#shielded circuits

[sw5w]

Anakin...

STAR WARS EPISODE II: Attack of the Clones 00:30:41

[blank-potato]

I Love The Girl With Magic Ways

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Witch!Reader

Summary:

He’s there, standing at the foot of your bed, shadows clinging to him like silk. Those eyes, golden and curious, lock onto yours. Not threatening. Not kind. Just... watching. “You dream of me,” he says, not asking. You swallow, and the air thickens. “That's not an invitation to break into my room at night.” He tilts his head, taking a step closer. “You called me. You always do—when your thoughts stray, when your control slips. You think about me more than you care to admit.” You don’t respond. Can’t. Because he’s not wrong. Or When training with Bob goes awry, you come face-to-face with The Void, and he's interested in you; he wants to know what makes you tick.

WC: 2.5k

A/N: Title from Magic Ways by Tatsuro Yamashita (such a good song). I'll probably write a part 2 to this, methinks (linked below). Here's the link to the request here. Enjoy!

Part 2

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Training with Bob wasn’t going well. It was frustrating, more for him than you, but still difficult. When you had tried to help him focus, to channel his power, you’d taken a gentle approach, even though gentleness didn’t come naturally to you all the time.

He’d broken the mirrors and the containment shields in the training facility and accidentally thrown you into a wall with his mind.

“I swear, I didn’t mean to.”

“I know…” You groan, brushing dust off your sleeve as you push yourself up.

You make your way back over to him. He’s sitting on the floor, hands in his lap, and anxiety is coming off him in waves.

“It’s okay,” You say softly, sitting beside him. “You’ll get it.”

You don’t know if the look on your face is reassuring or just tired, but judging by the way he won’t meet your eyes, it probably isn’t convincing. He doesn’t seem any more confident.

You sit next to him, trying to think of how to teach him control in a way he’ll actually absorb. You sigh, watching him.

“When I harness my magic, it’s like… holding energy, shifting it from one place to another—like water between cupped hands. Maybe if I show you how I do it, you can follow. How’s that sound?” You sigh, not meaning to sound tired, but you swear you still have a crick in the neck from hitting the wall.

“I’ll give it a shot.”

You nod, the light glowing in your hands, flickering softly like a heartbeat. Bob finds it beautiful, the way you shape it and mould it with such ease. He doesn’t fully understand it himself, not yet, but there’s awe in his eyes.

“Your turn,” You say gently, passing the moment to him.

He tries. Nothing happens at first, just stillness, but then there’s a faint buzzing in the air, a low hum that tickles the edges of your senses. He can feel it. So can you. His eyes glow as he concentrates.

He’s getting there, but—

“Just a little more…”

Your hand hovers next to his, almost touching, and suddenly, there’s a jolt—like a circuit overloading. Lights flicker, then short out, sparks raining from a fixture above. Half the room is thrown into darkness, the other half stuttering with flickering light.

Bob exhales sharply, his face contorting in frustration. “I messed up again,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. It had been at least the tenth mistake in the last thirty minutes, and it was starting to wear him down.

“Control can be hard to learn, but it doesn’t mean it’s impossible…” You say, trying to keep your voice steady, calm, and reassuring.

“I’m hopeless…” Bob murmurs, the words heavy with self-doubt. His chuckle is bitter, empty, and the silence that follows feels louder than any explosion. His eyebrows knit together, and he looks away, shoulders slumping under the weight of his frustration.

You step closer, the glow still dancing faintly in your palms.

“You’re not hopeless. You’re learning. And that’s never a straight line.”

You feel a chill slide down your spine as something shifts, and darkness begins to creep in, curling at the edges of the room like smoke spilling through cracks.

“Bob?” You call again, more urgent now.

The room is fading into a thick, velvet black, seeping into every crevice, swallowing light and colour like a slow tide.

“Bob? Talk to me,” You say, your voice cutting through the dark, a single thread trying to reach him before the void does. It’s too late, though. 

He keeps his head down. It’s clear the words aren’t even getting to him anymore. The darkness overtakes him, swallowing him whole. What emerges is a shadowy figure only being illuminated by the faint flickering light of the broken overheads.

You step toward him, slow and cautious, before you meet his gaze.

His golden eyes glint back at you through the dark, sharp and gleaming with something unreadable. A sinister smile works its way onto his face, deliberate, unsettling in its calmness.

“I’m curious about you,” The Void murmurs, voice low and unnervingly calm. “I want to know what you can do.”

“And I want to talk to Bob,” You retort, eyes narrowing.

“You are talking to Bob,” it replies, with a slight twist of amusement, mocking, almost cruel. “...a part of him, at least.”

You smirk, sharp and laced with sarcasm. “Charming.”

He steps closer and invades your space like a cold draft slithering under a door. The air tightens, heavy and bitter. You can feel his presence: not just beside you, but around you, coiling like smoke, probing.

Still, you hold your ground, looking straight into his eyes. You don’t flinch. “How interesting,” he muses, tilting his head. His darkness moves again, tendrils slipping toward you, tasting the air around your magic, your thoughts, your fear.

But they meet resistance. Your magic flares, and the darkness recoils, hissing as it brushes against your glow.

You remain standing, untouched.

“I’m not afraid of you,” You say, voice like steel wrapped in silk. “And Bob isn’t yours to keep.”

He studies you before letting out a low, curious laugh. “No,” he says finally. “Maybe not.”

“Could I keep you instead?” The Void asks, voice low, almost amused, but there’s something sincere beneath it. He reaches out to touch your face, fingers grazing the space between you.

But you grab his hand before he can. You laugh softly, a little disbelieving.

"I think I suit you quite nicely," he murmurs, undeterred.

"I can see what they can't," he continues, his eyes narrowing, glinting with something ancient and knowing. "The anger, power right at your fingertips and yet you try to play the hero. Why?"

“I’m not playing at anything,” You say firmly, voice steady, eyes locked on his.

He leans in, the shadows around him thickening, curling like tendrils reaching out. They’re dark, hungry, trying to pull you closer, to draw you into their world.

But you fight back. Not with every ounce of will you have, pushing against the invisible pull, anchoring yourself.

“I beg to differ,” he murmurs, his breath grazing your skin like a whisper, cold and intoxicating. “Such wasted potential. All for the notion of being good when you could be so much more.”

You reach out, your hand hovering near his temple. Your fingers glow, light pulsing softly, alive. He watches, unblinking, as your magic stirs in the air like smoke catching fire. It’s ethereal, coiling, licking at him, and it has him curious. 

You're trying to see into his mind, but—

“I think the real question is…” he interrupts knowingly, tilting his head, “…are we inside your mind or mine?”

The words twist around you like a spell, and suddenly, the weight shifts. The darkness starts to peel away from your limbs, sloughing off like ash in the wind. You blink, feeling the ground under you change, reality sliding sideways.

The Void just smiles.

“I’ll see you soon.”

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You’re still thinking about it… about him.

Every time you’re training with Bob, he’s there, at the edge of your thoughts. You’re not in fear. You’re not scared of the Void, not really. It’s more like a wariness, a flicker of unease that one wrong move, one flare of power, might open the door again. Might bring him back.

It was wrong. And confusing. But a small part of you wanted to see him again. 

Your mind drifts when you’re not paying attention—whether it’s during missions, training, or even in bed. He’s in your dreams when you fall asleep, and sometimes, you wake up imagining the ghost of his voice in your ear.

The Void hadn’t tried to hurt you. No, he watched you—studied you. And in some twisted way, he seemed to want you. Not to harm, not to destroy… but to possess, to understand. You just wanted to know why. What did he see in you? What was it about you that drew something like him in?

One night, you’re in bed, the day heavy on your bones, the world finally going quiet around you. You’re slipping closer and closer to sleep…

But you sense it, that shift in the air, a pulse of dark presence curling at the edges of your senses. You feel him before you even open your eyes.

“This is bordering on obsession,” You sigh, eyes still closed.

You hear him laugh, low and amused. The sound crawls down your spine, equal parts unsettling and intimate.

“Not bordering. It is obsession,” he replies, and you can hear the smile in his voice, like he’s proud of it.

Reluctantly, you open your eyes.

He’s there, standing at the foot of your bed, shadows clinging to him like silk. Those eyes, golden and curious, lock onto yours. Not threatening. Not kind. Just... watching.

“You dream of me,” he says, not asking.

You swallow, and the air thickens. “That's not an invitation to break into my room at night.”

He tilts his head, taking a step closer. “You called me. You always do—when your thoughts stray, when your control slips. You think about me more than you care to admit.”

You don’t respond. Can’t.

Because he’s not wrong.

“You’re speechless,” he teases, voice like velvet laced with static. He sits on the edge of your bed, casual, as if he belongs there.

You shift away instinctively, creating space, as if a few more inches could keep him from seeing straight through you.

“Biding my time. There’s a difference,” You reply, keeping your voice even, though your pulse betrays you.

The Void watches you closely, amused by your defiance. Or maybe by the fact that even now, you're still trying to guard yourself. Still playing the game.

His eyes flicker, a faint glow blooming within them like embers. “You may say you don’t want me here, but you keep opening doors.”

“I’m not doing it on purpose,” You bite back, sharper than intended. He smiles, but there’s something beneath it, something hungry. “That’s the best part.”

His hand twitches slightly, not reaching for you, but close. Waiting. 

“You’re more than you think. More than they let you be, more than you let yourself be.”

The air thickens again, and you’re feeling him again, his presence threads through the room like smoke.

“What do you want from me?” You ask, tired of circles.

Suddenly, he sounds less teasing, more honest. 

“To see you become more than this,” He leans closer as if observing you, “You’re no hero. You’re something else entirely.”

He almost sounds in awe of you.

You want to lie. You want to turn away, pretend you don’t feel it, the weight of his words, the strange reverence in his voice.

But in some weird, completely twisted way…you felt seen.

“Show me what you can do,” he says softly, like a challenge… or a plea.

Against your better judgment, your hands move. Fingers lift with purpose, glowing as your magic rises like a tide. Not to attack. Just to beckon. To draw him in that fraction closer.

And he comes.

He leans in, unflinching, until his lips hover just a breath away from yours. The air between you hums with tension, your power brushing over him.

He doesn’t flinch. He invites it.

He looks at you, eyes gleaming. They weren’t cold, but burning. Goading.

“Do it,” he whispers. “Manipulate me. I want to see you try.”

Your magic coils, crackling faintly between you both, held barely in check. It licks at his skin like fire starved of air. You could push. You could twist something in him, see what bends and what breaks.

That thought strikes sharp and fast, and then you remember.

Bob. Somewhere beyond this darkness, behind the weight of The Void’s presence, he’s there. You couldn’t do this. You couldn’t risk hurting him.

You lower your hands slowly, magic fading from your fingertips. The crackle in the air dies with it, and you feel the release.

The Void sighs dramatically. “What? You don’t want to hurt me? I’m disappointed.”

You vanish from in front of him, slipping through space in a blink, reappearing beside him, your lips by his ear, breath warm and taunting.

“I live to disappoint,” You murmur with biting sarcasm.

He chuckles, low and amused, the sound vibrating in your chest more than your ears.

“So you’re playing with me then?” he asks, a smile curling through his voice, teasing and predatory.

You teleport again, this time behind him, close enough to feel his back press against your body like the edge of a knife.

“Something like that,” You say, voice calm, almost bored.

This little verbal spar you had with him was… addictive. A dangerous dance on a wire stretched taut between temptation and control.

But then he shifts, turning around to face you. 

His expression darkens—not angry or violent—but filled with intent. He turns, slowly, deliberately, and starts walking you back with that same quiet pressure in the air that makes your skin prickle.

You don’t step away. You should, but you don’t.

Then, his hand reaches out, and in a second, you’re pinned against the wall. The cold wall meets your spine, and again, before you can blink, he lifts you effortlessly with his mind, sliding you up until your feet leave the ground. His body never touches yours, but his presence crashes over you like a wave.

“I don’t want to play games,” he says, voice low and electric. You meet his eyes, your own burning with something halfway between challenge and adrenaline.

“But this one is so much fun,” you quip back, your tone reckless, like flicking sparks into a powder keg.

His jaw clenches, just slightly. Not in rage. In restraint.

“I came to see you,” he says, eyes scanning your face like a puzzle he hasn’t yet solved. “But all you do is run and hide behind your clever little words.”

“Maybe you need to chase me,” You reply, breath shallow but steady. The Void pauses, his voice surprisingly soft when he answers, “And how long would you make me chase you?”

You meet his gaze, your heart skipping.

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you disappear from his hold, reappearing right in front of him, so close you can see the sweep of his eyelashes. You lean in just a little more, the space between you charged.

“Until I think you’ve had enough.”

His eyes widen a little, but he stifles it. 

“Until I’ve had enough…” he repeats to himself, quietly, like he’s tasting the words. He searches your eyes, there’s something in you, something he needs. Finally, a slow, dark smirk spreads across his lips.

“We’ll see.”

The energy between you crackles, thick and electric. You both want this; he wants to pull you into the darkness, to make you lose yourself. Sure, you wanted to play with him, but you could kiss him and still keep him at bay.

But just as your eyes flutter shut and you feel the weight of his presence drawing near, then suddenly there’s only air.

You open your eyes, breath catching. You turn and he’s standing by your door, smiling at you again.

“I’ll see you soon.”

With that, he fades away, leaving you standing alone, still in your mind.

Masterlist

[yeagersss]

Sukuna as a Firefighter (Part 1)

Next ->

You met firefighter!Sukuna pretty much how you would meet any other fireman.

Your lungs choking on smoke while you think: Yup this is it. I'm going to die young. Fresh out of college. On my first job where something in the office kitchen decided to short circuit and—

You're barely conscious when someone kicks down the door. Dressed in full heavy gear, large boots and a mask covering his face.

He picks you up like you weigh nothing, shielding you from the smoke and fire as he carries you out. The world is spinning around you as you're placed on the stretcher. Your eyes roll up as you wheeze. You can barely hear what the man—your saviour—is saying.

"—Oi! Don't die on me yet!"

He curses under his breath, mutters "Stupid women. Inhaled too much smoke." and rips his mask off. He pinches your nose and opens your mouth, engulfing his mouth with yours and blows.

One, two, three, four chest compressions later and you cough out loud. You gasp and wheeze desperately as your hand shoots out to grab on to the man's jacket, grounding yourself.

Your eyes were watering as you slowly opened them.

