting from Emily. Honestly it was what you deserved. If you couldn't play nice together, you weren't allowed to play at all.

You sat at your desk, and Spencer sat at his, and you were happy and content to ignore him for as long as physically possible.

Unfortunately, your sudden voluntary celibacy must have been driving you insane, because you couldn't stop picturing his hands on your waist, his hot lips tracing down your neck, your hips pushed so close you could practically feel his cock begging to be inside you.

Imagining.

You were sure your staring was making the man uncomfortable, or at the very least frustrated. You saw the vein in his neck jump out when he noticed you looking at him, but it didn't help too much to dispel the sudden and aggravating attraction you felt towards him.

You wanted to be angrier. Every interaction you entered needing to be angry.

Instead you found yourself somewhat softening based purely on lust, and it was eating you up.

You were not a pushover, and contrary to popular office belief, neither were you desperate or easy. One kiss with a coworker shouldn't have you trailing after him like a forlorn love struck child.

Spencer was definitely avoiding you though.

At first, he justified it to himself as giving you space, an apology of sorts after you'd been so brash before.

Then he came clean to his own conscious and realized he was afraid of another confrontation. Afraid was perhaps the wrong word, eagerly anticipating might be better, though when he tried to explain it to Penelope it didn't come out right at all.

“It's like- Okay, so we're like water and potassium, right?”

“You've lost me lover boy, I do computers not sciency science.”

“Potassium and water are both stable enough on their own. They do their job well, they work nicely.”

“Potassium is in potatoes, ergo they are in French fries. They work superbly.”

“Yes, but when you put potassium in water it has a tendency to catch on fire and explode.”

Penelope still looked at him confused, unsure what kind of avoidance excuse he was crafting in his mind.

“I'm potassium. She's water,” he said again to no avail.

“I need to avoid her so I don't explode.”

“What makes you think you're going to explode? Just talk to her nicely. Avoid topics you think are going to be more… reactive?”

Spencer just solemnly nodded and went back to avoidance.

He realized quickly that the only thing he'd ever talked to you about outside of working hours was your sex life, and that made him feel like both a creep and a pervert and also like he needed to take a long cold shower before quitting his job and moving into a cabin somewhere in the woods. But he wasn't Gideon, so he just suffered through it, leaving rooms you entered and ending work related conversations as quickly as possible, before his mouth could move quicker than his brain.

After a week of being swiftly dodged, you had the chance finally to corner him and you took it.

Watching as Spencer stood to get himself another coffee from the break room, you stood, grabbed your own mug and quietly followed him. You prayed to God that the room would be empty, but were quickly forsaken by the door when you heard two make voices inside.

“So Y/N, huh?” an unfamiliar voice asked, tone polite but playful.

“I've heard some stories about that one,” he chuckled, and even the sound of it set your hair on edge.

“She's a very hard worker,” Spencer simply answered, as you heard him preparing his own coffee.

“She certainly makes working hard,” the man slapped his back, taking a sip of coffee.

“I heard you two have been going at it in the office. Strange foreplay, but she must be into rough stuff like that, isn't that right?”

You'd heard enough men talking about you in your life to be used to it, but a flush of anger still ran through you at the man's insinuations. You almost walked in to embarrass the man when Spencer spoke up.

“I don't like your tone,” he said calmly, and continued quickly when the man tried to joke again. “I have been to prison, you work in white collar, let's see which of us comes out of the kitchen in better shape when you're done speaking.”

“You're fucking insane.”

“You're what, 35? From the looks of it, your marriage is over because you keep playing with your ring uncomfortably, probably because you're cheating, but you feel just guilty enough about it to worry about your kids. They lied by the way, your not the world's no. 1 dad. Even if such metrics could be determined, you'd rank low on the list. Is it their babysitter or their teacher you're sleeping with? Or your wife's sister, perhaps?”

“You're crossing a line, Dr Reid, I don't know how-”

“Well, I'm glad you seem to understand boundaries well enough. There are lines you cross, and ones you respect, and if I hear anything at all unprofessional from you about my coworker again, I will use the last six months of my experiences to make life difficult for you.”

You walked in quickly, hearing the change in Spencer's tone from casual to something more threatening, more desperate. The other man had two fistfuls of Spencer's shirt, though you didn't doubt Spencer would easily be able to floor the man.

“Good afternoon,” you said quickly, just loud enough to be heard above the thick tension filling the room. “I believe you were just leaving, right?”

You looked to the unfamiliar man, and the shame burned his face as you forced him out of the room. As soon as he was gone, you walked over to Spencer, finished making his coffee as he stood silently next to you, eyes refusing to meet yours.

You put the hot drink in his hand, smoothed his shirt out and whispered a quick thank you before retreating back to your desk.

After that, you didn't get closer.

You thought you would. You tried to follow him to the kitchen to actually have the talk you wanted in the days that followed, but you never quite managed it.

You'd just stand together in equitable silence making your coffees. Sometimes you'd talk about the weather. About the case. About things your coworkers did that you both found funny. About shows and books you both liked. About whatever random fact Spencer became enthusiastic about that day, or whatever noir movie he'd seen the previous day.

You didn't become closer, but you grew used to one another.

When the team finally came back, Emily patted herself on the back for a job well done for keeping the two of you grounded. You begrudgingly admitted to yourself that while Spencer lacked tact, you should've been more patient with him when he was asking you to be careful.

You'd heard him similarly chastising a handful of men since, always careful just to listen until he was done, and then clean up afterwards.

Spencer found his anger closer to the surface after prison than it had been before prison. Instead of sympathy or words, his fists always tightened into balls when anything displeased him. He wanted desperately to hit colleagues sometimes, and kept his breathing steady enough to reply with violent words rather than violent actions.

He couldn't blame his experiences in prison for everything, of course. Part of the blame was yours.

As much as he knew potassium and water weren't a safe combination, he found himself wanting to be dropped back into that pool once again. Looking at you was like setting himself on fire, remembering your bodies twinned together was like a little explosion.

He didn't know what brought him to your door, but he knew it was an inevitable reaction, one in a long chain.

“Spencer?” you asked, meeting him at your door, wrapped only in a loose robe and the too small, too flimsy sleep set you'd taken to sleeping in in the summer months.

“Hi,” he said, a little awkwardly, as if gaining the courage to knock on your door was the end of his plan, and he didn't know what the next steps were.

“Hey. Why are you…?” Here. Standing at your door looking so hot after you'd stayed obsessed with him for the last week.

“Why are you holding a bottle of wine?”

“Oh. Oh this. This is for you. To drink. Its for us to drink together, really, I… I wanted to apologise.”

You welcomed him in silently and quickly. Quickly still, you made your way to the kitchen, grabbed two glasses and a bottle opener and made your way back to your sofa where Spencer was standing awkwardly still.

“Please sit down,” you said, craning your neck to look up at him as he gently handed you the bottle. He nodded and sat down next to you, both too close and too far away at once. You'd thought of Spencer as more of a silent apologiser. You'd expected him to just be happy and friendly with you from here on out instead of directly acknowledging anything had happened. You'd seen him bottle up so many emotions, what was a little more shame and sympathy?

Now that he was in front of you, you didn't know what to do.

“So, um. I'm sorry.”

“Yes. Yes, I know.”

The tension in the air was thick as you turned to pour two glasses of wine, waiting for him to continue.

“Thank you,” he said taking the glass you offered him in two hands before glancing at it quickly and then downing it.

“When I got out of prison, I was in a bad shape, and that isn't an excuse, it's just a fact. My brain was in overdrive, and I was on guard around all… all men specifically. The things I heard in prison weren't good, nothing nice as said about women in prison, and when I got out, and I still heard those things…” He stopped and looked away, taking another deep breath.

“I was overstepping. I was being overprotective, and overfamiliar, and jealous-”

“Spencer, stop,” you said, putting your glass down, and smiling at him reassuringly.

“I appreciate your apology, but really it's fine. I came in while you were gone and getting back to schedule when your entire team dynamic is off is hard, so of course you were going to be on edge around me and a little bit jealous of my bond with the team but-”

“The team?” Spencer stammered quickly, cutting you off as you tried to reassure him.

“You were… jealous of my place in the group. I was an outsider who took your place and then you were just a little shorter with me than you would've been if we were introduced in normal circumstances.”

“No, Y/N… I- Did you think this whole time I was jealous of you?”

He said it in his softest voice which almost hurt a little bit more.

“Yes. That's how you were behaving, you were always annoyed and-”

“Jealous. Yes. Not of you, because of you.”

You felt every single place on your body where the material of your clothes were touching your body. The distance between the two of you, already small, felt smaller still, like you were tipping over an edge towards one another when in reality you were as solid as a statue in your seats.

“Y/N, I want you,” Spencer whispered, almost little bit ashamed, a little bit scared of his confession. It was the kind of voice criminals used when confessing, a voice that seemed ashamed of its own actions. “I listened to every single word men said about you, and I wanted to rip their tongues out and feed them back to them so they wouldn't have the chance to taste you again. So they couldn't torture me with their knowledge of you.”

He stood up abruptly and took a step back, placing his wine glass down on the table and pacing a few more steps away.

“Y/N, why did you have to kiss me?” He said, almost defeated. “Why did you have to kiss me and then push me away?”

You stared at him for a second, unsure whether he wanted a real answer or not, his eyes round with desperation, but face turned away slightly, as if he couldn't bare the answer.

“To shut you up,” you whispered. He nodded at your answer and took a deep breath.

“Well, Prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now just family estates of the Buonapartes. But I warn you, if you don’t tell me that this means war, if you still try to defend the infamies and horrors perpetrated by that Antichrist-”

“Spencer? What-”

“I really believe he is Antichrist—I will have nothing more to do with you and you are no longer my friend, no longer my ‘faithful slave,’ as you call yourself! But how do you do?”

“Spencer, what are you doing, why are you- are you quoting something at me.

“If you want me to stop, you know an effective solution,” he said, kneeling to the floor and looking up at you, continuing after a moments pause.

Quickly sinking to your knees as well, you grabbed the man by the collar and brought your lips to his.

As quietly desperate Spencer had been moments before, he took your kiss as an act of submission and countered quickly. You'd come to him, you'd listened to his request, and now he wasn't going to let you get the upper hand anymore.

Pulling you into his lap, his to guess pushed into your mouth as he wrapped your legs around him, guiding your cunt over his bulge as he kept up his attack against your tongue.

You fought back, trying to push him down to no luck. He caught your hands quickly, and standing up on his knees with one hand holding your ass in place, pinned you to the floor, arms held above your head in one large, strong, nearly painful grip.

Your body shook at the sudden motion, robe falling open and satin spilling over your body, revealing a single pink, perked up nipple that he eagerly latched onto.

You moaned at the contact of his hot tongue, the cold air hitting you at the exact moment his tongue dipped, as you held in a moan.

You couldn't hold in the second or third. By four you were practically humping up into the air to chase the sensations of his body pressed against your cunt.

“Spencer-” you moaned, cut off by a choke from your own throat as he roughly ripped down the other side of your shirt, harshly tugging at your other nipple with his fingers.

“If I had more time, I'd make you cum just from this. I'll spend hours edging your sore little nipples, just to make you happy,” he whispered, and you moaned as if it were your job, as if you were some cheap whore he was paying to abuse for the night.

“Good girl,” he said, tugging your underwear to the side and rubbing you slowly, coating his digits with your juices before pushing two fingers fully inside you quickly.

“No complaints. Take everything nicely.” he said, changing the angle of his hand as he began fucking you hard with just his hands.

“Fuck, Spencer, fuck- no, no, no, you have to stop! Fuck, I'll-”

He stopped just as instructed quickly, and you grabbed his hands to still his fingers, still inside of you.

“I need… shit I need hard nos's quickly Y/N. Tell me what I can and can't do.”

You gathered your breath enough to speak, but it was breathy, your breath still uneven, your legs still twitching as you lay on your back, cunt exposed to Spencer's greedy eyes. He drew small, gently circles on your clit with his thumb as you recovered.

“W-Why?” You managed to squeak out, cunt twitching at every accidental contact between you both.

“Because I'm either going to slap you to shut you up, or fuck your face, and I do believe in letting the lady decide.”

You couldn't help the scoff that came from your mouth, even though it was followed by another hitched breath and moan as you melted beneath him.

“You wouldn't do that, you're not the type.”

“What? What type am I not?”

“Slapping, spitting, demeaning. You're too… Spencer to do any of that,” you said, slowly raising your hips to fuck his fingers once again, pracitically begging him to keep us all his hard work.

Until he withdraws his hand and pulls you back into his lap, arms locking you in place on either sides of your waist.

“If I was anyone else,” he said slowly and deliberately, “Or if I was me and I possessed the ability to do any of that, would you consent to it?”

His words were a whisper, his fingers wet and hot on your nipples as he pulled, prodded, and played with them quietly.

“Well… you wouldn't-” you moaned at a sudden hard pinch, your hips jolting as he continued abusing your nipples.

“Everyone else has. Why can't I?”

“Spencer-” Another sharp pinch cut you off, forcing your eyes down to where he had a hand gently brushing against your chest, before sharply pinching it again.

“Hmm? What was that?”

“Spencer, p-please-”

You moan again as his other hand hooks around you to slide into your panties.

Pulls you fully onto his lap as he starts playing with your clit while tugging on your nipples, and he's waiting for you to give him permission to fuck you rougher.

“Can I do those things, Y/N?”

“Spencer….”

“Use your words to answer me, not your cunt. I know you're enjoying this.”

“Y-Yes.”

“Thank you,” he said, letting a hand trail up to your neck before kissing you gently on your lips again. The softness didn't last long as he picked up the pace with his other hand again, looming over you like a monster bent to its prey. His hand moved quickly, pushing in and out of you as you writhed on the floor, breaths shallow as he controlled where you went, where you looked, how you moved, and even how you breathed.

“S-Spencer,” you choked out, hands wrapping around his between your thighs, already twitching as your first orgasm hit you, twitching as he didn't slow down, moaning as you felt wetness seeping out of you in waves.

“Good girl. Good girl, you're doing so good for me. You want me to stop?” He asked.

“Yes, I can't- I can't do it anymore- nghhhh.”

“You can. Yes, you can, baby, you can. My little whore,” his voice was soft where his hands were hot, gripping your neck tighter as you focused only on breathing, legs shaking and twitching, squirming to get away even as you wished yourself to stay put.

“Good girl,” he said again, kissing you once again as his hand on your neck eased up. “One more time? One more right, baby?”

You nodded, not trusting yourself not to scream. With an open hand he slapped your face, just hard enough to draw a moan from your lips.

“Use your words, Y/N.”

“Y-Yes, I can do one more,” Ayou moaned, unsure if the stars you were seeing were from the harshness of the slap or the overstimulation. “Please.”

“Good manners,” he said, fingers slipping out of your cunt as you started to grind into him again, as soon as you said yes to another orgasm. “But I don't think I want you to cum yet.”

Lifting your hips, he urged you to turn over, pulling a pillow under your hips to help you lift them, still trembling as you were. A soft blanket was put under your head as he pushed your hips up, your shorts and panties pulled down and not just to the side now as he took all of you in.

“So drippy and wet, just for me…” he mused, probing a finger at your pussy again, laughing when you twitched at the contact.

“They say it tastes better than it feels you know,” he said pulling his phone out of his pocket before snapping a photo of your pussy, dripping and ready for him. “Look at it, what do you think?”

He thrusts the photo in your face as he pulled his dick out, letting it rub against the folds of your pussy as you moaned into defeat.

“Y/N, come on, what do you think? Do you taste better, or feel better?”

He propped up the phone in front of you and opened the camera, clicking record quickly as he slapped your ass.

“Answer me,” he insisted, cock head rubbing furiously against your clit now, fingers clamped down on a nipple, nails digging into your waist.

“Should I fuck you or eat that little cunt?”

“I- I don't know, Spencer, I don't know please-”

“Yes, you do. What should I do?”

You cried out in pleasure as you came again, the pressure on your clit too much too soon.

“F-fuck me,” you said, exhausted but still excited.

“Good girl,” he said again, withdrawing his touch before laying down under you and bringing your cunt to his mouth.

You tried to hold yourself up, but you couldn't as he licked and sucked and nudged at your clit with his nose. He'd ignored you, prolonged your torture, and decided he needed to decide for himself.

“Spencer…” you moaned, but it was weak. He chuckled into your cunt and you clamped your thighs around his face as far as you could, but he didn't relent.

Running a finger through your pussy to pick up your cum, he pushed a single digit into your asshole as you moaned slowly and weakly, face completely squished into the floor.

He pushed in and out slowly at first stretching your ass as you began riding his face, fucking against his to gue as you got closer and closer to release. The sooner you came now, the sooner he would release you.

But Spencer stilled your hips, and slowed his own movements to a few kisses here and there, letting one finger become two as he fucked your asshole. Eventually, all contact stopped with your cunt as you hungrily fucked his fingers, the stretch uncomfortable but good.

“Good girl, you like that? You like being my little anal slut? Good girl.”

The words hit hard, as you came on his face. He pulled his hands away and pushed you onto your back again, rising up to your fsve again.

“Open,” he said, and you obeyed letting him spit your own cum back into your mouth. His tongue connected with your own as you tasted yourself, hot and heavy on his lips.

As you kissed, he pushed your legs up, knees spread and with a single, hard, rough push, filled you with his cock.

You screamed in pleasure as he cooed into your ear. “I'm sorry baby, I couldn't help it. Your cunt looked too delicious, it was begging for my dick.”

Another slow pull out, and again he pushed in hard, stealing the breath from your lungs without even needing a hand on your neck.

Grabbing his phone, Spencer angled it towards where you were hungrily taking him in.

“This cunt is mine now, okay?”

You nodded, and he slapped you again.

“Words, Y/N, I need words. Tell me whose cunt this is.”

“Its yours, Spencer, all yours,” you moaned as he picked up his pace, lifting to his knees so he could drop it all into you.

“Shit, say more. Tell me what I can do to this pussy?”

“Abuse my pussy, Spencer. Stretch me out, slap me, keep me full, fuck I don't care, breed me,” you moaned, wrapping your arms around his neck as you lifted your chest up to his, thighs wrapped around his waist, ankles locked together behind him.

“You want me to cum in you? Want me to claim you so everyone can see?” He asked, nails digging into your thighs almost hard enough to draw blood.

“Yes!”

“Good…. fucking… slut,” he saif, and with a final thrust, he emptied his balls inside you.

You didn't move for a long time, catching your breath on the floor, a pile of limbs coated in sprsys of wetness and cum.

You started rubbing your cunt again first, as he joined in again with shallow thrusts, wincing and seething as he overstimulated himself.

You came quietly that last time and waited for him to pull out and clean you up.

He didn't. Keeping himself sheathed inside you, he awkwardly lifted the two of you to the couch and pulled your head down into his chest, letting you cockwarm him as your cum soaked into the material of the couch.

“Sleep for an hour or two. You'll wake up when it's time to go again.”

When you woke, it wasn't to Spencer starting again, but instead the ring of your phone. You tried to reach for it, to silence whatever alarm had decided to disturb you at that point, but Spencer was faster.

“Hello?” he said down the line, forgetting where he was for a second before you nestled into the crook of his neck again, fingers gently tracing his collarbone.

“Spencer?” Emily asked, confused and voice tired.

“Emily?” He asked. “We have a case?” He sat you up with him crasling you in his arms as you fully woke, your muscles objecting at this sudden movement. His cock stayed buried within you as you reoriented yourself.

“Uh, yeah. We've got an hour to get to the office and debrief, then were flying out- Spencer. This is Spencer?” she asked again, voice a muddle with confusion, tone rising by the second.

“Yes, Spencer. I'll be there.”

“And Y/N?” Emily asked. “I didn't dial the wrong number, Spencer, I have you all on speed dial. You're with Y/N?”

You sat bolt upright and took the phone from Spencer quickly, the shrill ringing of Emily's voice echoing down the line.

“We’ll be there,” you practically shouted. “We just drank together and-” you pulled the hair out of your face as you felt Spencer go rigid inside you again.

“A-and that's it. See you in an hour.”

Speedily you hung up, grabbed Spencer and pressed your lips to his again, pushing him down into the couch.

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐳𝐨𝐧𝐞

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: there’s some russian spoken here so i’ll put the translations into [little brackets] next to it

summary: nat cheated and you got a divorce. time jump of three years

warnings: smut (brief), alcohol, mentions of blood/injuries, house fire, child endangerment

word count: 17.2k (oops)

part 1, part 2

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

Part 2: Secondhand Smoke

The drawer is open, its contents a mess. Old baby socks, screws, a teething toy. Natasha stares at it, trying to find what she's looking for. If she doesn't, you might kill her.

Behind her, Valerie runs down the hardwood stairs. She slips on her jacket and skids to the front door.

"Mama, we're going to be late!", she says impatiently. Lottie, sitting on the table with a donut in her hands, grins. "Hey, why'd she get a donut?"

"Because she wouldn't put her shoes on. Do you know where that permission slip for your field trip is?"

Valerie shakes her head. She steps over the backpack Natasha left on the floor to reach her shoes. "You can't find it?"

Natasha grunts and shuts the drawer, only to open the other one. More screws. A broken pipe wrench. A stack of documents she doesn't have a place for. She glances at the clock and realizes she's about to be late for the drop-off — again.

"Mommy's going to be mad", her older daughter helpfully informs her.

"Yes, bub, I know that", Natasha mutters. Lottie slides off the table, a sad little piece of donut in her hand, and tugs at her sleeve. "Hm?"

"Braid my hair, mama?"

She hesitates and looks at the clock again — 7.12. If they don't hurry, they will not only be late, but you'll get a text message from their schools as well. But Lottie blinks her big eyes and Natasha folds. As predicted in the hospital, she has your eyes, and she can't resist the sweet look on her daughter's face.

"C'mere", she mumbles, scooping Charlotte up and setting her down on the table. "Quick one, alright?"

Valerie groans and flops into the worn armchair. She stares at the ceiling, complete with wooden beams and a chandelier, and impatiently kicks her feet. Her shoes leave specks of dirt on the rug.

"Hurry", she drawls. Natasha curses quietly, her hands working on Lottie's hair.

"Shit", the younger girl parrots. She's been going through a phase lately. Whenever she learns a new word, she has to repeat it constantly until a new one catches her attention.

Much to Natasha's dismay, of course. She was forced to replace an entire list of curse words with kid-friendly alternatives.

"No, we don't say that."

"Why?", Charlotte asks. She's on the table, cross-legged, fingers sticky with sugar glaze. "Shit! Mama, shit!"

"You're not funny", Valerie mutters. She reaches for the remote and turns on the tv. Natasha gives her a hurried look.

"Wait, you can't-"

"I am funny!" Lottie turns her head. The braid slips from Natasha's fingers and comes undone. "Meanie!"

Ten minutes later. Natasha's sweaty, Charlotte's braid turned into space buns, Valerie's in a mood. The car ride consists of Elsa songs and two girls fighting over who gets to pick the music. Everyone's on edge.

Natasha can't help but think that this never happened when you were still married. A fleeting thought, but it stings. Once upon a time, she had her life together. Now, she's barely keeping it from falling apart. If it weren't for caffeine and duct tape, it'd all crumble.

She parks in front of the elementary school first and shoos Valerie out of the car. Right as she's about to walk away, Natasha rips open the door and hurries after her.

"Your permission slip!"

"You found it?"

"Under the car seat", she mumbles, turning Valerie around and putting the piece of paper against her back. She quickly signs it. "Here you go, bub. Have a nice day at school, yeah?"

She shrugs and grabs the permission slip. Natasha stands there, rubbing her forehead and watching her go, before she remembers that she still needs to drive Lottie and then make her way to work.

She turns around and gets into the car. The Elsa songs keep playing, Lottie keeps singing along, and Natasha is teetering on the edge between gratefulness and panic.

. . .

"You're late."

"I know. I'm sorry."

You're in the kitchen, scrubbing a pot with a sponge and holding the phone between your ear and your shoulder. It's Sunday afternoon, which means it's time for Natasha to drop the kids off at your place for the week. You decided on shared custody together, because how could you not?

She cheated on you, but that doesn't mean she she's a bad mom. She loves the girls as much as you do. She shows up for the small and the big things. She's present, and even though communication still isn't her strongest suit, she's trying.

You're still holding a bit of a grudge, though, and you're far from letting her forget it. Natasha understands that sentiment completely, which somehow feels like the worse option.

You adjust your shoulder and put the sponge aside. Someone screams in the background, then you hear the maniacal cackling of your younger child.

"What's going on?", you ask, slightly worried. Natasha's house is not quite as toddler-proof as you'd like it to be. You’ve seen it via FaceTime — dumbbells and tools everywhere, a huge fireplace, some arts n' crafts table for Lottie she got started on.

At least the backyard is big, with plenty of space for the girls to play. It's the main reason why Natasha bought the cabin sitting on the edge of a forest, and she took full advantage of it. Within a single summer, she built an entire playground, complete with a sandpit and a merry-go-round.

"Nothing- no, don't jump off that! Charlotte!"

You sigh and dry your hands, then exchange your shoulder for your hand. You open the fridge and grab the lettuce you bought the day before.

"Can you please make sure our daughter doesn't break her neck?"

"Sorry, babe. She's good, she just found one of my energy liquid gels."

In the background, you hear a high-pitched voice ask if it's mommy on the phone. You smile faintly and lean against the counter.

"You gotta hurry", you say, one arm crossed over your chest. "I made baked ziti, Vee's favorite. It'll go cold."

"Yep, yeah, in a minute." Natasha digs through something, and you hear bags rustle. "Goddammit, where'd you put your left shoe?"

"You lost her shoe? Which one, the Stride Rite?"

"Uh..."

Someone falls. You hear the thud, muffled but clear, and frown. Then, someone starts to cry. Natasha drops another curse word.

At this point, it doesn't faze you anymore. Charlotte is as energetic and reckless as Valerie was at her age, and you're used to the countless bruises and scraped somethings she brings home every week.

"Go help her", you sigh.

"We'll be there in a minute."

They, in fact, aren't there in a minute. It takes them forty minutes and a near-mental breakdown. But they make it, and Natasha pulls up in front of the house you once shared.

It's still the same. White picket fence, a red front door and window frames, the shoes next to the doormat. The grass has been freshly mowed, and the air smells like flowers and late summer nights spent on the porch together.

Natasha scoops Charlotte out of her car seat and carries her on her hip. The girl is barefoot and only dressed in one of Natasha's oversized shirts, which functions as a dress for her. Valerie's already a few steps ahead, so she opens the gate.

You step out the door and smile. "You made it!"

"Mommy!", Lottie shrieks. She starts kicking her feet until she's back on the ground, then she starts running.

"Hey, mom."

"Hey", Natasha adds, her hands in her pockets.

She takes a moment to look at you. Nothing about you is particularly outstanding, at least not right now — it's a Sunday afternoon, so you're in a white shirt and sweatpants. Your hair is up, your face bare, your eyes crinkling at the corners when you smile at the girls.

Then, you look up. Her heart flips. She's always been a little too weak for you.

"Hi", you say, crouching and hugging Charlotte as you redirect your attention. "You're barefoot, honey."

Natasha lingers by the gate, hands in her pockets and feet unmoving. She's still staring, still soaking in, and she's also zoning out. Even if just for a short moment in time, you're soft. Unguarded. You rub Lottie's arms, ask her if she's hungry, scoop her up and kiss her cheek.

You look at Natasha and tilt your head. It feels like there's miles between you.

"So", you start, adjusting your hold on the little girl, "we're going to have dinner."

"Oh, right." She nods and takes a step back. "Sunday afternoon? You'll drop them off?"

"Of course."

Natasha nods and turns around. Her phone starts ringing, so she fishes it out of her pocket and glances at the screen. She hesitates, then makes sure she's in the car before answering. You close the door behind you.

Valerie helps you set the table. Lottie is less productive — she's sitting on the floor with a coloring book —, but at least her humming is cute.

Between scooping baked ziti onto plates and pouring juice into glasses, you've been wondering who was behind that phone call Natasha got. It's a dumb thing to think about. It was probably her sister, or her mom. Clint also calls sometimes. Maybe he invited her to barbecue, as he sometimes does.

In the end, you're wrong. You're really wrong.

"Mommy, mama kissed a lady."

You freeze. Valerie's head whips around.

"Lottie!", she hisses.

"What? She did!"

"Yes, but-"

You lift your hand to interject. It's not your place to be jealous (you are); it's not your place to talk to the kids about this (you will); it's not your place to confront Natasha (oh, you have to). Yet, you can't help it.

She's not yours anymore, but when you were married to the one person who you actually loved, it feels like you'll always own a little piece of them. No matter what she did, it feels like she's still yours, in a way. Whether that's actually the case or not is debatable.

"Who was she?", you ask, trying to sound calm. But the way you keep wiping loose strands of hair out of your face is anything but.

"A lady", Lottie says. She's too enthusiastic for her own good. "She's pretty. She has a purple dress, mommy."

"Uh-huh", you say. Valerie looks like she's about to lose her mind. You raise your eyebrows at her. "You don't have to protect her from me, you know."

"I'm not!", she protests. "But I don't want you to get mad at mama."

"No, mama doesn't want me to get mad at her", you argue. You grab your phone and tap the phone icon. Valerie starts bouncing in her chair. "Just a quick call."

"Please!", she groans. "Don't fight again."

"Shush."

You walk into the living room, your phone against your ear. You barely hear how Valerie whispers something to Lottie about her ruining everything. For a split second, it's enough to make you rethink this.

Of course, Charlotte doesn't remember that day. She doesn't remember the yelling, the packed suitcases, how you kicked Natasha out. But Valerie does, and she's terrified of it happening again. She can't risk it — things are more or less peaceful right now. You haven't had a real fight in ages. This, however, might change everything.

Natasha picks up. She sounds almost relieved. "Hey."

"Who is she?"

A long pause. You swear you can hear her heart beat faster, louder. "What?"

"The woman", you say, coming to a halt next to the staircase. "The one you brought home. The one who met my kids without my permission!"

Natasha starts stammering. There it goes, her usual confidence. Goodbye, self-assurance and pride. You've always had a way of dismantling her like a children's toy.

"She, uh...her name's Irina."

"I told Lottie not to tell you!", Valerie yells from the dining room. You ignore her.

"And you let her come over?"

"It's not like I had a choice!", she says defensively. "She just wanted to pop by. She-"

"Does she know you have kids?"

"Who do you think I am??"

You barely manage to stop yourself from hissing the words that lay on the tip of your tongue. Throwing the fact that she cheated on you back at her would, despite everything, be a little too harsh. Plus, little ears are listening. All of this is bad enough already.

"Natasha, all I need is for you to tell me next time", you say, sounding curt. No room for softness, even if you still feel it between you. "I don't care that you're dating someone. But when it involves our children, that's when it becomes a problem."

She lets out a halfhearted noise. For some reason, she's stuck on you apparently not caring about her dating other people. It shouldn't bother her, but it does. Do you really not care?

She knows she'd care if you started dating. She'd lose her mind.

"Fine", she agrees. "But like I said, I didn't-"

"Well, you still let her kiss you in front of them."

"We were outside! They were probably peeping", Natasha says. "I'll tell her not to do that anymore."

"Yes", you mutter. "Good. Fine."

"Yeah."

You exhale slowly and glance toward the kitchen. Valerie's head is poking out the doorway, her face nervous. You give her a tight-lipped smile.

"Are you fighting?", she whispers.

"No, bub", you sigh. "Listen, Nat, we'll go have dinner now."

"Sure, yeah."

You give a noncommittal hum, then hang up.

You told Natasha you don't care. You told her that it's fine she's dating someone, because it should be. You're the one who rejected her when she tried to patch things up a couple months ago. You're the one who keeps avoiding her. You had every right to do that, and you have every right to keep reminding her of what she did.

It's simple — Natasha cheated. There are no excuses, no explanations, nothing that could justify what she did. She hurt you, which means that she should be in for a lifetime of being hurt by you as well. If only it wasn't for your kids. They're the reason why you try to remain friends with her, which doesn't always work.

The breakup was painful. Looking at her is, as well. Sometimes, you make Yelena pick up the kids or drop them off just so you don't have to see her. But there's secondhand smoke, still affecting you, and thought the support beams are burnt, they're still standing.

Still keeping it all upright.

. . .

Thick smoke curls out of open windows, tinted a dangerous black. Flames dance and flicker behind glass. Sirens blare and neighbors watch.

The fire engine comes to a halt, and Natasha immediately jumps out. The rest of the crew follows, all of them dressed in fireproof gear. Radios crackle and people yell — she's not sure who's yelling, but someone is.

They run toward the house, passing a distressed father who's trying to keep his wife from storming back into the house. Natasha knows what that means, and it only raises the stakes.

"Fire showing second floor, alpha side", the lieutenant yells. "Possible entrapment. Let's go defensive. Romanoff, search and rescue. Barton, fire attack. Rodriguez..."

None of this is new to her. She's seen it all before, and it's as familiar as breathing, but it's still scary. Adrenaline floods her, her heart beats faster. She's thinking on autopilot. Every move is practiced, from the way she breaks down the door to her crawling on the floor.

Smoke rises, after all. She has her BA mask on, but she still needs to stay as close to the ground as possible. It's hot inside, the heat even reaching her through the thick layers of gear she's wearing, and it's pitch-black. Her gloved hand sweeps across the floor, searching for bodies.

"There's a kid upstairs!", the lieutenant yells through the comms. "Up the stairs, first door to the left!"

She feels sweat drip down her lower back as she makes her way up the stairs. She doesn't get far, though — her path is blocked by a roaring fire.

"Fire located", she says, out of breath. "It's blocking the second floor, the kid's trapped. Need a ladder to the bravo side."

"Come outside."

The fire engine has already pulled up to the side of the house when Natasha gets there. She grabs an axe and starts climbing, her heart thudding and her baby hairs sticking to her temples.

In a field like hers, staying professional is important. You can't let your own feelings get in the way. But sometimes, that's impossible. All she can think about are Valerie and Lottie. Unlike this child, they're safe and sound, and somehow that makes everything hit harder.

The cries she hears are unbearable. They're not coming from the kid, no — it's their mom. Standing in the backyard, her husband barely keeping her from running straight into the flames. She doesn't blame her. She'd do the same.

Natasha grabs the axe and swings it. Glass shatters and thick smoke billows out. Fire's licking at the door that leads into the child's bedroom, but thankfully, the room isn't in flames yet.

She climbs in through the window and gets on the ground again, hand sweeping. She knows what kids do in situations like this one. She's a mother, of course she knows. She's also had to do this before.

The boy, maybe four years old, is hiding inside the closet. Tears have dried on his cheeks, but he's not crying anymore. It's hard to cry when you're unconscious. Natasha curses and gently picks him up, then she hurries back to the window.

"Child located", she says, clutching the boy like a little bundle of blankets. "Exiting now. Need a medic."

Getting down the stairs is, ironically, the hardest part. Her legs are shaking, her feet keep slipping, but her grip on the child is tight and secure. The second they're back on solid, safe ground, she drops down. Her eyes are red and teary, sweat is dripping, she feels like she's about to collapse.

Medics surround her and start to treat the kid. She only allows them give her oxygen once he's let out a cough and opened his eyes. The fire has been put out as well, and Barton sinks into the grass next to her. He nudges her side.

"You look beat."

"I am", she says, gulping water from a bottle she was handed. She's taken off her gear and is now sitting there in a soaked tank top and pants. The wind feels soothing against her skin, which is still way too warm from the fire. "Fuck."

"You're shaking."

"Yeah."

"It's hard when there's kids involved, huh?"

She nods, picking at the grass and still chugging water. She doesn't say anything. She can't. She's already close to sobbing. The boy was too close to not making it.

"I need to call the girls", she finally mumbles, running a hand through her damp hair. "Just to check on them."

"They're with Y/N?"

"Yeah." Natasha gets up and wipes her hands on her pants. "I think they're at some puppet show."

"The one that freaked you out?"

"Still getting nightmares. But the kids love it."

He nods, and she walks to the fire engine. Once she's found her phone underneath one of the seats, she sits down and dials your number. It takes seconds for you to pick up.

"Hi, mama!"

It's Lottie. Natasha nearly bursts into tears. But the kids get anxious when she cries, so she blinks a few times and inhales deeply to keep herself under control.

"Hey", she mumbles, rubbing her eyes. "How are you guys?"

"Good! We saw puppets."

"Mhm? The scary ones?"

"They're not scary!"

She hears Lottie chew on something. Popcorn, probably. It's what the girls usually eat at those puppet shows. She also hears you, talking to Valerie and making sure Lottie doesn't run off.

Suddenly, she wishes she could be there with you, puppets be damned. Steal popcorn from the kids, kiss you in the dark, get fast food on the way home. It's not her life anymore, though. And the worst part is that it's her fault.

"So you had fun?", Natasha asks. She's leaning against the wall, legs stretched out. Outside, the crew is slowly returning to the fire engine.

"Yes! I want a puppet."

"You do, huh? I'll get you one for Christmas, how's that sound?"

"Mama, you're silly", she says, giggling. "Santa brings the presents!"

Of course. Even the imaginary bearded man from the North Pole, the guy who sits in malls and wears a fatsuit, outranks her.

"You're right, bub", she agrees. "Hey, how's mommy?"

"Mommy's good", Charlotte says, voice tiny and chipper. The second she says that, she hears you pause in the background. Valerie doesn't say anything, either. "She bought us popcorn."

"Yeah? Did you have lunch before?"

"No."

"That's a lie", you call, sounding muffled. "We had stir fry."

Natasha smiles to herself, but quickly puts on a neutral face when her colleagues enter the vehicle. She turns toward the wall a little, trying to shield the fragile bubble the phone call put her in.

"Mommy makes the best stir fry", she says. Men and women talk, change out of singed gear, intrude without being aware of it. She glances at them, then tries to focus on what her daughter's saying. "What was that, bub?"

"We miss you!"

She swallows and blinks. Her eyes are burning, but this time, it's not from the fire and the smoke. She rubs them to keep the tears at bay. She's surrounded by the crew, after all. They tend to not hold back on the teasing.

When she doesn't respond for a couple seconds, you gently take the phone from Lottie. Your voice cuts through the silence, kids' chatter in the background, and that makes everything worse.

"Hey", you say softly. "You okay?"

"I'm fine", she mutters. "Don't worry."

"You're at work?"

"Mhm." Natasha nods and flicks a blade of grass off her leg. "There was a house fire. It's all good now, though."

"Oh."

Something rustles, then beeps. Natasha recognizes it as the sound of your car being unlocked.

"Going back home?"

"No", you say, struggling to get Lottie into her car seat. "Wait, let me buckle you up- we're going to the library. Vee needs to pick up a book for her oral report."

"What's it on?"

You pause. "It's a surprise."

Natasha lets out a quiet laugh and nods, rubbing her forehead. The crew sits down, and the fire engine starts to drive away and back to the station.

"Well, I can't wait to find out."

"You'll love it. Want the kids to call you around bedtime?"

"Yes, that'd be..." She trails off and nods. "Please."

"Of course. Take care of yourself, yes?"

"You too."

You hang up with a click. Natasha stares at the screen for a moment, then a message from Irina pops up. She turns her phone off and tucks it into the waistband of her pants.

. . .

When you met Natasha, there was one thing you realized immediately. It didn't take long — she'd barely stormed into your apartment, fully dressed in her firefighter gear, and you knew already.

The woman in front of you was a flirt. She was putting out fires, yes, and she looked good doing it, but she was also flirting. Constantly, shamelessly, like it was as much of a routine as putting on her boots before work.

For some reason, you liked it. You were charmed by it. You knew you couldn't be the exception, that she probably flirted with just about every woman she ran into, but you didn't care.

Smoke had filled the kitchen. You were standing to the side, only in slippers and an oversized shirt, and coughed as she extinguished the fire. Her colleague stood to the side, assisting her and trying to get you out the door.

"Too much smoke", he said. "You'll damage your lungs."

"Fine, sorry."

A few minutes later, they both stepped out. Natasha took off her helmet and let her eyes sweep across you, from head to toe.

"You were making dessert?"

"Crème brûlée", you replied, hands tucked behind your back as you leaned against the wall.

She hummed, smirking faintly. There was the tiniest soot-smudge on her jaw.

"I'd advise against keeping cotton towels in the kitchen. They catch fire pretty fast", she informed you. She paused, looking at you again. "Though some things are worth the heat."

Pink color dusted your cheeks. You rolled your eyes and nudged her out the door, but now, there were two things you knew about her. She's a flirt, and she'd flirt with you again. Eventually.

You ended up being right about both. You went to the fire station a couple days later to thank them and drop off cookies (which you managed to bake without setting off another fire alarm).

Natasha was there, too. Smirking, teasing, a black undershirt displaying her casually muscular form. Her hands were calloused in that blue collar-way, her hair in a low bun. She accepted the plate and took a quick bite.

"No fire today?"

"Maybe next week."

Natasha, chewing, tilted her head. "Sounds like you want me to come back for seconds."

You suppressed a smile. The lieutenant was watching, after all.

"Careful", you said. "Don't want you to get in trouble."

"Might be too late for that", she mumbled, letting her eyes rake up and down your body once more.

No oversized shirt and slippers today — instead, you got into a short dress and dolled yourself up a little. Natasha appreciated it as much as she did the domestic little outfit you wore the other day.

Something warm stirred inside her. Before you knew it, you started meeting her for coffee. A quick 'I'm not seeing anyone right now' got tossed into conversations here and there.

You took her home one day, offered to make lunch for her. The third thing you figured out was that she loved fire jokes. She made them constantly, especially when you were handling something hot in the kitchen.

You had lunch together that day. You slid into her lap because she tugged you there, but you stayed because you didn't want to move. You feed her a forkful of food and managed to be the one who dusts her cheeks pink.

It was stir fry. To this day, it's her favorite dish.

Even when the plates were empty, she didn't leave. You sipped on a wine bottle together, talked, kissed once you were tipsy enough to have the courage to.

The night ended with Natasha in your bed and you on top of her. That joke she'd made a couple weeks ago — her being in trouble, thanks to you — turned out to be true. You were straddling her, hands on her shoulders, and she knew was falling way too quickly.

Natasha didn't do this. Not really. She flirted, she had sex, she blocked numbers. She excused all of that with her abysmal work schedule, her 24 hour shifts, the dangers that came with it. How would a relationship fit into her life when she barely managed to keep it together already?

She didn't expect you to come along, though. She didn't expect to fall in love. She did, anyway.

Suddenly, keeping her life together was the easiest thing she ever had to do. Because after every shift, she was able to look at the text messages you sent. She was able to come over, just like that, without having to announce herself. And you'd have a meal ready for her, even if she didn't warn you beforehand.

Natasha proposed a year later. At that point, you were basically living together.

It all felt easy, safe. You got married in a small vineyard (your idea), bought a house (her idea). Not even three years after you got married, you gave birth to your first daughter.

When Natasha gets called to that same apartment that started everything — the crème brûlée, the stir fry, the proposal between bedsheets and rose petals — she feels sick to her stomach. She goes home afterwards, tired and aching all over, and opens the door only to find Irina in the living room.

"Hey", she says. Natasha nods and drops her bag. "Sorry I didn't call. But you said there's an extra key under the doormat, so-"

"Yeah, it's fine." Natasha walks into the kitchen. It matches the rest of her cabin — counters made of walnut wood, complete with granite countertops. Steel appliances, chipped mugs, a protein shrine with powder, bars and beef jerky. She grabs a shaker and scoops powder into it.

Irina joins her. She feels her arms around her stomach.

"Someone rang the doorbell earlier."

Natasha pauses mid-water pour. "When?"

"I don't know. 2 o'clock, maybe?"

She curses and puts the shaker aside, then reaches for her phone. Surely, new messages have popped up.

Y/N: Vee is coming over later, so you can help her with her oral report — 11.42am

Y/N: don't know if you'll be home, a quick answer would be nice you know — 12.05pm

Y/N: you could've told me you wouldn't be home. — 2.38pm

The oral report. One on firefighters, inspired by none other than Natasha herself. She sobbed when Valerie told her over FaceTime a couple days ago.

"Why didn't you answer the door?", Natasha asks, already typing out apology after apology. Send her over, please, my phone was on mute, I completely forgot — and Irina is just standing there, peeking over her shoulder.

"I wasn't sure whether I'm supposed to."

"You weren't supposed to take the key either, yet you did." Natasha bites the inside of her cheek. She left the key under the doormat for Valerie specifically, so she could enter whenever she felt the need to.

That plan didn't work out, though. Why did she have to tell Irina about the stupid key?

Irina leans against the counter, arms crossed. "It was your kid?"

"Yes, it was my daughter." She lets out a frustrated noise. You've received her messages, but aren't looking at them. "She was supposed to come over today."

"You forgot?"

There it is. Natasha puts her phone aside and grabs the shaker, shaking its contents until the protein powder and water have formed a silky, foaming liquid. She takes a sip and walks into the living room.

"I was stressed", she defends herself. "Had a grease fire. It was the apartment where..." She pauses, then shakes her head and sits down. Irina raises her eyebrows.

"Where...?"

"Doesn't matter." Natasha kicks off her boots and leans back. She turns on the tv, zaps through the channels, then turns it back off. Outside, it's getting dark. It's around dinner time, so you probably wouldn't appreciate a phone call right now.

Irina sits down next to her. Her body curls into Natasha's, warm and distracting. If she screwed up everything else, she might at least get some sex out of today.

Delicate fingers trail down her forearm, to the little beaded leather armband around her wrist. Valerie made it for her when she was five, and she only takes it off when she's working.

It's enough to pull her back into reality. Natasha gets up, leaving Irina alone and rejected on the couch.

"I have to call my kids", she says, disappearing into the bedroom and closing the door.

She dials your number. You don't pick up.

On Sunday, Yelena drops off the kids instead of you. Apparently, you don't want to see her right now. Rightfully so, her sister says, and Natasha almost slaps her for it. But you'll get over it, like always.

No. You won't. She won't hear from you for a while, either.

. . .

"Please, mommy."

"No, honey. I'm sorry."

Lottie whines and bounces on the spot. She looks cute in her green dress, with her hair curled and the non toxic nail polish on her fingers. It is a special occasion, after all — it's her grandmother's birthday.

One you won't be going to, because Natasha will be there as well. It's been weeks of nothing. No phone calls, no texts, no dropping off the kids yourself. She's done a bunch of stupid shit in all those years that you've known her, but her forgetting Valerie like that may have taken the cake.