You stare at the large man with ruffled pink hair, deep maroon eyes, strong jaw and nose, staring down at you with a scowl.

Your lips move. You mutter something to him. You were too dazed to even know what you said.

The only thing you remember is his eyebrows shooting up in surprise before you slip into unconsciousness.

[lynbels]

25 jungwon pls pls pls

looks deceive - yjw (m)

#25: The quiet nerd turns out to be anything but shy, using your body like it’s his.

pairing: jungwon x reader - prompt req list

synopsis: You spent months teasing Jungwon for being the quiet nerd in class—until one night he finally snapped, and you learned exactly how wrong you were about him. ✉️ 3782wc

‼️tw: slight bullying, dubcon vibes, dominance, manhandling, degradation (light), oral (m receiving), rough sex, creampie, praise, possessiveness, spanking, slight hair pulling, unprotected sex (wrap ur willies guys)

💌: no because I totally imagine this happening good jungwon by day evil jungwon by night 😈

You weren’t a mean girl, not really. Just…a little playful. Maybe a little too playful when it came to the nerdy boy who sat in the back of your Chemistry class.

Yang Jungwon.

Blonde hair always perfectly parted, button-down shirts always ironed stiff, and those stupid little glasses perched on the bridge of his nose—he was practically begging for it. He didn’t even talk back when you and your friends joked about him. He just sat there, quietly scribbling formulas with that pretty hand of his, pretending not to hear the way you laughed.

“You think he’s a robot or something?” your friend Hana giggled one afternoon, chin propped on her hand as she watched Jungwon flip through his notes. “Bet he’s never even held a girl’s hand.”

You snickered behind your palm. “Held? I bet he’d pass out if a girl even looked at him for too long.”

It wasn’t personal. It was harmless, you told yourself. Jungwon was just…so easy to tease. Always so quiet, so polite, so desperately nerdy. He wore khaki pants for god’s sake. Khakis. In high school.

Sometimes you’d catch him sneaking glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking—soft, wide-eyed stares, like he couldn’t believe you were real. It only made it funnier. You’d smile sweetly at him on purpose, wave too enthusiastically, lean a little too close when asking him a question during group projects, just to watch his face flush scarlet and his glasses fog up.

The poor boy was so easy to break.

And you weren’t the only one who noticed. Your whole group kind of adopted it as a game at this point: how fast could you fluster Jungwon? How pink could you get his cheeks? How many stuttered responses could you collect like trophies?

“He’s like…a pet,” your other friend Minji whispered one time after a pop quiz. You had just tapped Jungwon’s shoulder and thanked him (loudly) for “helping you study”—which he hadn’t—and the boy had practically short-circuited on the spot. “Like a little lost puppy.”

You’d laughed then, flipping your hair over your shoulder, feeling every bit the queen bee you were supposed to be. Jungwon was safe. Harmless. He wasn’t like the cocky jocks or the bad boys you flirted with sometimes—he was soft, easy to control, easy to tease.

Or at least…that’s what you thought.

Until one afternoon, everything changed.

You were sitting at your desk, lazily twirling a pen between your fingers, when you felt a shadow fall across your table. You looked up, blinking.

It was Jungwon.

He stood stiffly in front of you, clutching a neatly organized folder to his chest like a shield. His blonde hair was slightly messy today, a few strands falling across his forehead. His glasses slipped down his nose a little, and he pushed them up nervously with one finger.

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Lost, Jungwon?”

He opened his mouth like he was about to say something—but then stopped, his throat bobbing with a hard swallow. His hands fidgeted against the folder, knuckles white from how tightly he gripped it. You could see the tips of his ears turning red.

Cute.

“I, uh…” He coughed lightly, adjusting his glasses again. “I…thought you might need help. For the chemistry assignment. Since…you asked…before.”

You blinked.

You hadn’t actually asked him for help—you’d teased him about it, sure, but it was all in good fun. You were popular, and smart enough to get by without tutoring from the class nerd. But now, standing there in front of you, Jungwon looked so serious. So determined, despite how nervous he clearly was.

You could feel Minji and Hana watching from across the room, barely containing their laughter. You gave them a quick glance—watch this—before turning back to Jungwon with your most dazzling smile.

“That’s sweet, Jungwon,” you said, voice dripping honey. “You’re worried about me?”

He flushed deeper, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I just…you seemed like you might…um…need help.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to hold back a laugh. God, he was so easy.

Leaning forward on your elbows, you rested your chin in your hand and looked up at him through your lashes. “Are you offering to be my private tutor?”

His lips parted slightly, like the words got stuck in his throat. His glasses fogged a little again. “I—uh—I guess. If you want.”You smiled wider, loving the way his voice shook.

“Aw,” you cooed mockingly, loud enough for your friends to hear. “You’re so sweet, Jungwon. Are you always this nice to girls who bully you?”

Behind you, Hana snickered into her hand.

For a moment, Jungwon didn’t say anything. He just stood there, folder clutched tight to his chest, face burning. His eyes flickered to your mouth for a second—so quick you almost missed it—and then dropped to the floor again.

You tilted your head, smirking. So predictable.

“You’re cute when you’re nervous,” you added, voice low enough that only he could hear it. “Maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll let you buy me coffee after tutoring too.”

He said nothing. Just nodded stiffly, turned on his heel, and practically fled to the other side of the room.

You and your friends broke into giggles immediately.

“Poor thing’s gonna have a heart attack,” Minji whispered, wiping a tear from her eye. “Y/N, you’re evil.”

You smiled lazily, twirling your pen again. It was just harmless fun. Jungwon would never do anything about it. He was too shy, too sweet.

He’d stay quiet. Like he always did.

…Right?

You didn’t think about it much when you got the text later that day.

[unknown number]: you forgot your textbook. rm 3b.

[unknown number]: i can bring it if u want.

You stared at the messages, confused for a second—until you realized it had to be Jungwon. Of course it was. Who else would be that polite about a stupid forgotten book?

You texted back a half-hearted ok, already smirking to yourself. God, he’s desperate, you thought. He was really going out of his way for you now. It was almost pathetic.

You made your way to Room 3B after the last bell, the hallway practically deserted. Most people had already left for the day, leaving only the low hum of distant footsteps and the occasional squeak of sneakers on tile.

When you pushed open the door, the room was dim, the late afternoon sun spilling in long, golden streaks across the floor.

And there he was.

Jungwon stood by your desk, your chemistry textbook in hand, head bowed slightly. His blonde hair caught the light, making it look almost soft around the edges. He wasn’t wearing his blazer anymore—just the white button-up, the sleeves pushed up a little—and it made him look…different. More casual. More real.

You stepped inside lazily, the door clicking shut behind you.

“Wow,” you teased lightly, crossing your arms. “You really take your job as my tutor seriously, huh?”

He didn’t laugh.

Didn’t even smile.

He just looked up at you—and for the first time, you noticed something different in his eyes. Something that made your skin prickle a little.

He wasn’t nervous.

Not anymore.

“You forgot this,” he said simply, voice low and even.

You walked closer, letting your bag slide off your shoulder onto a chair. “Thanks, Professor Jungwon,” you joked, reaching for the book.

But instead of handing it to you, he held onto it—just out of reach.

You frowned. “What are you doing?”

For a second, he just looked at you, head tilted slightly like he was studying something.

Then he smiled.

Not the shy, awkward smile you were used to.

No, this one was slower. Lazier. A smile that knew things. Dangerous things.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” he said, voice still light but edged with something sharper underneath. “Messing with me. Laughing at me with your little friends.”

You blinked, heart skipping once, confused. This wasn’t…this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

“I mean…” you said slowly, trying to summon that same teasing tone. “Maybe a little?”

Jungwon stepped closer.

You instinctively backed up—only to feel the desk press against the backs of your thighs.

You opened your mouth to say something else—to crack another joke, maybe, to turn the moment back into something safe—but before you could, he set the textbook down carefully on the desk beside you.

And caged you in with both hands, palms flat against the wood.

You stared up at him, breath caught.

His eyes, usually so soft, were burning now. Sharp and focused, like he was seeing right through you. His body was so close you could feel the heat rolling off him, suffocating, dizzying.

“You think you can just say whatever you want to me,” he said softly, so close you could feel his breath fan across your lips. “Laugh at me. Flirt with me. Make me look like a fool.”

You swallowed hard, every nerve in your body standing on end.

“I—It was just a joke,” you said quickly, but your voice wavered.

Another slow, dangerous smile.

“Yeah?” he murmured. “Well, here’s the thing, Y/N.”

He leaned down, mouth brushing your ear.

“I’m done being the joke.”

You froze, your whole body tensing, but Jungwon didn’t give you any time to think.

One hand slid from the desk to your waist, fingers digging in just hard enough to make you gasp. He pressed his body closer, chest against yours, so you could feel just how much bigger and stronger he really was.

“You’re so loud usually,” he whispered, voice smooth and dark against your ear. “Where’s all that attitude now, huh?”

You squirmed, but it only made him grip you tighter, pinning your hips against the desk.

“You thought you were in control,” he murmured, dragging the tip of his nose down the side of your throat, inhaling like he could smell your fear. “Laughing with your friends. Acting like you were better than me.”

You whimpered—quiet and unintentional—and he chuckled low in his chest.

“Not so funny now, is it?”

Slowly, torturously slow, he trailed his hand up your side, brushing under the hem of your shirt, fingertips feather-light against your bare skin. Your breath hitched, and he smiled against your neck.

“You like this,” he said quietly, almost like he was marveling at the realization. “You like when I’m mean to you.”

You shook your head automatically, but Jungwon just laughed again, dark and soft.

“Liar.”

He tilted your chin up with two fingers, forcing you to look at him.

His eyes were molten now, dark and hungry, and you shivered under the weight of his stare.

“I should make you beg,” he whispered, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “Make you apologize for being such a little brat.”

Your lips parted, desperate to say something—anything—but no words came out.

“You gonna be good for me now?” he asked, almost gently, dragging his thumb slowly across your bottom lip. “Or do I have to teach you a lesson?

You whimpered again, nodding weakly.

His smile widened, all sharp teeth and dangerous promise.

“Good girl.”

Without warning, he grabbed your thighs and lifted you up onto the desk, spreading your legs with his knees. The sudden movement made you squeak, grabbing onto his shoulders for balance, but he didn’t let you go—he loomed over you, hands gripping your waist possessively, like he owned you.

“Show me,” Jungwon said, voice so soft it barely made a sound. “Get on your knees.”

You blinked up at him, heart racing, and whispered back without thinking, “W-What?”

He just stared down at you, unblinking, fingers tightening at your waist like a warning.

“On your knees,” he repeated, firmer now, and when you hesitated for half a second longer, he grabbed your chin and guided you down slowly, almost gentle, until your knees hit the floor with a quiet thud against the carpet.

“Jungwon…” you whispered again, voice small, but he didn’t budge.

He tilted your chin up with two fingers, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Pretty,” he murmured. “So pretty when you’re quiet.”

You bit your lip, cheeks burning, and breathed out shakily, “I-I don’t know what you want me to do…”

A small, dangerous smile played on his lips. “You’ll figure it out.”

With slow, deliberate movements, he unbuckled his belt, the soft clink making your stomach twist in anticipation. You couldn’t look away—couldn’t even think—your mouth already watering slightly as he tugged his jeans down just enough, freeing his cock, hard and thick and leaking at the tip.

You whimpered, staring, and your thighs instinctively pressed together.

“You want it, don’t you?” he whispered, thumb brushing against your bottom lip.

You nodded frantically, voice barely a breath. “Y-Yeah… I want it.”

“Then open up,” he ordered, and his voice was so calm it made your whole body shudder.

You parted your lips obediently, heart thundering, and he slid the tip against your tongue, teasing you slowly, making you feel every inch.

“Good girl,” he praised in a low growl. “Keep those pretty eyes on me.”

You whimpered again, looking up at him through your lashes, desperate to make him proud, desperate for him to keep saying those things to you.

“You’re so good, Jungwon,” you whispered around him, voice muffled and needy.

A dark flush colored his cheeks at your praise, but he didn’t let up, sliding deeper with slow, shallow thrusts, one hand threading into your hair to hold you there.

“That’s it,” he murmured, hips rocking slowly. “Such a good little mouth… made for me.”

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes from the stretch, but you forced yourself to stay still, to let him use you like he wanted. You wanted it. You wanted him.

“You look so good like this,” he breathed. “Bet you never thought you’d end up on your knees for me, huh?”

You whined around him, the humiliation and heat rushing through your body too much to handle.

“Didn’t know you’d be so mean,” you managed to mumble out when he pulled back a little, your voice wrecked and breathless.

He chuckled lowly, thumb brushing away a tear that slid down your cheek.

“You have no idea what I’m capable of, baby,” he whispered.

You nodded, so desperate, so wrecked already. “Please…” you whimpered. “Please, Jungwon… I want you…”

His jaw flexed, his control visibly snapping.

“Fuck,” he muttered, hips jerking forward as he pushed deeper into your mouth, making you choke slightly.

You pulled back with a gasp, panting, and he immediately stroked your hair gently, calming you.

“Shh. You’re doing so good, pretty girl,” he praised. “You’re perfect.”

You looked up at him, tears in your lashes, spit glistening on your lips.

“I want to be good for you,” you said, voice wobbling.

“You already are,” he whispered, dragging his cock slowly across your tongue again.

You shivered, feeling your whole body light up at his words.

He tightened his grip in your hair, sliding himself back into your mouth with slow, deliberate thrusts, using you like he had every right to.

And you let him. Whimpering, obeying, looking up at him like he hung the stars in the sky.

Because he owned you now. And you didn’t want it any other way.

You barely had time to catch your breath before Jungwon yanked you up from the floor, strong hands gripping your waist and shoving you back against the couch. His body pressed flush against yours, caging you in.

“You’re not done,” he muttered, voice low and dark in your ear. “I’m not done.”

You whimpered, nodding without even thinking, your thighs squeezing together at the way he looked at you — like he was starving and you were the only thing he could eat.

He grabbed your chin roughly, tilting your head up so you couldn’t look away from him. His eyes, usually so soft and sunny, were blown wide and black with hunger.

“Look at you,” he whispered, breath hot against your cheek. “Already fucked out and I haven’t even gotten started.”

You tried to say something—tried to beg—but he didn’t give you the chance. In one swift movement, he manhandled you onto the couch, forcing you onto your back, and tugged your panties down your legs without ceremony.

“Spread those legs for me, pretty,” he murmured, voice steady but ragged with want.

You did, shakily, heart pounding so hard you could barely breathe.

He tugged his jeans down just enough, cock hard and leaking, and lined himself up without warning. You felt the blunt, thick head of him pressing against your entrance, and your breath caught.

“You ready?” he rasped.

You nodded desperately, nails digging into the cushions.

“Use your words,” he ordered, tapping the inside of your thigh sharply.

“Please,” you gasped out. “Please, Jungwon, I want it—need it—”

That was all he needed.

He slammed into you in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and you screamed — high-pitched and choked, the stretch overwhelming. Your whole body arched off the couch at the sudden, merciless intrusion.

“Fuck, so tight,” he hissed through gritted teeth, holding himself still for a second, letting you feel every inch of him. “Feels too good. Gonna fuck you so stupid, baby.”

You sobbed, legs trembling around his hips, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

He didn’t give you time to adjust. He pulled out halfway and slammed back in hard enough to make the couch creak beneath you. Again. Again. Hard and deep and punishing, every thrust knocking the breath out of your lungs.

“You wanted to tease me?” he grunted, voice still soft and deadly in your ear. “Wanted to be a brat in front of your little friends?”

You nodded frantically, whimpering, barely coherent under the relentless pace.

“Bet you don’t feel so cocky now, huh?” he whispered, punctuating every word with another deep thrust.

You tried to answer but all that came out was a broken moan.

He chuckled low under his breath, slowing down just enough to drag himself out painfully slow before slamming back in to the hilt, making you cry out.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until he licked a tear off your cheek and murmured, “Poor thing. Too much?”

You shook your head wildly, clinging to him.

He kept going until your whole body was trembling, until your nails carved angry red lines down his back, until you were sobbing his name like it was the only word you knew.

Finally, when your legs gave out completely and you sagged into the cushions, he slowed. His hands gentled, cradling you.

Wordlessly, he pulled you into his lap, your thighs straddling his hips. His cock still heavy and hard between your legs, pressed against your soaked folds.

He cupped your face in both hands, smoothing your hair back, and kissed you so softly it almost hurt. You whimpered into his mouth, desperate for him.

“You still want it?” he whispered against your lips.

“Yes,” you breathed, voice wrecked and trembling. “Please.”

He guided you down onto him slowly this time, letting you feel every thick inch stretch you open again.

You gasped, clinging to his shoulders, tears brimming in your lashes again from the slow, aching fullness.

“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Take all of it. You’re doing so good.”

He rocked you on his cock gently, holding you close, whispering filthy things in your ear the whole time.

“Feel how deep I am, baby? You were made for this… made for me to fuck you like this.”

You whimpered, biting his shoulder to muffle your sobs of pleasure as he guided your hips, slow and deep and overwhelming.

“Never teasing me again,” he whispered, smiling against your hair. “Not unless you want this.”

You nodded desperately, grinding down against him, so full you could barely think.

“You’re mine to fuck,” he murmured, dragging his cock against that sensitive spot inside you, making you jolt in his lap. “Mine to ruin.”

You came apart in his arms, sobbing his name into his shoulder, shaking and gasping. He held you through it, never stopping, whispering praise into your ear until you completely fell apart.

And when he finally followed, spilling deep inside you with a low groan, he didn’t move away.

He just held you, rocking you gently in his lap, brushing kisses across your temple, your jaw, your mouth.

Like he hadn’t just broken you completely.

Like he was never gonna let you go.

The next morning, you could still feel it — a dull, delicious ache between your thighs with every step you took. Your body was sore, your neck littered with faint bruises you tried—and failed—to cover with makeup, and your heart raced every time you even thought about Jungwon.

Which was a problem. Because you were sitting across from him in class, and he kept sneaking little glances at you from behind his glasses, a tiny smirk tugging at his lips whenever your eyes met.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, clenching your thighs together under the desk, cheeks burning.

“What’s up with you?” one of your friends whispered, elbowing you in the side during lecture.

“Huh? N-nothing,” you stammered, staring down at your notes so hard the lines blurred together.

Another girl leaned over. “Why do you look like you just ran a marathon?”

“I don’t,” you protested weakly, adjusting your jacket to hide the faint purple marks blooming down your throat.

They weren’t convinced.

“You’re acting weird,” the first girl said, wrinkling her nose. “Like…all shy and jumpy. Did something happen?”

“No,” you said too quickly, glancing instinctively at Jungwon.

You caught him looking again — but this time, he didn’t look away. His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, slow and deliberate, and your stomach flipped.

Oh god.

Your friends caught that look.

They turned, following your gaze, and their jaws dropped.

“Wait. No freaking way,” one of them whispered, half-laughing. “You’re into him?!”

“I—” You opened your mouth, but no words came out.

The other girl snorted. “Since when do you like nerds?”

You shrank into your seat, wishing the floor would swallow you whole. Especially when Jungwon leaned back in his chair casually, spreading his thighs just a little wider under the desk — like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

You swallowed hard, pulse hammering in your throat.

“Bet he’s not that nerdy when he’s alone with her,” one of your friends joked under her breath, laughing.

Your face flamed.

And across the room, Jungwon smiled lazily at you, like a wolf who knew his prey wasn’t going anywhere.

prompt request list

[taegimood]

— nudes?! (c.bg) ♡

pairing: choi beomgyu x fem!reader genre: best friends to ?, non-idol au, suggestive rating: nsfw, mdni wc: 1.2k warnings: mention/description of reader’s nudes, beomgyu imagines Doing Things and gets hard, implication of sexy time at the end, they’re both horny for each other synopsis: what happens when your best friend who secretly has the hots for you accidentally sees your nudes?

requested forever ago by @mapofthemazeinthemirror <3 [blog status: semi-hiatus, requests closed]

| yeonjun ver. | soobin ver. | taehyun ver. | kai ver. |

masterlist

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beomgyu is often not too hard to read.

your goofy best friend who'd rather cause mischief than let a situation turn boring, who loves to stir things up and watch the chaos unfold around him.

but one thing that you just can't seem to get a grasp on... is how he really feels about you.

as well as you can confidently say that you know choi beomgyu, the never-ending mixed signals he throws at you may just be your downfall in that department, from the outrageous flirting towards you on one end of the spectrum to the bragging of his latest phone number acquirement on the other.

i mean, what are you supposed to think when he's sweetly tucking your hair behind your ear one second and then commenting on how pretty that passing girl is the next? (unbeknownst to you, he's actually just trying to gauge your reaction).

but at this point you've had enough of the guessing games. you're gonna take things into your own hands and find out exactly how he really feels.

...or at least... that's what you told yourself, when you'd laid out across your sheets and took those coy little pictures, fully nude and fully ready to "accidentally" send them to your best friend to see what he would do;

but now, you release a resigned sigh as you set your phone aside untouched and tug your — his — sweater further over your shoulders in the chilly air of your room.

"stupid beomgyu," you grumble. "stupid me... stupid idea."

your lost confidence seems to mock you as your phone suddenly buzzes with a text from none other than the exact man of the hour, and you huff as you read it.

— hellspawn 🙄🤎: i'm coming over

his contact name feels as fitting as ever. "right, just invite yourself on in," you mutter to yourself (as if that's not exactly what the two of you always do anyways).

you have half a mind to respond with something snarky, but instead you just leave it be as you stare down at the nudes still sitting hauntingly unsent in your end of the message box, and with a shiver you resort to sticking your tongue out at his contact picture and leaving the text unanswered as you punch the air in a mini fit and toss your phone away into your pillows.

"i hate boys."

and with that, you grouchily trudge your way into the living room to start up the show that you've been binging together, phone and pictures forgotten.

unfortunately.

because what you don't know, but what you're soon about to find out, is just how crazy your best friend actually is about you — and as beomgyu stands frozen outside of your apartment building, staring down at his phone with a short-circuiting brain and eyes growing blurred from lack of blinking in the chilly night air, convenience store bag full of snacks falling forgotten to the ground — well.

he didn't even buy a lottery ticket, but it seems he's just won.

your naked body glows back at him from his screen as he fumbles back into motion, urging his fingers to remember their own mobility as he gulps and swipes hungrily through the array of photos that you'd sent.

hurriedly he brushes his long hair out of his eyes as it falls forward, his hunched frame in the middle of the sidewalk probably resembling that of a homeless man as he holds his phone close, shielding the sight of you from any prying eyes (there are none) while his thoughts suddenly erupt into every possible direction.

is this really happening? is this real life? what does this mean? is this a confession? she obviously wants me too, then, right? shit, should i have dressed better? do i smell okay? should i run back home and — oh god, what if these were meant for someone else? did she really mean to send them? what if she never speaks to me again? oh god, she's so.. she's so.. holy fuck.

beomgyu is breathless as his eyes roam across your soft skin, your pretty curves, the sly hint of a smirk peeking from your lips as your finger slips between them —

he feels his cock straining tighter against his pants the longer that he scrolls.

relishing in the sight that he's been dreaming of for so long, he imagines it were his hand wrapped gently around your throat instead of your own, his fingers caressing your bare tits and sliding down beyond the camera where his imagination is left to run wild — fuck, he's gotta get up there.

forcing himself to tear his eyes away, he quickly gathers the scattered snacks and stuffs them mindlessly back into their convenience store bag as he hurries towards the entrance of your building, not even needing to think twice as he inputs the code and all but lunges for the elevator.

"alright, be cool, be cool, be cool."

the deep breaths he's been taking and mini self pep talk he's been mumbling all but crumble away meaningless when he types in your apartment's passcode and opens the door to see you standing there by the couch wearing his sweater, so big on you that it's easy to pretend that your little pair of shorts underneath aren't even there;

and he's suddenly grateful for the long length of his hair as he feels the way his ears burn red underneath, but the inevitable flush on his face doesn't escape your notice as you glance up at him for a moment before turning your attention back to the tv remote in your hand.

"why do you look like you just ran a fucking marathon?" you scoff. "did the ahjumma downstairs hit you with her grocery bag again?"

but beomgyu is far beyond saving as images of you underneath him flicker across his mind, now no longer fueled by his imagination but by the real thing that you'd just graced him with minutes before.

"those for me?"

you pause. his voice is raspy, strained, almost breathless.

you glance back up at him. your brows pull together in confusion.

"huh?"

beomgyu barely breaks eye contact with you as he unlocks his phone, wordlessly holding it up to show you, eyes raking over your face for your reaction;

the remote falls to the floor with a thunk as your eyes widen and hands fly up to clap over your mouth in shock.

what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck- I SENT THEM?!?!

you rip your eyes away from the sight of your own body on his screen to meet his burning stare, and when you do — all excuses fizzle away as a shiver runs along your spine and straight down to your core.

the desire pooled in your best friend's eyes is unlike any look you've ever seen on him before, breaths coming out labored from his chest though he tries to control them; and when he takes a step forwards and asks again, voice deep and words punctuated,

"were those for me?"

you're nothing but a goner as you answer him with shaky legs and a nod.

the triumphant grin that spreads across beomgyu's blushing face is downright sinful as his bag of snacks once again meets a forgotten fate on the ground — along with his jacket that he immediately shrugs off of his shoulders, already reaching for the hem of his sweatshirt as he moves towards you with well-mustered boldness and says,

"should've waited for me, sweetheart. we could’ve taken them together.”

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— taglist: @razsberrie, @saejinniestar, @hyukalyptus, @florestalio, @beomiracles, @kiss4baku, @hyukascampfire, @kejingken, @cherr4es, @stawmerry, @choikanghuening, @dawngyu, @soo-blue, @paradigms13

if you want to be added to my taglist and get notified whenever i post any writing, drop a comment or an ask and let me know! ♡

[buckysleftbicep]

notes on napkins 𐙚 s.r

pairing: steve rogers x barista!fem!reader

warnings: nothing but loads and loads of fluff to make your day!

word count: 3k

summary: just a barista, a rainy café, and the quiet way steve leaves his heart behind—one napkin doodle at a time.

a/n: oh my gosh, i used to work in cafes, and i absolutely love this idea! please let me know what you think! love ya guys and stay safe!

The first time Steve Rogers walked into you coffee shop, you didn’t even realise who he was. 

At least not right away. It had been one of those mornings that felt like the city of New York had pulled a blanket over its head. The sky outside was a low-hanging canvas of pewter grey, and fine, steady drizzle had painted everything in a watery shimmer.

The rain was pitter pattering against the wide glass windows like a quiet metronome, while the soft hum of indie music and the hiss of the espresso machine filled the quaint little space with a warmth that made the ever so busy streets outside feel very far away. 

You liked mornings like this, where it was slow, sleepy, it smelled like cinnamon and dark roast, where the regulars would wander in, wrapped in soft scarves and sweaters as they seeked something warm and familiar, a latte or perhaps one of your shop’s best selling blueberry muffins. 

The bell above the door had jingled softly, and you had glanced up from the counter out of habit. 

Steve had stepped in almost like he didn’t quite belong, almost as if the world outside had followed him in on the soles of his boots. Tall, broad-shouldered, a little rain damp around the edges. A navy jacket clung to his frame, his hair—short and golden and tousled from the drizzle was already starting to dry off.

He had looked like a painting you could probably find in an old war-era magazine, only somehow more human. Like if you touched him, he’d be warm.

He didn’t look at you at first, he stood for a beat near the door, blinking at the chalkboard menu with a hint of hesitation, his presence, quiet but heavy, almost as if gravity had settled around him. As if even in stillness, he carried the weight of something larger than himself. 

You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear and offered your best barista smile, hoping to make him feel a little more comfy. “Good morning”. 

That’s when he looked at you, and that’s when it hit you. 

Oh. 

It was him. 

Steve Rogers. Captain America. The Captain America. Shield-wielding Avenger, a literal national icon, you remembered him from the school trips to the Smithsonian, blonde hair, blue eyes, war hero. He was standing in your doorway, like a quiet storm cloud, wet around the edges, slightly flustered and blinking like he hadn’t quite found his footing. 

“Uh…just a coffee,” he said finally, stepping toward the counter, his voice was low, warm, a little rough around the edges—like gravel in honey. Steve had hesitated, glancing once more at the menu above your head. “Black, please”. 

Your brain had chosen that exact moment to short-circuit. 

“Oh, of course” you had said quickly, fumbling for a cup, trying to keep your hands from visibly shaking. “Just black, coming right up”. 