Valerie's not mad at her anymore, not at all. But, again, you're good at holding grudges.

"Mommy", your younger daughter whines. "I don't want to go alone."

"You're not alone." You put her on the table so you can put on the ballet flats you got her. "Your sister is going, too. And mama will be there. It's babushka's birthday."

"Lottie, stop crying", Valerie says. She sits down on the striped rug and puts on her own ballet flats. "There will be cake. You like cake."

"Exactly", you affirm. "You can bring me a slice, hm?"

"No", she says, covering her face with her hands. You get up and kiss her fingers, which are resting right on her forehead. "Don't wanna go."

You sigh, then scoop her up. You can't force her to do anything, but she'll probably change her mind once she sees her grandma, so you carry her to the car. Once everyone's buckled in and ready, you drive.

Melina's house is an hour away, but it takes you almost two thanks to a cranky toddler and her annoyed older sister. You wipe the seat with a wet wipe — Lottie, who got an apple juice pack as a sort of consolation, squished it so hard it exploded. Thanks to some miracle, nothing got on the girls' clothes, but it's all over the middle seat.

You scoop Charlotte out of the car set and dare to set her down. She immediately starts crying and stomping her feet, so you cave and pick her up again. Seems like the terrible two's sometimes last a bit longer.

Valerie is in a much better mood. She sees Melina's backyard — the wide patch of grass, the yellow shed, the huge tree with the tire swing — and immediately starts running. It's a sunny day, the sky's clear and the air smells like shashlik.

"Babushka! [grandma]", she yells, running straight into her grandmother's arms. She's embraced into a tight hug. "S dnem ​​rozhdeniya! [happy birthday]"

"Hello, my darling!" She kisses the top of her head and then pulls away to inspect her outfit. "Ah, red dress. Looks pretty!"

"Thanks!" Valerie smiles brightly. She seems to remember something, so she runs back to your side. "Mom, where's her present?"

"Oh, right here." You turn around and open the trunk of your car. You grab the gift bag, which is almost too heavy, and hand it to Valerie. Off she goes again.

You look at Charlotte, who has her face buried against her neck. You rub her side, try to coax her into looking at you, but to no avail. You've given up already and are walking toward Melina when, suddenly, she lifts her head and perks up.

"Mama!", she screams happily.

You freeze — no way —, then turn around. Yes way. Lottie's right, Natasha showed up. And she's not alone.

You're not too familiar with the blonde who's getting out of the car, but you can easily guess who she is — Irina. Dressed in a tight skirt and a blouse, her lips red and no dark circles under her eyes. Probably childless.

You adjust your hold on Lottie and try not to look too irritated. Melina, on the other hand, isn't trying.

"Who's that?", she asks promptly and straightens up.

Valerie turns around and grimaces slightly. You've raised her to be polite and kind, but in that moment, you can't blame her. You wish you were able to throw your own morals out of the window as well.

"You brought her?", Valerie says. She sounds so disbelieving it's almost funny. Instead, you rub her back with one hand and keep cradling Charlotte with the other.

Natasha looks stressed. She offers a tight-lipped smile as Irina kisses her on the cheek, and seeing that is enough for Lottie to lose the happy attitude again. The girl starts sobbing, because how dare her mom show up with a near-stranger?

"It's okay", you mumble, glancing at your ex-wife again. She lets Irina kiss her on the mouth, then the blonde turns away and waves at everyone in the backyard.

"Bye", she says, already making her way back to the driver's seat. The car engine roars and Irina drives off, thankfully.

Natasha lingers by the gate, and even though you're pissed, you can't help but look at her. She's always had a talent for looking her most irresistible when she absolutely shouldn't. Turnout pants, suspenders hanging off her hips, her beloved black tank top. Not at all birthday-conforming, but it's not like she cares.

Melina walks up to her. If there's one thing you know about your ex-mother in law, is that she's not going to be pleased with her daughter's decision to bring along a stranger. A stranger she wouldn't even introduce, for obvious reasons.

"Chto eto bylo? [what was that]", she asks, grabbing her daughter's shoulder and steering her further into the backyard. Lottie blinks away tears, then reaches her arms out for her mama again.

"Nichto [nothing]", Natasha says, glancing at the girl in your arms. She nods at you. "May I?"

Melina, shaking her head, answers for you. She steps in front of her. "What, 'nothing'? That wasn't nothing! Now don't play innocent. You don't bring stranger to my house, Natasha."

"She's not a stranger."

"She is to us."

Valerie crosses her arms and stares at the ground. Green grass, covered in wildflowers. You run your hand over her head.

"Listen", Natasha says, stepping around her mom to reach you and the girls, "she insisted on driving me. Said I never have enough time for her. I just didn't want it to end in a pointless fight. Hey, bub."

"Hey, mom", Valerie mutters. Natasha cups her face and tilts it up. "Hm?"

"I know I screwed up", she says apologetically, then kisses her forehead. "Your dress is beautiful, dochen'ka. [little daughter]"

"Thanks."

Lottie makes grabby hands, so you set her down. Without so much as even an ounce of hesitation, she tumbles into Natasha's arms. A few kisses, smiles, and she's back to being a mama's girl.

Then, Natasha looks at you. You raise your eyebrows, jaw set. She doesn't say anything.

Neither do you. You turn around and walk to the little porch. You enter Melina's house, which is somehow always cool and smells like tea and herbs. It's empty inside, no one to be seen, so you make your way into the kitchen and lean against the counters.

The fridge in front of you is covered in all kinds of memorabilia and keepsakes. An ultrasound of Valerie, a handprint of Charlotte. Family pictures, held up by little magnets. Another magnet, a souvenir one from Greece — you spent your first vacation as a family of three there.

You rub your eyes and turn around. Borscht is boiling on the stove, a bowl of pelmeni sits next to it. She made appetizers as well, which mostly consist of vegetables like radishes and cucumbers.

You grab one of the dirty bowls in the sink and start scrubbing it. Anything to distract your mind is welcome right now. Soap bubbles pop under your fingers, suds cover your hands. It smells like citrus.

Footsteps appear behind you. Someone leans in, blows warm air against your neck. You shut your eyes — when Natasha apologizes, this is her way of showing it. It's what comes before the words.

"Don't."

"I'm sorry." She nudges your hair aside, then places a kiss on the back of your neck. "I didn't know you'd be here. I wouldn't have let her."

You stand there, frozen, the feeling of her lips lingering hotly on your skin. You dry your hands, then turn around. She's standing so close she's got you caged in against the sink.

"You're going to pretend everything's alright?", you ask, crossing your arms. Natasha sighs. "Listen, you crossed a line. Multiple, actually. So don't act like, like..." You gesture desperately, then let your hand drop against your arm again.

"Like?"

"Like you're still allowed to do this." You swallow, trying your hardest not to look at the fridge again. "You showed up with her."

"She left", she says, putting her hands on your waist. Once a flirt, always a flirt.

"You're with her", you retort. It takes everything in you to push her hands away.

After all this time, they still feel comforting. Safe. They shouldn't be, but they are. She'd still start wars for you, and that may be the worst part. Those wars wouldn't be worth fighting.

"So?", she replies. "You're the mother of my children. Nothing will ever change that. Besides, things aren’t that serious."

"Oh, right." You laugh bitterly and shake your head. "If only that meant something. You cheated, anyway."

Natasha falls silent. Your words hit where it hurts most. She stands there, studying you in that inoffensive way she's got down to a tee. Despite her physique being the peak example of someone who's able to lift tree trunks double her weight off the ground, you've never seen someone resemble a hurt puppy more accurately.

"Nat", you plead.

"No, you're right."

"You know it's true. You've moved on."

"Mommy?"

You both turn your heads. Lottie's in the doorway, her mouth and hands stained red from the wild strawberries Melina always feeds the kids. You reach out your hand and she pads closer to grab it.

"You okay, sweetie?"

"I'm sticky", she says, holding up her other hand.

Natasha hums and scoops her up, then helps her reach the tap. You watch them, silently, your mind running in circles. For a moment, you see what things could've looked like if they'd been different. If everything had worked out.

Once Charlotte's hands are clean and dry, she zooms back outside to play with her cousins. You look at Natasha. She avoids your eyes and instead turns off the stove.

"Melina told me to get the borscht", she mumbles. "Can you help with the bowls?"

"Yeah, sure. Sour cream?"

You open the cupboard and grab every bowl you can find. Blue-rimmed, with little pink roses on them. Natasha hums and looks into the fridge, then pulls out two smetana cups.

It's silent. No one's speaking anymore. All you hear is the quiet clinking of silverware and the hum of the old fridge.

You almost bump into each other when you're leaving the kitchen. Natasha pauses and looks at you, contemplating. You tilt your head.

"You used to bite your lip when you're mad at me", she says. "It was easier when I knew what you're thinking. I miss it."

You falter, so much so that you almost drop the tall stack of bowls you're holding. She's flirting. Probably. Or she's using this to (cruelly) remind you that not only your marriage ended — but also the access you used to have to each other.

You used to be entangled. Without having to talk, you knew what the other was thinking. You remember an instance where she brought home comfort takeout without even knowing you'd been sobbing over Valerie outgrowing a onesie all morning. You remember her building dozens of seemingly useless things — a birdhouse, another bench (but make it kid sized), a whole pergola. She thought that it'd help.

You used to complain. Now, you look at your empty garage and miss the stacks of wood she used to have on hand.

"Yeah", you say, struggling to speak. "I know."

Natasha stops in the middle of the hallway. It's pure instinct for you to do the same.

"I miss you", she adds. You stare at her, desperately holding the bowls. "I think you know that. Just had to tell you."

"I mean..." You trail off. "Yeah. I guess I do."

There's a window at the end of the hallway. Small, insignificant, not even big enough to let much fresh air into the space. But it's slightly ajar anyway, just enough for Valerie to hear your mumbled words.

. . .

"Happy birthday!"

"S dnem ​​rozhdeniya!"

Melina raises her eyebrows, but you can tell she's enjoying the attention. She blows out the candles, eyes closed, then immediately gets up and starts cutting it into slices.

"Wait", Natasha says, grabbing the paper plates. "It's your birthday, for god's sake. Let me help."

Yelena stretches out in her lawn chair and yawns. She arrived an hour late, but she made up for it by bringing a puppy. She thinks she made up for it — in reality, only her and a handful of kids enjoy the hyperactive dog that's now chasing Lottie through the backyard.

She giggles loudly, then trips over nothing and falls into the grass face first. The puppy climbs onto her back and licks her red curls.

"No, no!" She giggles, then lets out a frustrated noise. "Mommy!"

"That's me", you mumble and stand up.

As soon as you've left, Valerie turns to Yelena. She's been carrying this little secret around for way too long now. She's itching to get it out.

"Aunt Lena", she whispers. Yelena raises her eyebrows and leans in.

"Is this a conspiracy?", she whispers back.

"No." Valerie shakes her head. "I heard mommy and mama talk. In the hallway. I think they still love each other."

Yelena freezes, her eyes locked onto the child's. Being Natasha's sister, she's usually the first to find out about stuff. She sometimes handles drop off's, whenever you're not in the mood to look at your ex-wife. But you and Natasha still loving each other? That's news.

"You mean, love-love?"

"Mama said she misses her", she adds. You return to the table, Lottie sitting on your hip, and Valerie puts a finger over her mouth. "Shh."

You sit down, oblivious, and thank Natasha when she hands you a slice of honey cake. Valerie gives Yelena a pointed look. She suppresses a grin and puts her hand over her niece's eyes.

As evening approaches, it gets colder outside. Charlotte falls asleep on your chest, Natasha scoots closer with her lawn chair. She drapes a blanket over you, and Valerie rams her elbow into Yelena's side. The blonde nearly chokes on her water.

"Blyat-"

"The kids", Natasha warns her. Yelena shoots her a glare. "What's your problem?"

Yelena grunts and sinks into her chair. You are my problem, she thinks, bitterly crossing her ankles. You and your ex-wife are. Just figure shit out.

You won't figure it out. Not for a while. But Natasha wraps her arm around your shoulders and you lean into it. Melina and Valerie both watch, one stunned and the other trying to hide the hope that's flaring up in her.

You ignore the others. You look at Natasha, who's warm and familiar despite everything that's happened, and feel her thumb rub circles against your shoulder. She hums, either not aware of what she's doing or overly confident in it.

"It's getting dark", you remark, voice hushed. She nods. "I should get the kids home. It's a one hour drive."

"Let me drive you", she whispers. You hesitate. "You said it yourself. It's dark, you're probably tired. It'll make it easier for you."

Valerie tugs at your hand. She heard every word, despite you trying to be quiet and discreet. You squeeze her hand, but don't look at her.

"I don't know, Nat."

"Come on", she says. "I don't like the idea of you and the kids being on the road this late. Let me drive you."

You hesitate again. But it's completely dark by the time you decide to leave, so you have no choice but to agree. You know you're in good hands with Natasha, so what's the harm in letting her drive you?

Valerie is half-asleep but thrilled. She tugs Natasha to the car and, despite knowing exactly how to do it, makes her buckle her in. You handle Lottie, who almost wakes up. Through some kind of miracle, she stays asleep.

You get into the passenger seat and wave at Melina and Yelena. The puppy in her arms yaps and tries to break free from her arms, but he doesn't succeed. The car drives off, and suddenly, it's just you and your sleepy kids in the back.

If you didn't know any better, you'd think it's always been like this. You, Natasha, the girls. Valerie watching like a hawk, despite her eyes being sleep-heavy. Music low and windows down just enough to let in some night air. A stuffed tiger in the middle seat, dangling from Lottie's limp hand.

There's no need for words, but there also isn't space for it. Anything you'd possibly talk about is not fit for Valerie's ears. She's still awake, so you need to be careful.

You glance at the time, which is displayed on a little screen. 9.21pm. Way past her bedtime.

"Honey", you say, looking at your daughter through the rear view mirror, "don't you want to sleep a little? Rest your eyes? It's a long drive."

"No", she says, shaking her head. "I'm not tired, mom."

"Your mom's right", Natasha says. "Take a little nap, hm?"

"No", she says stubbornly. She squeezes the hem of her dress. "I like it when it's the four of us. I don't want to sleep now."

You and Natasha glance at each other. It's quick, silent, but it's everything you need in that moment. She'd reach over and hold your hand, but again, there's a little hawk sitting in the back.

"Yeah", she says, voice softer. "I like it, too."

You don't know what to say. You can't afford to start missing this life that you never got to have, so you turn your head away from her. The fields and houses outside the window pass by in a blur.

. . .

Each of you balances a sleeping kid into the house.

Halfway through the drive, Valerie fell asleep as well. Neither of them woke up, even when Natasha pulled your car into the driveway, so you now have to deal with the unnecessarily difficult task of relocating children without waking them.

You slowly make your way up the stairs, Natasha following close behind. Lottie's limp in your arms, her mouth slightly agape. Asleep like this, you see the features she got from Natasha. You exhale and focus on not accidentally falling down the steps.

You carry Charlotte into her bedroom and tuck her in. Bedsheets with a zoo animal pattern, her little tiger plushie still clutched in her hand. You kiss her forehead, adjust the nightlight next to her, then walk out the room and leave the door ajar.

Natasha and you step into the hallway at the same time. You look at her, then quickly turn to go back downstairs. You're hoping she'll follow. That she won't stay upstairs, where it's way too close to your bedroom.

You're not sure what you'd do if she asked. If you'd say yes, if you'd allow yourself to bask in a fantasy that can only end in being hurt all over again. A fantasy, doomed to end eventually.

Thankfully, you hear her footsteps behind you. You walk into the kitchen and grab a glass of water. Natasha leans against the counter.

"They didn't wake up."

"No", you say, taking a sip. "They usually do."

"Yeah." She nods. "I know."

It's awkward, because you're both forcing yourselves to talk about something you don't want to talk about. But it's the safer option — always has been — so it's what you're going for.

You clear your throat and put the glass aside. Natasha watches you, contemplating, her arms crossed. Eyes meet, heads tilt, and she smiles faintly.

"Tired?"

"I'm fine", you say, pushing off the counter and walking into the living room. Natasha hesitates, then follows. "Didn't get much done today. Sorry about the mess."

"I found a bagel in my bookshelf last week", she says, helping you gather a couple toys and throw them into a laundry basket. "This is nothing."

You both reach for a baby doll. Your hands knock together. It's nothing but a brief touch, but you falter and look at her. You're crouched on the floor, so close you could kiss if only you leaned in a little.

You don't know if you should. Irina is lingering at the back of your mind, with that stupid skirt and the flawless, well rested-looking face. But Natasha's staring back at you, unmoving, and her eyes flicker to your lips.

That's when you quickly straighten up and grab the laundry basket. You hold it in front of you like a shield.

"It's late", you say, shifting awkwardly. "I'll call you a taxi, if you want. I don't know if there are any buses this late."

The disappointment is etched into her face, but so is a subtle sense of relief. Natasha is sure that her and Irina aren't that serious yet. There are no real labels (though, she did hear Irina refer to her as 'her girlfriend' before), and she doesn't want to put a label on it.

However, she cheated once already. She can't do it again, at least not if there's nothing more attached to it. Unless it promises her the future she thinks she's lost, she won't do it.

"Taxi's fine", she says, tucking her hands into the pockets of her pants. "You'll drop off the kids tomorrow?"

"Yeah." You nod, then remember something. Good thing you didn't forget thanks to the almost-kiss. "They're going to their cousin's birthday party next Saturday, if that's alright with you. It's a sleepover. I'll text you the address?"

"No, no." Natasha shakes her head. "Gracie, right? We've been there before."

"Mhm." You hum and lead her to the front door. "I got her a gift, all you'll have to do is make sure the girls bring it."

"Will do, captain."

You smile and lean against the doorway. The door is open, Natasha is standing on the porch. The wind is making loose strands of her hair flutter. Green eyes twinkle in the porch light, and a calloused hand squeezes your arm.

You recall hundreds of moments just like this one — late at night, Natasha coming home from a shift or leaving for one. Handing her a lunchbox, kissing her goodbye; or getting a 'I'm home'-kiss. Kisses that stopped, eventually. Nobody warned you that you'd have to go without them one day.

It's hard, not leaning in and trying to revive that little habit you had. Natasha has to keep herself from stepping over the threshold again. It wouldn't be fair, not to you or Irina. But there's a part of her that doesn't care whether it's fair to the blonde who can't be bothered to learn her daughters' names.

She doesn't know whether you'd want that kiss, so she finds a compromise. Her lips press against your cheek, quick and soft, and she pulls away. Your face burns up, you almost reach out, but she's already making her way to the gate.

"Taxi", you call, dumbfounded.

"I got it", she calls back. "Go inside. It's cold out."

"You don't have a jacket!"

Natasha taps her index finger against her lips, then she smirks and steps out of the front yard. She closes the gate, pulls out her phone, and gone she is.

You linger for two minutes. Pretending this is just another night — you waiting on the porch, dinner warming up on the stove, Natasha returning from a late shift — is the stupidest thing you could do in that moment, but you do it anyway.

The wind chime above you tinkles, and you look up. Another apology, back when she forgot to do something mundane. You stare at the shapes, all of them custom and dedicated to each member of what was once her family. A psi for you, a soccer ball for Valerie, a tiger for Charlotte. Natasha's, a fire helmet, dangles just a bit lower.

Despite everything, this is her family.

. . .

It's Natasha's idea that you go pick up the girls together. At first, you hesitate; it's not just that you'll be alone with her for a longer drive, but because this Sunday is hers. It's her time with the kids.

Your sister, however, texts you that Lottie's been whining and asking for you all morning. To help Natasha avoid having to deal with a cranky toddler, you agree.

She pulls up twenty minutes late. You're waiting by the front door already, dressed in a white shirt and short denim dungarees. Sunglasses are perched atop your head, and you immediately look up from your phone when you hear her.

"You're late!", you call, making a beeline for her pickup truck.

"Sorry", she says, leaning over the open the passenger door for you. "Look at you, all dolled up."

"Look at you, not even changing out of your pajamas."

Natasha grins. She's not too offended — she knows she looks anything but put-together, wearing shorts and an undershirt.

"It's warm out. Can't blame me."

You hum, agreeing, and sink into the seat. "A/C works again?"

"Fixed it last week", she says absently, turning down the volume of the radio a little. "Lottie helped me. She grabbed a wrench and added a nice dent to the door panel in the back."

You grimace apologetically. A song comes on, one you both can't stand as it brings back memories of alcohol, a party at the fire station, and vomiting into shrubs. When she kissed you on the hood of her truck and thought she could impress you with vodka shots. When she got drunk and told you she could see this being forever.

You reach out to change the station, then you stop in your tracks.

What you noticed is not worth mentioning, really. It should mean nothing. In that moment, it feels like a little stab.

"Don't like the 'new car' smell anymore?"

"What?" Natasha glances at the air freshener. "Oh, that. No, just thought I'd try this one."

"What was wrong with the other one?", you ask, sounding snippy.

For as long as you've known her, she used the 'new car' air freshener. Always. Whenever you'd stop at a gas station to buy a new one, she'd get that one. Obviously, it shouldn't be that important. For some reason, it is.

"Nothing's wrong with it", she says, glancing at you. "What's the issue?"

"Thought you'd at least be loyal to a fucking scent."

Natasha stammers. She glances at you from the corner of her eye a few times, her hand nervously tightening around the steering wheel. She's dumbfounded. She expected you to say a lot of things, but not that.

"It's- it's just a scent", she says weakly. "It doesn't have some deeper meaning."

"You're sure?", you hiss.

"Yes, I'm sure! God, you're going all therapist-mode again!"

You raise your eyebrows at her, and she winces slightly. That was the wrong thing to say. She regrets even thinking those words now.

"This has nothing to do with that! Ask any sane person, suddenly switching scents after years of having a favorite is not normal!"

"It's just a scent."

"It's not!"

"It is", she insists, suddenly grabbing the air freshener. You shut up and watch her tear it off, then she tosses it out the window.

Just like that, it's gone. You don't even hear it hit the ground. You stare at her, then shake your head and slump into the seat again. You hear her exhale, quietly but filled with so much frustration you swear she's about to have an aneurysm.

You cross your arms and shift in your seat. Natasha doesn't say anything. She keeps driving, the car passing by a gas station and some convenience store.

"That's not good for the environment, you know", you mutter, stubbornly refusing to look at her.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Y/N!"

"You saw that documentary!"

Natasha rolls her eyes, but doesn't reply. Of course she saw the documentary. You randomly sent it to her one morning, with a text attached to it — use metal straws. That was it. Nothing else.

She watched the documentary, of course. And of course she bought those stupid metal straws you told her about.

The silence lingers, heavy like the clouds hanging in the sky. They're dark and thick, and before you can even think about the incoming weather situation, it begins to rain.

Raindrops patter against the windshield and roof, constant and rhythmic and loud. You hope it won't be that bad — just a couple raindrops. A drizzle, maybe. Nothing so bad that it'll affect you.

It's not just a light drizzle, no. It starts bucketing down on you, rain pouring and the sky darkening. It begins thundering in the distance, then lightning strikes. Despite the air conditioning being on, you feel the air in the car get chillier.

"We'll be fine", Natasha mumbles when you glance at her. "Just a storm. I've driven during worse conditions."

It gets worse. On top of rain and thunder and lightning, the car makes a whining noise when it accelerates. The radio flickers, the headlights weaken, and you give her another worried glance.

"That's nothing", she says, but you don't miss the slight frown on her face.

"Nat, we're already running late!"

The car wheezes pathetically, then it slows down. Natasha curses and hits the steering wheel a couple times, but it's no use. It breaks down in the middle of the road, and she just barely manages to pull over.

"Are you kidding me?"

"Wait", she says, stressed, and gets out of the truck.

Within seconds of being outside in the rain, her clothes get soaked. She ignores the uncomfortable feeling of wet fabric sticking to her skin and pops open the hood. You stay where you are. She can get wet all she wants, but you're not moving. No way.

Something clatters, then you hear her curse. She stomps back to the driver's side and gets in.

"So?", you ask impatiently.

"The alternator's dead", she mutters, reaching for her phone. "I'll have to call AAA."

You stare at her, then exhale slowly. No need to start a fight — but your blood is boiling. All it took was one air refresher, and your day is ruined. Pair that with a storm and a truck that's broken down in the middle of the road, and it can't end well for Natasha.

"The kids are waiting!"

"And the truck broke down", she replies, pressing a button and holding the phone to her ear.

When she's done talking, she lowers it. The silence tells you everything you need to know. It'll be a long wait, possibly around an hour. That was the case a couple years ago, when you were on your way to your parents' place for the holidays.

"Idiot!", you hiss. "Did you know about this?"

"Well, it was acting up last week", she says, rubbing her face. "I thought I tightened the belt enough. It should've held."

"You thought? Nat, we're stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere! The kids are waiting!"

"I know that!"

"No, you don't!", you snap. Tears shoot into your eyes, and you're not fully sure why. "You can't do this anymore, Natasha! You can't pretend everything's alright and then be surprised when it all goes up in flames! Actually take care of shit for once! Be responsible!"

"I'm trying!", she retorts. She's a mess — water is dripping from her hair, her clothes are drenched (as is the car seat), and she's panicking. Another fight. Everything's been going somewhat well, and now you're about to get into another fight. "You think I wanted this to happen?"

This wasn't supposed to happen. Those are the words Natasha said on the phone three years ago, right before she told you she'd slept with Wendy. It's funny, how the human brain pushes some information aside and yet retains things you'd love to be able to forget.

You didn't forget, though. You stare at her, teary-eyed and furious, then open the car door and jump out. Natasha stares at you as you leave, the raindrops heavy on your skin. It takes her a second to register what's going on.

"Shit! Y/N, wait!" She accidentally hits her hand trying to open the door, then she storms out. "Wait, please!"

"Fuck you!"

"Y/N", she pleads. She's a firefighter, and she's faster. She reaches you within a matter of seconds. "Please."

You whip around. Loose strands of hair are sticking to your cheeks, and your eyes are red. She can't see the tears due to the rain, but she can't tell you're crying.

"Why'd you cheat?"

She blinks, her heart sinking. She never figured the 'why' out, either. There was never a reason, or an explanation, for what she did. It was cowardice, and idiocy, and selfishness all poured into what'd end up being the worst mistake of her life.

"Tell me!", you sob. "Come on! Don't just stand there!"

"Because I was an idiot", she says, finally able to speak again. She steps closer. "Because...I..."

You shake your head. The rain keeps pouring, and it thunders again. It's a furious sound, sizzling and crashing, and it sends lightning zipping across the sky.

"You don't even have an answer", you say. "Was it worth it? Destroying everything and not even knowing why?"

"It was a mistake, Y/N", she says, her voice breaking. "I told you."

"No." You laugh bitterly. "I hate that word. It wasn't a mistake. It was a choice. You chose to do it."

Natasha doesn't say anything because it's true. You're right, unfortunately, and it's painful to admit. Spilling juice, losing a key, forgetting about an appointment — those are all mistakes. They're forgivable, human. But cheating is not.

"I regret it every fucking day", she says quietly. Another step closer. "I miss you constantly. I don't just miss our family, but I miss you. I married you for a reason, Y/N. That day you almost burnt down your apartment for crème brûlée? I mark that date in my calendar every year, and I buy crème brûlée because god knows I'd end up burning down my kitchen as well, but I buy it because it's the reason why I got to marry you."

The crème brûlée. What started as a poor attempt at making a French dessert ended in you meeting and marrying this woman in front of you. Rain-soaked, stupid, but you love every tiny part about her. Even the ones that ended up hurting you.

Believing someone who cheated, however, is hard. Love doesn't change that.

"Bullshit", you whisper.

"It's not bullshit", she pleads. "I've loved you for over 12 years, and that's not something that's going to change. I love you."

"Natasha." You let out a soft sob. "You slept with someone else. That's final. Do you know how much it hurt me? It still hurts. Every day. God, Vee and Lottie both look like you, and sometimes it hurts to look at them!"

Natasha swallows. Tears fill her eyes, but she blinks them away. Emotionally avoidant — that's how you once described her as to Valerie. In hindsight, you shouldn't have. But you were tired and sick of her, and in that moment, you needed someone to vent to. Though there are certainly better options for that than your child.

That doesn't change the fact that you were right, though. Your ex-wife was never good at communicating. She doesn't like to show her feelings. Even now, tears are something she needs to suppress.

"I know", she mumbles. The storm is so loud you can barely hear her. "I'm sorry."

"I love you too", you say. Your voice shakes. "I don't think I can change that."

She blinks and nods. You shiver pitifully, and Natasha reaches out. You want to back away, but then her hands touch your arms, and you're pulled in. She feels warm against you despite the cold rain, and she feels solid.

Way too much of you relies on the woman who's holding you. Despite the divorce, and the fights, you can't imagine existing without her at this point. It's your biggest weakness.

You look up, jaw set. You shiver again. She smiles, eyes glassy with tears, and you tip your head back a little. She's taller than you, and what you're doing is instinct. It makes it easier for her to kiss you.

It's been years, and yet, the feeling of her lips moving against yours is as familiar as breathing. You get on your tiptoes and cup her face to keep her close. Bodies pressed together, you nod your head and deepen the kiss.

She tastes like tears and rain and that gum she always buys. Her hands run down your sides, squeezing and roaming, and she keeps pulling you closer like you aren't already intertwined.

You wrap your arms around her neck. Natasha hums quietly, her hands on your thighs, then hoists you up. You pull away.

"What are you doing?", you ask, out of breath. She's already walking back to the truck.

"You're shivering", she says. "I got a blanket in the back."

"Oh."

With the door open, you slide into the backseat. You tug Natasha in with you, and she doesn't resist. As soon as she's sitting, you're swinging one leg over her lap. She feels a twitch inside her shorts, a familiar one, and shifts.

"It's fine", you mumble, pressing your lips to her jaw. She exhales quietly. "I know what I'm doing."

"You're sure? We haven't..." She trails off. You close your eyes.

You haven't slept together in over three years now. Not long before you got pregnant with Lottie, sex turned rare and lost what it once overflowed with. It was hollow and lacked passion. But if you try hard enough, maybe you'll be able to pretend that never happened. That sex is still the same as it was. That you still know each other's bodies by heart.

Even if it's just to distract yourself for a short while.

"If you don't want to, we don't have to. Obviously."

"No, that's not..." Natasha laughs nervously. "I'm not going to last long, love."

"That's what you're worried about?"

She shakes her head, then kisses you. Her hands move upwards, undo the straps of your dungarees, take them off. You feel the bulge in her shorts, straining against the fabric, and help her out of it.

You straddle her again and sink down onto her. Neither of you are worried about using protection in this moment. You're too fixated on the feeling of her inside of you.

The rain keeps pattering against the windows, which are now fogging up on the inside. Her hands are holding onto your waist like it's a lifeline. The backseats creak softly, you grip the backrest, and everything around you stops mattering.

She lets out a quiet curse when you clench around her. You bury your face in her neck and smell rain and cologne.

"I mean it. I love you."

"I know", you moan. Her hips thrust off the seat.

"I want to fix this. I want to fix us."

You hum vaguely, but it shifts into a soft whine. "You're really picking your moment here, Nat."

"Sorry", she gasps. Her forehead is presses against your shoulder. "But I mean it."

"I know", you repeat, nodding and biting back moans. A shiver rolls up your spine, and heat pools in your lower belly. "Just...wait a minute."

"Right."

Her hips roll up against yours, and the orgasm washes over you like the rain earlier. You shudder and slump into her. She kisses your neck and you feel something warm drip down your thighs.

The windows are fully fogged up by now. It smells like sex and rain, and you close your eyes to soak it in. Her heart beats against yours, steady and rapid, and you feel like you got tossed back into the past.

. . .

The girls ask no questions when you pick them up, but you've never seen Valerie look this excited.

She jumps into the car, clutching her duffel bag like an oversized teddy, and gives you a toothy grin. It should relieve you that she's happy about this — in reality, it freaks you out.

There were no promises made. Nothing's certain. For all you know, you're playing house instead of trying to become an actual family again.

Thankfully, Lottie distracts all of you. She's cranky from a sleepless night, so she's fussing and complaining about everything. The fruit pouch you hand her is squeezed to death like that apple juice pack a couple weeks ago, and her stuffed tiger ends up flying through the truck and hitting Natasha in the head.

To try and bribe her into calming down a little, you grab ice cream at a fast food drive in. It offers you three minutes of peace, then it's smushed against the window. More tears come, little feet kick against the seat, and Natasha and you decide going home is probably your safest bet.

Natasha parks her truck in front of your house. You unbuckle, then give her a hesitant look. Just sex — except it wasn't. Not when there's so much history tied to it. It's tied to everything you do.

"I'll help you", she finally offers. You exhale, thankful she broke the silence. "I just gotta wipe the window."

"Sure. I'll get the kids."

You get out of the truck and gather the girls. One in your arm, the other holding your hand, and go inside. Natasha follows minutes later and drops off their duffel bags.

The moment she steps over the threshold, you silently agree on something neither of you says out loud. She doesn't consider leaving, and you don't consider asking her to. Instead, you move around in the house like this is how it's supposed to be.

(And maybe it is.)

Lottie doesn't question it. She inhales the grilled cheese Natasha makes for everyone, then drags her upstairs for nap time. Valerie stays seated at the kitchen table, legs dangling. As soon as she's alone with you, she leans in.

"Have you made up?"

You frown and put the knife aside, then dry your hands. "What? Nonsense. We weren't fighting, honey."

"You're lying", she says. She grabs the plate of apple slices you hand her and eats one. "You were. You always fight. Is mama moving in again?"

You stare at her, but she doesn't flinch. You doubt she isn't aware of the weight of what she just asked; she's been perceptive of her surroundings ever since she was a toddler. She's certainly acting like she has no clue, though.

"You're too observant", you finally say. You stand behind her and start fixing her hair. "Don't worry about me and mama, alright? You should read that book for your English class instead, bub. These are grown people-problems."

"But mom-"

"No", you reply. You use the hair tie around your wrist to put her hair into a ponytail. "I promise I'm trying my best here, alright? And so is mama. But there are some things that are just hard to deal with."

"I could help", she offers, getting up from her chair. "Please."

You furrow your eyebrows at her. Footsteps on the staircase make you pause, and you both peek into the hallway to see Natasha return. She looks at you.

"Lottie's asleep", she says. "Anyone want to watch a movie?"

Apparently, trying to distract Valerie from anything only works if you're Natasha. Even if just for tonight, she lets go of the topic. Instead, she curls up between you on the couch and stares at the tv screen like it's offering her the entertainment of a lifetime.

An hour later, Lottie joins. You finish watching the movie and put on some cartoon. You make dinner — stir fry; Natasha wants to both kiss you and sob her eyes out —, and then go outside. The rain has stopped a while ago, but the slide is still slippery, so Lottie almost zooms into the shrubs.

When it's bedtime, you get the kids ready together. You tuck them in, kiss foreheads, turn on nightlights and search for specific stuffies. Once everyone is happy, you meet in the hallway and go downstairs.

Again, there's not much talking involved. You don't have to say it out loud to agree on it. You get the couch ready like it's second nature — pillows, blankets, a change of clothes — and linger by the door when she sits down.

"Just for tonight, right?", she says, slowly unfolding the blanket. You shrug.

"I'm not going to answer that."

Natasha shoots you a faint smile, then sits down. "This is like that night where you kicked me out of bed."

"It's not the same at all", you argue. "Get some sleep, alright?"

She looks up and hums quietly. Join me — she doesn't say those words out loud, but she certainly thinks them. You, however, turn around and head up the stairs. Something rustles in the living room.

You're not ready to commit, or to pretend nothing ever happened. You can't go back to normal. But you can't bring yourself to let her go, either. All you can do is survive the moment and pray you don't fall apart in the morning.

By the time the sun comes up, three warm bodies will have joined Natasha on the couch.

2am. Valerie wakes up, thirsty, so she pads into the kitchen and fills up her water bottle. When she walks past the living room, she stops. Her mom's on the couch, asleep and snoring. She hasn't slept here in forever. Valerie hesitates, then curls up next to her.

4am. Charlotte wakes up. She carefully makes her way down the steps, her hand gripping the metal rods of the railing. She sees that the couch isn't empty and sleepily climbs on top of Natasha. She's knocked out within seconds.

5am. Something rips you from your sleep, so you get up and go downstairs to get started on breakfast. But you see all three of them on the couch — Natasha, on her back; Lottie, on top of her; Valerie, tucked between her side and the backrest of the couch. You pause and blink, eyes still heavy with sleep.

Walking up to them is not an active decision, and neither is laying down next to the woman who was once your wife. At least that's what you tell yourself, because it's been years since you were able to fall asleep this quickly.

When Natasha wakes up, all three of her girls have joined her on the couch.

You stir as well. As soon as you register where you are and what happened, you freeze.

Last night wasn't a dream. You didn't make it up. You were stupid enough to have sex with her, take her home, let her sleep over. Now, you're all entangled on the couch, and you have to deal with the aftermath.

The domestic peace you feel is the same thing you felt years ago. Back when everything was safe, when you trusted it. You were naive. You now know what it's like to have that feeling be taken from you, and having it taken away a second time will only hurt more.

Lottie and Valerie wake up at the same time, and you scramble up and excuse yourself. As soon as you've closed the bathroom door behind you, you sit down on the closed toilet lid. You feel the tears well up and roll down your cheeks. You cry quietly, hand over your mouth to stifle any possible noise.

Then, it knocks. You freeze and don't reply.

"Y/N?" That's Natasha's voice, soft and cautious. "You alright?"

"I'm good", you lie, ripping off some toilet paper to wipe your face. "Something happen?"

"Valerie's going to be late for school. It's almost 8am, which means she needs to be there in five minutes. I'm not good at maths, but I feel like that's kinda hard to do."

"Get her dressed", you say, getting up. You open the door and Natasha falters. "Grab a few snacks, she can eat those in the car."

"Are you-"

"Give her some lunch money too", you cut her off. You walk past her and scoop up Lottie, who's about to fall asleep again on the floor. "I'll pick her up later."

Natasha stays rooted in place. She looks helpless and confused; a little regretful too, maybe. You're gone already, having disappeared upstairs with a sleepy Charlotte in your arms.

She wants to follow you and apologize. She wants to talk about this. But Valerie runs to the front door, dressed and ready to leave, and she has no choice but to go.

. . .

Three days later, you find a jewelry box on your porch.

It just appeared there. No warning, no note, no quick text from the woman who made it for you. Another apology, disguised in wood and nails and painted white. You pick it up, flip it, inspect every inch of it.

Then, you open the lid. Between the little cushions she put in one of the compartments is a ring.

You know which one. It's the one she proposed with over a decade ago. It's the same width, the same diamond cut, the same design. It glistens in the sun, and you slam the box shut.

"What's that?", the woman behind you asks. You turn around and see Maria leaning against the doorframe. "Oh no. Don't tell me..."

"Yeah."

"She still does that?"

You gesture at the shoe rack next to the front door. "This thing's from, like, half a year ago."

Maria snorts into her coffee cup. She steps closer. Without even glancing at you, she pops open the jewelry box and pauses. "Dear god. Has she lost it?"

You give her a tired look. Maria is a firefighter as well. She works alongside Natasha, and she knows her almost as good as she knows you. She's also aware of Natasha's inability to communicate with words instead of DIY home projects.

"Guess", you mumble, shutting the box again.

"Is this her way of proposing?", she asks, following you inside. "I thought she'd be able to do at least that without a prop."

"What?" You stop in your tracks and whip around. Maria, startled, bumps into you and spills coffee. "Shit- are you insane? Why would you ask that?"

She rolls her eyes and puts the cup aside, then tugs at her shirt. It's stained with lukewarm coffee, and the fabric is sticking to her skin.

"Gee, I don't know. The engagement ring she gave you, maybe?"

You give her a stunned stare. "That's not- no. That's not what this is. I mean, that'd be..."

"Crazy? Insane? Completely bananas?" She shrugs and walks into the kitchen to grab a towel. You follow her. "Amen, sister. But it's kinda what it looks like."

You put your hand against your head and lean against the wall. Maria dabs at the stain and sighs.

"She's not proposing", you say. You're not sure if you genuinely believe that or whether you're trying to make yourself believe it. "I mean, she's with Irina."

"No, she isn't."

Your hand drops to your side. You wait for Maria to continue and explain — she can't just drop a bomb like this one and then not elaborate, after all. But she just frowns and rubs at the persistent stain on her shirt.

"What do you mean, she isn't?"

Maria looks up. She shrugs. "She had sex with you, didn't she?"

"Yeah, well." You laugh bitterly. "She also had sex with Wendy when we were married, so there's that."

"Yes, sure, but-" She sighs and takes off her shirt, then waltzes straight into the laundry room. You're tired of her constant back-and-forth, but you follow her anyway. "But she's changed. I think. And I heard her dump someone in the bunk room. She was on the phone, it got pretty ugly."

You stop in the doorway. Maria grabs a stain remover and dabs it on her shirt, then she puts it aside. You barely register any of it.

Apparently, Natasha's made a choice. She's sabotaging (sabotaged?) her relationship because of you. It's desperation in real time, and it's quiet, and messy. But she's picking you.

And you? You're not sure if you want to be picked. Maybe not being the first choice would be better for you this time. You still can't help the fluttering feeling in your stomach. You press your hand against your lower belly.

You're confused, you're scared, but you're also tempted. Part of you wants to believe in her, and in this love that still exists between you.

"She didn't tell me", you say dumbly.

"Of course not." Maria glances at you. "Why would she? She's terrified. She's fucked up before, and she's smart enough to know she's not immune to doing it again."

"Yes, but...she didn't tell me. She didn't...I mean..."

"Breathe, honey." She gently leads you back out into the hallway. "I mean, you should probably confront her, right? Don't be too nice, either. Make her suffer."

"Maria."

"I mean it."

You give her a deadpan look. She's one of the few who know why you and Natasha got divorced, and she's been a hater ever since. She used to be friends with your ex-wife, now she barely tolerates her. Seeing them in a room together is pretty funny, but you don't need her to act like this all the time.

She smiles and shrugs on her hoodie. "She deserves it."

"Yes, but she's Natasha."

"And this is why people fuck you over."

"Alright, time for you to leave."

She laughs and walks out the door. You stay on the porch, leaning against the railing, and watch her get into her car. She winks at you.

"I think she's off-duty today", she calls.

"No."

Maria nods and starts her car. "Yes. Absolutely", she says. "I mean it."

You groan. She sounds the horn, then drives off. You're left on the porch, alone, with a ring in a box waiting inside the house for you.

There's about a hundred things you'd rather do. Vacuum the house, mow the lawn, reschedule that appointment at the optometrist you won't be able to go to. In the end, you sit down in your car and drive to the other end of town.

Straight to Natasha's cabin.

. . .

Her cabin isn't unfamiliar. Not entirely.

You've been there countless times to drop the girls off, or to grab a toy one of them forgot. You know what it looks like — the dark wood, the gray trim, the metal roof. A huge backyard, half grass and half dirt patch, and a covered porch with a worn couch. Tools everywhere, even on the staircase.

You stay in the car for a long moment, then you get out and walk up to the porch. You don't knock, don't ring the doorbell. Instead, you lift the corner of the doormat and snatch the spare key Natasha apparently forgot there.

The door creaks open, and you're hit with a smell of pinewood and cologne. Sawdust and coffee are tangled into the scent, and you exhale softly as you step in. Now it's unfamiliar.

You inspect the coat rack, weighed down by jackets and fire gear and a diaper bag. You glance at the pairs of shoes scattered around underneath it. You peek into the kitchen and spot the protein powders and beef jerky on the shelf there.

Silently, you wonder whether her breakfasts are still as ridiculous as they were when you still lived together. She used to wolf down 5 to 6 eggs every morning, and sometimes followed up with waffles and leftover steak.

You shake your head and walk further into the house. It's comfy, you have to admit. Lived-in, too. You pick up a little sock with rainbows on it and put it on the coffee table, then you keep going.

A small staircase leads you into the walkout basement. You hear the sound of someone scrubbing something, so you keep going. You push open another door and freeze.

Natasha, on the floor, crouched next to a dresser. Sanding paper in hand, she's sanding the side. As soon as the door has swung open, though, she stops.

All you can do is stare at each other. Her hair, slowly coming loose from a low bun. The grey hoodie she's wearing, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her eyes, still looking up at you in that way that never stopped making you weak.

"You let yourself in?", she asks, her voice cracking.

"Why'd you give me the ring?"

She pauses. She slowly puts the sanding paper aside, then she wipes her hands on her sweatpants before getting up. You swallow, the jewelry box firmly clutched in your hands.

This is what you wanted. An answer. Watching her squirm, hesitate. Letting her feel what it's like to drown for a moment. You didn't come up for air for much longer, after all. Grief, motherhood, betrayal — crushing your lungs and pulling you under the surface. It's her turn.

"I don't know", she then says. You shake your head, but she lifts her hand. Her expression is pleading. "I wanted you to know I still had it. I didn't know how else to...you know."

"No", you say, both sharply and weakly. "I don't know. You think you can just drop this off and fix it all? I've told you that you building shit doesn't repair anything, Natasha."

"Yeah", she mumbles.

"And neither does this ring. I don't want it. Not like this."

She nods and steps closer. You willingly hand her the box when she reaches for it, and you watch her open it and pull out the ring. It gives you flashbacks to that night in your bed, when she was lying on her side with the ring between her fingers. She'd dumped rose petals all over the room, bed included.

It was right after sex when she revealed the ring. You were both flushed and out of breath. Back then, you swore you'd never be able to fall in love like this again. As of right now, you were correct.

"I'm not proposing", she says. She keeps the ring in her fist, careful to not drop it. "Honestly? I don't know what I'm doing. I haven't known for a while. But I need to fix this, Y/N. I need to fix us."

You shake your head. "No, Nat. You-"

"Wait", she begs. "I keep thinking about it. About the way you looked at me that night. Like I was the best thing you'd ever seen. And-"

"Natasha-"

"And I want to be that again", she finishes. You rub your eyes. "I'm not supposed to burn stuff down, you know. My job is to put fires out. But I burnt us down. And now it's my job to undo the damage."

"This is not the same as burning down a house", you say. "I'd prefer that, honestly. We'd just build a new one. But you can't do that with a marriage."