You didn’t look up again, until you handed it to him. He gave you a quiet thank you, eyes meeting yours with that polite, boyish sort of smile—the one that made your stomach do something fluttery and well, mildly embarrassing. 

You watched Steve go, pretending you weren’t watching. He had taken the far corner table by the window, the one with the wide view of the street outside. He sat like he needed to fold himself smaller, shoulders hunched just slightly forward as though he didn’t want to take up more space than necessary.

From the corner of your eye, you saw him cradle the paper cup in both hands, fingertips pressed gently to the sides for warmth, gaze drifting through the window. 

He looked…tired, not the bad kind of tired, he looked like someone used to carrying the weight of the world, someone who was just quietly resting for once. 

And you felt it, something gentle and inexplicable tugging at the back of your ribs, something about the way he sat in the soft morning light, rain trailing lazy paths down the window beside him, felt achingly human. Lonely, maybe but peaceful too. 

You wiped the counter for the third time in two minutes and pretended your heart wasn’t still doing flips. 

He stayed longer than most people did. Didn’t pull out a phone, didn’t ask for wifi. Just sat, watched the rain, drank his coffee, like he had nowhere else to be. 

And then just as quietly as he arrived, he stood, tossed his cup, and left without another word.

The bell chimed as the door shut behind him. And that was that, you had stood there, blinking after him. You didn’t know he would be back the next day. 

And the day after that. 

And, well, everyday after that. 

“Morning” Steve had said the fourth time he came in, his voice a little lighter now, the edges of shyness worn down. You had looked up from the espresso machine, your hands stilling for half a second, the smile that bloomed on your face wasn’t the automatic one you have your customers, it was warmer, real. 

“Good morning, Captain” you teased, one brow raised, your eyes catching the sparkle of something mischievous beneath his usual calm. 

He had paused, just long enough for the corner of his mouth to twitch, his expression was the kind of deadpan that barely hid his smirk, like he had walked straight into your trap and yet, he didn’t even mind.

“Steve’s fine” he had replied with the kind of patience that said he had heard Captain one too many times but somehow wasn’t annoyed by it coming from you. 

You tilted your head slightly, the tiniest tilt of mock consideration, “alright,” you had said, tone as warm as honey. “Steve”. 

Because how could you not?

He had settled into his seat, shrugging out of his jacket with practiced ease, then from the inner pocket, he pulled out a small sketchbook. You recognised it now—thin leather cover, corners worn and creased, like it had seen the inside of too many pockets and too many years. He opened it casually, and with a pencil held between strong fingers, he began to draw. 

Steve didn’t hunch or fidget like most people did, his posture remained relaxed but still—elegant in its ease. His hand moved in smooth, confident lines, his brows furrowed slightly, just enough to show focus, the kind of look that said he was somewhere else entirely—in a world only he could see. 

The shop was quiet, only a few customers lost in their own rituals, and yet the air felt heavier with him in it. Not in an overbearing way, no, more like gravity, like the place had shifted around him, quietly rearranged itself to accommodate his presence. Not because he demanded it but because that was just how he was. 

When Steve left, he didn’t say much, just a soft nod in your direction and a ghost of a smile, his cup going into the trash, he had put his jacket back on, the bell chiming once more as the door swung shut behind him. 

But when you went to clean his table, you saw it. 

A napkin. Left deliberately, placed in the centre of the table like a calling card. 

Drawn in neat strong pencil lines was a cartoon version of your shop’s logo. Only the little coffee bean mascot—normally smiling beside a latte was now flexing with two tiny arms and lifting a pair of dumbbells. Big cartoon muscle, tiny sweat drops, it was utterly ridiculous. 

Beneath it, written in perfectly blocky handwriting, all caps but still somehow charming: STRONG BREW. 

You stared at it for a moment, heart stuttering like a dropped beat, then you laughed, full and bright, before you could yourself. It had bubbled out of you, warm and delighted and loud enough that your coworker glanced over with a raised brow from the pastry case. 

You cleared your throat quickly, but the grin stayed. 

Your fingers brushed over the napkin’s edge, careful not to smudge the pencil. You had folded it with deliberate care, tucking it beneath the register—behind the spare pens and post-notes and where no one else would see. 

Your cheeks were still warm when you turned back to the espresso machine. 

Steve didn’t write his number, didn’t sign his name. 

But it felt like the start of something anyway. 

And the next morning, when he walked in and said, “morning,” with that quiet little smile?

You were already reaching for the napkin.

It became a thing. 

Everyday like clockwork, Steve Rogers would walk through the door of your shop at exactly 7:33 am. 

Not 7:30. Not 7:35. 

7:33.

You checked, you started checking without meaning to, gaze finding the clock right before the bell above the door chimed, like your body had learned his rhythm before your brain had caught on. 

He always came alone, always wore the same jacket, always said “good morning” like it meant something. And always ordered the same thing—black coffee, one sugar now. A quiet evolution that made you smile every time you reached for the sugar packet.

He’d offer a soft thank you, fingers brushing yours like a habit, he would settle into the window seat like it had always been his. At times, the sunlight would catch the edge of his sketchbook, highlighting pages that had been flipped and filled with steady hands and his careful heart. 

You never asked what he was drawing, he never said. But when he left, there would always be a napkin waiting. 

A soft gift. 

At first they were silly things—almost as if they were quiet jokes that he wasn’t brave enough to say aloud. 

A tiny superhero made entirely of cappuccino foam, cape made of steam and arms mid-fight. 

A croissant with a star-spangled shield, mid leap.

But as the days passed, the sketches started to shift, they grew softer, gentler, more watchful somehow. 

One morning, you found a sketch of the front of the shop, the window you cleaned every morning before opening, the little chalkboard sign you rewrote weekly, the ivy plant that hung a little crooked in the corner—Steve had drawn that too.

All of it captured in soft, deliberate pencil strokes, the rain on the glass had been rendered in streaks, a detail so small, you wouldn’t have expected anyone to notice. 

And then, there was that napkin. 

You found it midshift, in the same spot where he always left them, at first it had looked like another cafe scene—until your breath caught. 

It was you. 

A quick caricature, drawn with a light, fond touch, clearly sketched with memory, not distance. You behind the counter, apron strings flying like wind had caught them, your hair pulled into the ponytail just the way you wore it, your hand pouring steamed milk into a cup, latte art just beginning to form. 

You weren’t glamorous, weren’t posed. You were, well, you, a little lopsided, real and caught in motion. 

And somehow…in the sketch, you looked beautiful. 

You stared at it for a long moment, frozen in the middle of wiping the table. The world around you blurred with the hum of conversation and coffee grinders, but the space behind your ribs felt full.

Sweet. Like your heart had been wrapped in cotton. 

Eventually, you folded the napkin carefully—like it might fall apart if you were not gentle. You slipped it into your apron pocket, tucked against your chest like a secret no else needed to know.

It stayed there for the rest of the day. At times, your hand would drift to it without thinking. Just a light brush, like you were checking it was still real.

And when you saw him again the next morning, smile soft and tired at exactly 7:33?

You handed him his coffee with a heart that fluttered so hard, you were surprised he couldn’t hear it over the hum of the espresso machine.

You weren’t sure when the butterflies started.

Maybe around the tenth napkin—when you had started anticipating them, looking forward to the way his sketches somehow always made your day better.

Maybe it was the first time he walked in and said your name like he’d been waiting all morning to do so. His voice, deep, soft and oh so familiar. Like it tasted good in his mouth.

Maybe it was when he laughed—really laughed—at one of your dumb jokes, head tipping back, eyes crinkling at the corners, and your stomach did something humiliatingly theatrical in response, almost as if it had turned into a stage and thrown confetti.

You weren’t supposed to have a crush on Captain America, for God’s sake.

But the truth was… he didn’t feel like that version of himself in here. Not the Avenger. Not the icon. Not the face on recruitment posters and history books.

He just felt like Steve.

A quiet man who liked his coffee strong, his sketches soft, and his mornings slow. A man who always said thank you like he meant it, who lingered by the counter just long enough so that your hands brushed a little more than they needed to.

And maybe, just maybe, he lingered on purpose.

“Do you ever take a break?” Steve had asked one slow Friday morning, his voice low, laced with something playful as he nodded toward the bar where you stood wiping a counter that had been clean for the last ten minutes.

You had glanced up, caught off guard. “Once in a while.”

He tapped the end of his pencil against the edge of the table—soft, rhythmic. “You should sit.”

You blinked, “With you?”

A flush crept up his neck, turning his ears pink. “If you would like to.”

Your heart had pounded in your chest but you nodded, untying your apron halfway as you crossed the room, sliding into the seat across from him with the kind of nervous grace that came from wanting to look more composed than you actually felt.

Steve closed the sketchbook slowly, carefully, almost as if he was trying not to scare off the moment. 

“I hope I haven’t been annoying, with all the… drawings.” he started, shy smile on his face. 

You shook your head, too fast. “No. God, no. They’re—” You smiled, a little breathless. “They’re wonderful Steve, I keep them, actually.”

His brows lifted, surprised. “You do?”

You bite your lip, a little sheepish as you nod, “I have a box under the counter, though I think I might need a second one soon.”

Steve chuckled, low and warm, but something in his expression shifted into something tender and unsure, like the idea of being cherished caught him off guard. 

Like he wasn’t used to being wanted.

Not without the shield, the red, white and blue. 

Not without the world needing him to be more.

“You’re really good,” you add gently, letting the quiet fill the space between words. “You notice things, the little things that most people miss.”

He shrugged, gaze dropping, but his smile lingered. “It really helps when the subject’s easy to look at.”

The words landed like a skipped heartbeat, your breath caught as Steve looked away, bashful, the tips of his ears reddening again.

And before you could even process how to respond, he reached for the sketchbook, flipping to a page with a kind of softness, his gaze lingering for a moment before he carefully tore it out along the seam and slid it across the table toward you.

You stared.

It was a sketch of you, different from the napkin doodles, and yet more intimate somehow, it was detailed, full of quiet stillness. The slope of your shoulders behind the counter, the curl of your fingers around a ceramic cup, the way your eyes were turned toward the window, caught in some distant thought, like you had drifted somewhere he could see but not follow.

Steve didn’t say anything right away, he just watched you take it in.

“I didn’t want to leave that one behind,” he said finally, voice soft, gentle, “Didn’t feel right, I felt like it was yours.”

You held the drawing like it might fade if you blinked too hard, your fingertips pressing gently into the paper, like anchoring a heartbeat.

“Steve…”

He leaned back into his chair slightly, running a thumb along the edge of the sketchbook still in his lap.

“I like this place,” he said, almost too quietly. “I feel like I can breathe in here.”

You looked up, eyes meeting his baby blue ones.

So do I.

But you didn’t say it.

Instead, you smiled—touched and a little dazed—and folded the drawing with careful hands, sliding it between the pages of your own notebook like something sacred.

You didn’t need to say it.

He already knew.

The napkin he left the next morning was different, this one had writing, not a sketch, it had just a few words, in that careful, blocky script of his:

“Would you let me take you to dinner? Just Steve. Just me.”

You stared at it for what felt like years.

The shop buzzed softly around you—milk steaming, cups clinking, the light drizzle tapping gently at the windows, but all of it faded into the background. All you could see was the way his letters leaned slightly to the right, almost like he had hesitated, then meant every word on it.

When you looked up, Steve was already at the door, hand resting on the knob, shoulders tense with the weight of a held breath, he turned back, eyes searching, hope flickering in those blue irises, quiet and unguarded.

You held up the napkin, a smile tugging at your lips, and you nodded.

The way his face lit up, gentle, stunned, full of that boyish wonder he always tried to hide made your chest ache in the best way.

He left with that smile still on his face.

And well, your heart stayed a little lighter for the rest of the day, tucked safely into your apron pocket with that very napkin. 

Just Steve.

Just you.

 And maybe—something beginning.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed it!

[chrrific]

KISS-DODGER ♡ 𝗅𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗂𝗇’ 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇 。

𝗔𝗟𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗡𝗔𝗧𝒊𝗩𝗔 🐇 ◟ refusing to kiss your boyfriend after a prank

( 𝖬𝑖𝖠 𝖢𝖠𝖱𝖠 ) enhypen ⸝⸝ bf ! sunghoon x f ! r O657 fluff whiny hoon agenda 𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑜 profanity kissing skinship light flirting

★reblogs get you kisses

sunghoon swears he’s going fucking insane.

you had been ignoring him for the past, what, about a half hour now? and he was this close to exploding from lack of your attention.

it all began when he dodged your kiss when you came up to him earlier, just to tease a bit. the boy thought he’d give you the silent treatment for a minute, let you be pouty for a bit, and then give in and kiss you like the amazing boyfriend he is.

but instead, he’s the one being given the silent treatment now.

“baby, please, i swear i didn’t mean it! i’ll give you a hundred kisses to make up for it.” sunghoon whines, only to be met with complete radio silence from you.

tipping his head back onto the headrest of the couch, he groans as if you’ve told him with your silence he can never kiss you again, covering his eyes like he’s shielding himself from something horrible. “i think i’m dying,” he huffs, “i even see a light at the end of the white pathway. it’s so bright, gosh, i can’t see, y/n. would you like the love of your life to not be able to see?”

the over exaggeration in his words and tone have your lips twitching at the side as you shake your head, bemused. “one, that’s the ceiling light, and two, the last time i checked, you were perfectly able to see when you dodged my kiss.”

“so you can talk,” he mumbles, running a hand through his ebony locks. “but i must let you know, that not kissing your precious, sweet, and kiss-deprived boyfriend can be considered pure torture by some people.”

“those ‘people’ being you, i’d assume.”

sunghoon rolls his eyes with a quiet huff, before a mischievous glint suddenly replaces the utter misery that was just now set into his captivating brown orbs.

“i’d even get on my knees and beg for you to kiss me if you’d like.”

your brain short circuited.

“w-what? hoon!” you sputter. your jaw dropped open as a burning heat crept its way up your neck, finding its home on your cheeks and ears as well.

“oh my god, y/n, i did not know you were into that,” he cackles. “guess i’ll make a mental note of that for later events.” then, a wink. he fucking winks at you, having the audacity to be this cheeky when he knows you can just refuse kiss him.

“sunghoon park, i swear to god i won’t kiss you—let alone speak to you—for a week if you wink at me one more time.”