Natasha's running out of moves. She's sitting in this grief, letting it encompass her. It's like a heavy weight, one she hasn't been able to shake in three years. But she needs to keep trying, even if it costs her what little dignity she has left.

She steps closer, again. You stay rooted in place, which is both relieving and saddening. Not that long ago, she couldn't have imagined that she'd ever fear you not wanting her close. But you're still here, still in front of her, and she's not only running out of moves — she's running out of time as well.

Her eyes search yours. You avert your gaze when it becomes too much.

"Please", she says. "Just tell me what to do."

"I don't know", you say, looking at her again. Sawdust on her hoodie, her eyes filled with quiet desperation. "I can't do this if you're not sure. And even then, I..."

"No. Don't."

"Can it even work?"

"Yes. It can."

You chew on your lip and glance at the floor. More sawdust. A hammer. A stack of sanding paper in various grits. A bottle of water, and a shaker filled with some protein shake.

"You cheated", you say slowly. You're hyper aware that you're starting to sound like a broken record, but you can't help it. Natasha winces. "You slept with someone else. How do you make anything work after doing that?"

Unfortunately, she has no idea. Love and relationships don't come with usage manuals or instructions. You can either try to figure it out yourself or wing everything and pray it'll be okay.

She did try. Then, she screwed up. She struck the match, burnt it down, and now, you're standing between ambers and ash. You're breathing in the smoke in a desperate attempt to clean the air, but there's only two of you, and without opening a window, you'll die before you succeed.

There's only one solution left. Tear down the walls and let the smoke escape before it suffocates you.

"I can't undo what I did", she says. "I know apologizing isn't enough. It will never be. But I know I love you, and I'll keep working on myself, and I'll make sure that you'll never doubt me again."

You stare at her, hesitating. "Nat."

"I'm serious, Y/N. So serious." She exhales, her breath shaky. "Let me prove it to you. Give me a year. A test phase. You can back out at any point. You can always end it. But give me one chance. Just one. I'm not asking for anything else."

"And then?", you probe. "I don't trust you anymore. Not like I used to. What if I also don't trust you in a year?"

"That's okay", she promises. She cups your face, the ring stuck between her fingers and pressing against your cheek. "I'm not asking for anything else. I want you and the girls back. Just give me a shot at trying."

This is so her that you almost smile. Laying out blueprints, strategizing, framing it like something practical. Turning your relationship into a deal. But somehow, she's managed to make it raw and hopeful.

At the end of your life, you don't regret what you did — you regret what you didn't do. The 'what if' hurts the most. The knowledge that something could've been, if only there'd been more courage. If only you'd been braver. If you'd taken that leap instead of walking away.

Your marriage has always been centered around fire. It's the reason why you met. It's what Natasha deals with every day. It burned your marriage to the ground, even if not literally.

You feel it all over her, too. In her hands, which are calloused and strong. Her eyes blaze with it. Whenever you'd kiss her, you felt it. She's the human equivalent to fire. She's messy and unpredictable, she can cause disastrous amounts of damage. But when it comes down to it, she's there to warm you up.

Fire meant safety. Early humans used it as a source of light and protection.

It turns out that, even millions of years later, some things don't change.

You nod, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. Your eyes are burning.

"Don't disappoint the girls", you mumble. "Not again. Because I'll kill you, Romanoff. I swear."

Natasha lets out a breath. Her eyes glass over, her fingers shake against your cheek. You ended it with a threat, and truthfully, she deserves it. She'll have to fight for every scrap of softness now, but that's okay. It's worth it.

"I won't", she promises. "You know they're in good hands."

"Not the point."

"I know." She brushes her thumb over your lip. You move your head so her hand drops from your face, then you lean in and kiss her.

It's not a big deal. Just a quick brush of lips, lasting a mere second. It shoots adrenaline through her entire body and her heart begins to race. You pull away and reach up to remove some sawdust from her hoodie.

You stay silent for a moment as you study her. She doesn't say anything either, just stands there and admires you like the idiot she is. Finally, you pull away, but not without snatching the ring from her.

"I'll hide this", you say, walking up the stairs. She raises her eyebrows.

"Okay...?"

"You're not proposing unless I allow you to."

"Oh, uh- alright."

"It better be. Now get a move on, we need to pick up the girls."

She stares for another second, then she hurries up to follow you outside.

. . .

Picking the kids up together once was fine. Doing it a second time, though, left Valerie bouncing on the spot like she's a battery operated toy.

She's smart. She knew. All it took was seeing you and Natasha, waiting by your car. There was less distance between you this time. She'd touched your arm, hesitantly, and you'd opted for a faint smile.

Something'd changed. Which, for once, was a good thing.

Months have passed, and it's turned into more of a routine. You pick Charlotte up together, with Valerie waiting in the car already. The second she's in front of you, she lifts her arms at Natasha.

"Up?", she asks. Her voice is grouchy in that tired toddler-way.

"Sure, bub", she says, scooping her up. Natasha's always held babies like they're made of gold. It doesn't matter if said baby is three weeks or three years old. "Let's get you home."

"We're going to mama's place tonight", you inform them. Valerie tilts her head. "Sounds good?"

"You're not mad anymore?"

Natasha and you had a little argument last night, but it really was little. And, to be fair, it was mostly your fault. There's no need to start yelling over a roll of toilet paper.

You buckle up and look at your daughter through the mirror. Way too perceptive. That won't change. You love that about her, though, even if it sometimes drives you up the wall.

"Who said that?", you ask, smiling.

Natasha sits down and starts the car. She glances at you, then forces herself to keep her eyes on the road. "You got homework, bub?"

"Answer the question", she drawls. "Are you still mad?"

You get a pointed look from Natasha. You roll your eyes and push your hand against her cheek, making her laugh quietly.

"No", you say. "Not mad anymore. Sorry for the fight, honey."

"We didn't think you'd hear", Natasha adds. She takes a left turn and drums her fingers against the steering wheel. "You were supposed to be asleep."

"I don't care. You can't fight even when I'm sleeping."

"You're not the boss", Lottie says, throwing a LEGO figure at her sister. Valerie retaliates by grabbing her stuffed tiger and whacking it over her head. The next thing you hear is screeching and whining.

Exasperated, you turn around and intervene. "No, absolutely not. If we can't fight, then neither can you."

"She hit me!", Lottie cries out.

"She threw a LEGO at me!"

"Stop fighting and I'm getting you nuggets for lunch", Natasha mutters.

You want to intervene — don't bribe the kids into behaving, this can't end well, etc. — but then you remember that she's been doing this without you every other week for three full years. So far, nothing bad has resulted from it.

You slump into your seat when they immediately stop bickering. Natasha doesn't say anything, but she puts her hand around yours and squeezes gently.

At home, she grabs both kids and carries them into the cabin. One on her shoulders, the other in her arms, she slows down and turns around. You're close behind, holding their backpacks and the takeout paper bag.

You meet her halfway. There's a second of silence, of you just staring at each other, then you get on your tiptoes and kiss her. It takes her by surprise, for some reason, and you can't blame her.

You pull away first, and Valerie gives you a mildly disgusted look. She's been hoping for this for years, but she doesn't need to see you kiss.

"Can you not?"

Natasha shoots you a smile. You put your hand on her shoulder and turn her toward the cabin again. It's a spring afternoon, the sun is warm and the grass is covered in hundreds of little flowers. On the porch, Natasha left a half-finished bookshelf for Lottie's room.

As soon as you're inside, you wash your hands and dish out the food. You allow the girls to eat lunch in front of the tv for once, and they happily agree to find something to watch without fighting.

Then, it's just you and Natasha left in the kitchen. She's leaning against the counter, her hand twisting the top part of a water bottle. You can feel her watching you as you empty out the takeout bag and put the food on two plates.

"Want to share the onion rings?", she asks, pushing off the counter and walking up to you.

"You'll make me share my fries if we do, won't you."

"You know me too well", she mumbles. She wraps her arms around you and kisses your temple. "I'll let you have a sip of my beer."

She does. You end up on the porch together, sitting on the floor like teenagers. You stretch out your legs and she pulls them into her lap. You bring the beer bottle to your mouth and tip back your head. It's still cold, fizzy, tasting like the early days of your relationship.

You pass the bottle back to her, and she finishes what's left in it.

"Bookshelf looks nice", you comment. "Looks like a little house. Lottie will love it."

"I'll paint rainbows on it, too", she says. Her hand runs up and down your calf absentmindedly. "She asked for a bed with a slide, you know."

All you say is 'no', quickly and without hesitation. Natasha grins.

"I already told her no, don't worry. Not after the soap incident."

You hum, agreeing. Back at your house, Charlotte had dumped a small bucket of soapy water onto the slide and then slid down. Needless to say that didn't end well. You're still haunted by the blood coming out of nose.

"She laughed", you mutter, rubbing your temple. "She sat there and laughed. That's all you, you know."

"Sorry."

"Well, you better be. If she ends up wanting to be a firefighter, I'm suing."

"Maybe she ends up wanting to be like you", Natasha says. "I wouldn't mind that, you know."

You nudge her shoulder with yours. She sets her plate aside and wraps her arm around you.

Fire burns and destroys. It leaves behind ambers and smoke, soot and ash. The landscape looks scorched, your marriage was a wreckage. Things looked dead. But ash is fertile, and though you're marked, you're still here.

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

🌙 tagged (as per request): @scarletsstarlet @jassgunner @marvelwomen-simp @fairyfandomwhore @womenarehotsstuff @twentyonetornmyheart

[ninikrumbs]

what gave it away?

Satoru gojo x dense reader. fluff.

Satoru Gojo, the strongest, the honored one. The world practically shifted on its axis the moment he was born. Curses feared him, fellow sorcerers respected him, and women swoon at the mere sight of him. He is indispensable in the battle field and the head of one of the three prominent families in the Jujutsu World meaning he was rich beyond his means. Yet to your bewilderment, here he was, standing in your little kitchen, cooking an omelet for you, with fresh coffee ready in the pot. The morning light made his snowy hair look radiant, his eyes glowing, and a small smile decorating his lips. He looked absolutely ethereal.

A hand on the hip of his luxury pants, another on your cute pastel pink spatula, eyes so focused on his task before he saw you eyeing him at the corner of his eyes. Instantly all his focus directed to you, a gentle smile forming on his face. And it was a type of smile that reached his eyes, nothing but pure contentment grace his beautiful features. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”

You felt something clicked in your head, but like a missing puzzle piece you didn’t even know you were looking for. Almost speechless, you mumbled a low good morning back.

“Morning.” you eye him suspiciously as you slowly sat down on the bar stool in front of your kitchen island. He did not seem to notice your sudden perplexities of him as you studied him intently.

"Satoru, why are you here?” you asked hesitantly, propping your hands on your chin.

He looked at you, blue eyes puzzled as he turned off the stove. “What do you mean? I vaguely remember offering to cook you breakfast yesterday. Did ya forget?”

You shake your head. “No, I meant why are you cooking breakfast for me?”

Confusion and worry graced his features as he gazed at you intently, his eyes wandering all of over your face. “Are you okay? Feeling sick?”

His hand flew to your forehead before replacing it with his own forehead. You pulled away from his close proximity, your cheeks burning before clumsily saying “That is not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

You sighed. The sight of Gojo in his teachers uniform in your kitchen was a common occurrence, but it hasn't occurred to you until now about the why. Why is he in your kitchen during the mornings, cooking you breakfast? Why is he randomly giving you flowers,cause he thought you would like them? Why would he drop a mission for you because he thought you were sick?

You always thought that Gojo's act of services were just the results of a life long friendship built on mutual respect and trust, and of course you liked to think you did care and love each other on a platonic level, but could it be something else?

The late night visits after his missions, the endless souvenirs, the unabashed physical affection. His sulky moments when you don’t give him your attention and how he always tries to make you happy. Were you really this dense?

Your head tilted to the side, pure and utter disbelief in your voice as you speak, “You’re in love with me.”

Surprise passed his features. His bright azure eyes wide, and jaw falling slightly slacked. He was silent for a moment, before giving a low chuckle. “What gave it away?”

Now, It was your turn to be taken aback. He wasn’t even trying to denying it, in fact he looked relieved like a weight was lifted off his shoulder. His lips curved into a teasing smile, but his eyes. Oh his eyes, they were full of unfiltered adoration.

“You are?” You breathed in disbelief. Did he really shower you with his love all this time without ever knowing that it was gonna be reciprocated?

He huffed a laugh before making his way to you, squeezing himself between your thighs and pressed his forehead against yours. “For a couple of years now, thought you’d never notice.”

[witchywithwhiskey]

🔪 Slasher 🔪 Choose Your Own Ending

pairing: DARK horror movie villain!bucky barnes x female reader

summary: somehow, you end up in your favorite old horror movie, and you decide to take the opportunity to fulfill one of your fantasies—you're gonna fuck the villain, bucky barnes.

warnings: 18+ content (minors do not interact!!!), dark themes and elements, typical horror movie violence (blood, murder, some gruesome descriptions), smut, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, creampie, unsafe sadist/masochist dynamic (reader is into it but there are no safe words), dry humping, knife kink, size kink, chase kink, oral sex (m receiving), rough sex, rough body play, light spanking, choking, breath play, bratting/brat taming (reader is slightly unhinged), dirty talk, degradation kink, praise kink, boot riding, dacryphilia, pet names (cottontail, baby), reader passes out during sex, possessive behavior

word count: 13.3k total (11.6k with only the dark ending; 11.9k with only the fluffy ending)

a/n: i really didn't know if i'd be able to finish this fic in time for the end of my Slasher Summer challenge because it's probably one of the most ambitious fics i've ever attempted. it's loosely inspired by the movie The Final Girls (highly recommend) but i couldn't decide how i wanted it to end, so y'all get TWO ENDINGS!! both are included here, with additional warnings down below. i worked really hard on this, so i really hope y'all enjoy!!! 😅

The last thing you remembered was the feel of fuzzy static on your tongue, fizzling through your arms and legs and making you feel like every nerve ending in your body was buzzing to life. You had a vague memory of licking something you probably shouldn’t have, but then your ears popped and you felt solid ground beneath your feet.

Staticky silence was suddenly replaced by shrill screams of excitement and the mechanical whirring of carnival rides. The rich scents of funnel cakes and popcorn and cotton candy filled your nose, making your mouth water with the desire to eat your weight in fried food.

Blinking your eyes open—not remembering when you’d closed them—you were met with the entrance to the Bakersfield Fun Fair. The big banner declaring the name of the carnival sparked a hazy recognition deep in your mind, but when you looked around, you didn’t quite recognize where you were, and you had no memory of how you’d gotten there. 

Still, something about the fairground, with its ticket booth and carnival rides and all kinds of stalls selling food or touting games to play for prizes, felt familiar. Like you’d seen it in a dream, or when you were a child the memory was a distant thing. 

Muggy summer air brushed against your skin with a soft breeze that helped to alleviate the worst of the heat, the air holding a hint of chill as the sun set on the distant horizon. It cast everything you could see, which was mainly just the carnival and the grassy field being used for a parking lot, in a golden glow. 

Finally, it occurred to you to look down at yourself, finding that you were wearing cutoff jean shorts and a plain tank top—neither of which you recognized. 

The confusion you’d held at bay suddenly overwhelmed you, making you feel as dizzy as if you’d just ridden the tilt-a-whirl, which you somehow knew was nestled somewhere in the fairgrounds. Your stomach lurched as your mind tried to make sense of where you were and how you’d gotten there. You closed your eyes and tried to think. 

As you concentrated, memories began to surface in your mind, like you were dragging them up from the depths of a deep, murky lake. 

It wasn’t summer. It was fall, you remembered, and just moments before you’d been curled up on the worn, aged rug in your grandmother’s basement. You were housesitting for her while she was on a cruise. 

You remembered closing your laptop, heaving a huge sigh of relief at finishing work for the day, then going down into the basement. You’d spent countless hours there as a teenager watching movies on the big, boxy TV set, the kind where you could feel the static if you put your hand against the screen. Your favorite movies to watch were the horror ones…

That was it! 

That was why Bakersfield and the carnival seemed so familiar. Bakersfield was the small town terrorized by the ruthless villain in your favorite horror movie, Slasher, and the final act’s killing spree took place at the town’s annual end of summer carnival. The Bakersfield Fun Fair.

And the villain was Bucky Barnes, a psychotic killer with a sadistic sense of humor and piercing blue eyes. 

You’d had a crush on him when you’d first watched Slasher as a teenager, and your attraction to him remained even well into your adult years. You’d decided to put the movie on because you’d been lonely at your grandmother’s, figuring a night with your favorite horror movie slasher would be the closest thing to a date you could get.

Once you remembered that, the rest of it came back to you. You’d been curled up on the rug in front of the TV, and your favorite scene had come on. It was the one where Bucky is cleaning a bullet wound in his shoulder—given to him by the movie’s mean girl, right before he brutally stabs her in the head—and he had his shirt off, showing the broad expanse of his muscled chest.

It hadn’t been your finest moment, but you were lonely and you got it into your head to lick the screen of the TV over Bucky’s bare chest. And then, that was it. That was all you remembered—and the feeling of static on your tongue.

Opening your eyes, you looked up at the banner again. You blinked. And blinked again. Then you pinched yourself. You didn’t wake up. 

The sign still read Bakersfield Fun Fair. But…that was impossible.

Your jaw went slack as you looked around—really looked at your surroundings.

In the time that you’d spent figuring out where you were, the sun had dipped behind the tops of the trees in the forest beyond the fairground, turning the sky pink and orange, fading into a deep cerulean. There was a ferris wheel in the distance, and the canopy top of a carousel off to the side. 

There were lines of stalls stretching in both directions beyond the entrance to the fair, some with ring toss games and others with milk bottles to be knocked over. Other stalls were selling all kinds of junk food, from cotton candy to candy apples. 

Everything looked and sounded and smelled real. You could practically taste the funnel cake on your tongue, and feel the powered sugar-covered fried dough melting in your mouth. You could clearly see the faces of all the people milling around the fair, kids breaking off with hands clasped tight around their tickets as they went running down the various rows of stalls. 

And the closer you looked, the more realized everything was dated. The clothes, the rides, the toy prizes. Everything looked like it was from the early 90s, when Slasher was made. Even your own clothes and the tennis shoes on your feet looked like they were out of the 90s. 

It was bizarre, and yet, it didn’t feel like a dream. But it had to be a dream. Right?

Spinning around in a circle, you decided that had to be the case. It was the only thing that made sense. It’s not like you could’ve been transported into the world of your favorite horror movie. Stuff like that didn’t happen; it broke all rules of physics and other science stuff you didn’t understand.

Deciding to just roll with it and enjoy your dream, you shrugged off your confusion and headed into the Bakersfield Fun Fair. While you meandered down one of the lines of stalls, you wondered if you’d see any of the characters from the movie. You wondered if you’d see Bucky. 

You almost tripped over the grass beneath your feet at the thought, your heart speeding up in your chest and beating excitedly against your rib cage as you considered the possibility of actually meeting your biggest horror movie crush. 

But your mind didn’t stop there. Oh no. You were the girl who’d decided to lick an old, staticky TV because it was the closest you thought you’d ever get to licking Bucky’s bare chest. 

Naturally, your mind took the thought of meeting him much further and you thought about fulfilling one of your most cherished fantasies. If you were in the world of Slasher, you wanted to fuck Bucky Barnes. 

Before you’d ended up at the Bakersfield Fun Fair, in some ultra-realistic dream, the closest you could’ve gotten was finding a guy who looked like Bucky Barnes and try to convince him to wear the Slasher mask while chasing you through the woods. 

But you’d found yourself in the world of your favorite horror movie—whether by way of your subconscious dreaming about it, or some breakdown of the space-time continuum—and you had the chance to fuck the actual Bucky Barnes. Giddy excitement flooded through you, and you began skipping down the line of carnival stalls, trying to remember what exactly happens in the final act of Slasher.

It probably should’ve worried you how unconcerned you were with the possibility that Bucky could kill you before you even got started trying to convince him to fuck you. But it was your dream, so what was the worst that could happen? If he killed you, you’d just wake up horny and dissatisfied, right? Then, you’d have to take care of yourself, which wasn’t any different to any other day of your life.

Nah, you were almost entirely certain you were in a dream, and because it was your dream, you wouldn’t have too much trouble getting Bucky to fuck you. You just had to find him…

As if right on cue, screams erupted from the opposite end of the fairground, and it sparked your memory. The action at the end of Slasher ramps up when Bucky storms the Bakersfield Fun Fair and the final girl, along with the remainder of her friends, try to set a trap for him. 

Trying to hid your giddy grin, you raced through the fairground, heading in the direction of the screams. Since you’d remembered the beginning of the end of the movie, you couldn’t help but think about what else happens. Bucky carves through the final girl’s friends one by one in various, gruesome ways on the carnival rides at the fair. Then, the final girl eventually traps him by crushing his arm in the gears of the carousel. 

Bucky doesn’t die, of course. He comes back in the sequel, Slasher II, and sports a metal arm that glimmers in the moonlight while he stalks the final girl around Bakersfield all over again. It’s not nearly as good as the first movie, but Bucky is still very hot, and you watched the sequel nearly as many times as the original when you were a teenager.

You were so distracted by thoughts of Bucky’s prosthetic arm, and what it would feel like to have his metal hand wrapped around your throat while he fucked you, that you didn’t realize you were suddenly alone in the fairground, and you’d made it to the Tunnel of Love ride. 

It was then that you spotted the macabre scene of the final girl’s best friend—you couldn’t remember the character’s name, it was something boring like John—with his heart ripped out of his chest and held in his limp, dead hands. His lifeless eyes stared unseeingly ahead, looking almost like a movie prop, but so, so much more real.

This particular kill was one of Slasher’s most controversial, you remembered. Half the cult fandom argued it was too on the nose, since the movie heavily implied John was in love with the movie’s final girl and never found the courage to tell her. The other half of the fandom enjoyed the tragic romance of it. 

Personally, you didn’t care much about the kills or the drama between the final girl and the other characters. You really only watched Slasher for Bucky, and only cared about the creativity of the murders when he looked particularly hot doing them. 

Your mind whirled as you stared at John’s dead body, your brain focusing on the Slasher message boards you’d trawled well into your college years, rather than trying to make sense of the horrible sight in front of you. It really, really looked like real blood soaking his clothes—and you could even smell the coppery tang of it in the air.

Instinctively, you took a step back, the grass of the fairground soft beneath your feet. The sun had slipped fully behind the trees of the forest beyond the fairground, casting long, ominous shadows over the scene. Your heart beat harder in your chest, and you took another step back, as if putting room between you and the horrific sight in front of you would somehow make it easier to reconcile.

You took one more step backward and bumped into something solid, something that you knew deep in your bones shouldn’t be there.

The smell of blood was stronger suddenly, mixing with an earthy, spicy scent that didn’t make sense for the carnival fairground. Holding your breath, you slowly looked over your shoulder and were met with the sight of a black leather-clad chest. 

Already, you knew it was him. But you dragged your eyes up and sucked in a gasp when you met the piercing blue gaze of Bucky Barnes.

His eyes were filled with a cold hatred that was so visceral, it made your stomach twist in a way that was not entirely unpleasant. Inexplicably, warmth bloomed low in your core, unfurling and reacting to the villain’s presence. Finally, you were face to face with your biggest horror movie crush, and you couldn’t help but take a moment to take all of him in.

Bucky Barnes was even bigger and more intimidating than he seemed on your TV screen, and he was more handsome too. His eyes were an electric blue, the color so bright, it seemed like it glowed from within. And his chin-length brown hair fell on either side of his face, highlighting the strong line of his brow and the intensity of his gaze.

The villain’s mouth and nose were covered by the hard plastic mask that matched the utilitarian leather jacket and combat pants he wore with thick, heavy boots. There were straps on the leather jacket that spanned his broad shoulders, and a utility belt around his trim waist where he secured the various knives and weapons he used throughout the movie.

Looking up at his face again, you realized Bucky was so much taller than you expected, standing behind you like a mountain of cold hatred, radiating danger and menace. Unfortunately for you, that only made the heat simmering in your belly burn hotter until you were squeezing your thighs together against the ache building there. 

You knew your body’s reaction to the psychotic murderer was foolish, to say the least, but there was something about the dangerous man that made your heart beat harder, and made you want to spread your legs for him. 

Glancing down to Bucky’s hand, you saw the big butcher’s knife dangling from his fingers. He hadn’t raised it yet, and when you looked back into his eyes, the villain seemed to be watching you closely, as if wondering how you were going to react to him. 

The longer you went without screaming or running away from him, the more his brows lowered over his eyes. He began to look perplexed.

That was fine, you could work with perplexed.

Carefully, as if dealing with an animal you didn’t want to spook, you turned around and set your hands gently on Bucky’s massive chest, your fingertips toying idly with the leather straps on his jacket. Holding his gaze with your own, you slid your hands up to his shoulders and pushed yourself up onto you tiptoes so you could twine your arms around his neck, as if he were your boyfriend and you were welcoming him home.

“Hi,” you murmured, your voice coming out breathy as your heart beat wildly in your chest. You fluttered your lashes at Bucky, figuring that if you didn’t treat him like a threat, he wouldn’t be. And so far, it was working.

The horror villain didn’t seem inclined to respond to your shy greeting, so you pressed yourself close to him, enjoying the feel of his hard body against your soft one. Arching your spine, you pushed your tits up in your tank top, as if offering them to him. 

You were gratified when Bucky’s gaze dropped to your lightly heaving chest, and felt his empty hand twitch against your bare thigh, like he wanted to touch you but was holding himself back. Not that you needed him to touch you to know he was enjoying the feel of you against him.

Bucky’s bulge was already digging into your lower stomach, and you suspected he’d already been hard before you’d pressed against him. But still, you were gratified when, every time you shifted against him, he twitched in his pants, his cock eagerly responding to you. 

The interest of Bucky’s cock had a smile spreading across your face, making you look like the cat who got the cream as you tipped your head back and grinned shamelessly up at the horror movie villain.

“Is that a knife in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” you purred, rocking your body against Bucky’s bulge and pressing your chest more tightly to his leather jacket. You were practically rubbing on him like a cat in heat, but you couldn’t stop yourself. It felt too good to feel his solid, sturdy form against you.

As you shifted closer, you could feel the tackiness of blood on your arms and chest, and when you glanced down, you saw that some had stuck to you from Bucky’s jacket. It was odd to see the blood on your skin, but it felt like another reminder of what you were doing—and, especially, who you were doing it with. 

Fire was blazing through your veins as you cast your hooded eyes on Bucky’s face, your mouth going soft as you met his piercing gaze. There was a cold flame in the depths of his blue eyes, one you’d never seen in all the times you’d watched Slasher, and it filled you with pride to realize Bucky liked having you pressed against him. 

In response to your question, which you’d almost forgotten in the seconds after it passed your lips, Bucky huffed a laugh behind his mask. Then his hands were on your ass, and he was grabbing your soft flesh with an unyielding grip. He hiked you up higher against his chest, using his inhuman strength, and your legs fell open instinctively, so his thick bulge dug into the juncture of your thighs. 

A wanton moan fell from your lips, your head falling back as you rocked your hips in tiny circles, grinding on Bucky’s hard cock through your clothes. You could feel the flat steel of his knife pressed to the back of your thigh, and your core pulsed at the weapon’s proximity to your most sensitive place, but you didn’t have any worry he was going to use it on you—not when he was staring at you with such a greedy look in his eyes.

Bucky growled out, “Dumb slut,” as his fingers dug into your ass through your jean shorts, but you were too distracted by humping against the mountain of a man, pleasure swirling through your body and filling your head with cotton candy nothing. 

All that mattered was grinding against Bucky’s bulge, and the fact that you were finally—finally—getting to live out your darkest fantasies of fucking the horror movie villain.

“Y’know, I always wondered if killing made your cock hard,” you murmured breathlessly, catching Bucky’s eye and giving him a cheeky grin. “Guess I have my answer now.” You dragged the seam of your shorts up the thick length of Bucky’s cock, drawing a growl from him, your smile spreading wider. “Unless you just have a soft spot for dumb sluts like me,” you said, giggling at your own joke and batting your lashes at him.

Bucky shook his head at you, but not like he was disagreeing with you—more like he was already exasperated with your antics. 

“I thought I already killed this town’s biggest slut,” Bucky ground out, and though you couldn’t see his mouth or jaw, you somehow knew he was grinding his teeth. His fingers dug harder into your ass, his grip nearly punishing as you squirmed against him. 

You found an angle that had your clit rubbing against the tip of Bucky’s cock through your clothes and you let your head fall back, a filthy moan spilling from your lips. The obscene sound rose toward the darkening sky above the fairgrounds, loud against the silence that had fallen over the deserted carnival.

When you managed to get control of your tongue again, and pick up the thread of your conversation, you shot Bucky another grin.

“I’m not from Bakersfield,” you purred, pulling yourself closer to Bucky’s face, until your lips were nearly brushing against the hard plastic of his mask. You could feel his breath, hot and heavy, gusting through the slots on the front, making you shiver. Your expression settled into one of fake seriousness as you stared him in the eye. “And you have no idea how much of a slut I can be.”

A growl rumbled in Bucky’s chest, and his blue eyes narrowed on you, like a predator deciding on its prey. 

“Is that a challenge or an invitation, little cottontail?”

He slapped your ass with the flat of his knife, an obvious instruction to keep humping against him. 

As you followed the order, you choked out a one word answer, “Both!” Then bit your lip against a moan, hiding your delight at the nickname—and your surprise that Bucky would call you anything so sweet. 

But you didn’t seem to be grinding against him hard enough, because he dragged the sharp edge of his knife over the backs of your thighs, just beneath the curve of your ass. He didn’t press hard enough to break skin, but you could feel the threat in the gesture.

You lost the battle against trembling in the big, horror movie villain’s arms, and whimpered, rocking against him harder as a single tear leaked down your cheek. Pleasure was pulsing through your body, hard and fast, the same rhythm in which your heart beat in your chest.

Bucky rumbled a sound of pleasure, his blue eyes going molten as he watched the tear track down your face. He seemed to have forgotten your conversation entirely, more focused on your smaller body humping against his larger one.

You had long since soaked through your panties, and you could feel your arousal leaking through your shorts, coating your inner thighs in your wetness. But dry humping with Bucky wasn’t what you had in mind when you’d fantasized about the horror movie villain through most of your adult years. You needed more, and you had just the idea—a fantasy you’d long wanted to fulfill. With Bucky Barnes especially.

“I know you’re sort of busy, killing and all that,” you huffed, your body straining to keep rocking against his thick length with the speed he desired. “But I was wondering if you might want to take a break and play a game with me?” Your voice was hopelessly breathless and breathlessly hopeful, the pleading in your tone blatant as your words pitched higher with your question. 

Bucky’s brows lowered in confusion. “What kind of game?” came his rumbling, distorted voice from behind his mask.

With a flash of a smirk, you shifted one hand to his shoulder, where you remembered the bullet wound would be beneath his jacket. You could feel the slight raise of the bandages beneath the leather, and you dug your thumb into the spot. You were rewarded by a vicious growl and Bucky’s hands falling away from your ass, the cold steel of his knife disappearing from your skin.

Hopping down, you danced a few feet away from the now-enraged psychopathic killer, making sure you were beyond the reach of his long arms, including the length of his knife before you stopped. Something in your core tightened with excitement when Bucky’s cold, blue eyes focused entirely on you. Even the sight of him shaking out his arm seemed somehow threatening. 

You could see the dark stain of deep red blood in the black leather of his jacket, and couldn’t help but grin. You’d unleashed the darkest side of him, and you couldn’t be more giddy.

You knew Bucky had been holding back on you while you’d been in his arms. But you didn’t want to fuck a horror movie villain because you wanted some harmless dry humping. You wanted him to wreck you. You wanted him to hunt you down and make you his.

“The game is this,” you began, skipping back a few steps when Bucky lunged for you—though you noticed he reached for you with his free hand, rather than his knife, which you took as a good sign and grinned wider. “If you catch me, you can fuck me.” You held his gaze, your smile turning a little feral as you watched the seething villain. “As hard and as rough as you want.”

Your final words made Bucky pause, like a predator going still right before launching itself at its prey. His electric blue eyes shone brighter, reflecting the neon lights of the carnival as they fall across his handsome face. 

You could feel the energy in him shift, and even though you couldn’t see his mouth, you somehow knew he was grinning. You suspected it was even more feral than your own smile.  

“You really are the dumbest fucking slut, little cottontail,” Bucky growled, equal parts humor and menace in his tone, sending a delicious shiver skating down your spine. He took a step forward, his eyes sharp as they watched you skip backward, staying out of reach of his hand and his knife. “You better not let me catch you, baby, because if I do, I’m going to make you scream bloody murder as I split you open with my cock.”

The grin on your face was so wide it was beginning to make your cheeks hurt, but you couldn’t wipe it away even if you’d tried. Your entire body was buzzing with anticipation, adrenaline already pumping through your veins as you prepared to run. But you couldn’t help yourself, you had to taunt Bucky just a little more. If you were only going to get one chance to fuck your horror movie villain crush, you were going to make it count.

“Bet you say that to all the girls—bet none of them can scream like me,” you sassed, bouncing on the balls of your feet and scampering back a few more steps when Bucky took another menacing step forward, his big, heavy boot crunching the grass beneath him. 

You laughed at his scowling face, the sound loud and wild in the quiet that had fallen over the fairgrounds. Even the music of the carousel had gone silent. But you couldn’t hold your tongue. You loved the look of danger on Bucky’s face too much.

“You gotta catch me first, Mr. Slasher, then we’ll see if you can make me scream.”

With that parting challenge, you gave Bucky one last cheeky, impertinent smile, and the you turned and took off. 

Sprinting off into the Bakersfield Fun Fair, you didn’t dare look behind you, knowing instinctively that Bucky would be close on your heels. Your mind raced as you tried to form some kind of plan, since you hadn’t thought this far ahead. 

Of course, you had every intention of letting Bucky catch you, but you didn’t want to make it too easy for him. Besides, you’d always wanted to be chased by the hot horror movie villain, then overpowered and taken by the brutal man, so you wanted to make sure you enjoyed yourself as well.

As you turned a corner and began running down a row of carnival rides and games on the edge of the fairground, you spotted the funhouse in front of you. Grinning wildly, you pushed to run a little harder and launched yourself up the metal stairs leading into the funhouse.

There was a spinning barrel right away, and you clambered through it, the silence inside the funhouse swallowing you up as you plunged into the depths of the structure. Hauling yourself up a flight of stairs, you stumbled to a stop when you found that the interior of the funhouse was a maze of mirrors.

Your heart was practically beating out of your chest as you began moving through the maze, your hands outstretched to feel your way between the mirrors. Too soon, you heard Bucky’s heavy footsteps on the metal stairs leading up to the level with the maze and you tried to scurry faster, but you kept bumping into mirrors thinking they were a clear path forward.

A deep, dark chuckle echoed through the stuffy room in the funhouse, the sound distorted through Bucky’s mask, making him truly sound like a horror movie villain. 

The sound of his laugh sent a shiver racing down your spine, your heart rate picking up as you heard his heavy boots begin walking through the maze. It seemed like he was moving much faster than you and you tried to pick up your pace.

“When I get my hands on you, little cottontail,” Bucky began, his menacing voice filtering to you easily, sounding like he was right behind you. “You’re going to regret being such a dumb slut—I’m going to destroy your tight holes with my cock and ruin you until you’re all mine.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time!” you called over your shoulder, just before barreling into another mirror with a defeated, “oof,” as you tried to escape the maze. 

Huffing in frustration, you turned and went down another path, your panicked breaths so loud in your ears, you couldn’t hear Bucky’s footsteps anymore. You bit your lip, trying to stay quiet, but your lungs protested, your pounding heart making you feel the blood pumping through your veins with every step you took.

“If you’re a good slut, maybe I won’t kill you,” Bucky rumbled, his voice definitely closer than it should be, and you whipped around, looking for the source. But he was no where in sight. “Maybe I’ll keep you—chain you up in my basement, and use your body like the fuck hole you were meant to be.”

You tried to ignore the way your pussy quivered at Bucky’s threat, your body wanting him to do exactly that. But you pushed on, though you were having a harder and harder time remembering why you didn’t want him to catch you. Your panties were soaked and your hole was aching to be filled. And Bucky seemed more than willing to fuck you until you were nothing more than the dumb slut he accused you of being.

Rounding a corner, you gasped loudly as the massive form of Bucky Barnes loomed in front of you, his blue eyes immediately finding yours and making you feel like prey trapped by a much larger predator. 

Spinning on the ball of your foot, you turned and tried to escape in the other direction, only to run head first into Bucky’s chest. His arms closed around you, and you belatedly realized the Bucky you’d seen had been a reflection in one of the mirrors. He wasted no time, squeezing you so tight to his body that you cried out, his strength forcing the air from your lungs. You were caught.

“I win, little cottontail,” Bucky sneered, crushing you harder to his chest while you struggled to breathe, your ribs feeling like they were on the verge of snapping.

Then, suddenly, he let you go and you slumped to your knees, your legs giving out as you fell to the metal floor of the funhouse. Your head was spinning from the lack of air and you focused on pulling as much oxygen into your lungs as possible, the adrenaline in your body making you feel your heartbeat in your temples. 

While you were distracted, Bucky quickly worked his pants open and before you knew what was happening, his thick, heavy cock fell on your face with a lewd slapping sound. You flinched. But then Bucky’s musky scent filled your nose, and you relaxed. Warmth spread through your body as your mind went fuzzy for an entirely different reason than lack of oxygen. 

Your mouth fell open instinctively, your head tipping back to press your lips to his girth, and you felt more wetness dripping from your slit between your thighs. 

Bucky chuckled at your obvious submission, but still used the flat tip of his knife to tip your face back further, until it was practically horizontal. He worked his hips languidly, sliding his cock over your face, precum dripping onto your skin and making a mess of your cheeks and forehead.

“Open your mouth wider, dumb slut,” Bucky growled, his eyes glittering in the dim funhouse as he stared down at you. 

When you did as he ordered, sticking your tongue out for good measure, the tip playing with his balls, the horror villain made a pleased sound deep in his chest. You had the distinct impression he was smiling again, and you almost dared to ask him to take off the mask, but decided against it. Part of the fun of fucking Bucky Barnes was him keeping the mask on. 

“Good girl,” Bucky purred, petting your head with his free hand. He dragged his hips back and pushed the leaking head of his dick into your mouth. “Now, suck.”

The metal flooring of the funhouse dug painfully into your knees, but you pushed the pain from your mind as you focused entirely on Bucky’s cock. Wrapping your lips around the head, you sucked gently, the taste of his precum bursting on your tongue. Your chest warmed with pride when he groaned in pleasure.

You’d intended to take your time—wanting to savor Bucky’s cock and learn every inch of the thick, veiny length before making him come in your mouth. But it seemed your horror movie crush didn’t have the patience for that. You supposed you shouldn’t be surprised. You did make him chase you. 

“Is that all ya got, little cottontail?” Bucky growled, using the hand on your head to push you down roughly on his cock, making you gag, your hands flailing against his hard thighs. “I thought you were some kind of slut—thought you’d be throating my cock the second you got your lips around it.” 

Tears poured down your cheeks as he pushed deeper with a grunt, your fingers curling into fists against his thighs as you tried to open for him. Bucky’s cock forcing its way into your throat stung a little, and you worked to relax your muscles, but they kept squeezing tight, preventing his hard length from sliding all the way in.

Finally, Bucky pulled his cock free from your mouth and you gasped for breath, a hand massaging your throat, the inside feeling raw already. But Bucky didn’t seem to care. 

He bent down over you, grabbing your face in his free hand and using the sharp end of his knife to wipe the tears from your face. 

“I thought you wanted this, baby,” he rumbled, his tone mocking and patronizing, a laugh in his distorted voice that made you think he was grinning and enjoying your struggle more than he was trying to let on. “You said I could fuck you as hard and rough as I want.” He paused to tsk at you. “You can’t even take my cock without gagging—some slut you are.”

Embarrassment and no small amount of humiliation flooded through you, making you pout. OK so maybe you were more of a slut in theory than in practice, but you did want this. And you’d been trying. Couldn’t he see that?

Crossing your arms over your chest, you glared up at Bucky, your lips still pursed in a pout. 

“Your cock is too big,” you huffed, a hint of a whine in your voice. “Let me try again.”

Bucky laughed, the sound cold and mean, though that only made your pussy drip even more for him. He patted your cheek patronizingly with his knife before fixing you with a hard look.

“You either take my whole cock in your dumb slut mouth, little cottontail,” he growled, a threat in his tone. “Or I’ll make you take it, ya hear me?”

The menace in his deep voice sent a shiver racing down your spine, settling heavily between your thighs until you had to squeeze them together against the ache in your core. You nodded your understanding. “Yes, sir,” you murmured. 

“Good girl,” came Bucky’s rumbling, terrifying voice. Then he stood up and shoved his cock into your mouth again, so suddenly that all you could do was make a muffled, surprised noise and take it. 

You bobbed on the hard, thick length of Bucky’s cock, stretching your lips until the edges stung, forcing his girth deep into your mouth. You gagged when the tip pressed against the back of your throat, but you tried to ignore your body’s response and work past it. No matter how hard you tried, though, you couldn’t get his dick all the way inside your mouth.

After a few minutes of letting you try and watching you fail, Bucky let out an impatient growl before muttering, “Looks like you need me to make you take my cock, baby.” Both his hands grabbed your head and he tilted it back, so your gaze met his. “Just remember, if you’d been a better slut, you wouldn’t have made me do this.”

Your eyes widened, tears leaking out the corners as he moved you into the new position he wanted, with your back to one of the mirrors, your head trapped between the hard surface and his cock. Your fingers fisted in the fabric of his pants near his knees, but you didn’t protest, just stared up at your horror movie villain, anticipation zipping through your body.

“Don’t worry, little cottontail,” Bucky rumbled, and you could tell he was smiling again, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a telltale way. “This won’t hurt nearly as much as if I’d slit your throat—but it’ll probably last longer than it would’ve taken you to bleed out.”

At that ominous comment, your pussy clenched, even more wetness dripping from your pussy and soaking your shorts. You clenched your thighs together, but that was the only part of your body you could move other than your arms. You were helpless to Bucky’s brutality, and you loved it. If his cock wasn’t already buried in your mouth, you would’ve urged him on.

Wasting no more time, Bucky shoved his dick deep into your mouth, pushing past the squeezing muscles in your throat, groaning when you choked and gagged on his thick cock. Your jaw ached and your throat felt raw, but you accepted it, you welcomed it. Bucky’s roughness was only making your pussy wetter, and you couldn’t wait until you could feel him sinking into your tight, wet hole.

Still, you couldn’t quite control your body’s reaction to the intrusion in your throat. Your throat spasmed and you let out a strangled little sound of desperation as it got harder to breathe. You arms flailed and your body tried to escape, only to bang against the mirror behind you. The fact that you were trapped, really trapped, made more tears leak from your eyes. 

“That’s it, baby, cry for me while you’re choking on my cock,” Bucky rumbled, holding your head in his hands as he stared down at you, kneeling for him, your throat bulging with his cock. His eyes sparkled like he enjoyed the sight far too much. “Your dumb slut tears are making me harder.” 

You felt his cock throb in your throat as proof, but then he was pulling back, only for his hips to snap forward, burying his hard length in your throat all over again. More tears poured down your face, your throat closing on a sob that wrenched a deep, pleasured groan from Bucky.

“Fuck, that’s it—take it, slut, you might be crying, but you fucking love it, don’t you, little cottontail?” Bucky rumbled, breathless laughter in his tone. “You love letting me use your mouth like my own personal fuck toy, bet your pussy’s dripping onto the floor, making a mess of your thighs like ‘m gonna make a mess of your face, huh?”

You couldn’t help it, you moaned around Bucky’s cock, his words stoking the blazing fire of your arousal. It didn’t help matters that he was right—your thighs, your shorts and your panties were a mess, all soaked with your desire. 

Bucky grunted when he felt you moan around his hardness, his hips snapping against your face harder as he pounded into your mouth. His hands held your head in a punishing grip, his cock ramming deep into your throat while the back of your skull was pressed against the mirror behind you.

A whine worked its way up your throat as you squirmed, your pussy pulsing with the need to be filled, to be rubbed, to get some kind of attention. One of your hands fell between your thighs and you rocked against it, your clit rubbing against the seam of your shorts until you were moaning and sobbing around Bucky’s cock.

Suddenly he stopped. “What’re you doin’ down there, little cottontail?” he rasped, ducking his head to the side so he could see around his cock and your face. When he caught you with your hand between your thighs, he laughed, his glittering blue eyes finding yours. “Oh, I see—the dumb little slut’s dripping hole needs some attention, huh?” 

Bucky shifted, using his booted foot to kick your thighs apart on the metal floor of the funhouse. Then he shoved his boot between your legs, and jerked his head like he expected you to sit on it.

“You need something to hump against, don’t you, baby?” he asked, his tone mocking. “Well, go ‘head. Ride my fucking boot, little cottontail.” His voice was dark and deep, the sound of it making you shiver. But you couldn’t pretend you didn’t want to follow his order, so you lowered yourself down onto his boot.

The moment your aching core dragged over the laces of Bucky’s boot, you let out a low, filthy moan, the sound muffled by his cock in your mouth. It was exactly the kind of friction you wanted, your clit and messy slit rubbing against the seam of your shorts and the roughness of his laces. Pleasure bloomed, hot and heady, and swirled through your body, overwhelming your mind.

Above you, Bucky groaned, shoving deeper into your throat until your nose was pressed into the thick thatch of hair at the base of his cock and his balls were nestled up against your chin. Spit and precum and tears were leaking down your face, making a mess of your jaw and chin, dripping down to your tits while Bucky watched you with hooded eyes.

“Do that again, baby,” Bucky grunted, holding your head down on his hardness. “Moan like a dumb fucking slut on my cock while I ruin your throat.” 

It took little effort to moan again as pleasure and pain swirled through your body, your hips working on Bucky’s boot, grinding your slick cunt against the stiff leather through your panties and shorts. Your clit rubbed over the laces, your mind filling with clouds of bliss as you sank into the feeling of your pussy grinding against Bucky’s boot and his cock fucking your throat.

Bucky was grunting and groaning loudly, his sounds of pleasure a reward for how good your slutty mouth was making him feel. He pounded into your face, his balls slapping against your chin, seeking his release while you humped against his boot, intent on finding your own pleasure while he used you. 

You were both lost entirely in each other, too focused on seeking pleasure to notice someone else had entered the funhouse. Bucky’s eyes were only for you, and you were staring up too intently into his face, watching pleasure make his eyes go hazy to pay attention to your surroundings—which was the only reason one of the final girl’s friends was able to sneak up on the two of you.

“Get away from her, you monster!” The girl’s shriek was followed closely by the splintering sound of a wooden bat as she swung it at Bucky, and the thing shattering apart against his back. Her face, twisted in fury and determination, quickly shifted to surprise and panic.

For his part, Bucky merely grunted, barely lurching forward as he shoved his cock impossibly deeper in your throat while he bore the attack. But then he was moving quicker than your pleasure-drunk eyes could fully process, your body only aware that he was pulling back until only the tip of him remained on your tongue. Growling furiously, Bucky turned and used his knife to slash the girl’s throat.

You vaguely recognized the girl as one of the characters in Slasher who gets killed at the carnival in the third act, though you couldn’t remember which ride Bucky kills her on. Maybe it was the funhouse—that would explain how she found the two of you.

In that moment, you didn’t much care. You’d been busy with Bucky and you were more than a little annoyed at the interruption. Your body was buzzing with your unslaked need, and you felt horny and frustrated as you turned your attention back to the horror villain above you.

But Bucky’s focus was entirely on the other girl, who was grabbing her throat uselessly, trying to stem the gush of blood as she stumbled into a mirror, leaving a bloody handprint behind. Bucky’s eyes were gleaming as he savored the sight of the dying girl, the corners of his eyes crinkling like he was grinning.

His cock was still in your mouth, but just barely, and the longer he watched the other girl die, the more a pout grew on your lips. 

After a few long moments of the girl’s death dragging on, you’d had enough. This was your fantasy come to life, and if Bucky wasn’t going to pay attention to you and get you off, then you were going to make him. 

Carefully, you extracted yourself from between Bucky and the mirror you’d been pressed against, your pout only growing when his stiff cock slipped from your lips and he didn’t even notice. Quickly, you crawled around the corner and once you were out of sight, you hopped up to your feet so you could move faster.

Your legs felt weak from your earlier running and kneeling on the hard, metal floor—not to mention how close you’d been to coming on Bucky’s boot. But you urged them to work as you moved as quietly as you could through the rest of the maze.

You were already almost to the exit when Bucky finally noticed you’d escaped. His angry roar of, “COTTONTAIL!” echoed off the mirrors and metal walls inside the funhouse. But his rage only made you snicker. It was his own fault, after all.

“You shoulda tied me down or paid more attention to me if you didn’t want me getting away, Mr. Slasher,” you called over your shoulder, taunting him as you darted around the final corner in the mirror maze, finding your way out. You clambered through the rest of the funhouse, Bucky’s stomping footsteps reverberating around you and making your heart beat faster with fear and excitement.

You slid down the slide that worked as the exit from the funhouse and as soon as your feet hit the grass of the fairground, you sprinted off again. Wracking your brain, you tried to think about where else Bucky kills the final girl’s friends in the final act of Slasher. All you could remember was the ending, with the carousel.

You turned a corner, running in the opposite direction of the carousel and that area of the carnival, not wanting the final girl or anymore of her friends interrupting you once Bucky caught you again.

Sooner than you expected, a leather-clad chest slammed into your back and, within the next breath, you hit the grassy ground as Bucky tackled you. One of his hands wrapped around the front of your throat, his fingers digging into the sides of your neck while he pressed his face into the side of yours.

Even through his hard plastic mask, you could feel his breath on your skin, his hot, heavy breaths gusting past your cheek as he panted like a rabid dog. 

“I win again, baby,” Bucky growled, his voice even more threatening thanks to the fury in it. He clearly didn’t appreciate that you’d made him chase you again, and the coldness in his tone promised that while you might find pleasure in what he was about to do to you, you were also going to feel no small amount of pain. 

“And you can be sure I won’t make the same mistake twice,” he went on, resting more of his weight on your back until you were pinned to the ground beneath him, your body struggling to catch your breath as he crushed your lungs. “Now that I have you, you’re never getting away from me again—you’re mine, little cottontail.”

Your heart panged in your chest, and it took you a second to realize the feeling was yearning. Because that was the heart of it, wasn’t it? You wanted someone to see you at your brattiest, with your darkest desires all laid out—and even seeing your soul bared for them, you wanted them to want to keep you. Part of you wanted to roll over and open your legs for Bucky, tell him you were his forever. But that wasn’t really in your nature.

Instead, you huffed a belated laugh, squirming beneath Bucky and fighting against his considerable strength even though you knew it was no good. You weren’t going anywhere, and you loved it.

“I’ll believe it when I see it, Mr. Slasher,” you taunted, bucking your hips hard. You felt Bucky’s big body jostle just a little and, sensing a glimmer of freedom, you fought harder. 

Then cold steel replaced Bucky’s hand at your throat and you went still. Despite the fact that he’d used the knife mere moments ago to kill someone else, you were almost certain he wasn’t going to do the same to you. Well, pretty certain.

Besides, you were still convinced you were in a dream and dying would only wake you up. But with Bucky’s knife pressed to your neck, you didn’t exactly want to test your theory.

The horror movie villain chuckled, his chest rumbling against your spine and his breath ghosting over your cheek. 

“That’s the first smart thing you’ve done all night, little cottontail,” he murmured, his voice so dark and deep, it made you shiver. 

He dug the steel of his knife into your throat, using his other hand to guide you up onto your hands and knees. Bucky’s big body was curled over yours, his hand reaching beneath you to grope your tits while he groaned against the side of your face. 

“Such soft tits, baby,” he grunted as his fingers kneaded your flesh through your tank top. Then his hand was diving under the fabric to pinch your nipples, making you cry out and arch your back. “Yeah, that’s it, ya dumb slut, let me hear how much you like having a monster like me playing with your tits.”

You whimpered when he pinched your nipple hard and shook your breast, the sting of pain and pleasure consuming your mind and making you grind back against his thick cock, which he’d tucked back into his pants. An impatient whine tumbled from your lips and it was on the tip of your tongue to beg Bucky to fuck you, but it seemed he was just as eager to get on with it.

Skimming his hand down your body, Bucky found the button of your shorts and quickly undid them. He sat up on his knees, dragging you with him and keeping his knife at your throat. 

He shoved your shorts and panties down roughly past your ass to your thighs, then dipped his hand between your legs. A loud groan rumbled in his chest when he realized how wet you were. 

“Fuck, you really are a slut, aren’t you, baby?” he taunted in a mocking tone, and you could almost hear the smile in his voice. His fingers slipped between your drenched folds and all you could do to answer him was moan as he teased your pussy. “I’m gonna fill up this slick cunt, little cottontail,” he rumbled in your ear, a promise ringing in his words. “I’m gonna destroy your tight hole until you’re nothing more than my dumb, cock-drunk slut.”

Between Bucky’s fingers playing with your pussy and his words wreaking havoc on your pleasure-soaked mind, you were desperate for him to follow through on his promise. 

Suddenly, you’d had enough of the game you’d been playing with Bucky and you wanted him to finally—finally—fuck you.

“Please, Bucky, please, please, fuck me,” you sobbed, tears leaking from your eyes and down your cheeks as you rocked your ass against his hard cock. “Please, god, I need it—I need you.”

For a moment, Bucky was silent and unmoving. Then he was shoving you forward into the grass so you were back on your hands and knees. His knife just barely grazed the side of your neck as you fell forward, and you whimpered at the light sting of it.

The next thing you knew, Bucky’s cock was slapping against your bare ass, and he was lining himself up with your soaked, fluttering pussy. Your fingers dug into the grass, preparing yourself to hold on for dear life.

“Remember, little cottontail, you said I could fuck you as hard and rough as I want,” Bucky rumbled, sliding his cock between your legs, coating his thick length in your desire. “If it’s too much for you, you can scream all you want, but I’m not stopping until I’ve filled your cunt with all the come in my balls.”

You could hear the laughter in Bucky’s voice, but didn’t have time to respond to his words because in the next second, he shoved himself all the way inside you with one thrust.

Bucky’s thick, hard cock slammed deep into your tight pussy, and a scream wrenched free from your lips, making your already raw throat hurt even more. But it was the delicious kind of pain that mixed perfectly with the feeling of Bucky filling you up for the first time. 

His girth was bigger than anyone or any toy you’d taken before, and it felt like you were being split apart, your insides rearranging to make room for his huge cock. It was only because you were so wet that it didn’t really hurt, but the sting of the stretch was enough to send your mind reeling, your thoughts scattering until the only thing that mattered was Bucky’s cock inside you and his body behind you.

Bucky made a noise that was half groan, half growl—sounding entirely feral behind his mask as his hands dug into your hips. You could feel him still holding his knife, but the steel wasn’t pressed against your skin so you didn’t give it much thought.

“God, that’s a tight fucking cunt ya got here, cottontail,” he rasped, pulling back and slamming forward so hard, your arms shook and you nearly collapsed face first into the grass. “Feel like you were fucking made for me, baby—made to be my fuck hole, made to take my cock.”

True to his word, the horror movie villain rutted into you hard, paying no mind to your pleasure, just taking his own. But that was exactly how you liked it, and you couldn’t help the litany of desperate moans and whimpers that tumbled past your lips. 

Before long, your arms gave out and your cheek pressed to the grass, which was cool against your face. The position made your back arch and your ass stick up in the air. Bucky made a pleased sound, slapping your ass in a gesture that almost felt like praise.

“Yeah, take it like a slut, baby,” he growled, pounding into you harder—hard enough you could feel your ass and hips and thighs ripple with the force of his thrusts. “This is how dumb sluts are meant to be fucked.”

You whined at the searing pleasure of Bucky’s cock hammering into your cunt, and you arched your back further, giving him easier access to drive even deeper into you from behind. Your reward was another hard slap on your ass—that time with the cold flat steel of Bucky’s knife. You squealed, then moaned as the sharp sting devolved into even more pleasure.

Bucky laughed, the sound wild and dark. Then he curled his body over yours, dropping the knife in the grass so he could grab wrap one of his hands around your throat while the other groped your tits. 

“You’re mine, little cottontail,” he growled in your ear. “I own your body now, and you’re going to be my personal fuck toy for the rest of your life.” He rutted into you, hard and rough, his hips slapping against your ass mixing with the sounds of your wet pussy being fucked. “I’m gonna chain you up in my basement, and you’re gonna be my basement slut—my little cottontail—forever.”

It was impossible to nod, and impossible to speak, with how tightly Bucky had you pinned beneath him while he fucked you. So you wrapped a hand around his wrist, not pulling him away, but squeezing hard enough that you could feel his pulse thrumming beneath your thumb. You clung to him, telling him wordlessly that you were submitting to him, tears gathering in your lashes as pleasure overwhelmed you.

“Fuck,” Bucky grunted, pounding you hard and fast, the hard plastic of his mask digging into the side of your face. “Cry for me, cottontail, you know it makes me harder.” 

His fingers dug into the sides of your throat while his other hand tortured your nipples, tugging and pinching them, until your tears began leaking from your eyes. Bucky ducked forward, nuzzling your tear-stained cheek through his mask, groaning as he hit a spot inside of you that made your whole body clench and your mouth drop open in a soundless scream.

“I can feel your cunt choking my cock, baby,” Bucky rumbled in your ear. “You really love everything I’m doing to you, don’t you, dumb slut?” His hips pressed against your ass and he started grinding his cock deep in your core, the tip brushing against that spot inside you that made you see stars.

“Yes, yes, Bucky, yes,” you sobbed, your words breathless and soft and only able to escape because he’d loosened his hold on your throat slightly. But then he tightened his fingers again and you made a desperate little gasping sound.

Bucky laughed, the sound evil and mocking, and your cunt pulsed again. He refocused on fucking you, pounding into you and chasing his own pleasure. You tried to scream, the pleasure nearly mind-blowing, but his hand on your throat made sure you could only make the barest of noises.

“You’re gonna come on my cock, little cottontail,” Bucky rumbled, his hard plastic mask chafing against your sensitive cheek. “You’re gonna come and show me that you’re mine, that you accept your new life—and me as your master.”

Your fingers squeezed his wrist again in understanding, and then you couldn’t think anymore. Bucky’s cock was pounding into your pussy hard enough to almost hurt, pleasure pulsing through your body as he plucked and played with your tits. Your head was going fuzzy from a lack of air, but that just made everything else feel better and more.

When Bucky’s hand abandoned your tits to slip between your thighs, it only took a few strokes of his fingers against your clit to set you off. At the same moment, Bucky’s hand loosened around your throat, and oxygen flooded your lungs as you came on his cock. 

It was almost an out-of-body experience, coming on the thick length of your horror movie villain crush, your mind going entirely blank as your body tried to process all the pleasure and sensation flooding through it. A loud, piercing scream sounded in your ears and it took a second to realize it was spilling from your own lips. 

Bucky’s hand tightened around your throat again, tighter than before, cutting off the sound of your pleasure while he grunted and groaned above you. He was rutting into you as your walls squeezed his cock, taking his pleasure as he prolonged yours.

Blackness was starting to creep into the edges of your vision when he finally roared loudly, his cock throbbing inside you as he spilled his come deep in your pussy. His fingers dug into the sides of your throat harder, choking you through his orgasm as your body fluttered with the last waves of your release. 

The last thing you heard was Bucky muttering, “Good girl, take my come, little cottontail,” as he pumped you full of his thick, sticky seed. Then, there was nothing but comforting darkness, and you sank into it, feeling satisfied and happy as you passed out in the arms of your horror movie villain…

Now, the choice is yours, dear reader. Do you want to stay with Bucky Barnes and live in the world of Slasher? If so, read on for the dark ending! Or do you want to wake up and meet someone a little less psychotic? If so, skip down to the fluffy ending!

Slasher - Dark Ending

dark ending additional warnings: dubcon, somnophilia, slightly painful sex, basement wife-ing, references to Bucky's arm amputation, Bucky is even more psychotic

You were woken by your body jostling against concrete, an aching mix of pleasure and pain radiating between your thighs. The slick sounds of fucking met your ears and, belatedly, you realized you were impaled on a cock, the thickness of it stretching your tight hole to its limit. 

Your inner thighs felt chafed and your back hurt from the position you were contorted in, your shoulders propped up against a cinderblock wall while you were folded in half at the waist, a heavy body pinning your legs to your chest while they fucked you. You were naked and a little cold, but the body against you was warm.

Blinking your eyes open, you were met with the sight of Bucky’s handsome face contorted with pleasure as he fucked you. There was a new glimmer in the depths of his blue eyes—something wild and feral and more than a little frightening. His mouth spread into a savage grin when he saw you were awake.

“There’s my little cottontail,” he rumbled before ducking down and kissing your cheek in a gesture that would’ve been sweet if not for his stubble roughing over your sensitive skin. You whimpered softly at the abrading feeling, your pussy pulsing despite your exhaustion.

When he pulled back, the sound of chains rattling above you finally caught your attention and you looked up, finding your wrists shackled above your head and bolted into the wall of the basement. Dim morning light was filtering in through windows set high in the walls, and you couldn’t make out much beyond the shadow of the stairs leading up to the first floor.

Before you could gather you wits enough to ask a question, or wade through your confusion to figure out what question you should even ask, Bucky slammed deep inside you, wringing a weak moan from you. It was only then that you realized he’d been taking it easy on you while you were asleep, but since you were awake, he started fucking you harder. Pleasure, pain and bewilderment warred with the tiredness of just waking up as you tried to think. 

Your eyes slid closed while you tried to block out Bucky and your surroundings. You needed to figure out why you weren’t in your grandmother’s basement, having woken up from the dream you’d been sure you were having.

But Bucky didn’t like that. His weight settled more heavily on top of you, making your hips ache in protest, and grabbed your face roughly in his hand. 

“Look at me, cottontail,” he rumbled, shaking your head until your eyes fluttered open again.

Tears leaked out of the corners of your eyes and your mouth worked, trying to find the words for how you felt. You’d wanted this—wanted someone like Bucky who saw who you really were and still wanted to keep you. But now that you were actually chained up in his basement, you wondered if maybe you’d jumped in the deep end without being able to swim. 

“Don’t look so confused, baby,” Bucky growled in a patronizingly sweet tone, thumbing your tears from your cheeks and making you flinch as the salt of them irritated your skin. “I told you I was never letting you go—you knew this was going to happen.” He was grinding his cock deep into your well-used cunt, the pleasure almost painful. “Now that you’re chained up in my basement, you have no hope of ever escaping from me again.”

The head of his cock battered against your cervix and you cried out, your head thumping against the cinderblock wall behind you. The pain mixed with the pleasure of thick length rubbing against your sensitive inner walls until your mind was spinning. 

You just couldn’t wrap your head around it. You really hadn’t known this was going to happen. You’d thought you were dreaming and were going to wake up after you’d fucked Bucky Barnes, but apparently that wasn’t the case. Apparently you’d really somehow been transported into the world of Slasher.

“Thank me for keeping you, little cottontail,” Bucky growled, wringing another pleasured whimper from you as he kept grinding his cock into you. “After all, it wasn’t easy getting you here after that bitch crushed my arm.” His voice was dripping venom and he rocked his hips harder, forcing tears from your eyes as his cock battered your cervix.

It was only then that you understood why so much of Bucky’s weight was resting on you while his hand held your face. Darting your eyes to Bucky’s shoulder, there was a thick, bloody bandage wrapped around the place where he must’ve amputated his arm after the final girl had crushed it in the carousel gears. 

Your stomach rolled at the sight, empathy for Bucky surging through you. It really couldn’t have been easy getting you back to his house when he was injured like that. 

But before you could follow the order he’d given you, Bucky yanked your face back to look at him. He ducked closer, so all you could see were his eyes, wild and psychotic, boring into your own.

“Thank your master for keeping you!” he growled harshly.

Your heart panged, and you rushed to do as he said. “Th-thank you for keeping me, Bucky,” you cried, tears streaming down your face, your voice filled with genuine gratitude. “Thank you, master!” 

The anger leeched out of Bucky at your words and your tears, and you could feel his cock throbbing inside you. 

“Good girl,” he purred, nuzzling your cheek in reward and kissing your jaw with his soft lips. “My good, dumb slut—you’re going to make such a good basement wife for me.”

A small, confused noise squeaked out of you and Bucky pulled back, a grin on his face. He nodded up toward your hands and you twisted them in your shackles, finding shiny, silver metal glinting off your left ring finger. You sucked in a gasp, feeling speechless as your mind failed to process another shocking revelation in so little time.

“Your dream is coming true, baby,” Bucky rumbled, licking the tears from your cheeks, taking your silence as understanding and submission. “You’re going to be my own personal fuck hole—my pretty little dumb slut—for the rest of your life.”

Bucky canted his hips, grinding his cock into the depths of your pussy while the base of him rubbed against your clit and the pleasure that had been winding tighter in your core suddenly snapped. You came with a loud, sobbing scream, your head thrown back against the wall of the basement as tears cascaded down your cheeks while you succumbed to the pleasure, your cunt greedily squeezing Bucky’s cock.

A small part of you wanted to black out again, hoping you’d wake up back in your grandmother’s basement, unsure if you had what it took to be the full-time fuck toy of your favorite horror movie villain. But somehow you knew that wouldn’t happen.

Whatever had transported you into the world of Slasher seemed to be a one-way ticket, and you’d made your choices. The fact that you were at the mercy of Bucky Barnes was no one’s fault but your own.

And yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to regret anything you’d done. After all, you’d gotten exactly what you wanted—you got to fuck Bucky Barnes. And if you had your way, you’d fuck Bucky Barnes every day until you died. Which was good, since that seemed to be exactly what he had planned for you.

Just then, Bucky grunted, his cock twitching inside you and he slammed deep, grabbing your face and pulling you in for a messy kiss while he came, coating your insides with his seed. His lips were hard and demanding, but you weren’t some wilting flower—you nipped his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. 

Bucky’s cock throbbed inside you as he chuckled, kissing you again, the taste of his blood bursting on your tongue as you devoured each other. 

When he pulled away and collapsed on top of you, a satisfied smile curved your lips. You glanced up at the ring on your finger again, thinking it wouldn’t be so bad to be Bucky Barnes’ basement wife. 

Slasher - Fluffy Ending

fluffy ending additional warnings: talk about past roleplay, some potentially risky decisions on reader's part, that's really it

You awoke with a start, the loud, chiming sound of the doorbell echoing through your grandmother’s house and dragging you back to reality from the depths of your dream. A faint soreness permeated your body, and you frowned, the memory of your dream clinging to the edges of your mind.  

Groggily, you opened your eyes to find you were curled up on the familiar rug in the basement of your grandmother’s house, and you suspected the hard floor was likely the cause of your soreness. Still, you felt a faint tingling all over, the remnants of pleasure from your dream and you smiled as you stretched languidly, easing most of the aches in your limbs.

The doorbell chimed again, and you dragged yourself up, wiping drool from your cheek as you pulled your cardigan tighter around yourself and climbed the stairs up to the first floor. On your way to the door, you checked the time, finding it was nearly midnight, and wondered who was stopping by so late. All your relatives and all your grandmother’s friends would be asleep.

Flicking on the porch light, you opened the front door, but the left the screen door latched when you found a strange man standing there. The frigid autuman night air wrapped around you, and you crossed your arms over your chest to stave off a shiver. 

“Hey Mrs—” The man had been standing with his back to you, facing the street, and swung around when he heard the door open. But he paused when he saw you, his greeting cutting off as if he’d been expecting someone else. 

A distant corner of your brain pointed out that of course he was expecting someone else—you were answering the door at your grandmother’s house.

But you couldn’t pay attention to your mind’s logic because you were silently freaking out. The man looked almost exactly like Bucky Barnes. 

He had the same sparkling blue eyes, though there wasn’t any of the cold hatred that haunted your favorite horror movie villain. And his mouth was curved into a charming smile, which you knew for certain you’d never see on the version of Bucky from Slasher. The man’s hair was also shorter, and the stubble on his jaw was a little less scruffy, like he’d shaved that morning and it had grown out since then. The style really worked for him. 

He was somehow even more attractive than Bucky Barnes. You didn’t know how that was possible, but apparently it was. 

The man shifted on his feet, running a hand through his hair, looking a little abashed. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb ya,” he said, a slight Brooklyn accent in his voice. “Sometimes I borrow some ground coffee from the lady who lives here when I’ve run out.” He shot you a sheepish smile and shrugged. “And I’ve run out.”

“Oh,” you said, a little dumbly. “You must be talking about my grandmother.” Your surprise over the man’s resemblance to Bucky was wearing off, and you found that his smile was infectious. He had a charm to him that made you want to tell him more than you should, which must’ve been why you found yourself saying, “She’s on a cruise, and I’m watching her house.”

It might’ve been a mistake to tell a strange man that much, but instead of doing anything to make you second-guess yourself, he just smacked a hand against his forehead. The gesture was so endearing, you couldn’t help but laugh, warming to him even more. 

“You’re right! She told me about that.” He paused for a moment, his gaze raking over your face—hopefully not finding any traces of drool on your chin—and his eyes softened. “Sorry again to bother you, your gran’s normally up watching one of those late shows, I hope I didn’t wake you.”

You snorted to yourself. Of course your grandmother was known for staying up later than you. But you didn’t want the man to feel bad. It wasn’t like he woke you up before you came on dream Bucky’s cock. 

“No, no, it’s fine,” you said, shaking your head and smiling softly to let him know it really was fine. Again, you had the urge to say more to him than you normally would to a stranger. So, before you could hold your tongue, you blurted, “Do you know you look exactly like the villain from this old horror movie?” 

Even in the dim yellow light of the porch, you could see the man’s cheeks turn pink while he scrubbed a hand over his jaw. But he was hiding a smile behind his palm and when he caught your eye, there was humor in the depths of his gaze.

“Yeah, I get that sometimes,” he said, his voice suddenly lower. “Bucky Barnes from Slasher, right?” 

You nodded, almost mesmerized as you stared into his eyes. “I had the biggest crush on him,” you admitted, because apparently the filter between your brain and mouth had been left on the rug in your grandmother’s basement. But the man only chuckled, the light flush fading from his face.

“Did you now?” he asked, his eyes shimmering with humor as he looked at your face, his gaze raking over the curve of your lips. He shifted closer to the door and a shiver skated down your spine at the way he loomed over you. “Y’know, my friends have called me Bucky ever since we watched that movie one summer when were idiot kids.”

“Y-your name’s Bucky?” you asked, excitement making your voice come out like a whisper. 

The man looked to the side and chuckled, the sound low and rich and making you want to giggle ridiculously and kick your feet. When his gaze found yours again, his eyes were sparkling with playfulness and something more; his mouth was curved into a devastatingly charming grin.

“No, my name is James Barnes, but pretty much everyone calls me Bucky.” He watched you absorb this information, shifting even closer to the door until you could feel the warmth of him seeping through the screen. “Would you like to call me Bucky, pretty girl?” he asked, his voice pitching so low and deep, you could feel it between your thighs.

Your shoulders trembled as you shivered, nodding eagerly as you whispered, “Yes, please.”

Bucky rumbled a pleased sound, and his hand raised toward the screen, like he was reaching for you. But then he paused, as if catching himself. Huffing a laugh, he drew his hand back and wiped it down his face, seemingly forcing himself to straighten and take a step back. 

You almost whined in protest, but caught yourself at the last second, biting your lip against a frown as he moved away. You hadn’t realized how close the two of you had drifted to each other through the door until he was pulling away. You understood it was probably weird, the way you were acting with each other considering you just met, but the chemistry between you was palpable, and you desperately wanted to explore it as soon as possible.

“I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I have the mask,” Bucky confessed, breaking you free from your thoughts. 

You were glad for it, because he was giving you another loaded look and you felt your belly swoop, butterflies taking flight as he smiled at you. It took a second to process his words, and when you did, you couldn’t help the impish grin that spread across your face. You gestured for him to go on.

“I bought it for a girl I was seeing who said she wanted to roleplay,” he went on, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans and looking off to the side again, like he knew he wasn’t supposed to be telling this to a girl he just met, but couldn’t help himself. “But I think I scared her off.” He turned his penetrating gaze back to you, pinning you in place while you held your breath. “You don’t strike me as the kind of girl who scares easily.”

You snorted again and tossed your head. That was an understatement, if your dream was any indication of your desires—which it was. You gave the man called Bucky a cheeky smile. “No, I’m definitely not,” you told him, a hint of a challenge in your tone.

For a long moment, the two of you just stood there, staring at each other. Then, you made a slightly reckless decision. Your hand reached for the latch of the screen door and pushed it open, all while holding his gaze. 

“Why don’t you come in and get that coffee you needed,” you offered, hoping your instincts about Bucky were right, and he would turn out to be exactly the kind of man you wanted in your life. Besides, you told yourself, your grandmother liked him well enough to lend him some coffee—and you trusted her judgement so he must be a decent guy. “And you can tell me what about your roleplay frightened off that girl.”

Bucky’s smile spread into a full-on grin, and he eagerly grabbed the door, opening it wider while he stepped forward. When you didn’t move back right away and instead allowed him to step into your personal space, his gaze dropped to your mouth, his eyes darkening and the corners of his mouth twitching in another smile.

“Deal,” he rumbled. “So long as you tell me more about this crush of yours.”

The memories of your dream flitted through your mind, feeling more real than any dream you’d ever had before, and you found you couldn’t wait to tell Bucky about it. The man in front of you was warmer and kinder than the one you’d met in your dreams, but you had a feeling he had a dark side that liked to come out to play—just like you. 

“Deal.” After you said the word, you felt as if something truly special was beginning and your heart raced with excitement as you stared up into Bucky’s handsome face. Both of you were grinning like idiots.

Finally taking a step back, you welcomed Bucky into your grandmother’s house, knowing deep in your bones that you were going to be in each other’s lives for a very long time—possibly even forever. And you couldn’t help but think that having this Bucky Barnes was even better than dreaming about your horror movie villain crush. After all, at least he was real.

[eclipixels]

Attention

Sae Itoshi x Reader

Content: Some girl enters Sae's world, and Rin doesn't like the attention his older brother is giving her

A/N: Sae and Rin don't have that beef like they do in the manga/anime. They have a normal sibling relationship of caring about each other while still being annoying af

Warnings: ooc towards the end

[4,114 words]

     It’s strange how a single moment can feel like an eternity, one of those memories that never seems to fade, always lingering at the edge of your thoughts. That one time you met Sae, when he was still a kid, just like you. You didn't know it then, but everything would change.

     You were just some ordinary girl who seemed to always be a bit out of place. Your world was filled with stories, with daydreams, with books you could lose yourself in. You didn't need anything more. But then, you stepped into his world.

     Sae and Rin were two peas in a pod, always inseparable. The older brother and the younger one. The competitive spark between them was so natural it felt like the air around them was charged with it. They were always running, always playing, always making noise. But you? You were content to be on the sidelines, watching, observing.

     But something changed when Sae noticed you.

     It wasn’t some grand moment, not a dramatic turn of events. It was just one afternoon. You were sitting under a large tree by the soccer field, sketching in your little notebook. The grass smelled of fresh dew, and the sound of sneakers pounding against the ground, accompanied by Rin’s occasional shout of encouragement to his brother, filled the air. The light was golden, and everything was peaceful, calm.

     Sae approached quietly, his footsteps barely audible over the rest of the noise. You didn’t see him coming until he was standing over you, blocking the sunlight. His presence made the air feel warmer as he replaced the sun, the space around you suddenly smaller. You looked up from your notebook, blinking in surprise.

     "You’re always here," he said, his tone neither harsh nor soft. It was just… matter-of-fact. Like he'd noticed you before and was curious now.

     You swallowed, unsure of what to say, but you nodded. “I just moved here last month.”

     “What’s your name?” He asked. 

     “Y/n, what's yours?” 

     “Sae” He hummed in response, his eyes scanning your notebook. The pages were filled with rough sketches of trees, flowers, and the world around you, nothing grand or impressive, but to you, it was enough.

     "You drew those?" His voice was different now, less distant, more intrigued.

     “Yeah,” you answered, feeling a little embarrassed. It wasn't like you were amazing at it, but it was your thing. 

     Sae tilted his head, watching you with an intensity you weren’t used to. Then, as though something had clicked, he crouched down next to you, his knees brushing against the soft grass.

     “Can I see?”

     You hesitated, but then nodded, turning the page so he could see. He leaned closer, his gaze intent on the sketches. The silence stretched between you two, and you could feel the weight of his attention. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it was definitely something new.

     Finally, after what felt like forever, he straightened up. "You're good," he said, his voice carrying a hint of something you couldn’t quite place. “I don’t draw much, but it’s nice.”

     A smile tugged at the corner of your lips, but you quickly suppressed it, unsure of how to react to his praise.

     “Thanks,” you mumbled.

     The moment passed quickly, and soon Sae was up on his feet, brushing the dirt off his shorts. “I have to get back to practice,” he said, pointing toward the field where Rin was already setting up for another round of drills.

     But before he could walk away, he glanced back at you. “Hey,” he said, his voice a little softer now. “You should come watch.”

     You looked up at him, his face expressionless. It was strange, how much the little comment made your heart flutter, but you simply smiled and nodded, getting up and following him.

     But then, from the edge of the field, you heard a voice that shattered the moment like glass.

     “Oi! Who are you?”

     A little boy who you figured out was Sae’s young brother stood with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed, face scrunched up in a mix of confusion and annoyance. His younger, innocent face was filled with an unexpected possessiveness, something you'd never seen in a kid before. You blinked in surprise, looking back at Sae, who had stiffened.

     “My name is Y/n” You introduced. 

     For Sae, the moment he first met you, his stomach did the thing. Butterflies.

     For Rin, the moment he first met you, his stomach did the thing. Organ failure.

     Time passes. Seasons change. And despite Rin’s best efforts, you become a permanent fixture in their lives.

     Sae grows fond of you in ways Rin doesn’t quite understand. It’s in the way Sae lets you steal his food without complaint, in the way he listens when you talk about your day, even if it has nothing to do with soccer. It’s in the way he lingers when you say goodbye, as if he doesn’t actually want you to leave.

     And it was driving Rin crazy. One evening, Rin finally snaps.

     Sae was sitting next to you on the accompanying swing, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze distant. You weren’t sure why he’d chosen to sit next to you today, but you weren’t complaining. His silence was comfortable, even though it made you feel a little out of place sometimes. Still, you’d grown used to his quiet nature, his unreadable expression. It was like he lived in his own world, and for some reason, you had found your own little corner in it.

     “So,” you said, trying to break the silence, “do you think it’s going to rain later?”

     Sae tilted his head just slightly, his eyes flicking to the sky before returning to the distant horizon.

     “Does it matter?” he asked, his voice cool and steady, not a trace of urgency in his words. “It’s just rain.”

     He wasn’t wrong, of course. The rain wouldn’t change much, but it had a way of making everything feel different. The world shifted when it rained.

     “I guess not,” you replied with a shrug, giving the swing a gentle push. The metal creaked under the movement.

     “Hey! What’s going on here?”

     You turned your head, just in time to see Rin marching over from the soccer field, his expression scrunched up in a frown, his small arms waving in frustration. He looked like he was out for blood. When his gaze landed on you and Sae, it was sharp, full of annoyance.

     Sae didn’t even flinch at his younger brother’s sudden appearance. Rin’s gaze flicked back and forth between you and Sae, his hands balling into fists. 

     “You always spend time with her now!” he shot, his tone tinged with betrayl. “Why don’t you ever hang out with me anymore?”

     Your heart sank a little. You could feel the tension building, the unspoken rivalry between the two brothers settling in the air like a storm cloud. Rin wasn’t stupid. He saw how Sae looked at you, how Sae listened to you when you spoke, how he stayed beside you without any real reason. And the younger brother wasn’t having it.

     Sae exhaled slowly, the silence stretching between them. His eyes flickered over to Rin for the first time in the conversation, but they were still distant, unreadable. 

     “It’s not like that,” he said, but there was a hint of frustration behind the words, something sharper than usual.

     You shifted uncomfortably, watching the exchange unfold, not wanting to get caught in the middle. But Rin wasn’t backing down. He turned his attention to you, his little face twisting into something sour.

     “Why are you always around?” Rin asked, his voice suddenly a little more biting. “Why do you keep hanging out with Sae?”

     Your cheeks flushed, not from embarrassment, but from a pang of something unfamiliar. It wasn’t the first time Rin had been rude, but the coldness of his words hit you harder today. Did he really dislike you this much?.

     Sae’s eyes flicked to you briefly, but there was nothing in his gaze, no sign that he’d noticed the hurt in your expression. His attention was still on Rin.

     “Rin,” Sae said, his voice low and firm now, “stop it.”

     But Rin wasn’t done. 

     “Why don’t you care about me anymore, Sae?” His voice cracked slightly, and the defensiveness in it was clear. “Why do you care so much about her? I’m your brother! We’re supposed to be together, but you’re always with her now, and it’s like I don’t even matter!”

     The words hit harder than you thought they would. There was a raw vulnerability to Rin’s frustration, but it was tangled up in jealousy and childish possessiveness. He was a little boy, trying to figure out where he stood in a world that suddenly felt crowded with things he didn’t understand.

     Sae’s usual stoicism faltered for a moment. His eyes darkened, but his voice stayed cool. “I’m not abandoning you, Rin. Stop acting like this.”

     Rin huffed, clearly hurt, but his little face softened, and he crossed his arms tightly in front of him. “Fine,” he muttered, turning away, “do whatever you want. I don’t care.”

     You could feel the air crackling with the weight of the argument. It wasn’t just that Rin was angry at Sae. It was that Rin was angry at you, too, and it hurt more than you cared to admit. You didn’t ask for this, didn’t want to be the cause of their tension, but here you were, standing on the edge of their world.

     “I’m sorry,” you whispered, not sure who you were apologizing to, but feeling the need to say something.

     Sae finally turned his head to you, his expression softening slightly. “It’s not your fault,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle.

     “Yes, it is!” Rin yelled as he stomped his foot down where he stood. 

     “I think I’m gonna go, it looks like it's gonna rain.” Was all you said before quietly getting off the swing and making your way home. Sae watched as you left, feeling a weird concoction of emotions. 

     "Why do you spend so much time with her?" Rin demands as he and Sae walk home. "She doesn’t even play soccer!"

     Sae sighs. "Not everything is about soccer, Rin."

     "It is for you," Rin counters, glaring. "You always say you don’t have time for distractions, so why is she different?"

     Sae stops walking. Turns to look at Rin with an expression that’s unreadable.

     "Because she makes things feel less heavy," Sae says simply.

     Rin doesn’t understand what that means. And so, Rin finally did what all kids do when they didn’t understand something, he went to his parents.

     At dinner that night, he blurted out, “Why does Nii-chan like Y/n more than me?”

     His parents choked on their food.

     Sae, who had been calmly eating, didn’t even blink. “I don’t.”

     “Yes, you do!” Rin shot back. “You always listen to her first, you always talk to her, and you’re nicer to her than me!”

     Sae sighed, as if dealing with a particularly stubborn child which, to be fair, he was. “That’s not true.”

     “It is!” Rin insisted, looking desperately at his parents. 

     “You always smile when she’s around.”

     Sae blinked, as if he hadn’t realized. “No I don’t?”

     “Yeah, you do! You never do that unless she’s around!”

     “S-shut up, Rin!” Sae blushed, coughing awkwardly.

     Their parents exchanged a look. It was an awkward one.

     “Rin,” their father began, “Sae doesn’t like her more than you. He just… likes her in a different way.”

     Rin frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

     His mother hesitated. “Well, sometimes, when people get older, they start to like others in a way that isn’t the same as how they like their family.”

     Rin’s frown deepened. “So, he likes her, but not like a family?”

     Sae cleared his throat feeling a little embarassed. “Can we not do this at dinner?”

     Their father looked at him with amusement. “You’re not denying it.”

     Sae said nothing, simply returning to his food, but the tips of his ears turned red.

     Rin stared at him, then at his parents, utterly lost. “So… does that mean Niichan likes her more than me?”

     His parents groaned.

     “That’s not, ” his mother rubbed her temples. “It’s not about ‘more’ or ‘less.’ It’s just… different.”

     Rin slumped back in his chair, thoroughly confused. “That doesn’t make sense…”

     His father chuckled. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

     Rin grumbled under his breath, stabbing at his food, still unconvinced.

     Sae, meanwhile, didn’t say a word for the rest of dinner. 

     —

     One afternoon, Rin was walking home from school. Today was different, Sae had stayed home sick, and Rin found himself making the journey alone. Lost in thought, he absentmindedly took a different route home, straying from the familiar path he normally took. This led him down an unfamiliar street, one that felt strange and unwelcoming.

     As he walked, a group of middle schoolers, much older than him, suddenly appeared in front of him, blocking his path. They stood there, sizing him up with menacing grins, clearly up to no good. 

     One of them sneered and asked, "Where you going?" 

     Rin, trying to keep calm, simply ignored them, attempting to maneuver around them and continue on his way. But they weren’t having it.

      "Woah, bud, we asked you a question," one of the boys said, grabbing hold of Rin’s backpack and yanking him back roughly. Panic started to set in, and Rin’s thoughts raced. He didn’t want trouble.

     “Go away! My Nii-chan’s gonna beat you up!” Rin shouted, trying to sound tough, but his voice cracked, betraying his fear. The boys only laughed at his attempt to act brave.

     "Aww, little baby gonna cry?" one of them mocked, and they all laughed in unison. Rin couldn’t understand why they were treating him this way. He hadn’t done anything to deserve it.

     But just as the situation was about to escalate, a voice shouted from behind. "You heard the kid, leave him alone!" The boys turned to see you standing a few steps away, eyes narrowed with determination. When they saw you, they laughed, looking you up and down.

     "Look who’s come to the rescue," one of them sneered, but you didn’t flinch. Without warning, you marched up to the biggest bully, who was still holding onto Rin’s backpack, and punched him square in the face with all the force you could muster.

     "Leave, before I call my police officer dad," you said, your voice sharp and unwavering. Rin, who had been frozen in place, blinked in surprise. Your dad had recently been promoted to sergeant in the town’s police force which was also the reason why you moved here. 

     The bullies realized they were standing right in front of your house, and they knew they didn’t want to face the consequences of messing with you. With a gulp, they turned and ran, disappearing down the street.

     Rin stood there, stunned, unable to process what had just happened. Up until that point, he had always seen you as an annoying presence, someone who stuck to his brother like a parasite. But now, in the blink of an eye, you had become someone completely different. You were cool. You saved him. Maybe you weren’t so terrible. 

     "Are you okay, Rin?" you asked, stepping forward and gently checking on him just like Sae would but your tone was far softer than Sae’s. It was as though you had known exactly what he needed, and the way you checked on him was comforting in a way he hadn’t expected. Rin, still a little shaken but grateful, nodded.

     "Yeah," he mumbled, still processing everything that had just happened.

     "Want to go grab some ice cream? There’s a shop right over there." You pointed toward a small ice cream shop just down the road. Rin looked over at you, still somewhat speechless, but he nodded again.

     As the two of you walked to the ice cream shop, you turned to him and asked, "So, what were you doing here? This isn’t your usual street."

     Rin felt a flush of embarrassment creep up his neck. "I, I made a mistake," he admitted, feeling small under your questioning gaze. He didn’t usually mess up like this, but it felt like his whole world had turned upside down since meeting you.

     Once inside the shop, you asked him what flavor he wanted, and Rin hesitated for a moment. "Blueberry," he said quietly. Normally, Sae would tease him relentlessly for his choice of flavor. Blueberry was a strange choice, and he didn’t understand why anyone would want to risk the inconsistency of it. Some blueberries were tart, some were sweet, and others were mushy. He preferred the safety of strawberry.

     Rin’s eyes widened when he heard you order, "Two blueberry cones."

     "You like blueberry too?" Rin asked, surprised. He had never met anyone else who liked it as much as he did.

     "Yeah!" you replied with a smile, clearly enjoying the simple joy of eating something you liked without worrying about what others thought. Rin was caught off guard by your enthusiasm.

     "Sae doesn’t like it," Rin said, feeling a little embarrassed. "He always makes fun of me for it."

     "Well, Sae can be a little bit of a buzzkill sometimes," you said with a wink, making Rin laugh softly. It was strange to hear you speak about his brother like that, he had always thought you liked Sae far too much to make fun of him like this. 

     As the two of you sat down to enjoy your ice cream, Rin found himself starting to change his mind about you. Maybe he had misjudged you all this time. Maybe you weren’t so bad after all.

     “Y/n-chan?” He said, terrified that you had hated him from how he’d been treating you ever since you met. But when you looked back at him with just a pure look of curiosity, he felt a little relief in knowing there was still a chance you didn’t completely hate him by now.

     “I’m sorry for all the mean stuff I said about you the other day.” 

     “It’s okay, Rin. I know you didn’t actually mean it.” You reassured, ruffling his hair. He didn’t seem to mind that… for now.

     “I think I was just… a little jealous? It’s a new word we learned in school today. My teacher explained it means feeling upset when someone has something that you really want. I felt jealous because Nii-chan was giving you all of his attention. Mom and Dad told me that it’s because he likes you, but not in a family way, and they said that I’ll understand when I’m older." Rin, without realizing it, had just revealed something about Sae to you.

     “Oh, I see.” You coughed awkwardly before adding, “Rin, it's okay, really. Like I told you before, Sae loves you so much. Don’t ever think that anyone or anything could ever change that.”

     When it was time to head home, you walked Rin back to his house, where Sae was waiting on the doorstep. 

     "Thanks," Sae said, his face turning red when he saw you standing there. He wasn’t used to being caught off guard by you. He had grown worried about where his little brother was and what was taking him so long to get home. He worried and cared about Rin while still being sick. 

     "No problem," you said with a casual shrug, before leaving and making your way back home.

     Rin, still holding his blueberry cone, turned to his brother with a thoughtful expression. "Y/n is kind of cool," he said, his voice quieter than usual. Sae looked at him, stunned.

     "What?" Sae blurted out, his eyes widening in surprise.

     Rin just nodded, a small, genuine smile forming on his face. Maybe he had been wrong about you all along.

     —

     Over the years, Rin's perception of you changed. He didn’t dislike you as much anymore and even started considering you a friend. You played dinosaurs with him whenever you were over and watched his favorite show with him when Sae didn’t want to.

     That said, he never stopped being a pesky brat whenever you and Sae hung out, though he at least learned to give you both some space as you all got older. 

     At times, he’d act as a third wheel just to annoy Sae, secretly enjoying the way his older brother would get frustrated. Rin began to understand what his parents meant when they said Sae liked you differently than how he liked him when you and Sae inevitably started dating. He’d seen it coming, but that didn’t make it any less gross, especially when you two did things like hold hands or share snacks. Ugh.

     One day, just to embarrass Sae in front of you, Rin came up with a ridiculous lie. “Sae, you threw out that bar of soap you cut a hole into, right?”

     “What the hell are you talking about?” Sae yelled. 

     Another time, you and Sae were on his bed, making out, when Rin barged in without so much as a knock. He kept his eyes on the floor, not wanting to witness the scene, but eager to embarrass Sae.

     “Sae, I picked up your butt rash cream from the pharmacy since you forgot. You know about that, right, Y/n? Just letting you know in case you two decide to do anything. Don’t want to be picking up two creams.”

     “Get the fuck out!” Sae yelled, hurling a pillow at Rin before quickly locking the door. He’d thought you two were alone.

     “You know he’s just messing around, right?” Sae gave a nervous smile as he turned back to you. You just chuckled in response. “I-I don’t have a ras—” You cut him off with a kiss, continuing your makeout session from before.

     One day, Rin started acting a little different, and you immediately noticed. After all these years, it reminded you of how Sae acted when he first had a crush on you.

     Oh my god. Rin has a crush.

     “Shh,” you whispered to Sae, who was just as intrigued as you. You nearly gasped when you saw a faint pink flush spread across Rin’s face as he continued talking on the phone. You two were trying to figure out who this mystery girl was that had Rin’s attention.

     “Don’t shush me, woman. You’re being just as loud,” Sae groaned.

     “He’s going to hear us if you don’t shut up!”

     “Maybe Rin was right! I should’ve gotten rid of you long before–” Sae was cut off by the sudden silence on Rin’s end.