“but you wouldn’t, considering how charming and irresistible i am.” sunghoon retorts, and the confidence in his voice just makes you deadpan even further.

you turned face to him with a small sigh. “will you stop being insufferable if i kiss you?” he takes a moment and pretends to think about it, though he inevitably nods with a grin forming on his face.

his smiling lips finally meet yours when you lean in to join them, and he feels like he’s gone insane in the best possible way. the way your lips slot against his, their plump softness enveloping him in your taste, the slightest hint of cherry chapstick hitting his taste buds.

“you really wanna dodge my kisses again?” you ask, amusement lacing your question as your mouth ghosts over his, foreheads resting against one another’s.

“if you let me kiss you like after, then maybe i might just do it again.”

you flick his chest as a response, laughing when he winces slightly at the action: he just pulls you in for another kiss by the back of your neck, this time softer, more passionate than the last.

despite it all—the teasing, the pranks, the sarcastic banter—the affection caught between you is something that will never fade, but will forever seem to linger even in the hardest of times.

미키 : woah, two sunghoon fics on a streak TT i like this one a lot, so do not flop !!!

taglist. open requests. open

[preblacksmith20]

A Divide

pairing: lando norris x reader

genre: angst/comfort

content: In anger about his latest race, Lando says just the thing to shake your enthusiasm. Slowly, you stop being comfortable telling him about your newest project.

-----

Oh.

Oh.

Your mouth slowly closes, trapping the next batch of words you were going to cover him in. The doors slam shut over the joy, excitement, and nervousness. Steel bars clamp on the vulnerability you were offering him in the palms of your hands – on your sleeve. Time seems to condense to one moment. One inhale. One exhale.

“Sorry, babe.” You step away from the door – from his tense figure.

Is that all you ever talk about? Can I just get a minute to breathe?

Lando turns back to the bedroom, stalks into the bathroom and closes the door. The slam echoes around the room. An emptiness settles in the apartment. It settles in your chest. You hadn’t noticed but your hand rests on your chest as if to shield your heart from the words. His words.

You turn to the living space and stare – trying to place yourself in the room again. In time. The comment had stung more than he realized. He had turned too fast to see the heartbreak on your face.

The worst part? You blame yourself. You knew the race had gone poorly, the media circuit was typically abysmal, and he was catching all the heat. But you had finally done it. You were finally, officially, an author. It was a dream you had since childhood – after your first creative writing assignment in fourth grade. And Lando had supported you all the way. Last year, you had dug through some old papers, flash drives, and scribbled pieces of paper you left at your parents’ home.

Working from home, you kept the mornings to your usual schedule. When Lando was away, you wrote late into the night – working on the novel you planned out carefully. You told yourself this was the year you were finally going to do it. Once the season started, you had a lot of time to yourself in Monaco. You walked the streets, got dinner with friends, and took art classes. You life wasn’t just writing.

Was it?

Guilt claws its way into your bones. You feel like an idiot.

Read the room. You told yourself.

You blink. You’re sitting down on one of the chairs overlooking the ocean, phone in hand. You call your sister and tell her the news. She’s screaming on the over side in joy. Going back and forth, you talk about the plot again and again. She had been your biggest cheerleader, next to Lando, and helped you work out a few plot holes along the way. You already planned her section in the acknowledgment section of your book.

You pretend you’re not crying.

Lando doesn’t mention the outburst when he joins you on the balcony. He sits next to you and leans into you. You interrupt him, wanting to steer the conversation away from the gaping hole in your chest.

“How about I prepare dinner tonight?” You offer with a fake half smile. You take his hand in yours and squeeze.

“I think I’m gonna go out with Carlos tonight, darling.” He kisses your temple. “I-I just need some space right now.”

“Of course.” You nod and pretend like your heart is still beating.

Space? Have I really been that unbearable?

You don’t mention his comments when he leaves for Canada the next week. In fact, you don’t talk about much. You’re nursing a hurt heart, and he is trying to keep the wheels on the cart. His stress radiates around the room, and you know you can’t blame him for what he said. But it hurts like hell. Especially at night, when the room is quiet, and you can hear his words over and over again – like a cruel chant.

A week later. You sit in a meeting with the editor and art department. They’ve already planned a few of the cover arts and are giving you different options going forward. You’re living your dream again. The pain fades away and you are genuinely happy. Your sister and best friend help you pick out their favorite. You have time to decide, and you want to think it over.

When he calls, you go to tell him, but your voice stills. He seems genuinely interested when he asks, “how’ve you been?” and you go to say something about the proposed art.

Is that all you ever talk about?

“Good, babe.” You smile, genuine, and pivot. “How was your flight? How’s Canada treating my favorite driver?”

He grins, a face full of light, a grin that makes your heart squeeze. You would do anything to keep that smile on his face forever. That’s why you had wanted to tell him about the book – you were just trying to distract him. That’s what you tell yourself. On the good days at least.

Lando talks about the turbulence on the landing and how Oscar almost lost his drink all over the table. They had been playing poker and truly had been gambling on where they put their refreshments. He giggles as he tells the story. He tells you he loves you before he hangs up the call. You say it back, meaning it with your soul.

The next week you give him an advanced copy of the book. You had asked for a copy without the dedication and cover – you figure it will be a better surprise later. Lando kisses you and smiles brightly. He tells you he will read it once he has time. It sits on the corner of the nightstand.

It’s a reasonable idea. You tell yourself, but doubt creeps in when the week comes and goes without him touching the novel. Slowly and without him noticing, you pull back and away. You don’t mention your writing as much. Whenever you want to talk about the book, you pause and hesitate, you tuck that part of yourself away.

The final prick of the poisoned needle comes when you ask him to reserve the date for your book launch. You don’t mention the launch, you just ask for the day. He can’t go. When you try and communicate with him, the conversation sputters out. In all honesty, it was a half-hearted attempt. You don’t want to fight over something this stupid, you tell yourself as you take the tucked-up part of yourself and push it further down.

He has bigger things going on.

Lando, however, notices when Oscar asks him about your book. Usually, he would be able to update Oscar with your newest exciting news or project, but he comes up blank. He can’t remember the last time you two actually talked about your writing – something you two used to talk about for hours. On the off season, he would fall asleep to you reading from a passage that filled you with pride. He loved how your voice softened and how much love you poured into your novel- your dream.

Lando first notices when he has a week break before Australia. You’ve been on more calls than usual. When he asks you what’s wrong, you just shrug and say “writing stuff” before expertly guiding the conversation in a new direction. At first, he just lets it go. You’ll tell him when you’re ready, he figures. At night when he asks if you’ll read to him from the book on the nightstand, your eyes fade a little when he asks for you to start at the beginning. He chalks it up to you being tired, but it doesn’t sit right with him.

It’s not until dinner with George and his girlfriend that ice fills his veins. George and Lando are talking about the padel game, and you’re wrapped up with Carmen talking about work. She’s been doing amazing in the hedge fund, and you appreciate how she can make complicated moves and terms so simple without sounding condescending – an impressively fine line to walk. She asks about the architecture firm you joined and the latest project you were taking on.

After you finish telling her about your favorite intern’s newest attempt to win over the gruff project manager, she laughs and raises her glass to her lips. She pauses and places the wine down.

“I realize it might be late to ask, but could we get an extra ticket to your book launch? I think George’s niece would love the book and you know she enjoys those events.” Carmen asks. It’s casual and light as if that doesn’t mean the world to you. You are nodding and smiling.

Lando frowns. “Book launch?”

You freeze and try to play it off. “Yeah, the event after the season ends.”

“Oh. Sorry of course, yeah.” He nods, but you can see the hurt. George and Carmen share a glance without you or Lando noticing.

Dinner finishes and you find yourself next to Carmen saying goodbye. She hugs you tight and whispers in your ear, “Whatever happened, there is still time to talk about it.”

That night, you come back from the shower to see Lando sitting on the edge of the bed looking down at his hands. You walk over and kiss the top of his head. Carmen’s voice had echoed in your head in the shower – louder than the words that had made you so insecure.

He looks up and you blink in surprise at the agony in his eyes.

‘“Is that all you ever talk about?’ I’m an idiot.” He curses and gets to his feet. “I’ve been trying to think back to where this went wrong and it was then, wasn’t it?”

Lando’s eyes are so soft, unbearably tender hands cup your face. “Love, I didn’t mean it. I should not have said that. I love listening to you speak about your passions. God knows you put up with mine. I was pissed after the latest team meeting and I snapped. I took my frustration out on you and I am so sorry.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until his hands brushed the tears away. He kissed each of your cheeks softly.

“I shouldn’t have bottled that up-,” You start and he shakes his head.

“I made you feel like I didn’t want to hear about that, love.” Lando clenches his jaw. “That was me. I will never do anything like that again. And if I do, I want you to be comfortable talking about this with me.”

He blinks as you pull him down for a gentle kiss. Your heart has stopped bleeding and you just want him close. His eyes flutter close as your kiss his whole face with soft deliberate kisses – his favorite way of being showered in love. With each kiss, he asks you a question about how you’ve been doing – how the process has been going. In between each kiss, you answer.

And it does change. He stays up late to read the book with you - asking questions after every chapter. Sometimes wanting an answer, sometimes just to see your 'secret-keeping' face. He looks over all the different cover-art options and agrees with you on the choice you made.

You both work on keeping healthy communication. You open back up completely and find the right time to talk about things your excited about after he's had a rough day on the track.

When the launch party comes around, Lando is beaming the brightest and clapping the loudest for you. His family, your family, and all your friends are enjoying the evening. Once he reads the inscription, he is the one crying.

To my favorite driver,

I love you beyond limits

[raitonsfw]

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: | 1 | Gojo wanted to make you a mommy more than anything in the world... and he was fucking determined. | 2 | You couldn't even begin to fathom the feeling of Gojo's blindfold shielding you from existence, his hand tracing up your spine and you knew he wasn't going to make this easy for you.

warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, fem!reader... | 1 | breeding kink, husband!gojo, positions (doggy style, missionary, over his shoulders), many creampies, dirty talk, praising, begging, slight fingering, body worship, p in v intercourse (obvi), rough sex, feral!gojo, talks of having his children, petnames (mama, babe) lord i have sinned cuz this downright filthy... | 2 | blindfolded reader, bondage, doggy style, fingering, p in v intercourse, dirty talk, teasing, cockdrunk!reader, rough sex, praising, pet names (baby, sweetheart, princess, good girl), mentions of riding and switching positions.

a/n: | 1 | i was posessed writing this one, i swear- wc: 600ish. | 2 | i think i'll make this thirst a staple, think we need to see more of reader wearing his blindfold... wc: 600ish. v-day list | m.list

thirst count: 2

divider credit: @hitobaby & @firefly-graphics

| 1 |

“So good for me… yeah that’s it, mama.” Gojo praised, patting the side of your leg with oomph as you whimpered out his name. He had your legs high in the air, over the mounds of his broad shoulders and you could barely see straight, the entirety of your brain mush as he drilled into you– his cock ramming up against your cervix every time he managed a deep thrust. 

Which was every time, mind you.

Gojo had you in so many positions already; doggy had by far been the best for you, your moans muffled by the sheets you were thrown against and you arched your back through every thrust. It was heaven sent, you felt as his hands groped at your thighs, your waist, your ass. But he was indecisive– that fucker, and he wanted to see your face as he shot his third load into you so he flipped you over. His other two had dripped out of you and he cursed under his breath when he noticed, his fingers trying to plug it back up into you. 

“Fuck…! –got my dick in a chokehold babe...” He groaned out, his voice breaking at the end of it and you tilted your head back into the feather of the pillows beneath you. He was being absolutely ruthless with you and you couldn’t help but clench around him every time he plunged into you roughly– it made him feral, his bright eyes wide with desire.

“Your body’s so fucking perfect–” He breathed out as your hips started to meet with his own, his eyes rolling back slightly and his love laced words slipped off his tongue with ease. Your breasts bounced prettily on your chest and your back had arched back up towards him, your tummy poking out slightly– which fed his urges. “Need you carrying my kid… Gotta see how sexy you’d look– how fucking gorgeous…”

Your mind short circuited, practically screaming out for him to breed you because, holy fuck that’s all you ever wanted in your lifetime– a kid, his kid. You wanted nothing more than to carry his child, a bond so strong no one would ever threaten to break it and you cried out in ecstasy as he glided his tongue against yours. He swallowed your pleads, rutting into you with pure purpose now and all you wanted him to do was fill you up– again and again and–

“God yes– you wanna have my children, hm…?” Gojo teased in between thrusts, your body trembling as your orgasm crept up your spine. “Can’t get it out of your head huh, with your pussy squeezing me like a vice– shit…! I’ll make you a mama if you ask nicely.”

“Please, Satoru..! Need it–” You babbled, too worked up to care about anything else– you needed his cum painting your cervix white, nothing could sway you out of this now as you yearned out his name over and over. 

“That’s right, beg for it.” 

And you did, with utmost obedience. Your vision became fuzzy, tiny bursts of color surrounding it as you felt your release harrowing through your body. Gojo’s thrusts faltered, stalled within you and a deep groan filled your ear as he pressed down onto you– trying to bury himself inside of you as he came. He held you against him with his moans panting out against your neck as he lazily rolled his hips into you, fucking his cum as deep as it could go. 

“T-Think I’ll stay inside you for a while..wouldn’t want this batch dripping out of you too.” He muttered into your skin as he caught his breath, planting kisses down towards your collarbone. A broad hand laid against your tummy as you reveled in his touch, relaxing into the feeling of being close and full– so full still it made you shiver with anticipation because…

“Think she’ll take after her momma?” 

| 2 |

You wished you had the dexterity of his six eyes; you couldn’t see shit through his blindfold as you zeroed in on the shifting behind you against the bed.

Gojo had you pinned, your wrists tied delicately together as your as tilted up against his pelvis. His hands ran down your thighs, spreading them apart with a simple motion and you could already feel the cold air against your exposed cunt. It wasn’t the best position for you– you wanted to see Gojo, you longed for his beauty inside and out. But at the same time, this thrilled you immensely. 

The thought of his blindfold holding you hostage and maybe one of his old ones tied against your wrist – you couldn’t tell – but it was intoxicating to say the least. That he’d go to the lengths of letting you wear it, letting you wear something so sacred to him, to the abundance of his entirety. At that moment, you felt his fingers swipe through your arousal and you whined out in frustration. 

“Patience, baby. Don’t gotta wait too long– I got you.” Gojo hummed, plunging two fingers in simultaneously and you keened into it. “Arch some more for me– let me see that pretty pussy, hm?”