     “I’ll call you back later,” Rin said.

     “Aw, okay. Something wrong?” The mystery girl asked. 

     “No, just my idiot older brother and his equally idiotic girlfriend spying on me, thinking they’re doing a good job at hiding it. I can see your fat-ass head from a mile away, Sae!” Rin called out.

     “Oh, fuck you!” Sae yelled back.

     “Yeah, go back to the blunt bangs you had as a kid. I don’t know why you style it pushed back.”

     “Shut up! Y/n loves my forehead! She kisses it every night before bed!” Sae yelled.

     “They seem fun,” the girl on the line laughed.

     “Yeah, they’re kind of like my second set of parents, so I can’t get rid of them even if I wanted to,” Rin sighed, rubbing his temples. He politely ended the call with the girl before sending Sae and you a death glare. 

     “Aw!” You ignored his look, instead feeling a warm, unexpected flutter in your chest. You knew that the past ill feelings Rin harboured for you disappeared by now but to hear him say he saw you as close family melted your heart. 

     “This is why I said Isagi’s a better soccer player than you!” Sae shouted.

     “You take that back!” Rin yelled, clearly offended. It hit a nerve, especially since Rin had been Sae’s D1 glazer since childhood. He was still shocked the day they faced off, Blue Lock vs. U-20, and Sae had said Isagi would bring Japan the victory. That family dinner that night? Awkward doesn’t even begin to cover it.

     “Sae, shut the hell up! Rin just said he saw me as a second parent!” You cut through their bickering.

     “Uh, he mentioned me too.”

     “Who cares? I’m talking about me.”

     “Oh, for the love of God,” Sae groaned before whispering to Rin “Is it too late to get rid of her?”

     Rin shook his head, confirming his older brother’s fear of it being way too late now.

[malsmind]

bsf!reader 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 vampire!chris 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘮 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘺 𝘨𝘢𝘮𝘦

🕸 - content warnings: ★ chris losing his temper ★ small lacrosse fight ★ slight yelling ★ smut ★ unprotected sex ★ angry, rough sex ★ slapping ★ crying ★ dirty talk ★ praising ★ hair pulling ★ creampie ★ aftercare ★

lacrosse games were usually smooth for chris.

even if a ref made a bad call, or someone got a little too aggressive, he had his ways of staying locked in—dialed into the rhythm, the strategy, the adrenaline. it was good for him. all that pent-up energy, all that heat that came with being what he was… it needed an outlet. lacrosse gave him one. but tonight wasn’t smooth. not even close.

the guy on his team had been playing like he had no idea what sport he was in—sloppy passes, missed shots, and no defense whatsoever. and when chris tried to point it out, he was met with attitude. twice.

so he shoved him. hard. right there on the field. the ref blew the whistle. the coach stormed over. and chris, already vibrating with the need to keep it together, couldn’t even find the words to explain before it all snapped.

“why the hell did you shove your own teammate?” his coach demanded.

“because he’s playing like an idiot!” chris snapped back. “and maybe if you coached instead of standing there yelling every five seconds—”

“watch it, kid.”

“nah. you watch it,” chris growled, already walking off the field. “i’m done.”

he didn’t wait for a response. he didn’t need to hear the usual crap about discipline or teamwork. he tossed his helmet to the bench and stormed toward the locker rooms, not stopping once. not even when the backup got thrown in to replace him. you were already following. you didn’t need to say anything—just the look on his face when he passed by said it all. when you walked into the locker room, it was quiet except for the echo of his cleats against the tile. he was pacing, hands still in his gloves, jaw tight enough to crack bone.

“chris,” you said softly, cautiously.

he didn’t stop moving. “don’t. not right now.”

“you shoved your own teammate.”

he stopped then. turned toward you slowly, frustration flickering behind his eyes.

“you think i don’t know that?”

“then maybe don’t act like you’re not in the wrong?”

you weren’t trying to push. you were trying to pull him back. ground him. but both of you were short-tempered. stubborn. it was a miracle you ever got along at all.

“he was gonna get someone hurt,” chris snapped. “i told him twice to stop cutting across—”

“and your response is to shove him and curse out your coach infront of the whole town?” you crossed your arms. “real good job.”

he laughed bitterly, backing toward the lockers and yanking his gloves off, throwing them on the bench.

“you think it’s that easy to stay calm when everything’s already—” he cut himself off, flexing his fingers like his hands itched to break something. “you don’t know what it feels like when it’s this close to slipping out.”

you softened a little at that. stepped closer. “then let me help you calm down.”

“i just need a second,” he muttered. “just… a second to forget the bullshit.”

and then he looked at you—really looked at you. and something inside him snapped in a different way. before you could say another word, he grabbed you and pushed you gently—but firmly—against the cool metal of the lockers, his mouth crashing into yours like a match to gasoline. you gasped, your fingers instantly curling into his jersey as his lips moved over yours—hot, rough, desperate. like he needed to feel something else and this was the only way.

his hands were already tugging at his gear, peeling the jersey over his head and letting it drop to the floor with a dull thud. your own breath stuttered as his mouth moved to your jaw, down to your neck, kissing you like he was trying to chase the anger out of his body and into you. you weren’t sure when your stubbornness melted, but your body was already responding, back arching into him, your hands buried in his messy hair. he pressed himself closer, his palms sliding down your sides, gripping your hips like he didn’t want to let go. his forehead dropped to your shoulder, breathing hard, lips brushing against your skin.

“you’re the only thing keeping me sane right now,” he muttered.

you swallowed hard, heart racing. “then don’t stop.”

he looked up at you again, eyes wild and full of something hot and dangerous, but so focused on you. and suddenly, even in the aftermath of his rage, all you felt was how much he needed you. not just like this, but always.

chris’s hands are everywhere at once—rough, demanding, but never crossing that line. his lips left burning trails down your neck as he yanked your shirt over your head, the fabric catching slightly before he tossed it aside. his teeth graze your collarbone, a sharp contrast to the way his palms slide up your ribs, thumbs brushing the sides of your breasts like an apology for the bite (luckily he could keep himself calm enough to not let his fangs out). you gasp, fingers scrambling at the waistband of his shorts, but he catches your wrists, pinning them above your head against the locker with one hand.

his breath is hot against your ear. “stay there.”

it’s not a request.

you shiver, the cold metal seeping into your back as he steps away just long enough to strip off the rest of his gear. his chest heaves, sweat glistening under the fluorescent lights, muscles coiled like he’s still mid-game. when he returns, he doesn’t kiss you—he devours you. his tongue slides against yours, all heat and hunger, while his free hand grips your thigh, hitching your leg around his hip. the hard line of his cock presses against you through his shorts, and you whine, arching into him.

he groans, low and gritty. “fuck, you feel that? this is what you do to me. every. damn. time.”

his hand slips between you, fingers dragging your underwear aside. you’re already wet, and he smirks against your mouth, circling your clit once, twice, just to hear you choke on his name.

“knew it,” he breathes. “knew you’d be so needy f'me.” his fingers plunge into you without warning, curling in a way that makes your knees buckle.

you sag against the lockers, but he holds you up, his forearm braced under your thigh now, pushing it higher. “look at you—taking it so good. fuck, you’re perfect.”

his praise is rough-edged, voice shredded by frustration and want. he adds a third finger, stretching you, and you cry out, nails scraping the locker. “chris—please—”

“please what?” he nips your earlobe, fingers pumping faster. “use your words, sweetheart.”

“i need—you—”

he growls, withdrawing his hand so abruptly you nearly sob. in one fluid motion, he tears your underwear off and shoves his own shorts down, his cock springing free, thick and just as needy for you. he doesn’t give you time to think, just lines himself up and slams into you, the force knocking the air from your lungs. you moan loudly, the sound echoing off the tiles, but he swallows it with another kiss, messy and possessive.

“mine,” he rasps against your lips. “this pussy’s mine.”

his thrusts are relentless, each one punching a moan from your throat. one hand stays pinned above your head, the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise, pulling you onto him with every snap of his pelvis. when you clench around him, he hisses, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“sh—shit—you gonna come already? that it?” his teeth carefully sink into your shoulder, not enough to break skin, but enough to make you jerk. “do it. come on my cock baby.”

you shatter, vision whiting out as your orgasm rips through you. he doesn’t slow, fucking you through it, his own rhythm stuttering.

“that’s it—fuck—take it, take me—” his hand releases your wrists to fist in your hair, yanking your head back. the sting makes you gasp, but the fire in his eyes silences any protest. “look at me. wanna see your pretty face when i fill you up.”

you whimper, overstimulated but starving for more, and he lets go of your hair to slap your ass—hard. you jolt forward, crying out as he hits a new depth. “chris—!”

“gooood girlll,” he grinds out, delivering another slap, the burn blooming under his palm. “doin' so good f'me. love how i fuck you like this—rough—huh?” his thumb presses against your clit, rubbing harsh circles. “c'mon, tell me.”

“yes—yes—”

“louder.”

“i love it—love you—”

he stills, chest heaving, pupils blown. for a heartbeat, the anger in his face fractures, something vulnerable flickering beneath. then he’s kissing you again, slower, deeper, as his hips roll into yours, each thrust dragging against that sweet spot until you’re climbing again.

“gonna come inside you,” he murmurs, voice ragged. “that okay?”

you nod frantically, and his groan is almost pained.

“fuck—fuck—” he buries himself to the hilt, spilling hot and thick, his release triggering your second orgasm. you sob, tears spilling over as pleasure crashes into you, wave after wave, until you’re boneless against the lockers.

he holds you up, forehead pressed to yours, both of you gasping. the locker room was quiet now. too quiet, almost. you were still pressed into chris’s chest, arms loosely wrapped around his neck, your legs a little weak where one of them was wrapped around his waist, and both of you still catching your breath. the haze of it—what just happened—still lingered in the air between you. he hadn’t said much right after. hadn’t needed to. his arms had stayed around you, holding you close, grounding himself in the warmth of your skin, your pulse against his. but eventually, he pulled back, just enough to look at you. his eyes flicked over your face, a crease forming between his brows.

“shit,” he whispered, almost to himself. “was that too much?”

you blinked at him, lips parted. “what?”

his hands—those same hands that had just been gripping you like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth—now slid up to cradle your face. soft. careful.

“i got carried away,” he said, brows still furrowed. “i shouldn’t’ve—i mean, you’re still getting used to all this sex shit—and i just—fuck, i didn’t hurt you, did i?”

your heart cracked a little at the worry in his voice.

“chris,” you said gently, resting your forehead against his. “i’m okay.”

he kissed your cheek. then your nose. your temple. then your lips. almost as if he was apologizing with small kisses.

“you sure?” he asked again, voice lower this time. softer. “you were just letting me… be all over you like that, and i didn’t even stop to think about if it was too much. i feel like an asshole..”

you smiled a little, brushing his sweaty hair back with your fingers.

“you're perfectly okay, crhis,” you whispered. “i love you. and i want all of you. even when it’s rough. especially when it’s real.”

his breath hitched, and his lips were back on your skin again, kissing your jaw, your cheekbones, the corner of your mouth, almost like he was trying to say sorry with every single one. he held you like you were breakable now. like he was making up for every hard touch with a hundred gentle ones.

“you didn’t do anything wrong,” you reminded him. “i can handle you.”

he let out a short laugh against your skin. “yeah. i know. you’re stubborn as hell.”

“takes one to know one,” you teased, and he finally cracked a real smile.

after another beat, he pulled you into a proper hug—your arms wrapped around each other, his chin resting on top of your head.

“wanna get out of here?” he asked after a long pause. “we can get wing stop. eat like trash. watch some dumb movie on the couch until you fall asleep on me.”

you leaned back just enough to meet his eyes. “that your version of aftercare?”

he grinned. “that, and carrying you to bed after you pass out halfway through the movie. with like, eight blankets.”

“sounds perfect.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

and with one last kiss to your forehead, he helped you away from the locker, gently gathering your clothes with a tenderness that didn’t need explaining. whatever happened back there, whatever heat and anger and need boiled over, it didn’t scare you. because this—him—was home. even when he was a mess. even when he broke a little. he was still yours. and you were still his.

always.

♱ - @kittybitch @tits4matt @bgfshai @just-a-girl-1 @phonysuperstarr @sweetshuga @aflairforthedramattic @chrisbratt333 @courta13 @h3arts4nat @rizzgod12 @slvtf0rchr1s @whore4chris @urlocallera @il0vey0um0st @slvtf0rchr1s @chrispycremedonut @oopsiedaisydeer @bluetalia @pair-of-pantaloons @dummyslut00 @chrissfavhoe @sturnsflirt @hello-emma @abbystromboli @y3sterdaysproblem @mi-co-uk @loser41ifee @emillionaireee @corpsebridedelrey @sturniolosssworld @certified-sturniolo @bluessturniolo @mattswifeyy @matts-wife @cass-sturn @tezzzzzzzz @ariasautumn @auttysturnz @mx7ka @backwardshatnick @applecidersturniolo @sturnsrecord

[nikixkoo]

𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐓 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒

pairing: jungkook x f!reader.

word count: 4.2k

content warnings: smut [MDNI], unprotected sex, make out, kind of public display, jungkook’s a bit (a lot) possessive, and lots of teasing.

a/n: hi! it’s niki here. 𐙚 this is my first time writing, but i hope u enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed doing it. english isn’t my first language, so please be kind if something isn’t right written! lots of love, muak. ≽^•⩊•^≼

She’s everything he hates to love. He’s everything she pretends not to need.

summary: In the world of wealth, secrets, and perfectly polished lies, you walk through the marble halls of the most prestigious university in the country like you own the place, because you practically do. Heiress of an empire. Flawless reputation. Everyone wants you. Everyone fears you.

Except him.

The only one who’s never looked at you like you were fragile. The only one who sees through the diamonds, the designer, the perfectly curated mask. Your favorite person, your first secret, and your biggest weakness.

You push his buttons. He tests your limits. You make him jealous on purpose. He pulls you into his bed like it’s nothing.

It’s not official. It’s not healthy.

But it’s yours.

The sun hits the field like a spotlight, casting golden light over expensive turf and even more expensive egos. Cleats scrape, whistles blow, and the boys of Rutherford’s lacrosse team move like they’re auditioning for the front page of some legacy magazine. At the center of it all, Jeon Jungkook.

Fast, lethal, and disgustingly good at everything. He runs drills like a general, yelling commands, barking orders, and still managing to look like a god dipped in sweat. The kind of boy that makes good grades and bad decisions.

Today’s practice? Open to the public.

Translation? It’s a flex. A show. A power move.

And of course, you’re there. You’re always there. Not for the game. Not for the sport. But for him.

You sit front row, sunglasses on, designer outfit hugging you like sin, legs crossed like a weapon.

You know he can see you. You know he wants to look. And he doesn’t, not once, until he scores the final shot, whips his helmet off, sweat in his hair, and finally lets his eyes land on you.

He doesn’t look away when he meets your eyes. He drags that gaze down your legs, up your figure, and settles on your mouth, like he’s remembering the last time he had you underneath him, begging. The way you moaned his name with your lip gloss smudged and your voice wrecked.

The crowd starts to thin after the final whistle, mostly girls pretending not to stare, and boys pretending not to envy.

You stay seated. You know he’ll come to you.

The crowd is gone, and Jungkook walks out of the changing rooms like he’s got the whole world in his back pocket.

Still damp from the shower, curls sticking to his forehead, gym bag slung low over his shoulder. He’s in his uniform pants, but the top is gone, replaced by a thin black t-shirt that clings to his chest in all the ways that make you want to bite something.

He sees you. And he doesn’t look away this time.

He slows as he reaches you, shadow falling over your seat. You’re still sitting like the spoiled goddess you are, legs crossed, lip gloss fresh, phone in hand like you weren’t just watching him like a movie you’ve seen a hundred times and still crave.

You don’t even look up. “Took you long enough.”

Jungkook snorts. “Didn’t know I had a timer.”

“You always do.” You finally glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “You just pretend you don’t hear it ticking.”

There’s a pause. A beat of quiet so thick it feels heavy. His eyes roam your face like he’s searching for something, maybe your limit, maybe your weakness. But the truth is, you both know the answer already.

“You like pushing me, don’t you?” he murmurs.

You tilt your head. “Only when I know you’ll push back.”

The tension coils in the air, charged and dangerous.

“You wore that outfit for me?”

“You scored that goal for me?”

Touché.

He steps closer. Just a little. Close enough that your knees could brush if you shifted, but you don’t. Neither of you moves. You’re locked in that perfect space where tension thrives, just shy of something unforgivable.

“People are starting to talk,” he says quietly.

You hum. “They’ve always talked. They just don’t know what to say now.”

His gaze drops to your lips again. “They think you’re mine.”

You arch a brow. “Aren’t I?”

A beat passes. He doesn’t answer.

And maybe that’s your favorite thing about him, that he never says the things he feels. Not out loud. He says them in stares. In clenched fists. In the way he only kisses you when no one’s watching.

You stand, finally. And the shift is magnetic. Now you’re the one in his space. You fix the collar of his shirt like it bothers you, like touching him doesn’t set fire to your veins.

“Walk me to my car?” you ask sweetly, even though it’s not really a question.

He doesn’t respond. Just steps aside and lets you lead the way, like always.

You don’t talk.

Not until you’re leaning against the door, and he’s standing too close, eyes flickering from your lips to your neck to the space between you that’s already melting.

“You’re exhausting,” he mutters.

“And yet,” you smile, “you keep coming back.”

He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, mouth ghosting over your ear.

“I should let someone else deal with your attitude.”

You grin, unbothered. “You won’t.”

Tic tac, tic tac. He doesn’t answer.

Then his lips are on yours. Rough. Familiar. Dangerous.

Your lips move at the same pace as his, the tip of your tongue touching the piercing of his lower lip every time it enters his mouth, causing chills to run through your body.

It doesn’t last long. It never does when it’s this heated. He pulls away like he hates himself for it, and you fix your lipstick like nothing happened.

His breath is still warm on your lips, and his hand is still wrapped around your waist like he forgot how to let go. His gaze is locked on you. Dark, unreadable, burning.

You smirk, like none of it fazes you. Like your knees didn’t almost give out thirty seconds ago.

“Missed me?” you murmur.

Jungkook exhales a sharp breath. “You’re such a fucking brat.”

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “And you like it.”

His jaw tightens, and for a second, just a second, his eyes flicker like he might kiss you again.

But instead, he drops his hand from your waist and takes a single step back, like space is the only thing keeping him sane.

“Do you even realize what you’re doing to me?” he mutters.

You blink, caught off guard by the shift in his tone.

“This game you play,” he goes on, voice low and dangerous. “Showing up, looking like that. Acting like I’m just some guy you can tease whenever you’re bored.”

“I don’t—”

“Yes, you do,” he cuts you off. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

You cross your arms, chin raised. “And what if I do?”

He laughs under his breath, bitter. “Then you’re more cruel than I thought.”

You take a step toward him. “And you’re more obsessed than you pretend to be.”

That gets him.

He looks at you like he wants to say something, something real. Something that would make this whole fake, undefined thing very real, very fast. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans in again, mouth brushing your ear.

“I could ruin every guy who looks at you the wrong way,” he whispers. “And the worst part? You’d love it.”

You swallow hard.

He’s right. You would.

But you can’t let him have the last word, not today.

So you turn your head slowly, lips ghosting over his, your voice just as quiet, “You won’t do it, though. Because you don’t want people to know you care.”

His eyes narrow. “I don’t.”

You smile. “Then why haven’t you left?”

A beat. He doesn’t answer.

He just watches you walk around the car, heels clicking like a countdown. Before you slide into the driver’s seat, you glance at him one last time.

“See you around.” You echo sweetly.

Then you shut the door and drive off, leaving him standing there. Alone, silent, and very, very messed up.

Your dorm is a war zone.

Shoes tossed across the floor. Perfume clouds lingering in the air. The faint bass of the party already vibrating through the walls from four floors down. And in the middle of the mess, you.

Dressed in baby pink, your favorite color. Tight, tiny, and just shy of dangerous. Glossy lips. Winged liner. Hair perfectly undone.

You look like heartbreak with a trust fund.

“I swear to God,” Val says, flopping onto your bed, “if Jungkook shows up with that skank again—”

“Valeria,” Mar warns from the bathroom, “we’re not calling her that.”

You grab your earrings, smirking. “We are if she shows up in that tacky rhinestone top again.”

Val snorts. “Queen behavior.”

Mar pops her head out, mascara wand in hand. “Are you even gonna talk to him tonight?”

You pause.

“No.”

The silence is loud.

Val lets out a dramatic sigh. “You two are exhausting. Just admit you’re in love, make out against the nearest wall, and let the rest of us live.”

You grab your purse, ignoring the heat in your cheeks. “We’re friends.”

��Yeah,” Mar mutters. “With benefits and unresolved trauma.”

You flip them both off with a perfectly manicured hand and head for the door.

The party is already on fire by the time you step in.

Music pulsing. Air thick with perfume, sweat, and secrets. Someone’s spilled tequila on the marble floor. There’s a fight brewing in the kitchen. And all of it fades the moment you see him.

Jungkook.

Center of the room like he owns it.

Black tee hugging his body like sin. Tattooed hand lazily holding a drink. And a girl, that girl, clinging to him like she’s got the right.

She laughs too loudly. Leans in too close. Touches his chest like she’s not two seconds away from being buried alive.

You freeze. Smile cracking.

Valeria steps beside you, looking bored. “Oh. He brought that one.”

Mar sips her drink. “Didn’t she throw up at the Halloween party?”

You glare. “Why the fuck is she touching him?”

Val raises a brow. “Better question, why do you care?”

You don’t answer. You’re too busy watching.

He hasn’t seen you yet. Or maybe he has, and he’s pretending he hasn’t.

Because that’s what he does, right?

Pushes. Pulls. Drives you crazy, then reels you back in.

You down half your drink in one go. You don’t storm off. That’s for girls who lose.

You walk. Chin high, back straight, smile razor-sharp.

He wants to play games? You wrote the damn rulebook.

And right on cue, there he is—Kim Jisung, legacy boy, wine-stained lips, and a crush on you so big he’d probably kill Jungkook for just breathing near you. You find him by the bar, bored and beautiful.

“Dance with me,” you purr into his ear.

He doesn’t hesitate.

You don’t look back, but you know Jungkook’s watching. And that’s the point.

The music gets louder. Lights blur. Jisung’s hand slides a little too low. His breath is a little too close.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because he’s not the one you’re thinking about.

Not the one you want.

He finds you in the hallway, half-drunk on power and tequila.

“You think he can touch you like I do?” Jungkook’s voice is low, dark, dangerous. “You think he knows what you like?”

You roll your eyes, leaning against the wall. “Are you seriously jealous right now?”

He laughs once, sharp and humorless. “You don’t get to play the victim, princess. Not after the way you looked at me all night. Like you wanted me to lose it.”

You tilt your head, lips curved. “Did you?”

He’s in front of you in a second. Hand against the wall next to your head. His scent all over you, soap, sweat and sin. His eyes drop to your lips.

“You don’t want him,” he says.

You hum. “Maybe I do.”

He grits his teeth. “Liar.”

“You’re not my boyfriend, Jungkook.”

His smile is slow. Infuriating. “No. But I’m the one who fucks you so good you forget your name.”

Your breath catches.

He sees it, how your fingers twitch, how your lips part.

And he leans in even closer, brushing his mouth over yours but not kissing you.

“I could take you right here,” he whispers. “Push that bratty attitude right out of you.”

You clench your jaw. “Then why don’t you?”

“Because you want me to,” he says, cruel and sweet. “And I like watching you beg.”

His body cages yours, eyes dark, jaw tense.

“You’re playing with fire,” you murmur, tilting your head, lashes fluttering like you’re not completely wrecked by the way he’s looking at you.

Jungkook’s breath is heavy. Controlled. But you know him. You know what’s under all that control. And it’s dangerous.

“You think you’re the only one who knows how to play?” His voice is low, lethal. “You think I didn’t see the way you looked at him?”

“Maybe I wanted you to see.” You smirk, brushing your fingers over his chest. “Maybe I wanted you pissed off.”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“Congratulations, princess,” he growls. “You got what you wanted.”

Silence. Thick. Heavy. Tension so sharp it could slice you both open.

His hand slides up your waist, fingers splaying across silk and skin. He doesn’t kiss you yet, no, he’s crueler than that.

“I should leave you standing here,” he whispers. “Let you think about what you’ve done.”

Your breath catches, again.

“But I won’t.”

Because the thing is, Jungkook doesn’t do restraint where you’re concerned. Not when you look at him like that. Not when your lips are swollen from teasing, from smirking, from wanting.

He presses you back against the wall, one hand on your throat—not tight, just there. A warning.

“You want me angry?” he murmurs. “Then take it. Feel it.”

And finally, finally, his lips crash into yours.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s teeth, heat, and too many nights pretending you’re just friends.

You tug at his shirt. The hallway is too public. Too risky. Too perfect.

But just as it starts to blur, right when you think he’s going to lose it completely, he pulls away.

“I hope he saw that.”

And then he walks off. Leaving you against the wall. Pissed, panting, and ruined.

2:37 AM. You slam the door shut behind you.

Not loud enough to wake your roommates. Just loud enough to feel it. To feel something.

Your heels hit the floor first, followed by your jacket, then your body. Flat onto the designer duvet you bought out of boredom last fall.

Everything feels too much. Your skin still burns where he touched you. Your lips still tingle like they’re waiting for more.

And your heart? That traitorous thing is pounding like it doesn’t know the difference between lust and loathing anymore.

You press your fingers to your mouth, eyes fluttering shut.

He kissed you. No, he devoured you.

Like you were his punishment and his reward all at once.

And the worst part?

You let him. You loved it.

You told yourself you had the upper hand. That he’d be the one crawling back.

But now you’re the one lying on your bed, thinking about his hands, his voice, the way he said:

“I hope he saw that.”

God. He’s so annoying. So cocky. So hot when he’s mad.

You roll over, burying your face in your pillow.

You shouldn’t have gone with that guy. You shouldn’t have cared about Jungkook being with that girl.

But you did. You do.

And now you’re here, lying in your palace of silk and envy, trying to convince yourself this isn’t getting out of hand.

You’re not in love. You’re just obsessed. Right?

Right?

Your phone buzzes from the floor where you carelessly tossed it earlier.

You ignore it for a second, maybe out of pride. Maybe because you already know who it is.

But when it buzzes again, you glance over.

koo ♡ [2:47 AM]:

still thinking about me?

You blink.

Another message lands before you even finish rolling your eyes.

koo ♡ [2:48 AM]:

didn’t know you were into public displays. should’ve kissed you harder.

And then, as if he didn’t just detonate a bomb in your chest:

koo ♡ [2:49 AM]:

sweet dreams, princess.

You stare at the screen. Heart hammering. Skin flushed.

Pillow no longer enough to hide your grin, or your frustration.

God, you hate him. You want him. You hate that you want him.

You type something. Delete it. Type again.

You [2:52 AM]:

u’re so full of yourself.

His reply is instant.

koo ♡ [2:53 AM]:

🤥 you weren’t complaining when i had you against the wall.

You let out a strangled laugh, biting your lip so hard it stings.

He’s cocky. He’s smug. He’s impossible.

And he wins.

Because now you’re wide awake, cheeks hot, thighs pressed together, and you know—

This isn’t over. Not even close.

Saturday nights used to be chaos.

Drinks. Laughter. Parties you’d barely remember and dresses you’d only wear once.

But tonight?

Silence.

Your friends are out with their boyfriends—tragic, really. You stayed behind under the guise of needing rest, but mostly because you couldn’t stand the thought of pretending to care about some mediocre couple’s anniversary dinner.

Now it’s just you.

Satin robe. Hair up. Music low.

A glass of red wine you’re not even sipping anymore.

You’re sprawled across your bed, legs bare, mind racing with thoughts you shouldn’t have… of him.

Then, you hear three soft knocks. Your stomach flips.

You don’t need to check. You know it’s him. Of course it’s him.

You open the door, and there he is. Jeon Jungkook, dressed like a sin you’d commit twice, hoodie half-zipped, jaw sharp enough to hurt, that same smug glint in his eyes like he already knows you’ll let him in.

You lean against the frame. “Didn’t know we had plans tonight.”

He shrugs, stepping inside without waiting for permission. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

“Maybe I was busy.” You close the door behind him.

He turns to face you, eyes raking over your robe, your bare legs, the curve of your smirk.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low, “looks like it.”

You roll your eyes. “What do you want, Jungkook?”

He doesn’t answer at first. He just looks at you. Like he’s trying to decide if he wants to tease you or ruin you.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says finally. “Figured you might need company.”

“You figured wrong.”

He smirks. “That so? You always answer the door in lingerie when you’re not interested?”

You don’t respond.

You just turn and walk back to your bed, knowing he’s watching your every move.

He follows, he always does. The tension stretches, electric and maddening.

“You look comfortable,” he says, eyes still glued to your legs.

You tilt your head. “You look needy.”

He laughs under his breath, leaning back like he owns the room. “I am.”

You hate how that makes your heart race. Hate how your thighs clench. Hate how this game always ends the same.

But you love it, too. The way he looks at you like he’s starving. The way he speaks like he’s daring you to lose control first.

“You should leave,” you whisper.

He leans forward slowly, voice like smoke. “You should make me.”

His voice is low, cocky, soaked in heat. You should slam the door in his face. You should tell him to fuck off.

But your thighs press together. And you don’t move.

Jungkook steps closer, slow and deliberate, like he knows exactly how this ends. His eyes drop to your robe, the slip of skin peeking out, the hint of lace beneath. You don’t bother hiding it. You know what he came for.

“You’re not wearing anything under that, are you?”

You say nothing.

You just tug at the tie of your robe, slow and calculated, and let it fall open an inch, enough to show the soft dip of your waist, the lace of your panties, the fact that there’s not a bra in sight.

His jaw flexes.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

Then he’s on you.

The kiss is instant, hot and brutal, mouths colliding like magnets. His hands grab your waist, your ass, your everything, like he doesn’t know where to start. You let the robe slide off your shoulders, pooling onto the floor in a puddle of satin and sin.

He groans against your lips, breaking the kiss just to stare.

“Turn around,” he says, voice wrecked already.

You smirk, walking slowly to the bed, hips swaying, his eyes glued to every step.

You don’t even hear him undress, just the soft shuffle of fabric, the sound of his belt hitting the floor, the low curse under his breath when you bend over the edge of the bed.

He’s behind you a second later.

You feel him. Warm, solid, hard. His hands smooth over your hips, your thighs, spreading you open with a possessive grip.

“You like teasing me, huh?” he mutters, his voice thick, lips brushing your ear. “Walking around like that. Knowing I’d show up.”

You grind back against him just enough to make his breath hitch. “You always show up.”

His laugh is low, dark. “Because I know what this pussy tastes like.”

Then he drops to his knees.

You feel his mouth first. Warm, wet, and filthy. Dragging his tongue from your entrance up to your clit, slow and deliberate. You gasp, thighs trembling, fingers clenching the sheets.

He moans like he’s savoring every drop of you, his tongue lapping and sucking until you’re squirming, until your knees feel weak and your back arches without permission.

And then his fingers—two, thick and perfect, sliding inside you with ease. Curling just right. Pushing every button you forgot existed.

“Fuck, Jungkook…”

“That’s it,” he murmurs into your cunt. “Say my name.”

You do. Over and over.

Your moans fill the room, echoing off the walls like a song he knows by heart. You grind into his face, desperate, needy, shameless.

But he pulls back before you can finish.

You whimper, lifting your head to look back at him.

He wipes his mouth with his thumb, eyes dark with something dangerous. “You’re gonna take me so fucking well, baby.”

He strokes himself once, then twice, before grabbing your hips and lining up behind you.

“A spoiled little brat like you?” he groans, pushing inside, inch by inch. “You were made to be ruined.”

And god, he does.

He sinks in slow, deliberate, like he wants you to feel every inch of him stretching you open. And you do. Every fucking inch. Your hands grip the sheets, head falling forward as your mouth drops open in a soundless gasp.

“God, Jungkook…”

He groans, hips flush against your ass now, buried to the hilt. His hands grip your waist like he owns it, like he owns you.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he growls, dragging out slowly just to slam back in, making your legs jolt. “Missed this pussy.”

You can barely breathe.

He fucks you like he’s angry. Like you owe him. Like every roll of his hips is payback for every smirk, every tease, every time you walked past him like you didn’t need him.

Your body shakes with every thrust, skin clapping against skin, the room filled with the obscene sounds of sex and low curses.

“You wanna act like you don’t care?” he grits out, fingers digging into your hips. “Like I don’t fuck you better than anyone ever could?”

You cry out when he hits that spot, the one he always finds, like your body was made for him.

“You gonna walk away from me again?” he growls, voice wrecked, fucking into you harder now, unforgiving. “Let some other guy touch what’s mine?”

“N-no, fuck—”

You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore. You just shake your head, moaning, melting, unraveling under every filthy word, every punishing thrust.

“You’re mine,” he breathes, low in your ear now, his chest slick against your back. “Say it.”

You choke on a moan. “I’m yours.”

“Again.”

“I’m yours, fuck, I’m yours—”

He groans like he’s losing control, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat, pulling your back to his chest. The angle makes you whimper, makes your toes curl, your eyes roll back.

“You feel that?” he whispers, grinding deeper, slower. “That’s how you beg without saying a word.”

You’re close.

So fucking close you’re shaking, nails clawing at the sheets, your body clenching around him so tight he swears under his breath.

“Cum for me,” he orders, voice rough, hand tightening on your throat just enough. “Be a good fucking girl and cum.”

And you do.

It hits you like a wave, loud, violent and blinding. Your legs tremble, your whole body shaking as the orgasm rips through you, soaking his cock, your moans turning shameless and broken.

“Fuck,” he grunts, hips stuttering, losing rhythm. “Gonna fill you up, baby. Take it—”

He throbs inside you, spilling deep, pulling your body back against his as he groans your name into your skin. His thrusts slow, messy, drawn-out until he’s spent and breathless.

Silence follows.

Just the sound of your panting, your bodies tangled, your skin flushed and marked.

And then his lips brush your shoulder.

“Still think I should’ve left?”

You laugh weakly, voice ruined. “Shut up.”

He pulls out slowly, and you wince, sensitive. You collapse on the bed, and he follows, arm thrown lazily over your waist, breathing steadying.

And in the quiet, with your body still buzzing and his cum dripping between your thighs, you hate how safe it feels.

How much you want him to stay.

How much he already knows he will.

Part 2? Probably yes.

[ceeaann]

Arcane Highschool!AU

characters - vi, caitlyn, jinx, sevika, ekko, jayce and viktor content - 7.1k words, cliche highschool tropes, gn!reader, just pure fluff also a little reverse comfort

A/N this was so fun to do, cant believe i finished this in 1 day ahahahahhaah. this is my longest work yet so hopefully you guys enjoy it <3

— Star Athlete!vi and Band!reader

You’ve spent most of your high school life flying under the radar as the band’s flute player—quiet, responsible, and perfectly content in your niche. Your days revolve around early-morning rehearsals, sheet music, and the steady rhythm of practice. It’s predictable, comfortable.

That is, until the school’s star athlete, Vi, always in whispers and cheers, bursts into your life like an unrelenting storm.

Shes everything you’re not—loud, brash, impulsive, and dangerously confident. The type who winks at the crowd after scoring the winning goal, whose swagger fills the halls, and who’s constantly making headlines for their fiery outbursts on and off the field. You’ve heard the stories: the scuffle at last week’s game, the heated argument with the coach, the rumors of detention slips piling up.

You’d barely exchanged more than a few words with her, but that changes when the school decides to host a collaborative pep rally—complete with a showstopping performance featuring both the sports teams and the band.

When the coach volunteers them to help promote school spirit by playing a surprise number with the band, you’re horrified. So is she.

“I don’t have time for this,” she scoff when she gets dragged to the band room. “Why don’t you all just play louder or something?”

Your teacher assigns you the unenviable task of teaching them how to play an instrument. You can practically hear your friends giggling behind your back as you pull them aside, thrusting a trumpet into their hands.

Vi groans, slouching in her chair like a bored kid in detention. “What’s the point of this? Everyone’s here to watch me win, not play this stupid thing.”

You bristle at their cocky tone. “Well, if you don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of the entire school, I suggest you try.”

VI then gives you a smirk, leaning in just a little too close. “Oh, you think I can’t do it? I’m good at everything.”

It turns out, she's not.

The first few lessons are a disaster. She blow into the trumpet like she's trying to blow out a candle from across the room, their fingers fumble over the valves, and she keep snapping, “This thing is broken!” every time it makes a screeching noise.

But underneath all the bravado and eye-rolls, you start to notice something. The way she glares at the trumpet when she messes up isn’t just frustration—it’s determination. she hates failing, and she hates it even more that they’re bad at this.

“I’m not giving up,” Vi declares after her third failed attempt to hit a note. “I’m not letting some dumb piece of metal beat me.”

The more you work together, the more cracks appear in their tough exterior. she's fiercely competitive, yes, but also surprisingly quick to laugh at themselves when the trumpet sputters out the wrong notes. Her cocky grin softens when you praise even her smallest improvement, and she starts showing up to practice earlier than you do.

One afternoon, as you’re packing up your sheet music, you catch them staring at the band photo on the wall. “You guys practice this much all the time?” Vi asked, her voice uncharacteristically quiet.

“Yeah,” you say, surprised. “It’s a lot of work, but it’s worth it.”

she nod slowly, her usual swagger replaced by something contemplative. “Never thought about it like that. I guess… it’s kind of like training, huh?”

That’s when you realize she's not as invincible as she seem. Behind the hot-headed confidence is someone who works just as hard as you do, who’s just as passionate about what they love—even if they show it in a completely different way.

And when the pep rally finally arrives, with the gym packed to the rafters, she surprise's everyone—not just with how she learned to play, but with how she step aside during the performance to let the band take the spotlight.

Afterward, as the crowd cheers, she give you a lopsided grin. “Not bad, huh? Guess I’m pretty good at this whole teamwork thing.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t hide your smile.

The pep rally is over, and the gym is buzzing with energy as people file out, still cheering and talking about the unexpected performance. You’re gathering your things in the corner of the stage when you hear footsteps behind you.

“Hey,” she calls out, her voice softer than you’re used to.

You turn to find her standing there, holding her trumpet in one hand, the other rubbing awkwardly at the back of her neck. For once, her usual cocky smirk is nowhere to be seen, replaced by an expression that’s… almost nervous.

“Uh, so… you were pretty great out there,” she says, her eyes flickering between yours and the floor. “I mean, you’re always great, but, like, today—you really killed it.”

You blink, caught off guard by the compliment. “Thanks. You were pretty great too. You didn’t even mess up the solo.”

She laughs, a warm, genuine sound that makes your chest flutter. “Yeah, well, I had a good teacher. Guess I owe you for that.”

You shrug, trying to play it cool. “Maybe. But you did the work. I’m impressed, actually. Didn’t think you’d take it so seriously.”

She steps a little closer, her usual confidence creeping back into her voice. “Yeah? So, I impressed you?”

Your face heats up, and you roll your eyes to hide it. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late,” she teases, but her grin softens as her gaze lingers on you. For a moment, neither of you says anything. The noise of the gym fades into the background, and all you can hear is the faint hum of your own heartbeat.

She looks down at the trumpet in her hand, turning it over like she’s stalling. “You know… I used to think band stuff was just… background noise. Like, nobody really notices it. But being up there, seeing how much you guys put into it…”

Her voice trails off, and when she looks back at you, there’s something in her eyes that makes it hard to breathe. “It made me notice you more.”

Your breath catches. “Me?”

“Yeah.” She takes another step closer, so close now that you can feel the warmth radiating off her. “You’re not just some quiet band geek who hangs out in the background. You’re… amazing. And I’ve been an idiot for not seeing it sooner.”

You open your mouth to reply, but the words get stuck in your throat. She’s staring at you like you’re the only person in the world, and for the first time, you don’t feel small or invisible. You feel seen.

“I know I’ve been kind of… impossible,” she continues, her voice dropping lower. “But I don’t want to screw this up. So if I asked you to, I don’t know, grab milkshakes or something sometime… what would you say?”

You bite your lip, trying to suppress a smile. “I’d say… as long as you don’t try to play the trumpet during the date, I might say yes.”

Her laugh is loud and bright, and before you know it, she’s grinning down at you. “Deal.”

The gym lights flicker as the janitor starts cleaning up, and you realize you’ve been standing there for what feels like forever. But as she walks you out, her shoulder brushing against yours, you can’t help but think that maybe this impulsive, hot-headed star athlete isn’t so bad after all.

— Childhood Bestfriend!caitlyn

You and Caitlyn were inseparable once, two halves of the same whole. Summers were spent running through sun-drenched fields, plotting grand adventures, and swearing eternal friendship under the stars. But that was years ago, before her family moved away to chase bigger opportunities, and you were left behind with only memories of her bright laugh and unshakable confidence.

Life moved on, and so did you. By high school, she’d become little more than a bittersweet memory. Until now.

When she walks into your homeroom on the first day of senior year, it feels like the air’s been knocked out of you. She’s taller now, with an effortless grace that makes the room go quiet. Her uniform looks somehow sharper on her, her long, dark hair falling in perfect waves. There’s something in the way she carries herself—poised and self-assured, like she owns the world—and maybe she does.

Her family name has become a symbol of power and wealth. She’s been in the headlines, her achievements as a youth advocate already earning her a reputation as a fierce voice for justice. And yet, when her gaze scans the room and lands on you, her face lights up with the same brilliant smile you remember from childhood.

“Hey,” she says as she slides into the empty seat beside you, her voice low and familiar. “Long time no see.”

You’re too stunned to do anything but nod.

You quickly learn that she’s not just here for nostalgia—she’s here with a purpose. Between rigorous AP classes, she’s working on a project to bring awareness to systemic issues in your town. Meetings, interviews, and late nights at the library seem to be her norm, and it doesn’t take long for her to rope you into helping.

At first, it feels surreal being around her again. The girl you once knew has grown into someone so driven, so ambitious, that it’s almost intimidating. She seems untouchable, like a shooting star too far away to reach.

But every now and then, the cracks in her polished armor show. When it’s just the two of you poring over notes at your kitchen table, she leans back with a sigh and pulls her hair into a ponytail, muttering about how she wishes she had more time to breathe. And when you laugh at her frustrations, she throws a crumpled piece of paper at you, her grin wide and mischievous.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” she says one evening, her eyes soft as they meet yours. “Still the only person who can make me laugh when I want to scream.”

It’s during one of these late-night sessions that the air between you shifts. You’re sitting on the floor of her family’s impossibly grand living room, surrounded by papers and laptops. She’s wearing a sweatshirt that’s too big for her, a far cry from the polished image she presents to the world, and you can’t help but think about how beautiful she looks like this—unguarded and real.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” she says, tilting her head to look at you. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing,” you lie, your heart racing under her gaze.

She raises an eyebrow, leaning closer. “I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re lying.”

You hesitate, your pulse hammering in your ears. “It’s just… I can’t believe you’re here. That after all these years, we’re… us again.”

Her expression softens, and she shifts closer until your knees are almost touching. “I’ve missed you too, you know,” she says quietly. “It’s been so hard, being away from everything I used to care about. From you.”

Her words hang in the air, heavy and electric. You want to say something—anything—but the way she’s looking at you steals the breath from your lungs. Her dark eyes search yours, and for a moment, the world seems to still.

“Do you ever think about those nights we spent under the stars?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, swallowing hard. “All the time.”

“I do too,” she admits, her hand reaching out to brush against yours. Her touch is warm, grounding, and yet it sends a jolt through you. “Back then, I always thought we’d have forever. And when I left, I realized how much I hated being wrong about that.”

You’re not sure who moves first, but suddenly the space between you disappears. Her hand lingers on yours, her thumb tracing gentle circles against your skin, and you’re acutely aware of how close her face is to yours.

“Tell me if this is okay,” she murmurs, her voice trembling just slightly.

You nod, barely able to speak. “It’s more than okay.”

And then her lips are on yours, soft and hesitant at first, like she’s afraid you’ll pull away. But you don’t. You lean into her, your hand sliding up to tangle in her hair, and the kiss deepens—sweet and full of years’ worth of unspoken feelings.

When you finally pull back, she rests her forehead against yours, a breathless smile on her lips. “I’ve waited so long to do that,” she says, her voice tinged with relief.

“Me too,” you whisper, your heart soaring.

As the night stretches on, you realize that the girl you thought you’d lost has come back into your life, not as the same person she once was, but as someone even more extraordinary. And for the first time in years, the future doesn’t feel so uncertain—it feels full of possibilities, with her by your side.

— New kid!jinx and Class president!reader

You’ve worked hard to get where you are. Every meeting attended, every speech prepared, every carefully crafted decision—it’s all been for the sake of keeping order in the chaos of your high school. As class president, your name carries weight. You’re the dependable one, the one who keeps everything running smoothly, the one who always has things under control.

Until Jinx shows up.

The whispers start on her first day. The new girl. The one who doesn’t seem to care about blending in. She strides into the building like she owns it, her uniform already disheveled, her blazer slung over her shoulder, and a wild grin on her face.

It doesn’t take long for her reputation to spread. She’s unpredictable, impulsive, and utterly magnetic. Within a week, she’s already broken half the school’s rules, talked her way out of three detentions, and somehow charmed half your classmates in the process.

And for some reason, she’s decided you’re her favorite target.

It happens during lunch. You’re sitting at your usual spot, surrounded by student council members, going over plans for the upcoming fundraiser when she walks up to your table.

“Class president,” she says, her voice dripping with mockery and something else you can’t quite place. “Mind if I join you?”

You glance up, already annoyed. “I’m busy.”

She smirks, pulling out a chair anyway. “That’s cute. You think I was asking.”

Your friends exchange uneasy glances, but she doesn’t seem to care. She leans back in the chair, her sharp pink eyes locked on you, as if she’s trying to unravel you with her gaze alone.

“You’ve got a real stick-up-your-ass vibe,” she says casually, plucking an apple from the tray in front of her. “I like that. It makes messing with you way more fun.”

You glare at her, trying to keep your composure. “Do you need something, or are you just here to waste my time?”

Her grin widens, and for a moment, you see a flicker of something wild and untamed in her expression. “Maybe I just like watching you squirm.”

She becomes a constant in your life after that. You find her waiting outside your classroom, lounging against your locker, or casually walking into student council meetings as if she belongs there.

“Do you ever stop?” you snap one afternoon, cornering her in the hallway after she’s disrupted yet another meeting.

“Stop what?” she asks innocently, tilting her head.

“Whatever game you’re playing.”

She steps closer, and for the first time, you notice just how intense her gaze is. “Who says it’s a game? Maybe I just like you.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and electric, and before you can respond, she turns on her heel and walks away, leaving you standing there, utterly baffled.

It’s not until much later that you start to see the cracks in her chaotic facade. One night, you find her sitting alone in the empty music room, the piano keys beneath her fingers. She’s not playing, just pressing random notes, her usual manic energy replaced by a quiet stillness.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you say, stepping into the room.

She doesn’t look up. “Neither should you.”

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then she sighs, her shoulders slumping. “I bet you think I’m crazy.”

You hesitate, caught off guard by the vulnerability in her voice. “I think you’re reckless and impulsive and… exhausting. But no, I don’t think you’re crazy.”

She finally looks up at you, her eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them. “You’re too nice for your own good, you know that?”

“I’m not nice,” you counter. “I just… I think there’s more to you than the act you put on.”

Her lips twitch into a small, almost shy smile. “Careful, president. You keep saying things like that, and I might start to believe you.”

The more time you spend around her, the more you realize how deeply she feels everything. Her chaos isn’t just for show—it’s a shield, a way to keep people from getting too close. But with you, she starts to let her guard down.

One evening, she shows up outside your house, her hair messy and her eyes wild. “Come with me,” she says, grabbing your hand.

“Where are we going?” you ask, letting her drag you down the street.

“Anywhere,” she replies, her grip tight. “Everywhere. I don’t care.”

You end up at the park, sitting on a swingset as the stars blink overhead. She’s unusually quiet, her hands gripping the chains tightly as she stares at the ground.

“You ever feel like you’re spinning out of control?” she asks suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper.

You glance at her, surprised by the question. “Sometimes.”

She exhales shakily, her fingers brushing against yours. “You… you make it stop. Just for a little while.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you don’t know if it’s the raw honesty in her words or the way her fingers linger against yours, but you feel something shift between you.

It happens later that night, as you’re walking her home. She stops in front of her house, turning to face you with an unreadable expression.

“Why do you put up with me?” she asks suddenly, her voice soft.

You frown. “What do you mean?”

“I’m a mess,” she says, her gaze dropping to the ground. “I break things, I hurt people… I’m not like you. I’m not good.”

“You’re not perfect,” you admit, stepping closer. “But you’re not as bad as you think you are, either.”

She looks up at you, her eyes shining with something you can’t quite name. “You’re going to regret saying that.”

“Maybe,” you say with a small smile. “But I don’t think so.”

Before you can overthink it, you lean in, your lips brushing against hers. She freezes for a moment, like she’s caught off guard, but then she kisses you back, her hands clutching at your sleeves as if you’re the only solid thing in her world.

When you finally pull back, her face is flushed, and she’s breathing hard. “You’re insane,” she mutters, though there’s no heat in her words.

“Takes one to know one,” you reply, grinning.

She laughs, the sound light and genuine, and for the first time, you feel like you’ve truly seen her—every broken, beautiful piece of her.

—Troublemaker!sevika and Tutor!reader

You weren’t thrilled when your teacher assigned you as her tutor. You’d heard all the rumors: skipped classes, biting comebacks that left people reeling, and a permanent spot on the troublemaker watchlist.

Her reputation painted her as unteachable, untamable, and entirely uninterested in anything resembling authority. When your teacher insisted she “just needed guidance,” you couldn’t help but feel skeptical.

The first session confirmed it.

She slouched into the library ten minutes late, her bag dragging on the floor, and dropped into the chair across from you with a loud huff.

“Look,” she said before you could even greet her, “I don’t need some perfect little know-it-all telling me what to do.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I’m just here to help.”

“Sure,” she scoffed, leaning back in her chair. “Let’s get this over with.”

Her tone was cutting, her expression bored, and yet… there was something about her. A quiet intensity lurking beneath the surface, like she was daring you to break through her tough exterior.

Each session felt like a test of patience. She was sharp, no question about it, but her attitude made every interaction a battle.

“You’re not even trying,” you said one afternoon after she tossed her pen aside for the third time.

Her eyes snapped to yours, hard and unyielding. “Don’t act like you know me,” she said coldly. “You think I don’t try? You think I don’t bust my ass every single day?”

You froze, startled by the edge in her voice.

She leaned forward, her gaze cutting through you like a blade. “I don’t need this. I don’t need you. I’m here because they told me to be.”

For a moment, you considered walking away. But then you saw it—just the faintest flicker of something vulnerable beneath her defiance.

“You’re right,” you said, keeping your voice calm. “I don’t know you. But I know you’re capable of more than this.”

Her jaw tightened, and she looked away, her fingers drumming on the table. “Whatever,” she muttered.

But she didn’t leave.

Slowly, things started to shift. She showed up on time—barely. She started taking notes—reluctantly. And every so often, she’d let her tough exterior slip, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of the real her.

One afternoon, after a particularly grueling session, you handed her a worksheet.

“You’re getting better,” you said, offering her a small smile.

She snorted. “Don’t get all sentimental on me.”

“I’m not. I’m just saying you’re improving.”

“Yeah, well, don’t hold your breath for a thank-you card,” she replied, but there was a hint of a smirk on her lips.

Her walls were still up, but they were starting to crack.

It happened on a rare quiet day in the library. She was hunched over her notebook, her brow furrowed as she worked through a particularly tricky problem.

“Got it,” she said suddenly, sitting up straight.

“Really?” you asked, leaning over to check her work.

She shoved the notebook toward you, her smirk firmly in place. “Told you I’m not dumb.”

“I never said you were dumb,” you replied, meeting her gaze. “You just make things harder than they need to be.”

She rolled her eyes. “Maybe I like a challenge.”

“Or maybe you’re just stubborn,” you teased.

Her smirk softened, just for a moment. “Takes one to know one, princess.”

Your heart skipped a beat at the way she said it, her voice low and almost… fond.

After weeks of late afternoons spent together, you found yourself walking her home one evening. The sun was setting, casting a warm orange glow over the quiet streets.

“You’re not as bad as I thought,” she said suddenly, breaking the silence.

You blinked, surprised. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Don’t push your luck,” she shot back, though her tone lacked its usual bite.

When you reached her house, she stopped at the gate, turning to face you. Her usual confidence wavered, just slightly.

“Why do you bother with me?” she asked, her voice quieter than usual.

“Because I see how hard you work,” you said honestly. “And because I think there’s more to you than what you let people see.”

She stared at you for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, without warning, she stepped closer, her hand brushing yours.

“You’re a real pain, you know that?” she murmured, her voice soft but firm.

Before you could respond, she leaned in, her lips capturing yours in a kiss that was as bold and unapologetic as she was.

When she pulled back, her cheeks were flushed, but her smirk was firmly in place.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she said, turning toward her door.

You smiled, your heart racing. “Too late."

—Artist!ekko and Muse!reader

It was one of those golden autumn afternoons, the kind where the sunlight made everything look softer, warmer, like it belonged in a painting. You’d escaped to the park during your lunch break, clutching a well-worn book in one hand and a coffee in the other. It wasn’t the first time you’d come here for a little peace and quiet, but it felt like one of the rare times you’d actually get it.

You settled on a bench near the fountain, a cozy corner of the park where the only sounds were the gentle trickle of water and the rustling of leaves in the breeze.

The moment you opened your book, however, you felt it—a faint, almost electric sensation prickling at the edge of your awareness. Someone was watching you.

Glancing up, you spotted him.

He was sitting on the grass a few yards away, sketchpad balanced on his knees, pencil flying across the page. His hair fell messily across his forehead, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to reveal forearms speckled with faint smears of paint. Despite the chaos of his appearance, his focus was absolute, his gaze darting between you and the paper as if you were some rare discovery he couldn’t afford to lose.

You furrowed your brow, unsure whether to feel flattered or alarmed. “Can I help you?” you called, your voice cutting through the quiet.

He blinked, as if snapping out of a trance, and stood quickly.

“Sorry,” he said, striding toward you. “I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

His voice was smooth, tinged with an earnestness that made it hard to stay annoyed.

“I’m an artist,” he explained, gesturing to his sketchpad. “I know this sounds weird, but you’ve got this… look. The way you’re sitting, the way the light hits you—it’s perfect.”

“Perfect?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“For a piece I’m working on,” he clarified, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “Do you mind if I sketch you? Just for a little while.”

You hesitated, studying him. He didn’t look like a creep—just young, maybe a little unkempt, with an intensity in his eyes that was hard to ignore.

“I’m not really dressed for a portrait,” you said, gesturing to your casual sweater and jeans.

He smiled, and the way his face softened surprised you. “It’s not about the clothes. It’s the way you carry yourself.”

The compliment was unexpected, and it caught you off guard. “Alright,” you said slowly. “But just for a few minutes.”

“Great,” he said, dropping to the bench across from you with a grin that felt like the sun breaking through the clouds

It turned out he was a prodigy, a young artist with a growing reputation in the city. His work had been featured in galleries, and he’d even won a few prestigious awards. But for all his talent, he was surprisingly down-to-earth.

“I don’t really like the whole ‘genius’ label,” he admitted one afternoon after convincing you to pose for him again. “It just makes people think I’ve got everything figured out. But most of the time, I’m just trying to keep up with my own ideas.”

You quickly realized that his art wasn’t just a skill—it was his lifeline. He spoke about it the way others might talk about breathing. And for some reason, he’d decided that you were his muse.

“Why me?” you asked one day as he sketched you in his studio. The walls were covered with half-finished canvases, each one brimming with vivid colors and raw emotion.

He glanced up from his sketchbook, his eyes soft but focused. “You’ve got something about you,” he said simply. “A kind of… light. I can’t explain it, but when I see you, I want to create.”

His honesty was disarming. There was no pretense in his words, no calculated charm. He spoke as though his heart was an open book, and every word was written in your honor.

“Do you say that to all your muses?” you teased, trying to lighten the moment.

He chuckled, the sound low and warm. “I’ve never had one before you.”

As time went on, you got to know him beyond his talent. He was fiercely independent, refusing to rely on anyone for his success. His compassion, however, was what surprised you most. He spent his weekends teaching art classes at a local youth center, his eyes lighting up as he helped kids discover their own creativity.

“They’ve got so much potential,” he said once, his voice filled with quiet pride. “They just need someone to believe in them.”

It was clear that he poured himself into everything he did, whether it was a painting, a lesson, or simply spending time with you.

One evening, he invited you to his studio after hours. The space was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of paint and turpentine.

“I want to show you something,” he said, guiding you to the center of the room where a large canvas stood covered by a cloth.

With a dramatic flourish, he pulled the cloth away, revealing a breathtaking painting. It was you—your pose, your expression, every detail captured with such tenderness that it felt like staring into a mirror of your soul.

“Is that… me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, his gaze steady. “It’s not just you,” he said softly. “It’s how I see you. Strong, radiant… inspiring.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

“It’s beautiful,” you said finally, your voice thick with emotion.

“So are you,” he replied, his lips curling into a small, genuine smile.

There was no grand confession, no dramatic moment where everything changed. Instead, your relationship grew in quiet, unspoken ways. The way he brought you coffee when you visited his studio. The way he asked for your opinion on his work, genuinely valuing your thoughts. The way his hand would brush against yours when he passed you a sketchbook, his touch lingering just a second too long.

One day, as you sat together in the park where you’d first met, he turned to you, his eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite name.

“You know,” he said, his voice low, “I’m not sure I’d be able to do this without you.”

“Do what?” you asked, tilting your head.

“Create,” he replied simply. “You make it… easier to believe in myself.”

You smiled, your heart fluttering at his honesty. “I think you’d do just fine on your own.”

“Maybe,” he said, his gaze never leaving yours. “But I don’t want to.”

—Bestfriend!jayce

The two of you had been inseparable for as long as you could remember. From elementary school to your final year of high school, your lives had been stitched together with countless shared moments—late-night study sessions, chaotic group projects, and lazy afternoons spent at the local diner. You were the grounded one, the planner, while he was the dreamer.

He was everything you admired in a person: ambitious, creative, and unrelentingly passionate about making the world a better place. Whether he was organizing a charity event for the school or advocating for a greener campus, he didn’t just talk about change—he embodied it.

“Alright, hear me out,” he said one afternoon as you sat in your favorite spot in the school library. His voice was alive with energy, his words spilling out faster than you could process them.

You glanced up from your notes, already bracing yourself. “This is going to be another one of your big ideas, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” he said with a grin. “It’s what I do best.”

He leaned forward, spreading out a sketchbook filled with colorful doodles and bold handwriting. Each page was a mix of blueprints, campaign slogans, and notes for an initiative he wanted to pitch to the student council.

“I’m telling you, if we can pull this off, it could really make a difference. We could partner with local businesses, raise money for community programs, and even involve the younger students—”

“You’re going a hundred miles an hour again,” you interrupted gently, a smile tugging at your lips.

“Not when I’m onto something good,” he replied without missing a beat.

That was him in a nutshell: a whirlwind of ideas and determination, always moving forward. It was both inspiring and exhausting to keep up with him, but somehow, you always did.

For all his big ideas and boundless enthusiasm, he had a softer side too—a side he reserved just for you.

One Friday night, he showed up outside your house, honking his car horn until you came outside in your pajamas.

“What are you doing?” you hissed, glancing around to make sure your neighbors weren’t watching.

“Get in,” he said with a grin, leaning out of the driver’s side window. “I need your opinion on something.”

“You’re insane,” you muttered, but you climbed into the passenger seat anyway.

He drove to a quiet hill on the outskirts of town, parking near an old tree you’d both claimed as “your spot” years ago. He pulled out a notebook from his bag and handed it to you.

“These are my ideas for the youth outreach program,” he said. “I need to know if I’m being too ambitious.”

You flipped through the pages, your heart warming as you saw the effort he’d poured into every word and sketch.

“This is incredible,” you said softly. “You’re not just ambitious—you’re inspiring. People are going to listen to you.”

He looked at you, his expression unreadable. “You really think so?”

“Always,” you said, your voice firm.

For a split second, you thought he might reach out to take your hand, but instead, he leaned back, staring up at the stars. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

After particularly grueling school days, he’d find you at your locker, holding out your favorite drink or snack without a word. When the stress of finals hit, he’d sit beside you in the library, quietly working through his own assignments while offering words of encouragement.

And then there were the moments when his usual confidence wavered.

“Do you think I’m crazy?” he asked one evening as you sat on the hood of his car, staring up at the stars.

The two of you had just spent hours planning his latest project, a school-wide fundraiser for a local shelter. Despite his ambitious plans, his voice was quieter now, almost hesitant.

“You? Crazy?” you teased, nudging him playfully. “Absolutely.”

He laughed softly, but the tension in his shoulders didn’t completely fade.

“Seriously, though,” he said, turning to you. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m aiming too high. Like, what if I can’t actually pull all this off? What if I fail?”

You reached out, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. “You won’t fail. You’re the most determined person I’ve ever met. And even if something doesn’t work out the way you planned, it doesn’t mean you failed. It just means you’re brave enough to try again.”

His gaze softened, and for a moment, the air between you felt heavier, charged with something unspoken.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

The moment lingered, and as he pulled back, his hands stayed on your shoulders. His gaze searched yours, and for the first time, you saw a vulnerability there that he usually kept hidden.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this for a while now,” he began, his voice soft but steady.

Your breath caught. “What is it?”

“I don’t just care about you as a friend,” he admitted, his cheeks flushing slightly. “I mean, I do, but it’s more than that. You’ve always been my anchor, the one person who gets me, who believes in me even when I doubt myself.”

Your heart raced, the world narrowing down to just the two of you. “I think I’ve always felt the same way,” you said quietly.

Relief washed over his face, followed by a smile so genuine it made your chest ache.

“Then we’re in this together,” he said, reaching for your hand. “Like always.”

From that day on, your friendship transformed into something deeper, something stronger. His dreams grew bigger, but now, they weren’t just his—they were yours too. Together, you were unstoppable, a team bound by shared passion and a love that had been years in the making.

Whether it was planning for college or brainstorming ways to change the world, one thing was certain: with him by your side, anything felt possible.

—Enemies to lovers!viktor and reader

From the moment the new kid transferred to your school, it was as if the universe had dropped a puzzle piece into the wrong spot. He was a contradiction: introverted yet razor-sharp in class discussions, quiet but with an undercurrent of passion that seemed to burst through in unexpected moments. His snarky comebacks and aloof demeanor were practically tailor-made to clash with your confident, no-nonsense approach to everything.

You couldn’t help but notice how he kept his distance from everyone else, often retreating to the farthest corner of the library or lab. Despite his unassuming presence, he somehow managed to infuriate you with his brilliance. Teachers fawned over him, classmates whispered about him, and you? You glared daggers at him every time he raised his hand in class to counter one of your arguments.

The first real confrontation happened in science class. It was a group project, and your teacher, in a cruel twist of fate, paired you with him.

“Great,” you muttered under your breath.

He barely glanced at you as he set down his notebook, already flipping through its pages. “It’s not my favorite pairing either, but let’s just get this done.”

His tone was clipped, and his eyes barely met yours.

“Oh, so we’re starting with passive-aggressive remarks? Good to know where we stand,” you shot back, folding your arms.

He sighed, finally looking at you. “Look, I don’t care if you like me or not. I care about getting an A on this project. If you want to argue, fine, but at least do it while we’re running the experiment.”

His bluntness took you off guard, and for a moment, you were speechless. But you quickly recovered, rolling your eyes. “Fine. But don’t think for a second I’m letting you take over.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he muttered under his breath, already scribbling in his notebook.

Working together was like a storm brewing in slow motion. You were both stubborn and headstrong, constantly butting heads over the smallest details.

“Why are you doing it that way?” you snapped one afternoon as he adjusted the settings on the experiment’s apparatus.

“Because it’s the correct way,” he replied without looking up.

“You didn’t even let me explain my idea!”

“Your idea would’ve blown up the circuit.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t know that.”

“Let me guess—you’re the kind of person who thinks trial and error is the only way to learn?”

He finally turned to face you, a faint smirk playing at his lips “And you’re the kind of person who thinks you’re always right,”

The tension crackled like static electricity, but neither of you backed down.

It wasn’t until a late-night study session in the empty library that things started to shift. The project deadline was looming, and you’d reluctantly agreed to meet outside of school to finish your work.

He was unusually quiet that night, his usual snark absent as he stared intently at the data on his laptop.

“Hey,” you said, breaking the silence. “You okay?”

He hesitated, his fingers pausing on the keyboard. “Just tired. And frustrated. I want this to be perfect.”

Something in his tone softened your usual defensiveness. “You know, it doesn’t have to be perfect. You’re allowed to mess up sometimes.”

He gave a faint, humorless laugh. “Not really. Not when people are counting on me.”

The vulnerability in his voice caught you off guard. For the first time, you saw past the walls he’d built around himself—the pressure he carried, the weight of expectations.

“I didn’t realize you were dealing with so much,” you said quietly.

He glanced at you, his expression unreadable. “Why would you? We’ve been too busy trying to outsmart each other.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly. “Fair point. Maybe we should call a truce—for now.”

He smiled, just barely, and it was the first time you’d seen him let his guard down.

As the project progressed, the two of you started to find common ground. You discovered his love for science wasn’t just about theories and equations—it was about helping people.

“Why are you so passionate about this?” you asked one day as he carefully calibrated a piece of equipment.

He hesitated, then said, “Because I want to make a difference. I has a chronic illness, and I’ve spent years struggling with treatments that barely work. I want to change that for me, and for anyone else going through the same thing.”

His words hit you like a punch to the chest. You’d always thought of him as cold and detached, but now, you saw the fire that drove him.

“That’s… incredible,” you said softly.

He shrugged, his cheeks tinged with color. “It’s just what I care about. What about you? What drives you?”

You hesitated, caught off guard by the question. But as you opened up about your own dreams and ambitions, you realized something had shifted between you.

On the night before the project was due, you were sitting in his garage, putting the final touches on your presentation. It was late, and the two of you were running on caffeine and adrenaline.

“Here,” he said, handing you a mug of tea. “You’re going to burn out if you keep pushing yourself.”

“Look who’s talking,” you teased, taking the mug.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the quiet hum of the garage filling the space.

“You’re not so bad, you know,” he said suddenly, his voice low.

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that your idea of a compliment?”

He smiled faintly, looking down at his hands. “I mean it. I’ve never met anyone who challenges me the way you do. It’s… refreshing.”

Your cheeks warmed, and you looked away, pretending to focus on the data. “Well, don’t get used to it. I’m not going easy on you just because you’re finally being nice.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” he said, and there was a softness in his tone that made your heart race.

[imsobadatnicknames2]

How can you consider yourself any sort of leftist when you defend AI art bullshit? You literally simp for AI techbros and have the gall to pretend you're against big corporations?? Get fucked

I don't "defend" AI art. I think a particular old post of mine that a lot of people tend to read in bad faith must be making the rounds again lmao.

Took me a good while to reply to this because you know what? I decided to make something positive out of this and use this as an opportunity to outline what I ACTUALLY believe about AI art. If anyone seeing this decides to read it in good or bad faith... Welp, your choice I guess.

I have several criticisms of the way the proliferation of AI art generators and LLMs is making a lot of things worse. Some of these are things I have voiced in the past, some of these are things I haven't until now:

Most image and text AI generators are fine-tuned to produce nothing but the most agreeable, generically pretty content slop, pretty much immediately squandering their potential to be used as genuinely interesting artistic tools with anything to offer in terms of a unique aesthetic experience (AI video still manages to look bizarre and interesting but it's getting there too)

In the entertainment industry and a lot of other fields, AI image generation is getting incorporated into production pipelines in ways that lead to the immiseration of working artists, being used to justify either lower wages or straight-up layoffs, and this is something that needs to be fought against. That's why I unconditionally supported the SAG-AFTRA strikes last year and will unconditionally support any collective action to address AI art as a concrete labor issue

In most fields where it's being integrated, AI art is vastly inferior to human artists in any use case where you need anything other than to make a superficially pretty picture really fast. If you need to do anything like ask for revisions or minor corrections, give very specific descriptions of how objects and people are interacting with each other, or just like. generate several pictures of the same thing and have them stay consistent with each other, you NEED human artists and it's preposterous to think they can be replaced by AI.

There is a lot of art on the internet that consists of the most generically pretty, cookie-cutter anime waifu-adjacent slop that has zero artistic or emotional value to either the people seeing it or the person churning it out, and while this certainly was A Thing before the advent of AI art generators, generative AI has made it extremely easy to become the kind of person who churns it out and floods online art spaces with it.

Similarly, LLMs make it extremely easy to generate massive volumes of texts, pages, articles, listicles and what have you that are generic vapid SEO-friendly pap at best and bizzarre nonsense misinformation at worst, drowning useful information in a sea of vapid noise and rendering internet searches increasingly useless.

The way LLMs are being incorporated into customer service and similar services not only, again, encourages further immiseration of customer service workers, but it's also completely useless for most customers.

A very annoyingly vocal part the population of AI art enthusiasts, fanatics and promoters do tend to talk about it in a way that directly or indirectly demeans the merit and skill of human artists and implies that they think of anyone who sees anything worthwile in the process of creation itself rather than the end product as stupid or deluded.

So you can probably tell by now that I don't hold AI art or writing in very high regard. However (and here's the part that'll get me called an AI techbro, or get people telling me that I'm just jealous of REAL artists because I lack the drive to create art of my own, or whatever else) I do have some criticisms of the way people have been responding to it, and have voiced such criticisms in the past.

I think a lot of the opposition to AI art has critstallized around unexamined gut reactions, whipping up a moral panic, and pressure to outwardly display an acceptable level of disdain for it. And in particular I think this climate has made a lot of people very prone to either uncritically entertain and adopt regressive ideas about Intellectual Propety, OR reveal previously held regressive ideas about Intellectual Property that are now suddenly more socially acceptable to express:

(I wanna preface this section by stating that I'm a staunch intellectual property abolitionist for the same reason I'm a private property abolitionist. If you think the existence of intellectual property is a good thing, a lot of my ideas about a lot of stuff are gonna be unpalatable to you. Not much I can do about it.)

A lot of people are suddenly throwing their support behind any proposal that promises stricter copyright regulations to combat AI art, when a lot of these also have the potential to severely udnermine fair use laws and fuck over a lot of independent artist for the benefit of big companies.

It was very worrying to see a lot of fanfic authors in particular clap for the George R R Martin OpenAI lawsuit because well... a lot of them don't realize that fanfic is a hobby that's in a position that's VERY legally precarious at best, that legally speaking using someone else's characters in your fanfic is as much of a violation of copyright law as straight up stealing entire passages, and that any regulation that can be used against the latter can be extended against the former.

Similarly, a lot of artists were cheering for the lawsuit against AI art models trained to mimic the style of specific artists. Which I agree is an extremely scummy thing to do (just like a human artist making a living from ripping off someone else's work is also extremely scummy), but I don't think every scummy act necessarily needs to be punishable by law, and some of them would in fact leave people worse off if they were. All this to say: If you are an artist, and ESPECIALLY a fan artist, trust me. You DON'T wanna live in a world where there's precedent for people's artstyles to be considered intellectual property in any legally enforceable way. I know you wanna hurt AI art people but this is one avenue that's not worth it.

Especially worrying to me as an indie musician has been to see people mention the strict copyright laws of the music industry as a positive thing that they wanna emulate. "this would never happen in the music industry because they value their artists copyright" idk maybe this is a the grass is greener type of situation but I'm telling you, you DON'T wanna live in a world where copyright law in the visual arts world works the way it does in the music industry. It's not worth it.

I've seen at least one person compare AI art model training to music sampling and say "there's a reason why they cracked down on sampling" as if the death of sampling due to stricter copyright laws was a good thing and not literally one of the worst things to happen in the history of music which nearly destroyed several primarily black music genres. Of course this is anecdotal because it's just One Guy I Saw Once, but you can see what I mean about how uncritical support for copyright law as a tool against AI can lead people to adopt increasingly regressive ideas about copyright.

Similarly, I've seen at least one person go "you know what? Collages should be considered art theft too, fuck you" over an argument where someone else compared AI art to collages. Again, same point as above.

Similarly, I take issue with the way a lot of people seem EXTREMELY personally invested in proving AI art is Not Real Art. I not only find this discussion unproductive, but also similarly dangerously prone to validating very reactionary ideas about The Nature Of Art that shouldn't really be entertained. Also it's a discussion rife with intellectual dishonesty and unevenly applied definition and standards.

When a lot of people present the argument of AI art not being art because the definition of art is this and that, they try to pretend that this is the definition of art the've always operated under and believed in, even when a lot of the time it's blatantly obvious that they're constructing their definition on the spot and deliberately trying to do so in such a way that it doesn't include AI art.

They never succeed at it, btw. I've seen several dozen different "AI art isn't art because art is [definition]". I've seen exactly zero of those where trying to seriously apply that definition in any context outside of trying to prove AI art isn't art doesn't end up in it accidentally excluding one or more non-AI artforms, usually reflecting the author's blindspots with regard to the different forms of artistic expression.

(However, this is moot because, again, these are rarely definitions that these people actually believe in or adhere to outside of trying to win "Is AI art real art?" discussions.)

Especially worrying when the definition they construct is built around stuff like Effort or Skill or Dedication or The Divine Human Spirit. You would not be happy about the kinds of art that have traditionally been excluded from Real Art using similar definitions.

Seriously when everyone was celebrating that the Catholic Church came out to say AI art isn't real art and sharing it as if it was validating and not Extremely Worrying that the arguments they'd been using against AI art sounded nearly identical to things TradCaths believe I was like. Well alright :T You can make all the "I never thought I'd die fighting side by side with a catholic" legolas and gimli memes you want, but it won't change the fact that the argument being made by the catholic church was a profoundly conservative one and nearly identical to arguments used to dismiss the artistic merit of certain forms of "degenerate" art and everyone was just uncritically sharing it, completely unconcerned with what kind of worldview they were lending validity to by sharing it.

Remember when the discourse about the Gay Sex cats pic was going on? One of the things I remember the most from that time was when someone went "Tell me a definition of art that excludes this picture without also excluding Fountain by Duchamp" and how just. Literally no one was able to do it. A LOT of people tried to argue some variation of "Well, Fountain is art and this image isn't because what turns fountain into art is Intent. Duchamp's choice to show a urinal at an art gallery as if it was art confers it an element of artistic intent that this image lacks" when like. Didn't by that same logic OP's choice to post the image on tumblr as if it was art also confer it artistic intent in the same way? Didn't that argument actually kinda end up accidentally validating the artistic status of every piece of AI art ever posted on social media? That moment it clicked for me that a lot of these definitions require applying certain concepts extremely selectively in order to make sense for the people using them.

A lot of people also try to argue it isn't Real Art based on the fact that most AI art is vapid but like. If being vapid definitionally excludes something from being art you're going to have to exclude a whooole lot of stuff along with it. AI art is vapid. A lot of art is too, I don't think this argument works either.

Like, look, I'm not really invested in trying to argue in favor of The Artistic Merits of AI art but I also find it extremely hard to ignore how trying to categorically define AI art as Not Real Art not only is unproductive but also requires either a) applying certain parts of your definition of art extremely selectively, b) constructing a definition of art so convoluted and full of weird caveats as to be functionally useless, or c) validating extremely reactionary conservative ideas about what Real Art is.

Some stray thoughts that don't fit any of the above sections.

I've occassionally seen people respond to AI art being used for shitposts like "A lot of people have affordable commissions, you could have paid someone like $30 to draw this for you instead of using the plagiarism algorithm and exploiting the work of real artists" and sorry but if you consider paying an artist a rate that amounts to like $5 for several hours of work a LESS exploitative alternative I think you've got something fucked up going on with your priorities.

Also it's kinda funny when people comment on the aforementioned shitposts with some variation of "see, the usage of AI art robs it of all humor because the thing that makes shitposts funny is when you consider the fact that someone would spend so much time and effort in something so stupid" because like. Yeah that is part of the humor SOMETIMES but also people share and laugh at low effort shitposts all the time. Again you're constructing a definition that you don't actually believe in anywhere outside of this type of conversations. Just say you don't like that it's AI art because you think it's morally wrong and stop being disingenuous.

So yeah, this is pretty much everything I believe about the topic.

I don't "defend" AI art, but my opposition to it is firmly rooted in my principles, and that means I refuse to uncritically accept any anti-AI art argument that goes against those same principles.

If you think not accepting and parroting every Anti-AI art argument I encounter because some of them are ideologically rooted in things I disagree with makes me indistinguishable from "AI techbros" you're working under a fucked up dichotomy.

[mariasont]

hi!!!!

I'm soooo in love your work. bimbo!assistantreader wil always have a special place in my heart!!!

Now i have this of idea that i think can work for either aaron or spencer, but basically bau!reader who kind of always wears the same type of outfit in the field that's always really modest. Buttttt when they kind of like "know" it's just going to be a paperwork day she likes to were skirts... short skirts and Aaron/Spencer are just feral for them...

Can either be fluff of smut... I trust you indefinitely xxx

Short Skirt, Long Day - A.H

a/n: hi hi hi hiiiiiii!!! ugh thank u sm i kinda took this an interesting route so let me know what you think!!!! im also heavily thinking about writing a smutty pt 2 for this but id love to hear everyone’s opinions

masterlist

pairings: perv!aaronhotchner x bau!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, suggestive content, aaron being a straight PERV!!! (im into idk man), aaron imagining scenarios he didn’t shouldn’t at work, idk this is quite different from my usual postings but i kinda fuck with it

wc: 1.4k

Aaron Hotchner loved paperwork day.

Days like these meant the ringing of phones and panicked conversations were replaced by the only the sound of air conditioning (when it worked) and the occasional sneeze or cough. It’s the kind of morning he appreciated — time to breathe, to recalibrate without the air of an active case breathing down his neck.

But that's not why his pulse is thrumming more than heavily beneath his skin.

Hotch glances at the clock on his desk. It's early, too early for most of the team to be here yet, save for a couple agents whose faces barely register in his peripheral vision. His focus is elsewhere, fixed on a singular thought. Or, rather, on a singular person.

You.

Hotch leans back in his chair, exhaling slowly as a shameful type of heat rises to his face. It's a little pathetic, he thinks, how predictable he's become, it's not the work that makes these mornings bearable anymore. It's the anticipation.

The knowledge that, any minute now, the elevator doors will part, and you'll step out, wearing something that will completely dismantle his carefully constructed composure.

Hotch had noticed a pattern (of course he did, that was his instinct honed to a razor's edge). In the field, your outfits are a study in practicality: slacks, fitted jackets, muted tones, professional to a T. Nothing flashy, nothing that would draw undue attention. He’d even go as far to say you dressed more modestly than most.

But in the office, when the cases are shelved, and the team is left to wade through stacks of paperwork... it's different.

And it drives him insane.

The image takes root before he can stop it: the curve of your thighs, tantalizingly framed by a skirt that seemed designed to test his limits. The way the fabric molds to you when you move, clinging in places that his eyes are all too quick to follow.

Hotch exhales sharply, clearing his throat as if that could somehow clear his mind. It's unprofessional, he knows this, knows better than to let his thoughts stray so far from where they belong but yet…

The ding of the elevator pulls his attention like a magnet, and there you are. His grip on the pen tightens instinctively, the knuckles blanching as his gaze locks on you.

You're wearing that skirt today — black, fitted, and infuriatingly short, hugging your hips in a way that leaves nothing to the imagination.

He tells himself to look away, and for a second, he manages it — his eyes dropping back to his desk, his breath coming out slow and measured. But that reprieve is fleeting. His gaze flicks back before he can stop it, drawn helplessly to the curve of your waist as you laugh at something one of the other agents say.

You're too good. Too sweet. Too damn oblivious to realize what you're doing to him.

And he knows it's wrong, knows he's toeing a line he has no business approaching. But the way his body reacts to you, the pull you have on him, is beyond reason. It's instinctual, raw, and completely out of his control.

He calls out your name. "Could you come in here for a moment?"

You turn, blinking at him with wide, curious eyes. "Yes, sir?"

"I need you to grab something for me," he replies, his voice level, though every syllable felt like a tightly coiled spring. He motions towards the cabinet near the corner of the room. "The Marcus file. Bottom shelf."

He was a terrible terrible man.

Without hesitation, you step toward the cabinet, crouching slightly as you begin to sift through the lower shelf. The moment your body lowers, his eyes start trailing down where the hem of your skirt lifts, just barely revealing the soft curve of where your thighs meet your ass. 

Then, as you bend further, shifting your weight slightly to reach deeper on the shelf, the fabric stretches taut, clinging to your ass in a way that sends a jolt straight through him.

Hotch's throat feels tight, his breathing shallow as he drinks in the sight before him. You're so close, just feet away, and the angle offers him an unobstructed view. The shape of you, the smooth expanse of skin that's always just out of reach in the field, is right there, so achingly close he feels like his chest might explode.

He knows if you dipped any further, your panties would be on display and he couldn’t help but wonder what color you had on.

You’ve always had a meticulous attention to detail, choices leaning towards deliberate but understated at the same time. In the field, you favored muted tones — greys, blacks, navies. But here in the relative safety of the office you allow a little more personality, more femininity.

His mind turns to your preferences, pink, maybe.

Hotch swallows hard, pulse roaring in his ears. The thought gnaws at him, insistent and unrelenting, he needs to know.

“Careful,” he says, feigning concern. “You might need to check further back on the shelf. Sometimes the files get pushed out of sight.”

You glance over your shoulder at him and he swears he could combust. “Further back?”

He nods, leaning back in his chair to appear casual, though his grip on the armrests were anything but. “Yes.”

You turn back to the cabinet, shifting your weight again as you crouch lower, leaning further to search the back of the shelf. The motion sends the bottom of your skirt riding higher, and for a brief, heart stopping moment, the lace of your panties is on full display.

It was a pink barely there strip of fabric.

His mind betrays him, conjuring images he knows he shouldn't entertain. He imagines his hands on you, running over the curve of his hips, gripping your thighs, sliding that damn skirt higher until there's nothing left to hide. The thought of you like this, pliant and completely unaware of the effect you're having on him, makes his pulse pound in his ears. He wonders what you would do if he were to push those panties to the side and slide a finger in you.

You shift again, leaning deeper into the cabinet as your voice drifts back to him, murmuring something about not seeing it. His jaw locks, teeth pressing together as he fights to maintain control. His fingers dig into the armrests of his chair, the leather creaking faintly beneath the strain. It's a futile effort, though. The pressure building in his chest, his body, is relentless.

The heat pools low in his abdomen, simmering and insistent, a sharp pulse of arousal tightening every muscle in his body. He's painfully hard now, the evidence uncomfortably against his slacks, but he doesn't dare move. His mind a blur of want, what he wants to do to you, what he knows he shouldn't do, and the precarious line he's treading just watching you like this.

The tension in his body seems unbearable, and for a fleeting second, he considers how easy it would be to walk over, to let his hand graze your hip, to tilt your chin up so you'd look at him and see the wreckage you've left in your wake. 

But he doesn't. He can't.

Instead, he forces himself to remain still, staying rooted, the self-restraint biting and bitter. 

"Are you sure it's under here? I still don't see it."

Hotch's lips twitch, the smallest shadow of a smirk threatening to break free on his face. He leans forward, feigning surprise as he picks up the file from the corner of his desk.

"Ah," he says, waving the file. "Looks like it's been right here the whole time."

You straighten abruptly, brushing your hands down your skirt and turning towards him with a soft laugh. "Hotch! So I was practically upside down in that cabinet for nothing!"

He shakes his head, giving a small chuckle to match yours. Not for nothing. The satisfaction still simmers low in his chest, a private indulgence he knows you'll never suspect, the movement was far from wasted.

"My mistake."

"Well, I guess we all have our moments. Let me know if there's anything else you need, okay?"

When the door finally closes behind you, he exhales shakily, the breath spilling out like a confession. Leaning back in his chair, he presses his fingers to his temples, his entire body tense with the effort of restraint. He feels unmoored, like a man balancing on the edge of a precipice, one misstep away from losing everything he’s worked so hard to keep under control.

But for now, he’ll settle for watching, for imagining, for wishing, knowing full well that nothing could ever come of it. And yet, as he glances at the door where you’d just been, a part of him wonders how much longer he can hold out.

It’s going to be an impossibly long day, but the most troubling part of all is how much he’s starting to enjoy the torment.

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[sleepingdiaryzzz]

ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴄᴀʟʟᴇᴅ ɪᴛ...ᴘᴜᴘᴘʏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ♥︎

ᴊᴏɴ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

platonic, ig? Jon is 10 while you're 18+ in this LMAO in which Jon has a crush on you but you, despite being a 18+ year old ahh vigilante is oblivious to all of it. Not a yandere content, jst chill rn

ᴍᴏʀᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ!

The Kent farm always felt like a second home to you. The golden fields stretched endlessly, kissed by the late afternoon sun, and the gentle hum of the wind was a melody you had grown fond of over the years. It wasn’t uncommon for you to find yourself here, sitting on the porch with Lois and Clark, sharing laughter and stories about the League, or helping Jon with his homework at the kitchen table.

Jon had always been a sweet boy—bright, cheerful, and endlessly curious. You had known him since he was a wobbly infant, drooling on your shoulder as you cradled him. You remembered the way he giggled when you’d tickle his tiny toes or sing lullabies softly enough to lull him to sleep. Those memories made your heart swell with affection for him, even now that he was ten years old and growing faster than the crops in the fields.

But lately, something about Jon had changed.

“Y/N, are you staying for dinner?” Jon’s voice piped up from the living room, where he sat cross-legged on the carpet, pretending to read a book. His eyes, however, were fixed on you like you were the most fascinating story in the world.

You glanced up from the kitchen counter, where you were helping Lois chop vegetables for the evening meal. “If it’s okay with your mom and dad, sure. I don’t want to impose.”

Jon’s face lit up like Christmas morning. “You’re not imposing! You can stay as long as you want!”

Lois, standing beside you with a knowing smirk, muttered under her breath, “He’d probably ask you to move in if he thought you’d say yes.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “He’s just being polite, Lois. He’s such a thoughtful kid.”

Lois froze mid-chop, her knife hovering above the cutting board. She turned to look at you, arching a brow. “Thoughtful, huh? Y/N, sweetheart, I love you, but you’re dense”

You frowned, tilting your head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Jon likes you,” she said bluntly, the words hanging in the air like the stillness before a storm.

You blinked, momentarily taken aback. Then you laughed, the sound light and airy, brushing away the tension Lois was trying to create. “Of course, he does. I’ve known him his whole life. We’re close.”

Lois groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “No, Y/N. He likes you. As in, he has a crush on you.”

Your laughter faltered, replaced by a puzzled expression. “Lois, come on. He’s just a little boy. He’s sweet and affectionate—that’s all it is. Kids are like that.”

Lois stared at you, her lips pressing into a thin line as she fought the urge to bang her head against the counter. “Right. Sure. Just a sweet little boy. Nothing else.” She shook her head and muttered something about needing a Pulitzer for dealing with this level of obliviousness.

Meanwhile, Jon, who had overheard the entire exchange from his spot in the living room, felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment. He buried his face in his book, hoping the ground would swallow him whole.

The truth was, Jon’s crush on you wasn’t just a passing whim. To him, you were the most incredible person in the world. You were strong, kind, and effortlessly cool. He’d seen you fight alongside his dad and the Justice League, holding your own with a grace that made his young heart race. But it wasn’t just your power that captivated him—it was the way you smiled, the way your laughter filled the room, and the way you always treated him like he mattered.

When you were around, Jon felt like the most important person in the world. And he wanted to be worthy of you.

Clark, ever perceptive, tried to broach the subject later that evening while you sipped tea on the porch swing. The sunset painted the sky in hues of gold and crimson, and the air was thick with the scent of freshly tilled earth.

“You know, Jon talks about you a lot,” Clark began, leaning against the porch railing with an easy smile.

You looked up from your mug, your lips curving into a soft smile. “Does he? That’s sweet. He’s such a bright kid—always curious about everything.”

Clark nodded, his smile faltering slightly. “He looks up to you, you know. You’re a big part of his life.”

Your heart swelled with warmth at the thought. “I love that kid, Clark. He’s like a little brother to me.”

Clark hesitated, his brow furrowing as he searched for the right words. “Right, but maybe he sees you as...more than that.”

You laughed lightly, shaking your head. “Clark, he’s ten. Kids get attached to people they admire—it’s normal. He’s just a kind-hearted little boy.”

Before Clark could say more, Lois stepped onto the porch, her arms crossed and her eyes filled with exasperation. “For the love of God, Clark, give it up. She’s as clueless as you were when we started dating.”

Clark straightened, looking mildly offended. “I wasn’t that clueless.”

Lois snorted. “You didn’t even realize I was flirting with you until I spelled it out.”

As they bickered, you sipped your tea, completely oblivious to Jon peeking through the screen door, his heart sinking with every passing second.

Jon decided that if words weren’t enough to make you notice, he’d have to try harder. Maybe he’d write you a poem, something that captured how he felt when you smiled at him. Or he could bake you a cake, like the ones he saw on TV shows, with “You’re amazing” written in frosting.

But for now, all he could do was watch you, his young heart beating wildly every time you glanced his way. To Jon, you were a constellation in human form, shining brighter than any star in the sky. You were the one who made the world feel magical, who turned ordinary moments into memories he wanted to keep forever.

When you smiled at him later that evening, ruffling his hair affectionately, Jon felt like he could fly without his powers.

“You’re going to grow up to be such an amazing man, Jon,” you said warmly. “The world’s lucky to have you.”

Jon swallowed hard, his cheeks turning pink. “Thanks,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible.

Lois, watching from the kitchen, slapped a hand over her face. “This is painful to watch,” she muttered to Clark.

“Give it time,” Clark said, though even he looked concerned about how long it might take for you to catch on.

And so, the cycle continued. Jon adored you, wearing his heart on his sleeve, while you remained blissfully unaware. To you, he was just a sweet kid you’d known forever. To him, you were everything.

But Jon was nothing if not determined. One day, he promised himself, he’d make you see. For now, though, he was content to sit by your side, basking in your presence, while his dreams of the future danced in his young mind like fireflies in the twilight.

Jon n you fr:

[nctsworld]

fever pitch

✩‌ mark x reader | pro baseball player!mark | fluff | smut | 8.4k

SUMMARY | your world is shaken up (literally) when you meet the handsome man guilty of the accidental baseball smack to your head. after a comforting meet-cute and realization that he’s the city’s ace pitcher, you two go on a date. and by the end of the night, mark thinks he’s falling for you faster than any pitch he’s thrown before.

WARNINGS | sexual content (near the end), arm riding (iykyk), breast/nipple play, oral sex (m and f receiving), fingering, piv sex, some drinking // this is 80% fluff-20% smut (with lots of corny writing); there's actually not too much baseball mentioned, but i did a little research on it; however, inaccuracies may be inevitable!

RATING | mature

AUTHOR'S NOTE | i am sorry this is so late </3 i hope y'all enjoy! please also check out (and maybe send in some prompts to) @nctpromptmeme!

TAGLIST | @curieouscapt @dearlyminhyung @infnteen

Under the warm, summer sun, you beam as you walk towards your close friend, Chenle, and his dog, Daegal.

Shining back, he nods in hello to you with sunglasses pressed against his face. The teacup Bichon by his side wags its tail and pants happily at the sight of you, but is easily distracted the next second due to the park’s stimulating surroundings.

Dogs running amok, families having picnics, kids chasing each other in circles, friends playing baseball—

Specifically, a group of absolutely stunning men playing, as if a model catalogue exploded onto the field across from you.

But one in particular catches your eye.

Kind eyes shine behind wire-framed glasses, paired with a wide smile. His soft hair bounces with his light jog across the area.  

In his fitted white tee, he ends up in one spot and continuously throws the ball into his mitt. The game seems to be on hold as he speaks to a teammate. Absentmindedly, he rolls his arm sleeves up, revealing lean, yet defined muscles.

You silently gasp, struck by the beautiful sight, then gulp at the flexing of his biceps when he continues tossing the ball. His teammate must’ve told him a joke since the attractive figure throws his head back in joy.

And this is the exact moment you go into cardiac arrest because his laugh is the last straw of what you can handle from this man.  