And you did the best you could, fucking yourself back on his fingers in the process; you were pleased with yourself when you heard his breath hitch behind you. And the precious sound of his clothes shuffling around his knees. God, you were so drunk for his cock– your entire cunt was dripping for it, messing the sides of your thighs. 

You whined out again, not realizing how close he was to you. You jumped slightly at the sound of his voice against the shell of your ear. “You’re not very patient. Here, this feel better?” Gojo pressed the crown of his cock against your entrance and a sharp gasp fell from your lips, mixing with his own groan. “Ah– Of course it does... Ass up, sweetheart.”

His hands gripped the sides of your waist, positioning himself at just the right angle to fuck into you. Gojo didn’t give you a chance to breathe, to even slide yourself wider on the bed to take him– he just fucking sunk right in with no remorse and hoped you wouldn’t break underneath him. As he stretched you out, you couldn’t help but moan out his name and clench around him as he bottomed out. 

“That’s it, princess. Go on, take my cock.” He huffed out, thrusting into you roughly and you laxed from the pleasure that coursed through your pussy as his cock dragged deliciously against the warmth of your walls. He filled you up so nicely in this position and it took everything in him to not just manhandle you– to not just straight up hold you against him and rut into you. 

You could hear nothing but his harsh pants and the wet squelching of your cunt being abused and it fucking turned you on more than it should’ve– his blindfold brought so much more of your other senses that it nearly drove you wild each time his hips snapped into you. His hands roamed each and every crevice of your skin as he leaned over you, pressing his chest flush with your back. 

“Such a good girl… sucks you can’t see me, huh? Betcha reallly want to.” Gojo panted in your ear, kissing behind it with a quiet groan overtaking him when you inadvertently squeezed around him– his voice just caught you so off guard, your senses totally obscured and you couldn’t help it. 

“Next time, we can switch– you’ll ride me while I’m tied up, yeah? I’ll even close my eyes for you, level the playing field a bit…”

[barcapix]

IM ACTUALLY BEGGING EVE LANDO WITH NERDY READER PLEASE!!!

✮ Mr. Lover - Lando Norris

lando norris x ‘nerd’!fem!reader

sy: even though it’s a usual habit for you, and lando knows it, he always finds a way to pester you about how your spending too much time away from him. even if it’s being at a library.

a/n: small drabble to fill my formula one drought on my blog… needa cook up more fics honestly

warnings: nah.

masterlist

bookworm girlfriend & insecure boyfriend.

a common routine of yours lately—hiding your persona from the media with stacks of books, each one detailed amongst your bipolar interests.

they ranged from political discourses, theatrical drama pieces, thriller suspenses and even the sickly sweet romance novels that reminded you of your relationship.

speaking of which, you were certain that he was already on his way to said library, a couple steps away from where you were hibernating. he’d done it everyday this week, and today was going to be no exception.

“i thought i’d find you here,” a forstakenly familiar voice cut through the programmed reading circuits in your brain. “the third day in a row.”

predictably, it was lando.

standing there with his arms folded along his chest, his thin, pale blue tee doing nothing to shield the contracting muscles in his biceps.

you looked up, lifting your glasses up an inch. “you’re saying it like it’s a bad thing. someone’s gotta stay busy.”

“it is a bad thing,” he counters, carelessly gliding the stack-of-six books across the polished wooden table, sending them toppling over.

without a second thought, he flung himself onto an opposing chair, shuffling to bring himself closer to you. after all this, you just stare at him with bewilderment.

“are you done with your tantrum now?” you ask, merely giving him a raised brow. “because if you are, i’d happily go back to reading thanks.”

you hear him scoff when your eyes travel back to the page infront of you, his own knee already bumping yours in a need for attention. nonetheless, you continue to scan the words with pure concentration, only briefly acknowledging your boyfriend throwing silent pouts and exaggerating tuts when he wasn’t the focial point of your spotlight.

lando caves in—enough is enough. your slow reaction time fails you this time, when lando swats your hands away from the rims of the hardcover book, pushing it aside with an aggressive type of force.

it ends up adding to the horrendous massacre of books he started minutes before.

“lan,” you groan, tugging the material of your hoodie over your wrists. “couldn’t you just wait another hour? is an hour really that unbearable?”

“well think about it. what could we do numerous times within an hour?” he grins to himself like a spoiled child, “and there’s your answer.”

typical. inevitable. you roll your eyes at his remarks, the obscenity of his insecurity, that so cleverly made him look like a fool.

“maybe another day babe,” you reply dryly, not even remotely interested in engaging into his profound tactics to get you where he wanted. “but i was invested by the novel i had, so if you wanna go back home ill meet you t—”

as you attempt to reach across the table, lando interjects you by locking his hands over yours mid-motion, pinning your hands in place.

“last time i checked, its not a sin for a man to wanna spend time with his girlfriend,” he cockily disputes, devilishly smirking.

you blink slowly, a brief pause in the unruly air that filled the finite space between you. your lips slim into a thin line and protest, “maybe it’s not a sin but it is an inconvenience.”

“c’mon don’t be so stubborn love,” the tone in his voice laced with sarcastic disbelief. “after all of the time you could of spent with me today, you chose to spend time in a library.”

you grit your teeth, trying to pry your hands from his hold. you’d grown accustomed to this—the push and pull battles between your determination and his relentlessness.

you were polar opposites, who somehow found love in one another. ultimately, at the end of the day, you admired how fervently he craved your affection, even if it cost the desire of your daily hobbies.

“all i’m saying is i’ve missed you today. i saw you four hours ago; that’s four hours too many.” lando admits, softer this time.

instead of releasing your hands, he holds them firmly by intertwining his fingers with yours. the brunette leans on closer, his addictive peppermint scent wavering up your nose.

“you really can’t survive that long, can you?” you inquire. “what are you gonna do when your in melbourne?”

he shakes his head defiantly. “take you with me.”

the look on your face says it all—the characteristic scrunch of your brows, the distinctive yet subtle jutter of your bottom lip.

you glance around at the broad shelves that lined the outskirts of your corner, back at your boyfriend, before relenting with a sigh. “we can leave under one condition: you promise me you won’t disrupt me here tomorrow.”

“i promise. i pinky promise.”

“alright then, lead the way home.” you eventually let him win, as he ghosts his lips over the shell of your ear, as he carves out a path from your jaw to your lips with kisses—his way of being thankful.

the stubble on his chin makes you squirm, finally cracking up a smile after such a gruelling debate. sure, he was probably the most annoying and insufferable man when he wants to get his own way, but he was your insufferable man.

“though i have to say, these glasses of yours make me fold,” he heartily chuckles, bringing them up from the bridge of your nose. “if this happens again, i beg you—don’t wear them because i might just lose.”

[orellazalonia]

Comedic Relief

Summary: After overhearing teammates call you the "comic relief" and question your seriousness, you begin to doubt your place on the team despite being a genius in disguise. Bucky finds you spiraling in your lab, reminds you of your brilliance, and confesses how deeply he values and loves you. (Bucky Barnes x chaotic!reader)

Word Count: 1.4k+

A/N: Wanted something angsty. I also debated having them run away temporarily and having Bucky find them first, but I liked how this turned out in the end. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist | Earth’s Mightiest Headache Masterlist

You weren’t supposed to hear it.

Honestly, you never meant to. You were crawling through the ceiling vent to test your portable gravity-altering boots as one does and accidentally dropped into the hallway by the training center. You didn’t land gracefully. You bounced. Twice.

No one noticed.

You were about to make a dramatic entrance to demand “scientific respect and perhaps a sandwich” when your name floated through the crack of the door.

“She’s just… not serious,” One of the rookies was saying. “I know she’s smart, obviously, but it’s like, can you trust her in a real op? Last week she got distracted mid-mission because she thought the enemy base’s reactor looked ‘like a sexy espresso machine.’”

You could hear someone chuckle before another added, “Yeah, and she asked Fury if ‘thermonuclear’ was a made-up word.”

You blinked. That was a joke. You knew what thermonuclear meant. You’d accidentally built a thermonuclear coffee machine last year that tried to launch itself into low orbit. They made you name it and put it in a SHIELD containment box.

“Honestly, she’s more of the comic relief, you know?” Another said. “Like, she’s the team mascot. Not really part of the brain or someone you should trust.”

You weren’t sure what part of you tensed first. Maybe it was your jaw, your spine, or your heart. It wasn’t a new feeling. Not really. It was just louder this time. More final. Heavier.

Mascot.

The word stuck to you like wet concrete.

You backed away before you could hear any more of the conversation, suddenly hyperaware of every squeak of your boots and every stupid joke you’d ever made this week. The “avocado bomb” prank on Steve. The trivia challenge you crushed but then celebrated by pronouncing “Columbus” as “Co-LUMB-us.” The marble run you built through the ventilation system that made the whole compound sound like a wind chime when it rained.

God. Was that all they saw?

You didn’t go to dinner. You didn’t reply in the group chat, even when Sam tagged you and asked why Bucky was sulking in the corner muttering “Where is she?” like a pissed-off gargoyle.

You didn’t even remember walking back to the lab. Your feet had carried you here on autopilot to your safe place, your mess, your cathedral of chaos and half-finished thoughts.

You locked the door behind you, not that anyone ever came in uninvited. Not unless Bucky had something to smuggle in for you (usually food or a weapon you weren’t technically cleared to modify). Not unless Tony wanted to gawk at your entropy.

The lab lights flickered on automatically. You winced at the brightness.

You moved like a ghost, almost afraid to touch anything. Your hands hovered above your desk, your workbench, the tower of half-functional prototypes stacked like a junkyard Jenga tower. You didn’t sit. You just stared at the avalanche of yourself. Your weird, brilliant, overwhelming mind spilled out across surfaces. Wires like spaghetti. Notes written in both formulae and doodles. Gel pens next to soldering irons. A circuit board shaped like a cat.

It all looked… childish. Stupid.

What were you even doing?

You finally collapsed into your chair, spinning once, twice, then fast enough that the corners of the room blurred. You kicked off the counter and made a loop around the floor, feet dragging. The motion didn’t help. If anything, it amplified the static in your chest.

Mascot.

You blinked hard, squeezing your temples. “No. No no no. Shut up. We’re not doing this today.”

You spun to your desk. Grabbed a marker. Scrawled something on the board.

atomic weight of hydrogen: 1.00784 u. bananas are a lie. you don’t need potassium that bad. you matter. you matter. you matter.

You stared at it for a long time. Then erased “you matter” so hard the whiteboard squeaked. Your hand kept going long after the words were gone. Until it hurt.

You stood. Paced a little more. Opened a drawer. Slammed it shut. You tugged at the sleeves of your hoodie, pacing faster now, muttering in a half joking, half begging, yet all unraveling way. “Who the hell builds a weather balloon to see if birds migrate better with Taylor Swift playing on a speaker? Who sets a toast-loving AI loose in the kitchen and calls it a ‘learning moment’ when it sets off four smoke alarms?”

You knocked into your shelf, and something clattered. You didn’t catch it. You didn’t care.

You backed into your chair and sank again, hands braced on your knees like gravity got heavier just for you. Your eyes burned.

“They’re right,” You said quietly. “I’m a joke. A distraction. They keep me around because it’s easier than telling me to leave.”

Somewhere behind you, the electronic calendar chimed softly:

Reminder: Tell Bucky you love him. (He already knows, but say it anyway.)

Your throat closed up.

You covered your face with both hands and curled forward, trembling. The quiet buzz of your machines felt deafening. You had built this place, crafted it like a cocoon, a temple, a home. Now it felt like a parody of genius.

You didn’t hear the knock at the door. Or the creak as it opened.

But you felt it when Bucky entered, his presence like a storm and a lighthouse all at once. Steady. Warm. Wordless.

He stood there for a moment. Watching. Taking in the wreckage. You hadn’t noticed the tears on your face until he knelt in front of you and reached up, thumb brushing just below your eye. He didn’t say anything right away. He just held you.

You weren’t even sure when your body had folded into his. One moment, you were curled in on yourself, vibrating with self-loathing, and the next, your face was buried in the crook of his neck and his arms were wrapped around you like armor. Like he could physically keep the world out if he just held on tight enough.

You gripped the front of his henley like it was the only solid thing left. It smelled like coffee and the soap he never admitted to stealing from Steve.

“I thought you were joking when you said you could feel my breakdowns in your soul,” You whispered, voice raw.

“I can,” He murmured against your hair. “Like a bat signal but sadder.”

You let out a broken sound, half sob, half laugh.

His metal hand rubbed slow, careful circles on your back; warm from the adaptive heat plates he let you install. The other hand cradled your head like you were fragile, which only made the cracks inside you widen. He never looked at you like you were fragile. Not until now.

“They think I’m a joke,” You mumbled into his chest. “They think I’m just the team jester with a few fun facts and a death wish.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“They’re not wrong.”

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you, not with pity, but with fire.

“You built a quantum drive in a toaster oven,” He said firmly. “You hacked an alien translator using a flashlight and a Etch A Sketch. You—” He huffed, voice breaking. “You are the only reason half this team is alive.”

You stared at him, voice stuck in your throat.

“But I make everything a joke.”

“Because that’s how you survive,” He said softly. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to be underestimated because people are more comfortable laughing at you than respecting you?”

You looked down. “I just… if I stop being funny, I’m afraid they’ll stop wanting me around.”

Bucky reached up, cupping your cheek, thumb stroking beneath your eye.

“If they can’t handle all of you, not just the jokes and chaos and weird trivia, then they don’t deserve you. But I can.” His voice was low, steady. “I love you. All of you. The ridiculous, the brilliant, the heartbreaking mess of you. You could set the tower on fire trying to build a better microwave and I’d still think you’re the smartest person I’ve ever met.”

You blinked fast, and a soft smile tugged at your lips. “That was one time.”

“Twice,” He corrected. “And the second time, you swore it was intentional to teach Tony humility.”

You let out a breathless laugh, and he smiled. That sweet, rare smile he only ever gave you like you were something secret and sacred.

“C’mere,” He said, pulling you in again, tighter this time.

You curled into his lap and let yourself stay there, finally still, finally quiet. His hands never stopped moving, thumb tracing your spine, fingers gently combing through your hair, grounding you with every touch.

And in that moment, you didn’t feel like a mascot or a distraction.

You felt like someone loved and seen.