Suddenly, the sound of your name shakes you out of your daze and reminds you to breathe.

“Okay, which one of these guys is the one who made you do a full stop in the middle of the grass?” Chenle asks, coming up beside you.

Daegal welcomes you with loving rubs against your leg. You squat to pet her, but your eyes are still honed in on the handsome stranger. The teams seems to be switching now when someone hands the bespectacled man a bat.

Your friend tracks your line of sight and nods, impressed. “Okay, he’s cute. Your distractedness will be excused this time.”

Scoffing, you shove his leg lightly and he giggles in return. After a few more moments of gawking, Chenle wonders, “Why do I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere?”

Standing up, you reply, “Probably comes here often with his friends when you walk Daegal?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I feel like I know him from somewhere else...”

Deciding you should probably drag your attention away and not be a blatant creep, you begin to walk away backwards, heading towards the ice cream cart before the line-up becomes as long as the field.

“Want your usual?”

“Yes, please!”

However, Chenle’s brightness fades instantly, jaw falling and eyes widening. You’re about to turn around to see what caused his change of expression when you hear a piercing—

“WATCH OUT!”

With a throbbing in your head, you wake up, squinting at the blinding rays. Coming into view, the cute guy from before replaces the sun’s spot, staring down at you with concern written all over his face.

“Oh, my God,” he pants. His hands shake in front of him. “I am so, so, so, so sorry.”

You roll your eyes a bit, trying to center your vision. Groaning, you ask, “What happened?”

“I, uh...” The individual’s mouth, slightly open with gritted teeth, pulls to one side as he runs a hand through his hair, “may have batted the ball and it coincidentally went straight for your head.”

Carefully, he helps lift your upper body off the ground. He asks if you’re okay, and you nod. But a grimace comes after, causing the stranger’s frown to deepen.

“Maybe we should get you to the hospital. You might have a concussion.”

All of a sudden, he inches closer and gingerly runs his thumb over the source of the throbbing. It’s likely all in your mind, but you swear the pain lessens from his touch. You tilt your head further, angling into his palm and embracing the comforting gesture.

“I’ll obviously cover all the bills—”

You cut him off with a slow lift of your hand. “No. I’m okay, I’m okay.”

You know you’ll definitely be more than okay if you can steal some more time with his magical touch.

Continuing, you say, “And that’s too much. If anything, you can buy some ice cream for me and my friend.”

Glancing around for Chenle, you find him, crouching like the stranger, but a few feet away. With a raised corner of his mouth, you deduce he’s deliberately giving space for you to interact with Mr. Handsome Baseball Hitter.

Said handsome baseball hitter chuckles. Hearing it tugs at your chest, even harder now that you can experience it up close.

“I’ll buy you a thousand ice creams to make it up to you.” He retreats his hand and you don't hold back pouting from the fleeting contact you already miss. “But seriously, if there’s any long-term side effects, please reach out to me and I’ll pay for any expenses that come your way.”

“How would I know how to reach out to you?”

He rambles the following matter-of-factly, “Well, you can find my manager’s information online, there’s the team’s Twitter account”—he looks up cutely in thought—“and I guess I’ve been kinda active on Instagram—”

You tilt your head in confusion. What is this guy going on about?

“Okay,” you interrupt, “but who are you?”

His face flips through a few emotions in the span of seconds, but they’re unreadable. Finally landing on a grin, he says, “I think what’s more important is: do you know who you are?”

“Yeah, I’m—” And you properly introduce yourself.

“Good,” he says, “so we’re not dealing with amnesia.”

Your cheeks rise at his humour. Saying your name warmly, he adds, “Nice to meet you, I’m Mark.”

He lends out a hand for you to shake and you do so. With help from his knees, he rises upward, aiding you to stand on your feet in the process.

“Mark,” you repeat his name aloud, locking eyes with him, “the baseball batter with the strength of a thousand suns.”

At the odd line, you catch yourself, thinking how the injury must’ve loosened your filter. He laughs at the lengthy label. “You should see me pitch.”

You shake your head. “Nu-uh, nope,” you playfully say. “I’m going to be safe and stay far, far away from that sexy arm.”

Both you and Mark’s eyebrows rise at the remark.

Yep, definitely a loose filter. Maybe you really do have a concussion.

While Mark breaks out into a pleased smile, you snap your eyes shut, wanting to run away. Or disappear, if at all possible. “Strong, strong. I meant strong...”

Avoiding eye contact, you hurry and make way to a now standing Chenle. Trying to leave the embarrassment behind, you grumble, “Chenle, let’s get going.”

Your friend smirks and whispers by your side, “You sure you don’t want to dig your grave even further?” You attempt to elbow him, but he’s too quick and avoids it.

“It was nice meeting you, Mark,” you call out over your shoulder as you walk away. “Thanks for looking out for... my head?”

Cringe falls over, making you pick up your pace. Time to officially stop talking.

Chenle turns away, his body shaking as he releases a snicker into his fist.

“Again, I’m really, really sorry!” Mark apologizes in a shout. You can hear the sincerity in his voice, and also recognize his voice as the one who warned you to watch out before the incident occurred. “If you need to find me, I’ll be here over the next couple of weekends!”

When you’re far away enough from the scene of the crime, you smack Chenle in the arm. In response, Daegal chirps a bark at you. “You just had to watch me make a complete fool out of myself back there.”

He lovingly places an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into him. “I mean, Daegal’s great and all, but if anyone has any entertainment value out of the three of us here, it’s going to be you.”

You groan at his harsh, yet true, words.

“Your head good though?”

You note how the throbbing is barely there anymore. Touching the spot, you wince. At most, there’s likely just a bruise. “Yeah, it’s good.”

In a hopeful tone, Chenle sing-songs, “Think you wanna come to the park again with me next weekend?”

Reflecting on what Mark said, you ponder if he really meant it about coming to find him if anything was wrong. Even though everything would likely be fine, you’d love to see him again. 

But how could you face him after the disaster of your mouth running free? You shake your head in defeat.

On Monday night, the next evening, your phone goes off right as you enter your apartment building. You drag your phone out, eyebrows furrowing at the notification that Chenle’s calling you. When was the last time he’s called you?

Actually, you’re fairly sure he’s never called you. Ever. You pick it up without hesitation. 

“Hey, everything okay?”

“Find a TV playing the baseball game,” Chenle pants. “Right now.”

Out of all the things he could call you for, this is what he’s asking you to do? He’s not even into baseball; basketball is the sport he adores to death. “What?”

“Do it,” he orders. “Now!”

“Okay, okay.”

Thankful you haven’t gone up to your apartment yet, you stride over to the little in-house gym in your building near the front entrance. You haven’t used it much since you moved in, but you recall that the TVs usually play either sports or news.

And you remember right, except at the moment, the baseball game is the only event plastered on the screens. Most people in the room are fixated on the game while they’re doing their set or on their respective cardio machine.

“Okay...” you trail in uncertainty. A pitcher from your city’s team throws the ball and the batter misses. The camera cuts to the batter from the opposing team, shaking his head in disappointment. “Why must I need to watch the baseball game so ba—”

The camera’s now on Mark’s face.

The same Mark from the neighbourhood park yesterday, sans the glasses, and in proper baseball gear.

He’s on live, national television, playing baseball in front of the crowd of tens of thousands of people.  

From a side angle, all eyes are on him as he tips his cap forward. His eyes mold into slits of concentration, his sharp jaw tightening after a lick of his lips. Sure, he’s different from yesterday’s care-free self, but you’d be lying if you said this serious side of him didn’t turn you on either.

Again, the camera cuts away, to the wide shot from behind him. Besides his great body (especially his gorgeous backside in those snug pants), you revel in the back of his white and dark green trimmed jersey, indicating his last name and his assigned number: Lee. 02.

He winds up for the pitch, raising his leg, and the ball is gone within a blink of an eye, landing directly into the catcher’s glove. The number 98 comes up near a rectangle on-screen, signifying the speed of his throw.

Mark wasn’t lying about his skills; he’s the pitcher with the strength of a thousand suns.

All the screens are filled with Player #02’s glimmer of a smirk, before he quickly stashes it away behind his cap. The camera lingers on him while the commentators in the background talk.

“A great put-out pitch for Lee,” one says. “His fastballs this season have been absolutely remarkable. Another great one from him.”

Cameras switch to another shot of Mark catching the ball, resetting once more for the next batter.

Another commentator supplements, “Aside from the slight hiccup earlier this season, he’s definitely on-track in making his mark on his debut in the league. A rookie ace indeed. It’s no wonder they’ve been calling him ‘The Tiger!’”

Understanding dawns upon you as to why he stated how easy it would be to contact him (and to be able to pay for any potential hospital bills). The city’s new star pitcher—how could you not know him?

“I knew he looked familiar!” Chenle pipes up from the other end, just as Mark’s nice figure takes up the screen once more. Awe and shock consume your voice, and you’re unable to create a coherent reply.

But you don’t need to, not when you have Chenle to talk your ear off about the game, but mostly Mark, for the rest of the night.

The week passes by, with you casually going through Mark’s Instagram (which, as he mentioned, he only occasionally posts on) and watching a few more of Mark’s games with Chenle in tow. 

You fawn together over his plays (and his ass) and, despite not knowing much about the game, he must be having a great week from the commentators’ constant praises and the team’s overall wins.

Once Sunday finally arrives though, a wave of nervous anticipation rolls over you.

Because for you, it’s game time.

Sure, you may not have initially wanted to, but now that you know who Mark is, what is there to lose if you step up to the plate and see him again?

The scene of the park is quite similar to last week’s, except for the large presence of people staring at the men, many you recognize from the city’s team from all the games you’ve watched this week, playing baseball on the field. You wonder if you were too caught up with Mark last week because you didn’t notice how everyone else was this enraptured too.

As you stroll closer to the grassy area with Chenle and Daegal hovering behind, the players coincidentally take a breather. Some parents quickly take advantage of the break to bring their children up to receive autographs.

This is perfect timing for you too.

However, you stop in place, debating if this was a good idea to return. You’re surely going to make a fool out of yourself again (this time with no injury to blame) and Chenle, despite his promise of not interfering, will totally budge in and—

And it’s too late to backpedal, because Mark, although distracted by the little cluster of people surrounding him, lifts his head momentarily and his gaze lands directly on you.

Air seizes in your lungs when he flashes you a grin that could compete with the sun. He gives a small nod and wave. Like a star struck fangirl, you glance around to ensure he’s not gifting that nod and wave to anyone else. 

But no, you’re not mistaken—his eyes are only on you.

Saying his thanks to his assumed fans, he jogs his way over to you, attired today in a fitted grey-mixed tee, ripped denim jeans, and thicker framed glasses compared to last time.

“Hey,” Mark says, still grinning beautifully. “How’s your head feeling?”

His smile is incredibly infectious. It’s a challenge not to do the same when you’re in the presence of this man. “Better. Had some bruising, but it’s all gone now.”

He nods in response, mumbling a “Good, good” under his breath. With his face turned away, he swipes some hair behind his ear and seems to be preparing himself to say something. But, you will yourself to address the elephant in the room first.

“So, why didn’t you tell me that you were in the major leagues?”

At the unexpected question, Mark darts his head up and draws it back in surprise, his lips pouting adorably. Your heart bursts.

Contrasting his cuteness, you notice the hint of stubble around his mouth. First the pout, now this. You’re captivated by it more than you should be.

He chuckles and lifts a shoulder. “Well, you didn’t ask.”

“I did,” you laugh. “I asked who you were!”

After looking up in thought for a moment, he concedes. “Okay, maybe you did.”

You two laugh in unison, and even when the moment is over, both of you stare into each other's eyes. Time’s filled with comfortable silence and equally comfortable smiles. 

Mark breaks the silence, asking, “Are you still wanting to stay safe and far away from my sexy arm?”

“Oh, my God...” you groan, hating to hear the same words that left your mouth from last week.

“No,” he says through another burst of laughter, “it’s a genuine question.”

“I meant to say strong!” you argue petulantly. “I was just a little out of it from the hit, no thanks to you.”

“I know, I know,” he giggles. “I’m genuinely wondering though, cause...” Mark pauses and begins to fidget, this time rubbing the nape of his neck. 

You tilt your head, intrigued. “Cause what?”

“Cause, I was, uh, wondering,” he says, eyes averting yours. “Since I owe you for your head injury—”

“You don’t owe me anything—”

“And I know it’s a long shot cause you’re absolutely gorgeous and you’re probably taken—”

This time, you draw your head back in surprise over the compliment and the grand assumption that you’re off the market. 

“—but did you wanna go out with me sometime?” His hand moves through his hair before he shyly looks at you again. “Maybe?”

Before you can even process what's happening you hear a "Yes!" behind you, causing you to jolt upright. “Yes, she will absolutely go on a date with you!”

“Chenle!” you gasp, appalled but not surprised, in the direction of your close friend as he nears your side. You face Mark again and gesture in the direction of the incoming intruder. “Don’t mind him.”

As per his charming self, your friend holds out a hand. “Hi, I’m Chenle. Your newest number one fan. Great plays this week, by the way.”

“Mark.” He takes the hand to shake, giving him a small smile. “And thanks.”

Mark’s eyes wander down and notices the dog wagging its tail excitedly. His face lights up. “Aw, who’s this cute little guy?”

“Daegal,” Chenle answers. “She’s my little handful, besides this one.” he says, jerking his head in your direction. Mark's too focused on Daegal to see you slapping her owner in the arm. 

Squatting down, he pets the lively dog. You follow suit and crouch down too, watching Daegal gift Mark tons of licks and enthusiastically rubs herself against his hands and arms. She’s never this delighted with strangers usually. 

“What do you think, Daegal?” Mark asks, holding eye contact with her as if she could reply, then he glances over at you. “Do you think your friend should go out with me?”

Immediately, she barks happily, causing all three of you to laugh. 

“Good girl,” Chenle whispers from above.

Although you pucker your lips playfully at Daegal’s betrayal, you reach out to pet her fondly along with Mark. 

“But how will you guarantee my safety from your strong arm?” Your stare lingers on them. Not that he has to know, but you had to make a conscious effort to not say sexy once more.

“I promise I won’t be tossing any more of my balls in your direction,” Mark casually says.

After a pause, your eyebrows raise and his eyes widen.

“Wait, I mean—shit...” he hisses, closing his eyes and shaking his head. Your lips twitch, suppressing a laugh and finding him adorable.

“I know what you mean,” you quickly say, relieving him of his embarrassment.

He shyly glances up at you and you share a comforting look. Suddenly, someone from the field hollers his name. With a small frown, he begins to walk in reverse away from you.

“I probably should get back, but now that you know how to get in touch, message me on Instagram and we can figure out a time that works for our date?”

“Yes, definitely!”

Incredulously, you look up at Chenle for answering on your behalf.

“For sure, Mark,” you say. “Have a great game.” With the way he plays, you know he will.

Chenle and you wave your good-byes to him and watch him retreat to his friends.

“You do know that I'm the one he asked out, right?” you ask as the three of you begin to walk towards to the park's popular ice cream cart, except you're more vigilant this time.

Your friend grabs out cash, ready to pay for your order. Or at least you hope so, for all the trouble he caused.

“Yes, and that's why I will live vicariously through you!”

After messaging him over the last week (with Chenle hovering over your shoulder and backseat driving many of the messages), Thursday really couldn't come fast enough for your date with Mark.

As you step out of your apartment complex, your jaw drops and an impressed smile fills your face.

In a green bomber, black tee, and skinny jeans, Mark coolly pulls up on a red Ducati motorbike. You recall seeing a post or two on his Instagram with it, but it takes you by surprise to see it in-person.

He takes off his helmet and runs fingers through his hair, attempting to ruffle out the messiness. You're a little envious of how good he looks, even with messy hair.

Your date takes in your outfit—an off-the-shoulder floral dress that teeters the lines of being cute and sexy simultaneously—and beams.

“Wow,” he says, mouth agape. “You look gorgeous.”

“Thank you,” you say, then make an over-the-top attempt to check him out. “You don't look so bad yourself.”

After a moment of shared smiles, he tilts his head towards his mode of transportation. “Hope this isn't too daunting.”

You shake your head. “Not at all.”

As Mark helps you with your helmet, now that you're up-close, you notice he's clean-shaven, unlike the other times you've seen him, and you presume he opted for contacts for tonight.

You also can't help but relish in the proximity of his hands near your face, flashing previously to the first time you met only a couple of weeks ago.

Once he's done, you ready yourself for the ride by wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, holding onto him snugly.

He twists around with his visor open.

“Ready?”

You respond with a squeeze around his waist and a nod, so he closes his visor and you're off through the nightscape of the city.

Everything passes by in a blur, but when there are the occasional moments when he slows down or stops at the red lights, you drink in how beautiful your city is.

On the other hand, you're dying to know what Mark planned for tonight. He gave you a vague idea—dinner, a small post-dinner activity (no balls involved, Mark promised), and dessert—but that's all.

In a nicer part of the city, he stops and parks in front of a bumbling Italian restaurant.

Once inside, Mark gives his name to the greeter, stating how he has a reservation, and a sweet host immediately leads you to your table. As you walk through the restaurant, you admire its warm atmosphere with dim lights and candles spread everywhere, along with the many other couples eating their dinner.

The host stops in front of a secluded semi-circular plush booth. You shimmy in, and Mark follows. Both of you sit comfortably close near the middle of the booth.

Despite how much you have been talking through DMs over the last week, as first dates often go, conversation is awkward at first.

However, as dinner progresses and the extravagant wine (Mark insisted, “Only the best for my date, please.”) makes its way through your systems, it gets easier.

You learn more about his family, his team, and his love for reading. For him, he learns about your friends, your job vs. dreams constant conflict, and your love for music.

The easiness also goes beyond words. Underneath the table, your legs brush up against one another's. You throw your head back in laughter, and you bravely touch his forearm in response. Mark even leans in close to your body, sometimes the edge of your shoulders gently pressing into the other.

By the end of dinner, being the gentleman he is, Mark doesn't even let you glance at the check and pays it all without hesitation. Then, you're outside and on his motorbike again, off to the mysterious post-dinner activity.

When he reaches a particular end of town where there isn't much around except one place, you have an inkling where you're about to go.

Once you're there and parked, your hunch is answered correctly, but you realize something.

“Isn't the aquarium closed at this hour?”

He shrugs nonchalantly and begins to usher you forward with a hand lingering at your lower back. Whispering into your ear, he says, “I may have booked it privately for tonight.”

As you walk through, Mark and you stick to each other's side, shoulder to shoulder, and switch between revealing more about yourselves while reading and conversing about the informational signs on the aquatic creatures.

Both of you stop in front of the main showcase of the aquarium: the large tank that houses two beluga whales.

Mark leans in a bit closer to the tank, catches sight of one of them in a corner, and points it out to you. As he straightens, you feel the back of your hand brush up against his.

“You’re quite the romantic,” you state while glancing at the tank, almost as low as a whisper. Even with nobody around, there's something so serene about the aquarium that makes you want to be respectfully quiet. "Does everyone get this first-date, first-class experience from you?”

“Only the girls who get hit on the head by me,” he teases in a whisper, making you softly chuckle.

After a moment passes as you watch the tank, hoping and waiting for the beluga whales to move to where you're standing, Mark asks, “Would it be surprising to say I don’t go on dates as often as you think?”

Your eyes dart toward him, but you quickly keep your gaze fixated back on the tank. You nod. “A little.”

He hums, followed by a lengthy sigh. You can sense a shift in him. You hear how it's laced with sadness, maybe even a little regret.

“I’ve been working so hard to get to this point and of course being drafted’s been so worth it, but it also meant that I had to sacrifice some things along the way. But now that I’m finally here”—you feel his gaze now directed on you—“I definitely can rearrange my time for other things.”

Your breathing slows as you turn to face him.

Courageously, Mark intertwines his hand with yours and his free one raises, caressing the bare skin of your upper arm. The contact makes you gasp and hold your breath.

He drags himself forward, as do you, and his hand is about to cup your face...

Until the two belugas are now your front-row audience, glancing at you as if they were smiling.

You both chuckle softly and give them a wave, not wanting to lose this rare chance of seeing them this close.

And although the special moment has passed, you two finish off the marine life tour with your hand in his.

Once outside, Mark leads you somewhere nearby. After about ten minutes of walking, you're standing on a large cliff with a scenic view of the city. You've never seen the city from this height before, and all its twinkling lights and the starry sky beckon you.

An ice cream truck is also coincidentally there, and you assume Mark booked it for your date tonight.

You two grab your waffle cone orders and sit down on a wooden bench that overlooks the view.

“So,” you say, licking the cone on its side to avoid the ice cream from dripping down your hand, “does this go towards the debt of you hitting my head?”

“Of course,” he nods with his signature smile, doing the same as you and trying to avoid his sweet treat from melting. “It'll be one ice cream out of the many future thousands.”

The implication that there’ll be more than just this date hangs in the night air, almost as if it's a promise, and you really hope it'll be true.

At the very least, it feels true as you peer over your city, leaning your head onto Mark's shoulder while he casually drapes an arm around you.

Getting off the motorcycle, Mark walks you to the front door of your place and you don't even think twice about asking if he wants to come in. He says yes a little too enthusiastically, making you giggle, but it confirms that neither of you want the night to come to an end just yet.

Mark hangs his jacket as you grab beers from the fridge. Both of you make talk for some time on your couch, but the energy in the room is buzzing, especially since the almost-kiss.

The second you gravitate towards Mark, he rushes to wrap an arm around your waist and his free hand cups your face, dragging you in for the first kiss that's been itching to happen.

His lips are dangerously soft, addictive really. You swear he tastes like cherry (could be from the food earlier or maybe a lip balm flavour, you wonder).

It's a slow, yet deep, start. In the beginning, the kissing is with intent, wanting to know what each other tastes like. Naturally, the curiosity evolves into exploration, with Mark cautiously dipping his tongue into your mouth. You react with zeal, swiping your tongue against his and even experiment sucking on it. He shudders at the sensation.

Mark holds you close throughout, but your bodies move into a new position, letting you sink comfortably into your couch beneath him.

Here, passion rises. He grips your waist, whilst his body presses into yours, and he begins to trail down your neck with hot, open-mouthed kisses. Although it's already off your shoulders, he drags a sleeve of your dress further down, hungry to kiss as much of your bare skin as he possibly can.

Your fingers tangle in his hair and you arch into him, embracing his clear desire against you. You're falling and falling and falling, becoming more drunk with every touch and kiss from Mark. Ever since the first day you met, you couldn't help but yearn for his touch. Now, having a taste of him like this, you're desperate to experience more.

Although you're underneath him, you decide to take hold of the kissing. When he takes a breather for an instant, you steal the chance and fervently kiss along his jaw and rugged neck. Mark moans, gripping your waist harder, and grinds into you, his hardness dying to be free.

Shockingly, he suddenly tears away, sitting up and panting. Confused, you mirror him.

“Should we stop?” he asks. “Like, I know I might be being presumptuous, but I don’t wanna ruin our potential next date if we rush too soon?”

It melts your heart that he retracted because he's concerned over your potential future. You delicately rearrange some of his loose hair stuck to his forehead. “If you want to stop, we can.”

He pouts, reminding you of him previously at the park, followed by a cute whimper.

“But I don’t want to stop...” he laugh-smiles, leaning into you, about to drive his mouth into yours again.

“Neither do I.”

And with that, Mark makes the split-second decision to continue this good thing and not look back. Once again, he's leaving love upon your shoulders, at a measured pace currently, and he carefully lowers your dress. Drooping off your shoulders, you let it drop and bunch around your stomach.

Surprise is written on his face, as you didn't wear a bra underneath your dress, but the surprise quickly dissipates into enthrallment over the beautiful sight.

He lowers himself, mouth traversing across your chest while his free hand gently massages one of your breasts. You succumb to the rising pleasure, curving into him again.

When he arrives at one tip of yours, he looks up and asks, his voice low and gravelly, “Can I...?”

You whimper-nod, already on the verge of begging him to take the next step.

It kills you that he teases first, merely pecking the surrounding area and your tip; his mouth leaving goosebumps in its wake. Your patience grows thin.

“Mark, please, just—”

Air is depleted as his tongue swipes against your nipple in a broad stroke. He then wraps his mouth around it, sucking firmly. The other hand that was kneading your other breast turns to focus on your nipple, pinching it between his index finger and thumb.

The more he sucks, the more you hear the wet puckering of his lips, the more it makes you clench tighter. Bliss begins to boil in your abdomen when he flicks his tongue and mimics the same on your other tit with the pad of his thumb.

Your breathing grows heavier, and you sense you're close, but Mark abruptly stops. You're about to speak up, believing he'd be the type to finish you off if you ask, until you realize he's kneeling on the floor in front of you and stripping off his t-shirt.

With your help, Mark eases your dress to the floor and places it safely on the coffee table. Focusing on you, his gaze is dripping of lust—so carnal, so different than his regular self.

As Mark advances to your heat, your palms graze over his defined shoulders and back. He parts your legs further with his hands wrapped around your inner thigh.

“Wearing panties?” he inquires, his finger pulling the fabric a bit to the side.

“Huh?”

“No bra, but panties?” he smirks, making you realize the joke.

You roll your eyes and relax momentarily, leaning your head back. “Are you into that? No panties underneath?”

“Could be hot,” he shrugs, tugging your underwear to your calves and tossing them off to the side.

“Maybe one date I can do th-ah—”

Without warning, he dives in, one his hands now grasping you by your lower back, and you lurch forward to get a good view of his head between your legs. You've got a grip on his shoulder, the other tugging at his hair.

His tongue laps at your folds with agility, figures out what you like or don't like. There isn't much you don't like, Mark deduces. Languid licks. Penetrating patterns. Fast flicks.

You respond eagerly to them all with harsh tugs to his hair, notably when he spreads your folds to devour you entirely. The hair pulling hurts a bit, but he doesn't mention anything; he likes it a little rough.

Despite the positive reactions, he can tell you've been at a simmer with his moves, not quite reaching close to a high. He withdraws his mouth, and, through your hazy vision, you catch sight of his honeyed lips.

But your eyes blow wide open and an acute moan dispels as your lover of the night fills you with his fingers, alongside his licking of your clit.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

Following a few more minutes of scissoring and a few sucks to your bundle of nerves, he asks, breathing into your inner thigh, “Does this feel good, gorgeous?”

Your lip is drawn between your teeth, digging so hard from the pleasure you wonder if it'll bleed soon. “Mm-hmm.”

“Good,” he says, kissing your thigh tenderly, “'cause I'm gonna need you to remember how good tonight is so you'll keep coming back for more.”

Not gonna be a problem, you think, but all you could muster is senseless panting.

“You close?”

You can barely release a whimper out to respond, and Mark orders you to tell him when you're near.

It doesn't take long to get there. The warmth in your abdomen encapsulates your body and your hips rut upward frantically, desiring your climax to take authority.

“Mark, Mark, Mark. Fuck, I'm close, I'm—”

Immediately, he stands up, fingers still inside you and somehow impaling you further and faster while his thumb lazily strokes at your clit when possible, and his ardent kiss is the needed catalyst to take you over the brink. Simultaneously, the kiss swallows your bountiful whines.

When you finally come down from your high, you kiss him deeply and feel him through his jeans against you.

“Let's take this to the bedroom, I need to grab—”

“Should I run to the pharmacy to—?”

In tandem, you chuckle over how in sync you are, and tip your perspired foreheads against the other.

Holding his hand, you lead him to your bedroom. You turn on your bedside lamp and gesture to the tissues, so he can clean his hands. You then bound to your bedroom bathroom and fumble around to find your condom packs somewhere in a drawer.

Upon your return, you're graced with the sight of Mark sitting naked on the edge of your bed, stroking himself. You almost salivate.

God, he's bigger than you expected, and that's only one part of his magnificent body. You didn't have the opportunity before to admire his muscular abs, but you take every chance to do so now. The way his arm flexes with each stroke. And those thighs...

“Sorry,” he murmurs and shyly shrinks a bit, in contrast to his lewd action, “hope it's okay that I took my pants off already.”

He really is quite endearing. Maybe even a little perfect.

“There is absolutely nothing to apologize for, Mark.”

You place the condoms onto your bedside table, but are so absorbed with Mark's cock and existence. Entranced, it's your turn to drop to your knees.

Fingers wrap around his cock, and Mark's groans rise. You delve in your enthrallment for a bit, squeezing and stroking to your heart's content until you finally decide to ease him into your mouth.

Your tongue works wonders, tasting the underside of his length with every bob of your head. Meanwhile, his hands lazily thread through your hair and he watches attentively.

More saliva develops and drips, especially when you relax your mouth to let him hit the back of your throat. Obscene slurps accompany his delicate moans, both of which permeate the room in melodious unity.

As his threading develops into tight pulls of your hair, you detract yourself to avoid the night ending right then and there.

Since he's still sitting on the side of the bed, you sit onto his lap with a plan to abate and elongate the tension. You're back to kissing him, allowing both parties' hands to roam each other.

“I love your arms,” you mumble into his mouth as you reach for them.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, “I know you love my sexy arms.” You punch him teasingly.

But an idea flickers in your head. You halt your actions.

“This might be weird to ask, but could I...” you trail off, picking at your hands, realizing maybe you shouldn't finish your question.

“Hey,” he whispers, holding your chin in his hand. “You can ask me anything, beautiful.”

You hesitate with closed eyes.

“Could I... ride your arm?”

Peeking a nervous eye open, an evidently puzzled Mark stares back at you.

“I—What? Sure?” His voice raises in octaves.

Embarrassed, you try to wave it off. “Never mind that I asked.”

“No, hey,” he says, his palm caressing the side of your face and angling it towards him. “I'm flattered and obviously, nobody has ever asked to ride my arm before. But if you want to give it a go, by all means, I'm open to it.”

“Yeah?”

Mark gives you the sweetest smile and a reassuring nod. “Yeah.”

Since you suggested it, you lead him to lay on the bed, more in the centre so there'd be enough room for you to sit. He watches you gingerly lift his hand near head-level, as if he's almost flexing to show-off or about to lay his head on his palm.

Carefully, you sit onto his left arm, facing the direction of his body. At the contact, you shudder. “Is this okay?”

He agrees, enticed by your ass near his face and the general exquisiteness of your being. “You can put more weight on it, it's okay.”

You comply, relishing in the pressure of his arm against you. After becoming more comfortable and placing most of your weight to an arm on the bed, you slowly rub yourself upon his arm.

Mark's fascinated by this foreign act, eyes watching your every move. With his free hand, he touches himself.

His favourite part about you riding his arm? The look on your face—fluttering eyes paired with your lip biting—and the fact that you find him this attractive, that using him this way can simply get you off.

“This okay still?” you breathe.

“Fuck yeah.” He squeezes himself harder. He knows the answer to the next question, but he wants to hear it from you directly. “Does it feel good for you?”

You assent with a sharp moan. Without notice, you lick your palm with the intent of reaching over to grab his cock. At first, he's confused when he notices your hand, but he happily lets you handle him.

“Oh, God,” Mark pants.

You fasten your pace on his arm, grinding greedily against him. As you do so, your arm attempts to match the pace for his desire.

“Fuck,” Mark twists his head to look at your hips, tries to focus on how wet you are amidst his own pleasure, “you really do love my arms...”

It's a sweet dream for you—no, sweeter than any dream or fantasy could ever be. This is real, this spectacular sensation spreading all over and it's all thanks to his arm. Your body winds up, tighter and tighter, and you eventually break, chasing your second orgasm of the night.

Cleaning your mess up, you wipe his arm fast, keen on what's about to happen next. You then draw him into your mouth a bit to get him up again before rolling the condom onto him.

Once the rubber is on, you tease him from above, sliding the tip of his cock against your pulsing centre.

Mark may be a gentleman, but a gentleman can only be patient for so long. He seizes his possession and you gasp as he holds you by your hip, forcing you to sit down onto him.

The feeling is heavenly, stretching you sweetly. You bounce on his cock, and the sounds from you two are louder than from before. There's a small voice inside your head, worried about a noise complaint from your neighbours, but future you could deal with that.

Right now, it's all about Mark. He plays with your breasts with every move you make, while you fondle his abs and arms. Both of you try your best to look at one another through the pleasure, but it's difficult when you're floating higher and higher.

He then clasps your lower back and skillfully rises upward with the help of his strong abs. This position provides an angle for him to do all the work to thrust into you, as well as continuing to rub your breasts and even suck on them again.

At this point, you're in absolute state of frenzy, drowning in all the stimulation. Mark's underwater, right there with you too.

He pulls away in the midst of licking your nipple, his eyes going round. Nevertheless, you lean into him, your breasts pressed into his face and your mouth hangs.

Together, you cry each other's names and swear in endless spirals and the bliss finally reaches its peak for the evening.

As Mark lays next to you in your bed, observing your peaceful sleeping state, he's obviously amazed by tonight's events, but he’s also unsure what’s in-store for either of you.

There are so many factors at play with his career, you're both essentially still strangers, the future is unknown...

And yet, despite these worries, the feeling blooming in his chest is more than a blossoming liking. It’s akin to the moment he steps up to plate, either ready to bat or pitch. Nervousness, determination, and...

It’s too early to call it, but when he’s around you, he swears it feels a lot like his love for the game.

He shakes his head, not wanting to jump into the deep end this fast. He doesn't want to ruin this good thing prematurely.

Nevertheless, he places one last kiss atop your forehead before he sleeps, praying you'll be a new constant in his life, at least in the near future.

EPILOGUE — FOUR MONTHS LATER

Today is game four of the World Series and your city has won the previous three. If they continue their streak, tonight will be the night where Mark and his teammates take home the championship.

Hours prior to the big game, the teams are having batting practice beforehand to warm-up.

With your chin perched in your palm, you watch Mark closely—of course, safely from a distance and from behind him—and nod with every ball he hits well at the mound. You're seated in the lower area of the stadium among many of the other team members' families and friends, including a gleeful Chenle.

“Stop checking out your boyfriend's ass,” he orders, nudging you with his shoulder as he tosses a piece of popcorn into his mouth.

“You stop checking out my boyfriend's ass,” you retort, nudging him back.

The two of you continue your little nudging contest until he says, “So when you guys get married—”

“Oh, my God, Chenle...”

“I'm just saying, we all know you two are going to have beautiful little baseball player babies! Anyway, as I was saying, when you guys get married, can Daegal be the ringbearer somehow? She's pretty much the reason why you guys got together in the first place.”

You shake your head, eyes still on your love. “Chenle, we'll have that conversation when and if we get there.”

“When we'll get there,” he states confidently, and you laugh, dismissing him.

Sure, it may have been a fresh relationship only four months in, but you couldn't deny that maybe the idea of marriage wiggled its way through your mind here and there. Despite your thoughts, it wasn't at the forefront; you were happy in love with Mark now, here in the present.

Player #02 hands his bat over to another player and jogs towards you. It makes you wonder why he hasn't done an advertisement with slo-mo running and wind blowing through his hair yet.

“How’d I do?” Mark asks, leaning onto the railing next to you. Chenle gives him two thumbs up with a large grin.

“Awesome," you agree. "Did you think about hitting my head with each ball?”

Mark chuckles and juts his tongue to a side of his mouth. “You’re never going to let me live that down, huh?”

“Never,” you quip, scrunching your nose. You reach out for him and hold the tips of his fingers in yours. “You nervous?”

“Yeah,” he exhales, closing his eyes. “More than usual.”

Your fingers progress forward and your thumbs rub the back of his hands lovingly. “You’ll do amazing, like always.”

“You’re too sweet, babe. But this might be the game and I might—”

You cut him off by cupping his cheek in your palms.

“And you are the Mark ‘The Tiger’ Lee”—you tenderly swipe some of his hair away from his face—“top contender for both the Rookie of the Year and CY Young Award. So no matter what happens, you will come out on top.”

In awe and in a little disbelief with how well-put that was, he stares at you with starry, doe-like eyes. He's so grateful to have met you, to have someone so supportive of him in his life.

After a few moments, he concedes. “I had a pretty great run this season, haven’t I?”

You admire how humble your boyfriend always is. It's one of his greatest traits.

“And you have me,” you add jokingly.

He tilts his head side to side. “I guess there’s that too...”

The two of you share a kiss, innocent at first, until he deepens it and you wrap your arms around his neck, which generates some of his teammates to holler and whistle. Likewise, you hear Chenle screech, "Save it for after the win!" and you swear you feel some popcorn being thrown at your back.

Finally, until you're content, you peel away and press your forehead against his.

“Go get ‘em, Tiger,” you whisper.

Mark nods, a little more confident than before. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“So much,” he punctuates it with a loving squeeze to your shoulder.

You don't think you'll see him before the game starts, so you grant him one last good luck kiss.

You wouldn't know it that night, but by the end of the season, Mark would indeed take home the Rookie of the Year and the CY Young Award, being the youngest recipient of both awards.

That evening though, your city's team works in unbelievable harmony (or maybe the opposing team is having its worst day) because the game is a perfect one. Mark shuts out the other team, not allowing them to have any runs whatsoever...

Thus, sealing his first title of being a World Series champion.

But certainly not without his beloved running out into the field to give him a congratulatory hug and kiss among the sea of people.

And at the end of that night in the confines of your bedroom (after earth-shattering celebratory sex), you would find out that Chenle was right (and later, that he was in on it) when Mark, merely in his boxers, gets on one knee with a little opened box in front of you.

He's visibly shaking, and not because he's half-naked. You've never seen him so unnerved. Your love spills the following in almost one breath:

“I know we just started dating, and we can be engaged for, like, ten years or whatever. I just know that, deep down, I want to spend the rest of my life with you, and I may have felt this way since our first date. I really, really, really hope you feel the same, even if just a little bit."

Mark takes a deep breath, trying to regain composure for the important question he exhales.

Tears rise in your eyes as an ocean of feelings hit you, but within that ocean, no doubts rise to the surface whatsoever.

All you think about is how you will be forever grateful for the baseball that hit your head on that life-changing day.

You immediately say yes.

[mixolya]

ᓚᘏᗢ — glue song !

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ᯓ★

pairings﹕ itoshi sae x gn!reader

contents﹕ one shot, fluff, wc: 946, proofread

the soft hum of the evening settled over madrid as you wandered through the cobblestone streets, your hand brushing against sae's every so often. it was a small, unspoken tradition for the two of you - waking aimlessly after his training sessions, letting the city's golden hour embrace the spaces where words didn't need to fill.

tonight, though, sae seemed quieter than usual. his hands were stuffed into the pockets of his coat, his usual composed expression more distant, almost heavy.

"long day?" you asked, tilting your head toward him.

he let out a soft hum, his gaze fixed on the horizon. "something like that."

you knew better than to press. sae itoshi wasn't one to unload his thoughts easily, even with you. still, his silence spoke volumes - a language you'd learned to read in the small moments you shared.

the breeze carried the faint scent of blooming jasmine, and you tugged gently on his sleeve to steer him toward the park. the flowers were just beginning to bloom, their soft petals brushing against each other like the quiet beginnings of spring.

"let's sit for a bit," you suggested, guiding him to a bench beneath a tree.

he followed without a word, sitting beside you with the quiet elegance he always carried. his shoulders were relaxed, but you could see the faint tension in his jaw.

"i saw your game last week," you began, breaking the silence. "you were amazing. as always."

he glanced at you, his lips curving into a small, almost unnoticeable smile. "you always say that."

"because it's true," you countered, nudging him lightly. "i'm your biggest fan, remember?"

his smile lingered for a second longer before fading, replaced by a thoughtful look. "it's not always as easy as it looks."

your heart ached at his words. sae itoshi was a genius, a prodigy on the field - but he was also just a boy. a boy who carried the weight, of expectations, who chased perfection in a world that demanded nothing less.

"then let me make it easier," you said softly, your hands finding his.

he turned to you, his teal eyes searching yours. for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

"how?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"by being here," you replied. "by reminding you that you're not alone."

his grip on your hand tightened, and the faintest crack appeared in his composure. sae was strong, but even he had limits. and in that moment, you saw the boy beneath the prodigy - the boy who had dreams, fears, and a heart that beat just as vulnerably as anyone else's.

"i don't know what i'd do without you," he admitted, the words heavy with sincerity.

you smiled, your thumb brushing against his knuckles. "you'd figure it out. but you don't have to."

the silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. it was the kind of silence that felt like home, like a bond unshaken by the chaos of the world.

"y/n," he said suddenly, his gaze fixed on the blooming flowers ahead. "i think about you a lot. more than i probably should."

your breath hitched, the vulnerability in his voice catching you off guard. "sae..."

"i don't say it enough," he continued, turning to face you fully. "but you're important to me. you keep me grounded when everything else feels like it's slipping away."

his confession was quiet, almost hesitant, but it carried the weight of every unsaid feeling he'd ever held.

"i love you," you whispered, the words spilling from your heart before you could stop them. "you're my glue, sae. you hold me together."

for a moment, he said nothing. then, in a rare display of emotion, he reached out, cupping your face with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

"i love you too," he said, the words soft but firm. "more than i thought i could."

the golden light of the sunset bathed the two of you in its warmth as you leaned into his touch. in that moment, there was no need for anything else - no expectations, no pressure, no words.

it was just you and sae, bound by a love that felt as unshakable as the earth beneath your feet.

later that night.

back at your shared apartment, the quiet comfort of your space enveloped you both. sae leaned against the counter, watching as you brewed tea - a ritual you insisted on whenever he came back from training.

"you're staring," you teased, glancing over your shoulder.

"can't help it," he replied, his tone soft but teasing.

you rolled your eyes, a playful smile tugging at your lips as you handed him a steaming cup. "drink this before you get all poetic."

he took the cup, his fingers brushing against yours. "thanks."

as you settled onto the couch together, you pulled a blanket over your legs, leaning into his side. his arm found its way around you, pulling you closer.

"you're warm," you murmured, your eyes fluttering shut.

"good," he replied, his voice low. "you're always so cold."

you chuckled, the sound muffled against his shoulder. it was in these moments, when the world fell away and it was just the two of you, that you felt the depth of your connection.

"i meant what i said earlier," you whispered, your fingers tracing patterns on his arm.

"i know," he replied, pressing a kiss to your temple. "so did i."

and as the night deepened, with the city's lights casting a soft glow through the window, you drifted off in his arms, your heart full and your love unshaken.

because sae itoshi was your glue, and you were his.

a/n: first one shot lolll ; this was inspired by the song "glue song" by bea UGH I LOVE IT SM

© mixolya 2025. do not copy, remake or edit any of my works.

[kaisaerinlover]

rin nii and sae nii

darkcon , incest , aged up

pls don’t read if you don’t like darkcon

to sae, rin isn’t competition. to rin, everything the two have been doing that’s the same since he was 16 and sae was 18 is a big competition. one that he knows he has to win. he doesn’t want to let the redhead have anything up over him ever again. sae doesn’t care. sae is a calculated and cold man. rin is an erratic mess. but the one thing the two brothers always manage to share a value consensus on is their baby sister. sweet innocent you. it’s a shame you’re so innocent, or not, because if you weren’t you would know how disgsuting your big brothers are.

when your brothers are football prodigies, globally renowned for their talent, and both known for being extra secretive about whatever it is they have going on in their lives off of the field, being their little sister gets harder. your parents don’t like you as much, you’re the child who bore not a single fruit of your mother’s labour (literally and figuratively), you are the child who cannot bring anything to the table, whilst rin and sae both bring a feast and several trophies. you are you and your brothers are so much better. above you in every way. born with natural beauty and talent.

but they don’t share that corrupted view your parents do, not at all. you’re all siblings, you can tell from a single look. yet you wear those big eyes better. those long sought after itoshi lower lashes sit so much more dainty on your eyes. the eyes both of them hate and love to see tearing up beneath them. the eyes they had to pretend to ignore when they both left you to pursue their soccer careers further. it’s a shame really, even as kids you were a bit neglected by your brothers. a bit is an understatement. rin was a mean kid. sae just didn’t care. they never had time for a baby sister in their world, neither did your parents. your parents had rin and sae, rin and sae had soccer. so what did you have?

the answer is nothing. you didn’t have anything. growing up neglected yet miraculously sheltered from the world. your upbringing is the greatest gift of all though; a gift both the older two itoshis have learned to be grateful for. if your airheadedness ever was replaced by anything other than a dumb mentality they would secretly yearn for years. your aloof nature is a blessing. and they learned that as they matured, as they realised you’re their baby sister. the one they can do whatever they want to. the one they love in a way that’s so sick they wouldn’t even have careers if anyone had found out what was going on between the three of you. the rare occasion when the three of you are together with your parents eating around the table, as you sit between your nii chans cutting your food so quietly. as your parents shower your brothers with praise and compliments for their insane soccer talents. your parents are stupid, they paid so little attention to you as a whole, to your brothers as people; only to their achievements. now they can’t even see the growing rivalry between the two. the only thing sae will ever get competitive with rin for is your affections. but even then, every second they spend with you, both of them together with you, it grows their bond even more. but rin hates that; rin wants you to himself. rin is feral. sae could learn to be content with it though. maybe. if rin knew his fucking place.

the tension between them is always thick whenever you’re in the picture. as thick as it is with soccer. that’s saying a lot, considering their whole lives have been built around the damn sport. and you; god you’re sweet. sweet as sugar. more sugary and tangy than any delicacy the millions in their pockets can buy. and they want it, they want all of it. the only other thing that you could ever argue itoshi sae and itoshi rin could ever want more than glory and to prevail in soccer is to devour you whole. both of them know it. you’re so clueless to it all. like i said, how sheltered you are is a gift. no one normal would let this happen. no one would at all. but you do; you lavish in the attention your brothers nonstop give you to try and win over your pink heart wrapped in a ribbon and covered in stupid glitter because you’re a little attention whore.

when they both left you; you missed them dearly. they are your brothers after all. and your parents completely neglected you, rin was mean, sae ignored you; but they always took care of you. even if it was the bare minimum. they were still your big brothers. you’re a year younger than rin and 3 younger than sae. those are your nii chans. mom and dad had tried again for another boy. but they got you instead. and as rin and sae picked up soccer as a hobby, they felt even more disappointed. their disgust was malleable towards you. they didn’t even bother trying again. your existence was a waste. but your brothers couldn’t be more thankful that you’re a girl. couldn’t be more thankful that they have such a doting little sister. so diligent. so cute. always waiting there even after all those years of them being so mean. always clueless. your innocence is intoxicating. it really is.

rin and sae are competitive. sae could have shared before, i said it already, he really could have compromised with rin. but rin’s anger towards sae all those years ago has never quite died down. he needs to one up the eldest in everything; you’re one of those things. sae thinks rin is lukewarm. rin would say the same about sae. you would say it about neither itoshi as one fucks into your cunt and the other bites at your neck like it’s meat on a bone.

sae is fucking the shit out of you completely, he was always more rough than rin. for the most part. rin is gnawing at your neck now though, misdirected anger; you suppose it’s that way anyway. not that you have much time to think. sae itoshi fucks hard most of the time. he doesn’t want to feel this attachment towards you; he wants to fuck it away. he fucks you so hard it hurts. he’s always like that and it’s not fair. it’s not fair on you (because it fucking hurts), but most of all because the attachment won’t ever leave. sae doesn’t want to be weighted down by this stupid rivalry he has with rin over you, doesn’t want to be compelled to return to you more often than he’d like to admit. he feels something when he’s with you; so different to the years of emptiness and undiagnosed depression that swallowed him for the first while he was in spain. he knows it’s not fair too, but he can’t stop anyway when it feels so good. and you’re a whore for your brothers, no especially about it, you’re a writhing little slut for both of them.

and rin is desperately nipping at your sweet neck, trying to mark you as his. he wants to sink his cock into you as well; but this will do for now. you’re drooling all over, and he is too. your saliva mixing with one another’s and rolling down your plump tits as sae fucks into your sopping cunt. rin is biting as if he’s a vampire, you felt him draw blood a few times. thank god you have your eyes closed because both of your brothers have a look of pure focus right now. pure aggression. aggressive love is what they give you. you really adore your brothers, they know it too. and they abuse it far too much. they shouldn’t do this with you; you’re so sweet and docile. it’s so hard to resist the opportunity to take advantage of you. they still love you, but man you’re cute.

especially now, drool running down your plump pink lips, soaking your chest. mixing with rin’s. rin can’t help but to lean in and lick it up. “so good, so so good ‘mouto” he groans. and sae looks up from the sight of his cock slamming into your warm pussy for a moment just to provoke rin. “i’m making her drool, you’re just biting on her neck like some lukewarm dog” the rivalry is still there. rin just eyes sae up and down and spits out an insult back at him. “you’re disgusting, shitty excuse of a brother, at least i’m nice to her” rin’s words are laced with venom. sae wants to reply, but he’s hitting that sweet spot. so he just keeps fucking your worn out little pussy even harder.

“s-sae-nii- please- please- pl-“ rin just kisses your mouth to shut you up. he doesn’t wanna hear that shithead’s name out of your mouth. rin is pathetically in love with you, but then again, so is sae. “lukewarm, can’t even stand to hear our baby sister say her favourite brother’s name” sae’s words are cold, calculated to cut deep. and it works; rin bites at your lip extra hard. you yelp in pain and god that sound goes straight to both of their cocks. sae hardens inside of you, he didn’t even think it was possible. god their love and everlasting desire for you runs so fucking deep. he keeps pounding into you mercilessly, and he leans down a bit to massage your clit. “gonna make you cum, imouto.” and you whine into rin’s kiss. you’re so overstimulated right now. your brother’s weird competition over you makes for the greatest of fucks, it really does.

every slam of his hips, sae hears an erotic squelch. the squelch of your juices. he sees the trail of precum he left on your stomach earlier, and it just makes him plough into your swollen lips even harder as he massages your little clit. his breathing gets ragged as he’s about to cum, and rin growls into your mouth and bites at your tongue. you’re in heaven, you really are. and you finish. sae does too. and you cry out his name in rin’s mouth. which just pisses rin off even more. he wants to fucking kill sae. you squeal out the eldest’s name as he empties himself inside of your little pussy, little cum pocket for him. his warm cum dripping all inside you, filling you up to the brim. he pants and pulls out, and rin pulls away too. rin has your blood and his saliva around his mouth, sae has his bangs slightly down and sticking to his forehead. he pulls out and lifts up your aching legs a little to inspect your cunt. it’s all red and swollen from the brutal assault of his fat cock penetrating so many times, so hard, so rough. he squeezes your hole a little and watches some of his cum drip down into the crevice of your ass. the one he loves so much. how erotic. he’s hard again, but he plays fair. he gives equal chances. he scoops a bit of his cum and shoves it back in with his fingers. it’s his monster of a younger brother’s turn.

“you can have your turn, rin” sae brushes past him condescendingly and stands at the other side of your head, brushing his hand over your cheek in a way that is so deeply ironic considering the way he just ravaged your pussy. you would be grateful for rin taking his place, rin usually shows you nothing but love and care whilst he fucks you. but not now, all three itoshi siblings are beautiful, rin is not an exception to the itoshi beauty. he looks a bit deranged though, saliva and blood around his mouth. tongue out trying to lap up the remnants. his bangs covering his eyes partially. eyes looking hungry and mad. sae just inspects the marks rin has left around your tits and neck as rin takes his precious place infront of your pussy. god, he’s even mad just seeing sae’s cum on you. he’s so fucking pissed off. he wants you deeply, in a way that’s so feral it’s insane.

sae observes all of the bruises on your neck, and he feels something shift within him. he wants to cover them with his own. he really only feels this way when it comes to you. only deeply cares about one upping his younger brother when it comes to you, because he knows rin is the same. he leans in and pecks your lips gently as he hears rin fumbling desperately with his own pants trying to pull them down fast enough to be able to sink his cock deep inside of the sweet retreat of your pussy. sae is looking off a bit at the wall on the other side of the hotel bedroom as he’s thinking. are they bad brothers? he knows they are, he doesn’t even need to ask himself such a stupid question. every single one of your firsts was claimed by them. first hand holding. first kiss. first date. first heart break when they both left you. he remembers the look in your eyes, rin does too. they even both took your virginity first. he doesn’t think you’ve ever had another man, none that either brother knows of anyway; but he trusts that you haven’t. you’re devoted to your older brothers, you love them so much. and they love you too, they really fucking do. sae is still stroking your head gently until he feels it push against his hand a bit as rin pushes your legs and positions himself to slam into you.

and when he finally does, god, it hurts even more than when sae was fucking you. you can’t tell if rin is rougher, if it’s because sae already hurt you so much, or if it’s a combination of the both. you can’t care though. “nii-chan- ‘s too rough” you cry out almost instantly. and your cry just leads to sae sticking his fingers in your mouth. “shhh, suck.” and you do. rin can’t even talk at the moment. god, his little sister’s pussy never ever fails to deliver nothing short of ecstasy to him. his tongue is out and he’s gripping the bed next to your hips so tightly. every vein on his large hand is bulging so much. he’s in heaven, he really is, right now it’s not about one upping sae, it’s about fucking you so hard. misplaced anger like i said. he thrusts into you so much and all you can do is whine around the finger sae has pushed into your mouth. every thrust you’re scared he’s about to split you in half. every time he hits your womb. evey single time he smashes into you with force that kills you. all he can do is incoherently ramble “gonna fuck you ‘mouto- gonna destroy- your little pussy- tiny pussy- fuck-“ rin is just babbling on and on. low and guttural groans and his nonsensical promises are the only thing leaving his mouth.

and sae is hard from your sounds too. he leans down to add a few marks of his own onto the growing collection on your neck. you’re like a canvas, a canvas where your brothers can nonstop add to you with their brutality or with their love. and you like that, you like being their little plaything, their princess, their masterpiece, their baby sister. you really do. sae bites at your neck, less feral than rin did; he bites in a way so precise and exact, calculated perfectly to leave the marks he intends to. and rin is just slamming into you with no sense of rhythm or strength at all. you just know it hurts. it hurts so fucking good. eventually sae has had enough of marking you, he just sighs as your body still rocks against his hand as a result of rin’s brutal thrusting. he pulls out his cock again and brings it to your lips. “just lick it a bit, don’t need to suck” and you do. you hold your small hand up to steady his cock enough for you to leave a cute kitten lick on it. and rin is still thrusting into you, making you cry out each time. his hands fully gripping onto your little waist. “gonna give you a mouth full of cum, little sis.” sae warns. or is it really a warning? it’s more of a promise. and you try and reply the best you can. the best a human possibly could with a monster like itoshi rin mangling their insides with his cock. “k-kay- nii- cha-“ sae just erotically rubs his cock on your plump lips a bit, and starts jerking off above your face. it’s sick really, getting off on your sister’s ruined face. but they’re both sick and it was accepted years ago already, no point in dwelling on something that was established by both brothers years ago already.

being the centre of both brother’s affections feels good, good beyond words that can even be used right now. there isn’t enough words in a dictionary to describe it. even if you used every language and every synonym of every single word, every comparison, every metaphor, every single technique, nothing could come close to the feeling of bliss and contentment you feel. rin is still fucking you hard, drool dripping all over your stomach and cunt as he fucks you as if his goal is breaking you. sae is jerking off over your face, sometimes pressing his fat cock on your lips, rubbing between them tauntingly. cooing down at you, cooing the way you would to your sister had she gotten hurt, had she done something cute. not this. but it’s okay, none of you care so don’t think about it. not that you can use your head much right now anyway, all you can think of is your brother’s. and that’s the sad yet also joyous truth. the truth that neither brother can win. the only way the competition will end is if they come to terms with the fact that it can’t ever be settle; that when it comes to your big brothers, there’s never going to be a second best. they’re both the same. the only second best is every other man that could ever possibly try and talk to you. not rin, not sae, they’re the best you could ask for. they should accept that neither will prevail, that they have to share, that they should give in already, that they’re both the winners of your heart, but each stroke of sae’s cock over your face and every thrust of rin’s hips you are reminded that it will be a long while before they ever come to terms with that.

you’re so close again, sae is so close again, rin is so close again. all three of you are about to cum, you’re about to be marked for a second and third time tonight. rin gets more and more erratic, sae just bends down to kiss your head again before pushing his cock somewhat past your lips into your whining mouth. you can’t even talk. you couldn’t if you tried, because it’s just too much. you wouldn’t have any words anyway. your nii chans are showering you with the attention you deserve and have deserved since you were a little kid. all those years of neglect mean nothing now that they’re both giving you the highest level of attention a man can give to a girl of your calibre right now. and you love it. sae finally fills up your mouth with cum. rin finally spills inside of you as well, filling you even more than what you deemed possible, past the brim, to the point of explosion. your stomach is probably bulging right now. and you finish too. your pussy throbs in pleasure.

all three of you pant and try and catch your breath, and you choke a bit on sae’s cum. and both of their heads snap up in concern. rin looks at sae menacingly as he sits you up and helps you swallow it all down. “good girl f’ me, ‘mouto, so good” sae praises as you finally manage it all down. and rin snaps at him “get off of her, fucking idiot” all you do is pant and try to sit up to stand. you need a glass of water, seriously. but the moment you push yourself up to stand, you simply crumple to the floor. they really did a number on you. rin and sae’s cum drips down the inside of your thigh, and both of them look at you again with concern. rin grabs you under the arms and sits you on the bed. “careful, baby sis” he mumbles and tucks your hair behind your ear. both brothers are awfully competitive over you, but you’re also one of the areas where they can actually agree on. they need to take care of you. and that’s exactly what they do.

you’re laid in the middle of the bed, wearing one of rin’s jersey’s, hair tied up with one of sae’s hair ties, sae’s socks on. you’re fast asleep. you look so cute and innocent, no, you are so cute and innocent. bundled up in a blanket they both got for you as a gift when you were all just a little younger. rin is looking down at you and rubbing your head, combing his fingers through your hair, and sae is scrolling on his phone. he brings a glass of expensive champagne to his mouth and takes a drink, before resuming his scrolling. “we did a number on her, didn’t we?” he comments to rin without looking up from his phone. rin doesn’t have the energy to be snarky back. he just nods (even though sae can’t see it) and replies. “a bit, yeah”

rin sighs a bit. he looks at the ceiling. the plain white ceiling of the overpriced hotel room you’re all staying in. there was another bed, but they’d just fight over who gets to sleep next to you anyway. it’s offseason, so they both spent time with you. but it’s swallowing rin up knowing he’s going to have to leave you soon. rin was never good at goodbyes. sae was though. sae was always awfully expert at them. rin doesn’t know how he can be so cold, not only to him but to you. he remembers it from when you guys were kids. maybe spain changed him, football changed rin too. they both changed so much for the worst. the only thing that keeps any semblance of goodness within the two men is their baby sister. rin doesn’t want to leave you, he wants to bring you with him. both brothers play soccer in europe. he wishes he got into re al secretly. not to play with his shitty brother (even though it’s secretly a truth) but so both of them could agree on bringing you with them and they’d never have to part from your pretty face again.

do they really have to leave you? probably, there’s a lot of shitheads in europe that there isn’t really back home. he doesn’t want any of those people interacting with you.

sae is thinking the same thing, but it’s unfortunate. there’s someone back in re al already who knows about the weird relationship both itoshis have with their baby sister. michael kaiser. sae supposes him and rin can take turns, if they ever brought you there. rin is in france, he is in spain. it cant be that bad. they could just take turns. they should.

it’s so difficult, whatever you guys have going on. and sae feels bad for letting anyone else catch on. but kaiser won’t tell. he just wants to meet you too. sae isn’t that possessive. he supposed he’ll allow it. it’s one of the reasons he tries so hard to detach from you. your polaroid in the back of his phone that he stares at too longingly sometimes must have given him away. and every other trinket he has of you to preserve your memory.

rin is the same.

the itoshi brothers just long for you, whenever and wherever. and it’s going to be their downfall. it fucking sucks loving you this much, being in a competition that can’t ever be settled no matter what. it sucks being so immoral and corrupt that they feel this way. they feel disgusted with themselves sometimes, rin a little more than sae. but sae has his own fair share of qualms about himself that he suffers deeper with than rin. it’s just a big mess. but when rin strokes your head one more time and sae puts his phone down to stop scrolling and do the same, and simply admire your face, they both know it’s worth it. they would watch the whole world burn for you, the youngest itoshi.

it’s not normal to love your sister in this way, they know it’s not. but you’re so cute, so innocent. soccer is depressing. it’s not all fun and games. they’re both broken beyond repair in their own ways, but you serve as a nice little bandaid for their scars and woes. for all the troubles brought on by soccer. for their depleting mental health. for sae’s nonchalance, sae’s emptiness. for rin’s constant self loathing and inferiority complex when it comes to sae.

they both want to thank you for being there for them in the most innocent and disgusting ways.

[gasolinecookie]

☆•° SHADOWMILK FIC BELOW!!! °•☆

k so this is my first time posting my fanfic onto tumblr. farts. lmk if i need to do anything special or not

Content; soul jam freakery, pwp, non-penetrative sex, switch shadow milk, switch pure vanilla, cookiefucking ig, brief mentions of purelily(?), 3k+ words :3

Pure Vanilla stood in a glade of flowers. As far as the eye could see, there were hills lined with hundreds and thousands of flowers. A shy moon peered over a hilltop, stars winking playfully across a picturesque, midnight-blue sky. For a moment, he just observed them.

On one hill surface, it was all coated in brilliant yellow and white petals. Yellow carnations, baby’s breath, chamomile, daisies, honeysuckle, white hyacinth, white roses. A beautiful cloud, light shining through each split where the sun kissed the feathery vapor.

Another swath of blue flowers lined another hill. Hydrangeas, irises, delphiniums, hyacinth, and morning glories. As Pure Vanilla heaved a relaxed sigh, inhaling the sweet scent of the floral arrangements around him, he noticed but a single flower at his feet.

A forget-me-not.

The rest of the flowers in the field burnt up, despite there being no fire present. They simply crumbled on their own, squeezing into themselves and turning into blackened char. The sweet smell of pollen and nectar and the midnight stars was replaced by the acrid stench of strawberry jam and burnt leaves. Ah. This must be a dream.

"Y'know, my silly little Vanilly, this has been in your cards for a loooong time coming," came a playful voice, an idle teasing to it, as if it were a conversation between old friends. Pure Vanilla didn’t bother to turn around towards it. In a way, it was really a reunion of sorts. “Have you missed me?”

Pure Vanilla stayed staring, fixedly, almost mechanically, at the single, twinkling flower before him. He wouldn’t give Shadow Milk the satisfaction of seeing him look startled, or even seeing his face at all. “Not in the slightest,” he replied with a sigh, the forget-me-not dancing in the painfully burnt nighttime air.

Hands wrapped around his eyes.

He resisted the urge to immediately elbow the foe behind him, or thrash out of the (admittedly gentle— why was it so gentle?) grasp of Shadow Milk, but he steadied his will, staying perfectly still. A warmth, a slow embrace, spread across his back as Shadow Milk pulled himself flush with the back of Pure Vanilla’s robes.

“Vannilly…” Shadow Milk cooed in a drawn-out tone. “If you want to look at anything ever again, look at me. You know that I can hear what you’re thinking. You can’t ignore me forever!”

Pure Vanilla sucked in a breath. He knew reading cookie’s minds wasn’t impossible— he himself could do it if he tried. Yet, he wasn’t sure if Shadow Milk truly knew how, if he was bluffing, or if you even could read one’s mind inside of a dream.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to risk it.

“That power is not yours, beast.” Pure Vanilla didn’t utter another word, keeping his lips drawn tightly together. Shadow Milk simply wouldn’t earn it from him, no matter how much he toyed with him.

When the ravaged flower field disintegrated around him, and reformed into a chapel, and Shadow Milk vanished from his back to reform in front of him, Pure Vanilla felt almost let-down, as ridiculous of a notion that it was, that Shadow Milk hadn’t tried harder to make him speak. Two rows of pews lined the rectangular room, highlighted by the beautiful moonlight coalescing through the windows. It streamed through blue, stained-glass windows— no doubt, they bore imagery of the wielder of the Light of Deceit.

Pure Vanilla felt a tightness about his limbs, and suddenly he noticed tendrils creeping around the floor, darkness forming and deforming vague shapes of tentacles as they wove between the pews. As he glanced towards the throne, between his bangs, there was a beast hovering above him, a sadistic grin twisting his cutesy, mis-matched features into a mockery of a cookie's face. Shadow Milk cookie, a tyrannical creature born of lies and falsehoods. There were many ways to end a dream, so Pure Vanilla quickly shuffled through his options, mentally. He didn’t want to even give this creature a chance to speak more. There was a war to fight, and it needn’t be distracted with silly things like dreams.

"Now, quit it with that look. We all know you can't do anything to escape from this dream, now! Stupid 'Nilla!" Shadow Milk cackled, as if he really could hear Pure Vanilla’s thoughts, and sure enough, more mysterious darkness rose from the floor, binding Pure Vanilla by the ankles. They slithered up Pure Vanilla’s slender legs, tracing his figure, wriggling across each inch of his dough. "Hey, didn’t you say you were going to protect everyone? That you didn’t have things like nightmares? You're the worst liar of us all. Which is why I'm going to take my Soul Jam back from you, Vanilly.”

Pure Vanilla glowered at this foe. He may have a point-- Pure Vanilla was not always the most truthful, as much as his jam implied it. Yet, every time he lied, it was in the name of justice. In the name of keeping the peace, and ruling over what he needed to protect. So, that was different. It certainly wasn't the shameful secret that Shadow Milk was making it out to be. If it was leveraged against him, though... he wasn't sure what he'd do. He just had to escape the dream before it got to that point.

Then, of course, in his moment of distraction, Shadow Milk took it as an excuse to approach Vanilla, looking down on him as the tendrils suddenly squeezed around his dough, crumbling the surface ever-so-imperceptibly. It burned. There was truly nowhere he could go, as far as his eyes could see, no way to fight against this darkness— he was caged in like a feral animal, and felt merely inches away from being provoked to fight like one.

Shadow Milk stepped towards the altar, finally lowering himself to standing height instead of floating. The porcelain tiles hissed as his feet touched them. With a gentle motion, he ascended the half-stairs, and settled atop the marble altartop. With one hand, he beckoned to Pure Vanilla, and he was dragged forward and onto his knees by the shadows binding his legs. Shadow Milk gazed down at him, cooing softly as one might to a stray animal. Pure Vanilla resisted the urge to growl at him in response.

"Don't worry, silly. This won't hurt a bit, okay? I'm gonna warm your jam up... bet no one's ever done that before, hmm, tightwad? Ahaha!" Shadow Milk cackled, and slowly rolled his sleeve a bit further back up his arm. His forearm was littered in hundreds of tiny scars that Pure Vanilla elected to ignore. This psychopath's sob story was worthless to him; he had probably just gotten into fights, or ran through brambles in boredom.

It was just as meaningless as the rest of his deceitful actions.

The shadows yanked Pure Vanilla upwards, suspending him off the floor by their grasp on him, and giving his knees an air-borne surface to rest upon. Being pulled forward so that his chest was level with Shadow Milk’s knees, he glanced up at the beast who held him in place. “Oh, my. Now that’s a sexy face on you, Vanilly. You look so angry…! What, going to crumble me with your teeth?” Shadow Milk offered with a smirk that only surfaced more and more suggestions in Pure Vanilla’s mind.

Shadow Milk’s hand found the side of his face, and it cupped his cheek. Without missing a beat, and keeping eye-contact with Shadow Milk, Pure Vanilla parted his lips and put his mouth around Shadow Milk’s hand, as if to bite it open. If this went as planned, Shadow Milk would surely become distracted and lose his grip on Pure Vanilla’s dream. What he didn’t expect, somehow, was the look of sheer masochistic elation that crossed Shadow Milk’s features, like a cloud crossing over the path of the sun and darkening a summer day.

“Does that feel good?” Vanilla asked in utter disbelief, whispering the words across Shadow Milk’s dough, far more sensually than intended, as he fixed him with a stare. “Ah, you’ve always been strange…” he continued, “but truly, I could never have expected to what degree.” He just had to keep throwing Shadow Milk off of his game. Then, he’d be able to slip away.

Then, unexpectedly Shadow Milk brought his other hand (not the one cupping his cheek) up to Pure Vanilla’s upper chest, and began to toy with his Soul Jam, grazing his finger crossed it’s blue surface. It was an overwhelming sensation, causing him to cry out— ah, why was that so sensitive? Vanilla knew they were connected to their senses, as his own had flickered when he was in pain, but he didn't expect it to literally feel like his soul was being stroked along the edge by Shadow Milk, a wanton noise peeling itself from his lips. It was a tightness and blossoming in his chest, all while Shadow Milk's multi-colored eyes, on his face and on his body, seemed to be watching the faces he was making with curiosity raptly.

Pure Vanilla did try to reign in his expression, concealing his faint noises of surprise by biting his lower lip. It was made vastly more difficult by the fact that his legs were restrained and he couldn't simply run from this.

Normally, the moment before the villain could enact their awful plan, a hero would come bursting into the room, and save the hostage just as it started to look hopeless. Well, it seemed futile to resist, to Pure Vanilla, and there was yet to be another cookie within sight. No, it was all those piercing, mis-matched eyes.

Mis-matched eyes that were gobbling up eyefuls of Pure Vanilla's pathetic condition greedily, lustfully. "I just love how this looks on you," Shadow Milk whispered, sultry, to the distressed monarch before him. It was a new thrill to have this brilliant leader finally subjugated before him, finally brought (literally) to his knees by Shadow Milk's plans. It's not as if he couldn't have potentially seen it coming, but there were so many possibilities for losing or capturing Pure Vanilla every day that Shadow Milk cookie had simply taken to ignoring them.

He stroked along the edge of the Soul Jam with one pallid blue hand, the other halfway covering the flustered face of Pure Vanilla.

"Shall I keep going?" Shadow Milk offered with nothing short of a insane grin, just feeling the waves of pleasure rolling off of his body from just the blonde’s expressions. Yet, that grin was just the sort of thing that would perfectly throw Pure Vanilla off his game. "Seems like you're plenty ready for the warm-up, needy-Nilly.”

"Don't do this," Pure Vanilla said, eyes furrowing— though, it just looked like he was relaxing into the pleasure even more, "I'm not going to do whatever you want." Oh? Shadow Milk smelled a Class A lie around those words, like curdled milk atop an otherwise perfect latte. All it took was a little teasing to bring out the deceitful side of the blonde, and Shadow Milk had yet to tell even a single lie. Frankly, he knew which one of them deserved the Soul Jam more, based on that.

Teasingly slow, Shadow Milk reached a blue hand deep into the jam on Pure Vanilla’s chest, sinking into its substance like a cushion; the tone of his dough and the surface of the soul were the same color, as if they were always meant to be put together this way. He slowly pushed in, first inching in his fingers, then his palms, and then the beginnings of his wrist. It pulsated around him— it wasn't meant to be touched like this, but nevertheless, it burned in a way that was both painful and pleasing. It seemed almost to him as if he had stuck his arm into a pocket dimension somehow contained within Pure Vanilla's body. He would’ve been curious as to how it felt, if he hadn't tried such a thing with his half of the jam. And by his own experiences, he knew exactly how overwhelming it was.

“How’s that…? You know, this is why you’re mine. Without me, you wouldn’t be able to feel this way. Without my Soul Jam on your body, you’d never have known this pleasure,” he cooed, leaning down to speak into Pure Vanilla’s ear as he slowly began to swirl his hand and the tips of his fingers around inside of Pure Vanilla.

Pure Vanilla suppressed a strangled moan at the intrusive feeling, immediately attempting to further cover his mouth with one of his own hands. Not that it lasted long, with one of Shadow Milk's tendrils quickly ripping it away, but an effort had been made to at least save himself part of the humiliation. "Please..." Pure Vanilla whispered, not being quite sure what he was begging for, other than that Shadow Milk was sure not to provide it, if he asked.

Shadow Milk made a satisfied grin and hum as Pure Vanilla's mouth was re-uncovered, wriggling his fingers inside the goopy substance of the jam until Pure Vanilla couldn't help but moan out again. It felt like someone had reached directly into his chest and was playing harp with his bare nerves; too overwhelming to form words, but still amazing.

"Oh, wow!" Shadow Milk giggled, tensing his fingers to squeeze the surface of the Soul Jam's glistening tension. "I can feel it, pulsing. It wants us to do this, doesn't it? Just think of how powerful we'll be together, Nilly..."

Pure Vanilla full-body shuddered at the nickname, feeling a familiar, aroused tingle in his back from the jester's rough voice; somehow, that managed to be almost more intimate than Shadow Milk's fingers inside of his soul. "It's too— too much," he finally managed, squirming away from Shadow Milk.

That's when it happened: Shadow Milk curled his hands through the jam, grabbing it like a handle from the inside, and yanking Pure Vanilla forward by it. The utterly debauched sound that fell from Pure Vanilla's mouth was both a shriek of pain and a guttural cry of pleasure: he wasn't sure which part was more earnest. "No running away, now! We've only just started, Vailly!"

With that, he pulled Pure Vanilla up against him into his lap, still holding him by the inside of his jam. This time, Pure Vanilla managed to keep it at a controlled yelp, but it did nothing to diminish the lustful burning he felt in every inch of his dough. He saw his Soul Jam faintly flicker with burnt out light— he was suffering, and he couldn't help but feel as though his perverse pleasure derived from it was a betrayal of everything his Light stood for, everything that he and the others like White Lily had fought for.

Just as he made the thought, Shadow Milk tsked aloud. “Don’t think of her. I can see it on your pathetic face— she doesn’t own you, I do. She wouldn’t make you feel like this, right…?” he asked, relaxing his grip on Pure Vanilla’s jam and returning to stroking it gently from the inside. It felt like stepping into a hot room on a cold, winter’s afternoon— it tingled all over Vanilla’s body, causing him to emit a soft squeak as the feeling bubbled up into every square inch of his vanilla dough.

"Now that you're up here..." Shadow murmured into Pure Vanilla's ear, pulling him closer to his chest. Vanilla couldn’t help but smell the faint aroma of blueberries on his skin. He managed to grasp onto Shadow Milk’s shoulder, bracing himself through his panic at being pulled, and steadying his pleasure. "Let's try something, okay? This'll feel even better than just my hands," Shadow Milk promised, and then their Soul Jams gently touched together as he pulled Pure Vanilla up closer into him, engaging him in a sloppy kiss.

Pure Vanilla could suddenly feel everything in Shadow Milk’s body and nothing in his own all at once. He was somehow two sets of lips, locked in an embrace that smeared frosting lewdly across faces, he was the future, he was the past, he was Blueberry Milk and he was being torn apart in luxurious torment and lust.

After either all of time, or just a second, Shadow Milk shoved him away with a sudden gasp, multichrome eyes going wide. His face was brushed in a dark blue flush, giving him a healthy looking bake, for once. He panted, licking his blue lips, causing Pure Vanilla's smudged off-white frosting to smear slightly across them both. "Woah there, Vanilla! Getting ahead of yourself!" Shadow Milk chuckled, his eyes slightly too wide for it to really come across as a properly controlling order. Had he really not predicted what this would do? Had Shadow Milk truly been unable to predict how this would feel?

That, or he was simply more sensitive than Pure Vanilla. When was the last time Shadow Milk had touched another cookie, dough-to-dough, after all?

Shadow Milk was overwhelmed. When he had touched his own half of the Jam, it hadn’t felt even half that intense. No, that was a splash of cold water, and this was a dunk in the ocean. Oh, God, he felt so one with Pure Vanilla. What had he been thinking? He needed… Vanilla to become him, not the other way around…!

Pure Vanilla's grasp on Shadow’s shoulders tightened, sensing his weakness like blood in the water. "Isn't this what you wanted? Isn't this what you forced me to do?" Pure Vanilla spoke forcefully, his voice carrying more venom than he ever let it have. Vanilla was purity, he was a figure of angelicness, forgiveness. Yet, now that he had felt what it was like to be him, he had a taste of being like Shadow Milk, feeling how Shadow Milk felt; a lingering flavor of blueberry and strawberry jam on his tongue.

He found he liked it.

He found it was the bit of Deceit inside of him, that sort of sadistic joy he found at Shadow Milk's startled expression, the nervous twitch to his pupils as they raked over Pure Vanilla's body. Glancing down to where Shadow Milk's eyes were fixed, he saw that his Soul Jam was... slightly melted, in appearance. Bits of it dripped loosely in comparison to its typically crystalline appearance, and Shadow Milk eyed it with trepidation, yet enthusiasm.

"Again," Pure Vanilla found his voice demanding, despite originally being the one who disagreed with this whole arrangement. Surely, it was the pieces of Shadow Milk's Soul Jam that were simply combining with his own. They were extended body parts, nervous systems— as if a second brain purely to use magic existed in the beasts and the ancient heroes.

After all, this was just a dream. Pure Vanilla could do whatever he wanted with this blue freak; he had given up on escaping. He’d have fun until Shadow Milk had enough and ended the dream. It was his domain, after all— it’s not like Vanilla could do anything that Shadow Milk couldn’t escape from at his very own will. Besides, when was the last time that Pure Vanilla was allowed to have fun?

With a sudden lean forward, Pure Vanilla caught the dough of Shadow Milk's neck in his mouth, dragging their Soul Jams into another gooey connection. Devouring him, tasting the faint flavor of blueberries and darkness and sweet, fresh milk, on his dough. It made a frankly lewd sound, and Pure Vanilla could feel himself losing his purity yet again, slipping into the body and mind of the insane man before him as if it were his fine Sunday clothes. A gratuitous moan rippled from Shadow Milk's lips. "Oh, Vanilla..." he managed, trying again to pull back from their embrace.

No, that wouldn't do. Pure Vanilla ran his hand up the back of Shadow Milk's head, feeling emboldened by the Light of Deceit that was flowing through him, the contradicting nature of the powers within him. He grabbed a fistful of Shadow Milk's hair, and gave it a harsh tug as he bit down more harshly on his neck. The resulting sound was something Pure Vanilla wished he could hear for the rest of his life. A debauched shriek, rough in the quality of the jester's voice, of his own name. "N-Nilla...!"

Pure Vanilla paused for just a moment, teeth in Shadow’s dough, paralyzed by the intoxication of lust. With that, he was giving Shadow Milk another chance to struggle against him, but it was futile in earnest. Shadow was only doing it for the fun of it: both of them knew he could run whenever he wanted. Two-toned eyes gazed up at Vanilla in all of their sex and pain-tinged glory. "No running away. We're just getting started." Shadow Milk’s expression grew even more lustfully destroyed with the idea of Vanilla echoing his words, his earnest expression, with just the faintest hint of a smile on his blue-smudged lips.

☆°•~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~●°☆

OKAY BYE THATS ALL THANK YOU

Gasoline Cookie OUT !! (feel free to send me requests in asks!)

[vitalverstappen]

Cassandra - C. Leclerc

summary: when everyone believes you, what's that like?

pairing: Charles Leclerc x platonic teammate! reader

warnings: Mattia Binotto, swearing, some sexist comments

word count: 3k

a/n: in honor of max winning the WDC, i figured i'd post something. in honor of charles finally losing his shit on the team radio, i figured i'd post this. also it takes place during the 2022 season

masterlist

the tortured drivers department masterlist

2022 was supposed to be your year. You broke onto the F1 scene in 2020 with Haas after working your way up through F3 and F2, championing both levels of racing with ease. You proved yourself time and time again by consistently placing within the points in a less than superior car. 

That’s how you got the attention of Ferrari. They offered you a one year deal, and you couldn’t turn it down. You were okay with being the second driver, because you were racing for the most historic team in F1. 

Things started out great. The car was a major upgrade from the tractor you were driving with Haas, and the team actively listened to your input and took having a woman in the car seriously.

You and Charles also clicked instantly, which led to some amazing content for the social teams. 

“Anything you need, or feel needs changed, let us know. We’re a family here” Mattia said as he gave you the tour of the Ferrari factory.

You couldn’t have drawn up the first two races any better. Both you and Charles were on the podium and it looked like you two were going to give Max and Red Bull a run for their money in the championship races. 

The downward spiral started in Australia. From the moment you hit the track for the first time, something felt off. The car was sluggish, it took all of your strength to accelerate and brake properly. 

“There’s something wrong with the car.” you told the team, your frustration mounting. “It takes forever to accelerate and then when I do, I can’t break”

“Have you tried leg day?” Mattia asked, a smirk forming on his face, causing you to storm away and find your mechanics. 

The Australian Grand Prix ended up being a disaster. You struggled through the laps, barely able to keep up with the field. The car was just too much of a handful. Thirteen laps in, you hand no choice but to retire from the race. The speed was gone, and your confidence was shot. 

“I cannot believe he looked me in the eyes and said ‘try leg day’” You fumed as you barged into Charles’ driver room. The frustration was evident in every word, your anger still fresh from the weekend’s events. 

Charles looked up from his phone, raising an eyebrow at your entrance. “Well hello to you too” he said with a small chuckle. “What’s going on?” 

You let out a deep sigh and recounted the car troubles and the interaction with Mattia. “He actually said ‘try leg day’ to me, like it’s some kind of joke. What happened to ‘if you need anything, let me know’?”

Charles listened intently, a sympathetic look crossing his face. “Hopefully it was just an assembly issue” he said, trying to ease your frustration. ”Imola should go smoothly for the two of us. We both know you’re a hell of a driver.” 

Imola was next, and that was somehow even worse than Australia. Instead of acceleration and braking problems, the new issue was the engine. It had to be replaced between practice 3 and qualifying, only for the new one to fail during the race in Imola. 

“I have the utmost trust in my team.” You said during your press interviews “We’ve tried upgrades, but they’ve fallen flat. Hopefully Miami provides some better results” 

For Miami, the team had reverted your car back to the original set up, the one it had when the season started. The difference was night and day. The car felt responsive, alive in ways it hadn’t in the past few races. As you flew through all three practice sessions and qualifynig, you could feel the weight lift from your shoulders. You had been pushing the limits all weekend, and it had paid off - P2, only behind Charles. Things were looking up. 

The problem now was the strategy. As the number two driver, you knew your strategies were mostly going to be defend defend defend but you didn’t realize how badly Ferrari’s lack of adaptability would come into play 

The race was shaping up to be intense. Charles had led most of it, with Max behind him. You were right behind Max, keeping a steady pace, but always aware of the massive pressure from the drivers behind. Then, when Charles pitted, you thought, for sure, you’d get the green light to battle Max for the lead. After all, you were right there, in prime position.

Instead, the radio crackled to life. 

“Y/n keep defending. Leclerc will be back up there in no time.” Your engineer said

You blinked, incredulous. “I’m sorry what?” You couldn’t believe what you just heard. 

“Defend Max. Charles will be back up there to take over. Hold your position” he repeated as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

“Are you fucking serious?” you barked back, your grip tightening on your steering wheel. “I can overtake him for the lead and you want me to defend?!” 

Before your engineer could respond, Mattia’s voice boomed over your radio “Defend y/n. Team orders.” 

You could feel your irritation building, but there was no choice. Ferrari had spoken. You stayed behind Max, holding position, and waiting for Charles to catch up. Sure enough, Charles had soon found his way back to you, but by that point, Max was far enough ahead that any shot at victory was all but lost. 

Later, in the media pen, you stood with the press surrounding you, microphones, shoved in your face. They asked you the usual questions, but you were still stewing over what had happened. 

“Yeah, I mean the car felt great” You started, trying to keep your tone even. “We reverted back to the original, pre-upgrades and the car showed it’s worth”

The reporter pressed further. “Now even though the car was great, why do you think you couldn’t pull off the win? You were less than a second behind Max, and chose to defend your position instead of attacking.”

A disappointed sigh escaped your lips. You were tired of repeating the same frustrations. “If it was up to me, I would have attacked. I know we would’ve gotten a different result on the podium today. If we had a different strategy, then we would have gotten many more points.” 

“How do you think this result is going to impact the championships?” another reporter asked 

You paused, considering the question. “It could make or break it. There’s a large jump of points between one, two and three, and one thrown away strategy can make or break a shot at either championship. I’m just hoping they don’t mess up Charles’ strategies like they have mine.” 

As you finished your media duties, you made your way back to the garage, expecting to be alone with your thoughts. But to your surprise, Charles was waiting for you.  

“What are you doing here?” You asked, raising an eyebrow as you approached

“I, uh, wanted to congratulate you on P3. You had a good race out there” He said sheepishly, his hands shoved in his pockets.

You shrugged, the weight of the day still on you. “I could have won if my strategy wasn’t total shit.” you muttered, your tone flat.

Charles let out a small laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I get it. P1 and P2 would have been great, but strategy isn’t Ferrari’s strong suit” he admitted, his eyes meeting yours with a shared understanding.

“So I’ve learned.” you replied dryly. “I just hope it isn’t bad enough to fuck up winning either championship” 

He nodded, a look of quiet concern in his eyes. “So do I. I’m terrified my shot at a driver’s championship is gonna slip away” 

Before you knew it, your interview was trending all over social media. Clips of you talking about the strategy missteps were circulating, and the Tifosi and general F1 fans alike were all over it. They didn’t believe you. They thought you were complaining, too bitter about the loss, and some even accused you of undermining the team. The backlash was stiff.

User1: there’s no way they’re going to mess up the golden boy’s strategy. Mattia cares too much about winning to do that

User2: y/n doesn’t know racing. She’s obviously going to get the shit strategy - she’s not charles 

User3: Ferrari needs to get rid of her. She doesn’t belong here #burnthebitch

Before media day in Spain, you got called into Mattia’s office. 

“Thank you for joining me on such quick notice y/n” Mattia said with a smile as you walked in 

You gave him a polite smile as you sat across from his desk “Of course. Why did you call me in?” 

The smile on his face instantly hardened “We need to talk about how you approach the media. You embarrassed myself, along with the rest of the Ferrari staff during Miami.” 

You found yourself fixing your posture and dropping the smile you had previously, prepared to go toe to toe with your principal. “I would say I told the truth on how the race was handled. We could have left Miami with eleven more points, had we gone P1 and P2”

Mattia sighed “That may be true, but we know you couldn’t have battled Max safely. Regardless, that was two weeks ago. We need to focus on Spain now.” 

“Whatever” You mutter “ If we provide sufficient results, I’ll give you praise. If we don’t, I’ll keep mentioning what needs to be done better. Simple as that” 

Spain turned out better for you than it did for Charles. You had finished P4, while Charles was forced to retire. Another blow for Ferrari. 

Both of you managed to score points in Monaco. The car felt good and it seemed like the team was back to how they were at the start of the season. That is until Baku. 

The start of the race seemed like it was going well. The practices and qualifying went well. Charles was on pole and you were not far behind him at P4. But that’s when the good luck ended. Just like the Australian Grand Prix, your brakes were faulty, and this time your clutch wasn’t working. 

“Check the hydraulics - brakes aren’t working again and clutch is out.” You voiced over the radio, concern filling your words 

After a few moments of silence, your engineer’s voice filled your ears. “Seems we have a uh hydraulic problem. You need to retire the car.” 

You muttered a curse as you found a spot to pull your car off. If it wasn’t a strategy issue, it was the car. If it wasn’t the car, it was something else. Something always had to go wrong. 

It was only lap eight and Charles was still driving. You had some hope he could get points for the team and for his championship. 

Throwing on a spare headset in the Ferrari garage, you watched as Charles battled through the streets of Baku. Just as quick as he was driving, the problems with his car also began to show. He had to retire only a handful of laps later with a power problem. 

While Ferrari’s golden boy wouldn’t have a negative thing to say about them during the pressers, you had much less of a filter. 

“You can mark my words that we aren’t winning a championship this year. As much as I want to put faith into our team and our strategies, we’ve shown time and time again we come up short.” 

Instead of your remarks being pushed aside by everyone, you found yourself in the spotlight. All eyes were on you as you walked into the paddock for the British Grand Prix. You acknowledged your team out of respect, and they greeted you back, but you could tell there was tension. 

“Mattia wanted me to tell you that the strategy for today is the same as usual: protect Charles.” Your engineer told you as the two of you sat down for lunch

You furrowed your eyebrows “Why couldn’t Mattia tell me that himself?” 

“He doesn’t think you deserve his time and energy” He said, rolling his eyes 

A scoff left your lips “That’s ridiculous. We’re both adults. He needs to act like it.” 

“You’re telling me” Your engineer muttered 

Before you knew it, it was lights out at Silverstone. The race was a disaster for everyone. While a scary crash had been cleaned up, leading to a restart, another safety car was put out for a stopped car. 

“Y/n box box” Your engineer spoke through your earbuds 

Under the safety car, you were able to pit and get fresh soft tires. When the race resumed, you quickly found yourself behind Charles. 

“Am I defending again?” You asked 

“You are free to overtake, but you must give up the position once Charles gets back up after pitting” 

“You mean Charles didn’t box under the safety car?” 

“Correct.” 

“Fucking idiots” You sighed, but did as you were told. 

Charles easily gave up the front position to you as he headed to the pit lane. You expected him to make a quick comeback in the next few laps, but as the laps ticked by, the gap remained. The radio crackled with instructions from your engineer, and you kept your focus, pushing through. 

And just like that, you crossed the finish line. Your first Grand Prix victory. 

The celebrations were a blur - the podium, the champagne, the flashing cameras. As the trophy was handed to you, you felt a surge of pride, but the weight of the race still hung in the air. Charles had been a force throughout the race, and even though you had won, it felt wrong that he hadn’t been able to capitalize on his pace. 

After the post-race formalities wrapped up, you found yourself in Charles’ room, finally able to breathe. He greeted you with a grin, the kind that only someone who experienced a dramatic race could wear.

“Congratulations! First win!” Charles said, his voice full of enthusiasm 

“You should have fucking won that and we both know it.” You said as you tossed him a Gatorade 

Charles caught the bottle with a small chuckle, cracking it open “You’re fucking telling me.” he said, taking a long swing. “At least Mattia didn’t chastise you on national TV.” 

You leaned against the wall, your arms crossed. “Maybe we’ll both be off speaking terms with him by the end of the season,” you joked, but there was no humor in the situation. “But seriously, what did he say?” 

Charles groaned, clearly not looking forward to recounting the conversation “Basically that I needed to listen to team orders. He was pissed that I was pissed that I didn’t win the thing. Said I needed to trust that the team knows what they’re doing.”

“They know what they’re doing?” You raised an eyebrow “Because the last time I checked, they’ve messed up both of our races this season” 

“Tell me about it” His tone shifted, frustration building, “I need him out.” 

A small grin tugged at the corner of your mouth “Twenty bucks he’s out of his job by the end of the season” 

Charles hesitated for a moment, then extended his hand “Deal” 

The rest of the season trudged along, with highs and lows in the car, the strategy, and the relationship between Mattia and his drivers. There were some days he would be all over their radios encouraging them, while others he would avoid them like the plague. 

And sure enough, once Abu Dhabi came, Charles and Ferrari were so far behind Max and Red Bull that it was impossible to catch up to them in either championship. Mattia announced that he would be stepping down at the end of the season, and you had repaired your rocky relationship with your team, allowing you to renew your contract with Ferrari. 

It was the final time in the media pen this season, and it felt much different. The usual questions about the ups and downs of the season were there, but now they came with a certain respect - respect for the struggles you had endured and for the candidness with which you handled it all. Your honest take on Ferrari’s performance had earned its fair share of criticism, but it had also sparked conversations, both within the paddock and among fans. 

The final question from the reporter hit differently. The interviewer’s tone wasn’t mocking, but rather filled with a certain curiosity. “How does it feel to know that you had called it earlier in the season, that Ferrari weren’t going to win either championship this year?”

The question hung in the air for a moment as you processed it. The emotions of the entire season flashed through your mind: the excitement of the podiums early on, the disappointment after races like Miami and Baku, the frustrations with the strategies, and the battles you fought on and off the track. It had been a rollercoaster, and while it hadn’t turned out the way you had hoped, you were still standing. 

You cracked a smile as you spoke, a mix of pride and exhaustion “Oh, so you guys believe me now?” you said, your voice light but laced with the weight of everything that had happened. “Have a good winter break. I’ll see you in Bahrain” 

It was the moment of closure you needed. The reporter thanked you for your time, before wishing you a good break as well. As you walked away from the media pen with Charles by your side, the season’s tension finally seemed to release, at least for a moment. 

Charles, sensing the mood, nudged you. “That was… honestly, impressive. You know, calling it before anyone else.” 

You let out a short laugh. “Yeah, I guess I had a feeling.” you said, shrugging. “At least I wasn’t wrong.”

Charles smirked, clearly tired but also relieved that the season was over. “Let’s just hope next year’s a little less… chaotic, yeah?”

“Agreed.”