[endearng]

Harmless

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Summary: A seemingly innocent cab drive turns into torture once you decide to go along with the driver's assumptions.

WC: 600-ish

A/N: blurb to check if I still got it. It gets suggestive at the ending. Enjoy r flustering Spence <33

| Masterlist

Spencer knows you're playful. At any given time, you tell white lies with the most serious expressions on your face just to mislead the ones listening to them. Unbeknownst to you, he finds it endearing. Today, you are wearing a much too big raincoat to shield you from the thin droplets of rain that fall from the sky. “I think we should probably get a cab,” you say, giggling, as the rain becomes stronger.

“Yeah, I think so too.”

He quickly hails a cab, opening the door for you and getting your wet raincoat as you settle in the backseat of the car. He folds it and shakes it as much as he can to get rid of the excess water. Folding it neatly and placing it over his lap, you mutter, “Gimme that, it'll soak your pants.”

Silently, he refused to give it to you when he saw your hands reach for the yellow material.

The cab driver, an elderly lady, grins fondly at the two of you interacting. Stopping at a red sign, she can't help but think out loud, remembering her own lover. “You two make a beautiful couple.”

Spencer freezes, cheeks burning red with embarrassment as he looks at you, searching for an acceptable reaction. His instincts were telling him to thank the older woman and he does so, shyly, feeling his heart skip a bit. Upon hearing his responde, a twinkle of mischief takes over your eyes. “Thanks, ma'am. We really do, don't we?”

Oh, my God. Here it comes.

The old lady gives you two a loving glance through the rear-view mirror, agreeing wholeheartedly. “You do.”

“I always say he'd give me pretty babies too.”

Spencer turns to you, baffled. Widened eyes petrify as they catch the underlying teasing in your expression, brain short-circuiting as he tries to process what the hell did you just say. He can't believe that, out of all the harmless lies you've told, you had to go with what the woman said, not batting an eye to deny it.

(He tries not to feed the image conjured in his mind as you say the words pretty babies. He really, really tries.)

He looks at the driver, who has an amused smirk on her face. Spencer shoots you a look, trying to disguise his flustered state with what he hopes it's a glare. Silently, but half-heartedly, begging you to not encourage the lady’s comments.

“We… we aren't…” The words die on his tongue, too shaken by the sparkle in your eye.

“He always says we aren't ready for it yet.” You complete, rolling your eyes, stifling a giggle. He lets out a breath.

There is now a traffic jam outside as the rain turns more careless drivers into safer ones. Therefore, Spencer busies himself into trying to control his own breathing, glad for the silence, albeit awkward (for him), that settles over the small space. The cab drive is tortuously slow, and he keeps digging himself a deeper hole as he indulges in the fantasy and imagines himself with a life by your side.

When you two reach your destination, he pays the lady, even though he can't meet her eyes. “You have to stop telling lies,” he mutters, mortified, as you almost double down in laughter once she drives away.

“Come on. That… that was pretty funny.” You say as your laughter dies down.

He swallows, still gripping the wet raincoat tightly over his lap, walking side by side with you. “You and me as a couple?”

You shake your head. “Your reaction.”

“Why?”

“If you're this flustered by my harmless lies…”

“There was nothing harmless about that.”

Cheekily, you respond, "Then practice should be fun.”

Silence.

Oh.

OH.

“What?!”

[diamonddaze01]

Hi, Tara! could you do prompt 57 “will you just shut up for a moment so I can say something nice to you!” w/ Jeonghan?

i absolutely love your writing and I can't wait to see more of yours jeonghan's fics (since i'm surrended by him

on the record

pairing: jeonghan x reader | wc: 1.3k prompt: "will you just shut up for a moment so I can say something nice to you!" au: f1 au | warnings: none a/n: hello anon! thank you for the kind words! // if any of y'all can guess my f1 team i'll kiss u

The paddock was alive with electric energy, a symphony of celebration that roared louder than the engines had earlier in the night. Ferrari red bled into every corner of the circuit, vibrant under the floodlights that cut through the haze of champagne mist. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burnt rubber and victory, mingling with the faint metallic tang of the trophy that gleamed like a beacon in the jubilant crowd.

At the center of it all stood Yoon Jeonghan, illuminated by the relentless flashes of cameras. His race suit clung to his frame, damp with champagne and sweat, the prancing horse emblem on his chest catching the light like a polished gem. The gold World Drivers' Championship cap perched on his head tilted slightly, its brim glistening from the spray of celebration. His blonde hair, damp and tousled, framed a face that looked just as smug as it did radiant—victory personified.

This was the culmination of years of grit and audacity, the final word against those who’d called him “reckless,” “overrated,” and “all charm, no skill.” Yoon Jeonghan —Ferrari’s golden boy, the prince of the paddock—had silenced them all. His first World Drivers’ Championship was his, claimed in the most dramatic fashion, as if written to match the flair he carried with him like a second skin.

The Ferrari garage was a storm of elation, its occupants lost in a frenzy of cheers and embraces. Mechanics pounded one another on the back, their red uniforms soaked with champagne, while engineers grinned ear to ear as though they'd rewritten history. The sharp pop of another champagne bottle sent a fine spray across the crowd, sparkling like liquid gold under the lights.

But amidst the chaos, Jeonghan’s sharp gaze roamed. Even as shouts of congratulations rang out and microphones were thrust toward him, something inside him remained unsettled. This wasn’t enough. Not yet. His sharp eyes scanned the paddock for one specific face – he knew you were here. You always were.

Then, he spotted you.

You stood at the periphery of the chaos, notepad in hand, observing with the same clinical detachment you had all season. You, the reporter who had made a career out of scrutinizing him. Your articles were infamous—meticulously written takedowns of his driving style, his attitude, his every perceived misstep. Jeonghan had read every single one, memorized the jabs and barbs, and filed them away as fuel.

Now, you were watching him, though you stayed just out of the fray, notebook clutched to your chest as if it could shield you from the weight of his gaze. The pen you tapped against its surface betrayed a rhythm too steady to be casual, a subtle tick of nerves that you otherwise wore well.

“Ah,” Jeonghan murmured to himself, a grin tugging at his lips. “There you are.”

Weaving through the crowd, he made a beeline toward you. You noticed him too late, your expression faltering for the briefest second before settling into its usual detached professionalism.

“Congratulations,” you said when he stopped in front of you, your voice steady, measured. “Ferrari must be thrilled to finally have a champion again. How does it feel to carry that weight on your shoulders?”

Jeonghan chuckled, brushing a hand through his champagne-soaked hair. “Feels great. Almost as great as proving you wrong every single weekend.”

Your pen paused mid-note, your eyebrow arching. “I see winning hasn’t done anything for your humility.”

“Why would it? Humility didn’t get me here, sweetheart.” He leaned against the barricade beside you, his medal glinting under the lights, the smirk on his lips deepening.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, instead focusing on the notes in front of you. “Sure, but let’s not forget that Red Bull still has the Constructors' Championship. So, really, Ferrari’s only halfway there.”

Jeonghan let out a soft laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

“I’m just pointing out the facts,” you said, a nonchalant shrug accompanying your words. “One trophy doesn’t make you untouchable, no matter how smug you look in red.”

His laugh shifted, softer this time, almost fond. He opened his mouth to respond, but his tone wasn’t its usual sharpness. “I wanted to say—”

“What? That winning feels better than your PR team promised?” you interrupted, scribbling a quick note. “Or that the upgrades finally worked for you in—”

“Will you just shut up for a moment so I can say something nice to you?” Jeonghan interrupted, his voice cutting through the background noise like a knife.

Your pen stilled, your grip tightening on the notepad. The sharpness in his voice startled you, not because it was harsh, but because it was so different from his usual cocky bravado. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, straightening up, his gaze steady and unrelenting. “For once, put the pen down, stop overanalyzing, and let me talk.”

The notepad felt suddenly heavy in your hands. Something in his expression—serious but still unbearably smug—compelled you to comply. You lowered it, crossing your arms defensively over your chest. “Well?” you asked, sharper than you intended. “Say whatever it is you need to say and get back to basking in your glory.”

He sighed dramatically, as if you were the one making this difficult, but the glint in his eye softened. “You know, I spent most of this season imagining what I’d say to you when I finally won.”

“‘Congratulations’ would’ve been fine.”

“Too simple,” he said, shaking his head. “Doesn’t cover it.”

Your patience thinned. “So what? Are you here to gloat or—”

“I wanted to thank you,” he said finally, the teasing edge falling from his voice.

The words hung in the air, and for once, you were at a loss for a sharp retort. “Thank me? For what?”

“For being my biggest critic,” he said, nodding toward the Ferrari garage, where the celebrations were still in full swing. “Every time I read one of your articles calling me reckless or undeserving, it pissed me off just enough to push harder. Every jab, every doubt—you made me better.”

You blinked at him, unsure whether to feel insulted or impressed. The sincerity in his voice was disarming, his usual bravado giving way to something real.

“I wasn’t trying to help you,” you said finally, your voice quieter than you intended. “I was just doing my job.”

“And you’re great at it,” Jeonghan admitted, leaning in slightly. “Even if you’re a massive pain in my ass.”

Your face warmed, and you looked away, focusing on a distant point in the paddock. “Well, congratulations, Jeonghan. Don’t expect me to go easy on you next season.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, his grin sliding back into place. “But don’t think you’re off the hook. You owe me one.”

“One what?”

“A nice article,” he said, his voice dropping as he leaned closer. “Something to make up for all the times you called me a liability in red.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but the heat of his gaze, the proximity, the champagne lingering on his skin, left you momentarily speechless.

“Think you can manage that?” he teased, tilting his head.

You forced yourself to smirk, though your heart was racing. “We’ll see. Don’t hold your breath.”

He chuckled, stepping back, but his parting words were as infuriating as ever. “Make it good, sweetheart. You wouldn’t want to disappoint Ferrari’s champion.”

Before you could come up with a response, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving you with your notepad, your heartbeat louder than the celebrations around you, and a single, infuriating thought: Yoon Jeonghan had won again.

send me an ask for my drabble game!

[monserelates]

Rain Check ; James Potter

⇨ f!reader x james potter

⇨summary: It was supposed to be harmless fun. But not all magic bends to intention—and some mistakes don’t wash away with the rain. So, what happens when y/n gets caught up in a prank meant for Snape?

⇨ word count: 2.5k

⇨ warnings: Use of y/n, stubborn reader, protective james, apologetic james, platonic!snape x reader, snape has a small crush on reader, hypothermia-like symptoms, vomiting (mild), guilt, soft Snape, happy ending, mentions of drowning, cursing, girlhood and brotherhood at the end lmk if more!

Nothing new. Just something mild, Sirius had insisted.

A storm charm. Just a laugh at Snape’s expense. But charms stack weird. Magic’s sensitive. And the corridor was old stone.

"The Charm's ready," Sirius announced. "It activates when Snape passes the third sconce—illusion magic first, so he panics, then the full weather hex."

“Rain and sleet. Disorientation fog. Maybe a bit of slippery stone for flair.” James twirled his wand. “Just enough to make him miserable.”

“You said no fog,” Remus muttered.

“I added it last minute,” Peter whispered. “It sounded funny.”

They all laughed.

Except Remus. “Just… make sure no one else gets caught in it.

Little did he know..

The castle was unusually quiet before lunch. You liked it that way. No noise. No chaos. Just the steady rhythm of your footsteps echoing down the Arithmancy wing.

You were running late—not that Slughorn would tell you off. Head pounding from lack of sleep, shoulders stiff from a restless night.

You rounded the corner.

So did someone else.

Snape.

He flinched when he saw you. "Y/N."

“Hi,” you said gently, offering a small smile. “You alright?”

He blinked at you, surprised. “I’m… fine?”

You nodded. “Cool. Hey, did you—”

The third sconce sparked.

The air snapped like a whip.

Magic slammed into the corridor with force.

Suddenly—

BOOM.

The floor groaned. The ceiling cracked open.

And the sky caved in.

You gasped.

Rain poured from the ceiling like a waterfall. Wind whipped the stone corridor into a storm tunnel. You slipped on the soaked floor. The vials shattered beside you.

Icy water pelted down like a monsoon. Wind howled, rain slicing into your skin, instantly soaking your robes through.

Snape stumbled, slipping hard against the stone. You barely caught yourself against the wall.

“Wh-What the hell?” you gasped.

He spat out water. “This is their doing. Has to be.”

Fog rolled in. Cold, cloying, blinding.

You couldn’t see five feet in front of you. The corridor warped and shifted—Muggle illusion spells. Dizzying. Disorienting.

Snape grunted, voice muffled. “Get under the stairwell! It’s slightly shielded—”

You crawled to him, soaked to the bone, fingers numb. The cold was seeping in now—not just wet. Dangerous. Bone-deep.

And then—your stomach twisted.

Not like nerves.

Like wrong.

“Oh—shit—” you gagged, doubling over.

Snape went pale. “Y/N?”

You threw up violently. Again. Again. Your body shivered uncontrollably.

The rain wasn’t just water. There was something in it.

The fog. The illusions. The cold.

Snape’s wand sparked, but short-circuited. “This spell is way too strong. Idiots. They didn’t calibrate it properly—” He was rambling now. Panic edging into his voice.

They should have checked the map.

They should have listened to Remus.

He shouldn't have-

"Bloody hell," Sirius whispered. "That’s not Snape."

James’s heart stopped.

You were right in the middle of it— Soaked. Slipping. Head down. Coughing hard.

And Snape was already dragging you toward cover.

“Oh my god—” James dropped his wand.

He was running before he knew it.

--------

You’d felt worse. Probably. Maybe.

Actually—no, this was bad.

The cold wasn’t just outside—it was inside. Your bones. Your magic. Your lungs. You didn’t want to be weak, though. You hated that.

You were not about to pass out in front of Potter.

James reaches you in seconds. “You’re freezing.” He shrugs off his robe, wrapping it around your shoulders. “What were you doing here?”

Your lips tremble. “Going to class.”

Sirius, Remus, and Peter appear behind him, breathless.

Sirius goes pale. “Y/N… you weren’t supposed to—shit. We thought Snape—”

“You thought you’d trap him like an animal and humiliate him,” you say flatly.

They all freeze.

Your voice is soft, deadly. “And you trapped me instead.”

James crouched in front of you, eyes searching. “You’re freezing. You’re shaking.”

“Obviously, it’s raining, you idiot,” you snapped.

He flinched, then reached for you. “I can carry you—”

“No.” You pushed his hands off, breath coming short. “Don’t you dare pity me, Potter.”

“It’s not pity.”

“Well it feels like it.”

James swallowed hard. “Y/N—please. You’re not okay.”

You tried to stand.

Your knees buckled. The world tilted.

And then—

Everything went black.

-----

You woke in the Hospital Wing with a sore throat, an IV spell in your wrist, and the faint smell of Pepper-Up.

“She collapsed—just like that—she tried to walk—”

“You think I don’t know that?!”

“James—stop pacing, you’re scaring Pomfrey—”

“Then maybe someone should’ve told me pranks have consequences!”

Pause.

“She didn’t even want help,” he muttered. “She didn’t want to be seen as weak.”

You blinked slowly.

Warmth. Clean sheets. A glowing charm by your temple. Smell of mint and magic.

The Hospital Wing.

James sat at your bedside, hunched forward, head in his hands.

You saw the tear tracks before you even said his name.

“...James?”

His head jerked up.

“Y/N?” he whispered. “You’re—you’re awake?”

You nodded weakly. “Unfortunately.”

He exhaled sharply. “You bloody idiot.”

You frowned.

“You scared me to death.” His voice cracked. “You—you didn’t even want help. Why? Why are you always trying to act like nothing hurts you?”

“Because if I act fine,” you muttered, “people don’t pity me. They don’t try to fix me. They just… let me be.”

He leaned closer. “But I don’t want to let you be.”

You blinked.

“I want to be there when you’re cold and stubborn and terrified. I want to carry you out of stupid prank floods, even when you hate me for it.” He laughed—wet, broken. “And I want you to know you don’t have to prove anything to me.”

You were quiet for a moment.

“I wasn’t trying to prove something,” you whispered.

James looked at you softly. “No. But you’re always trying to hold yourself together alone.”

Silence.

Then, you mumbled, “You’re really bad at pranks.”

He let out a choked laugh. “I’ll write that on my tombstone.”

You looked away, cheeks warming. “You stayed the whole time?”

“Of course I did.”

“Even after I called you an idiot?”

He leaned forward, voice lower. “Especially after that.”

A pause.

Then you said, almost too soft to hear: “I’m sorry I pushed you.”

He smiled. “I’d let you push me a hundred more times if it meant I get to see you wake up again.”

You groaned, trying not to smile. “You’re unbearable.”

“Yeah, but you like me anyway.”

You didn’t deny it.

Then said, voice hoarse: “Next time you like a girl, maybe don’t nearly kill her.”

He laughed—wet, broken. “Deal.”

You didn’t say anything else. But you shifted over in the bed.

He sat beside you, cautiously.

And when you let your head rest on his shoulder, he let out a breath like he’d been holding it for weeks.

Later that night, in the Hogwarts Staff Room:

Professor McGonagall sat stiffly in her armchair, tea trembling ever so slightly in her hands.

“So,” she said, in that crisp Scottish tone that always meant she was this close to hexing someone, “Mr. Potter nearly drowns Miss Y/L/N in a hallway monsoon because he was attempting to soak Severus. Did I hear that correctly?”

Professor Flitwick gave a small, uncomfortable shrug. “It does appear that was the… intended trajectory.”

McGonagall raised a brow. “And she collapsed in front of him. Refused help. Then passed out dramatically.”

Sprout, without looking up from her biscuit, muttered, “Because she’s too stubborn for her own good.”

Slughorn, reclining in a squashy chair with brandy, chuckled. “Typical Gryffindor. Honestly—if those two don’t get married one day, I’ll eat my cauldron.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then—

“I told you,” Binns said dully from the corner (nobody knew why his ghost was even in the room). “Three weeks ago, when I saw them bickering outside my classroom. That’s sexual tension if I’ve ever seen it.”

“I don’t think you’re allowed to say ‘sexual tension’ as a ghost,” Flitwick squeaked.

McGonagall rubbed her temples. “Merlin, they are students.”

“Minerva,” Slughorn said gently, “we’ve been watching these two dance around each other for three years. You nearly choked on your pumpkin juice last spring when she called him a ‘golden retriever with a wand and an ego.’”

McGonagall pursed her lips. “…It was a very apt description.”

Sprout pulled a parchment scroll from her robes. “I’m adding five galleons to the pool that they kiss before the next Hogsmeade weekend.”

“I’ll match you,” Slughorn said. “But only if he confesses first. You know how noble James is—boy wears his feelings like a neon sign.”

“Did anyone notice how gutted he looked after she collapsed?” Flitwick whispered, clutching his heart. “He didn’t even posture. He just… fell apart. It was rather poetic.”

“It was,” Binns agreed, hovering above the tea table like a bored cloud. “Felt like Act II of a tragic romance.”

McGonagall finally set her teacup down. “Very well. I’ll add a galleon on Y/N being the first to say ‘I love you.’”

Everyone turned to stare at her.

She blinked. “What? I may be head of Gryffindor, but I’m not blind. That girl has more bite than a Hungarian Horntail, but she’s soft where it counts.”

Sprout nodded. “And the way she looked at him when she thought he couldn’t see? Mm. That’s a girl in love.”

Slughorn raised his glass. “To the girl who refused to admit she was freezing to death, and the boy who never left her side.”

Clink.

And somewhere down the corridor, Peeves cackled as he wrote “POTTER LOVES Y/L/N” across the dungeon ceiling in glowing pink letters.

----

The sunlight filtered softly through the frosted windows of the Hospital Wing. It was that gentle morning light—peachy gold and a little too bright—that made everything feel quieter than it was.

Your eyelids fluttered open.

The world came into focus slowly: clean sheets tucked tight around you, a faint herbal scent from the potions cabinet, and your throat, still raw, but no longer burning. You blinked, shifting slightly.

That’s when you saw him.

James Potter, in the chair beside your bed, slumped forward with his arms folded on the edge of the mattress. His face was smushed into the crook of his elbow, hair falling into his lashes, glasses crooked and barely clinging to his nose.

You stared at him for a long moment. His hand—still loosely clasped around yours—tightened a little when you moved.

You swallowed, voice a hoarse whisper.

“James?”

His head jerked up so fast his glasses slid off completely.

“Y/N,” he said, breathless. His eyes scanned your face like he couldn’t believe it. “You’re awake.”

“You drooled on my blanket.”

He blinked. Then laughed softly, relief spilling out of him all at once. He ran a hand through his tangled hair, his voice thick. “You scared the absolute hell out of me.”

“I told you I was fine,” you said, stubborn as ever—but your voice cracked halfway through and you winced.

“Yeah, well,” he murmured, leaning forward again, “you’re also the worst liar I know.”

Your heart did something traitorous in your chest.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

“I always worry.”

Silence.

“I didn’t want to seem weak.”

His brows drew together, and he looked at you so seriously it made your stomach flip.

“Y/N,” he said, “you got hit by a storm, had a fever so bad you collapsed, and still tried to convince us you were okay. That’s not weak. That’s idiotic.”

“Thanks, Potter.”

He smiled. “Anytime.”

Another pause. And then, so gently it barely carried:

“Don’t do that again, okay? Don’t shut me out.”

You stared at him, your fingers twitching in his.

“…Okay.”

He smiled—slow and soft—and you were dangerously close to melting when a loud ahem cut through the stillness.

Professor McGonagall stood at the door, arms folded, a very suspicious twitch to her lips.

“Miss Y/L/N, I trust you’re feeling better.”

You blinked. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Because I’ve just subtracted twenty points from Gryffindor for grossly irresponsible magical conduct. And”—she turned to James—“ten more for Mr. Potter’s… romantic dramatics in the hallway last night. Honestly, fainting girls and vigil bed duty. You’re not starring in a Celestina Warbeck novel.”

James flushed bright red. You sank lower under the covers.

McGonagall turned to leave—then paused. Over her shoulder, she added dryly:

“Oh, and for the record—Professor Flitwick wins the betting pool. He said you’d be holding hands by sunrise.”

And with that, she swept from the room.

James slowly turned back to you.

“…We’re never living this down, are we?”

You squeezed his hand. “Not a chance.”

He grinned, and for the first time in days, so did you.

Later That Night – Gryffindor Common Room

The fire was burning low, casting warm flickers across the old velvet couches and scattered socks by the hearth. It was late, and most students had gone to bed—but not the inner circle.

James was freshly showered, curls still damp, socks mismatched, a biscuit half-chewed as he leaned dramatically against the back of the couch. Sirius lounged beside him, stretching like a cat.

Remus was reading in the corner, half-listening. Peter sat cross-legged on the floor, trying to build a tower of cards that kept toppling over.

You were curled into a corner cushion with a blanket around your shoulders, legs tucked beneath you, sipping ginger tea that Lily swore would help your throat.

“Alright,” Sirius finally said, pointing a half-eaten chocolate bar at James. “Spill.”

James blinked innocently. “Spill what?”

Sirius gawked. “Don’t play dumb. You slept by her bedside. You held her hand. You fainted with relief when she woke up—”

“I did not faint—”

“You did the emotional equivalent of fainting, James.”

Remus didn’t even look up. “He whimpered like a kicked puppy.”

You narrowed your eyes playfully. “I wasn’t dying, you know.”

James turned to you immediately. “You collapsed in front of me. Do you have any idea how terrifying that was?”

Your heart flipped. Again.

Sirius sighed dreamily. “You two are exhausting.”

“I vote we hex them both into a closet,” Peter offered cheerfully.

James smirked. “You’d miss me.”

“No, we wouldn’t,” Remus muttered.

There was a beat of laughter—then the portrait hole creaked open, and in came Lily, Marlene, and Dorcas, holding snacks they’d nicked from the kitchens.

“You’re up late,” Lily observed, eyeing the scene.

“I was being interrogated,” James said solemnly.

“Correction: worshipped for your tragic love arc,” Sirius said.

Dorcas flopped onto the rug. “Please. It’s only tragic if she dies. This is more ‘slow-burn Gryffindor pining with extra rain.’”

You hid your face in your cup.

Marlene grinned, leaning back. “Honestly, the real plot twist was Snape.”

James made a face. “Don’t remind me.”

Dorcas turned to you. “She called him an idiot and held his hand.”

Marlene arched an eyebrow. “Enemies to lovers arc progressing nicely.”

Lily rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away.

“Also,” Dorcas added with mock solemnity, “Snape said—and I quote—‘For once, she doesn’t disgust me.’ So that’s practically a love letter.”

You choked on your tea.

James blinked. “He said what?”

Lily laughed. “Let’s just hope James doesn’t try to prank anyone else to get her attention.”

From the hallway, James shouted: “I heard that!”

“Good,” Lily called back.

You curled further into the blanket, cheeks warm and aching from smiling.

And despite the coughing fits, the prank gone wrong, and the dramatic unraveling of Gryffindor's most chaotic couple-to-be, everything felt… right.

Warm. Familiar.

Like a story finally turning the page.

[solxamber]

Romance Clichés With: Idia Shroud

Cliché: The Dramatic Save

Others: Leona ; Vil ; Azul ; Kalim ; Jamil ; Riddle

The thing about Idia is that he’s very used to lurking in the background. Life is much simpler that way. But ever since you’d started spending more time with him, he’d found himself in the wildest, most "otome game" situations imaginable. And today? Today topped them all.

You’d been standing together in the courtyard, him telling you about his latest game finds, hands shoved into his pockets as he tried not to fidget too much. It was rare he got to hang out with someone he, uh, actually wanted to hang out with, so his nerves were pinging off the charts.

That’s when it happened.

With zero warning, a large, heavy textbook teetered off the edge of a windowsill above and began its rapid descent towards Idia’s head. He didn’t notice; he was too busy stammering about his latest high score. But you did.

In one swift move, you threw yourself across the space between you and practically flew through the air, hands outstretched like some overdramatic action hero.

You managed to get between him and the descending missile (okay, just a textbook, but in the moment, it was deadly), and though the impact wasn’t as dramatic as you’d pictured, you still managed to shield him with your entire being, shoving him safely aside.

By the time he realized what was going on, you were already fussing over him. “Oh my gosh, are you okay?! Did it hit you anywhere?”

He blinked, processing what just happened as you started checking his head for bumps, squinting at his shocked face. “Uh… w-what?” he stammered, brain catching up about three seconds too late. “Did… did you just… jump in front of me?” The look of awe on his face was equal parts adorable and ridiculous.

“Well, obviously!” You laughed, still fussing, hands on his shoulders. “Are you alright?”

Idia’s mouth opened and closed as he tried to process the sheer amount of romance that just smacked him in the face. You, his crush, his dream come to life, had gone full protagonist, for him. It was like the best tropes had all collided in his brain at once, and it was overwhelming in the best way possible.

“N-No one’s ever done something like that… f-for me…” he mumbled, cheeks reddening as he stared at you with this helpless, smitten look.

You tilted your head, a soft smile crossing your face. “Well, I’d do it again if it meant keeping you safe, Idia.”

Somewhere in his brain, the confetti cannons were going off. The “love meter” hit max. The screen flashed “TRUE ENDING” in bold, sparkly letters. He knew it was all real, but a tiny part of him felt like he’d accidentally triggered some hidden route with a secret character, and that character was you.

And before he could stop himself, the words tumbled out of his mouth in a rush. “I think I’m in love with you. Like, maybe have been for a while. You’re like, the one or something, and—oh my god, why am I saying this out loud—”

He clamped a hand over his mouth, wide-eyed, as if he could just take it back if he tried hard enough. But instead, he saw you looking at him, your smile widening as you took his hand, gently pulling it down.

“You mean it?” you asked, a bit of awe creeping into your voice.

He couldn’t look at you, his eyes darting everywhere except your face as he mumbled, “Y-Yeah, I mean, yeah, I do. I can’t believe you’re real, honestly, this feels like a fever dream, but—”

Before he could talk himself out of it, you leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, quick and sweet. It was enough to short-circuit his brain, and when you pulled back, he just blinked, stunned, frozen like his internal processing unit had just maxed out.

“Does that answer your question?” you teased, unable to hold back a little laugh at his flustered expression.

“Uh-huh,” he finally managed, a dopey smile creeping onto his face as his brain rebooted. “Y-Yeah… yes.” He cleared his throat, trying to seem cooler, but the blush on his cheeks was a dead giveaway.

And as you both stood there, your hands still linked, he felt like the luckiest player in the world—like he’d stumbled upon the rarest, sweetest route of them all, and he wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

Masterlist