#sorry for people looking for campaign 3 thoughts

[deansbeer]

HIIII idk if u remember me but i dm'ed u about ur 40s!dean bot couple of months ago or smth(⁠T⁠T⁠) love ur works and bots queen!!!

so since ur reqs are open now i wanna ask if u have any thoughts on young jensen like in his late teens-early 20s because im wild about him in this era. fluff or smut doesn't matter I'll eat anything with this man on it

hi, sweet angel, i do remember you!! thank you so sooo much 🤍 since you gave me free will, i paired him up with model!reader, since i feel the 90s were very fashion and modeling centered (???) i don’t know lmaoo, but yeah <3

warnings 𓏵 smut | fluff | mentions of alcohol | industry pressures | struggling times | intimidation/nervousness around successful people | semi-public sex | period-typical 90s stuff (?) | oral sex (both f&m receiving) | overstimulation | car sex. (i’m definitely missing some, but i’m too tired to check)

[ cutesy type shit ]

you meet jensen at some industry mixer in a cramped west hollywood penthouse, the kind where everyone’s trying too hard to look like they’re not trying at all. he’s nursing the same beer all night because he can’s afford another one, wearing a dark flannel that’s seen better days over a white tee. when someone introduces you as “that girl from the guess campaign,” he gets this deer-in-headlights look before recovering with ”oh cool, i think i saw that on sunset boulevard.” (he definitely stared at that billboard every time he drove past it).

he’s so broke in those early days, like scary broke. you catch him at craft services during a modeling gig where he’s doing background work, loading up napkins with bagels and fruit “for later.” instead of calling him out, you just start inviting him to lunch after shoots. he always protests at first — “nah, i’m good, i got...” — until you say it’s your treat. his pride takes a hit but his empty stomach wins.

jensen’s got this beat-up toyota corolla that makes concerning noises when it turns left. you’re used to drivers and being driven around, but there’s something charming about him picking you up for dates in his piece of shit car, apologizing when he has to slam the door three times to get it to close properly. “sorry, she’s temperamental. like an old cat.” the radio only gets two stations clearly — classic rock and spanish — so you learn all the words to the songs that had a catchy tune or beat whether you wanted to or not.

he lives with three other aspiring actors in a two-bedroom apartment. the first time you come over, he spends twenty minutes frantically cleaning, which apparently just means shoving everything into closets and spraying an entire can of febreze. his roommate walks out in boxers halfway through your movie date and jensen looks like he wants to die. “dude, i told you she was coming over!” “oh shit, this is her? nice.”

watching him at auditions is painful in the sweetest way. he practices his lines in the car beforehand, running them over and over until you have them memorized too. when he comes out and you ask how it went, he always shrugs and says “probably terrible”even though you know he nailed it. the day he books his first real speaking role (two lines on sweet valley high), he picks you up and spins you around in the parking lot.

he intimidated by your modeling career at first, not in a macho way but in a “what are you doing with me?” way. you catch him looking at your magazine spreads with this expression like he can’t quite believe you’re real. “you know you could date like... actual famous people, right?” he says one night. you shut him up by kissing him senseless. he never brings up the topic again. and if he does, it’s because he loves when you slam your lips on his as a way of shutting him up.

jensen writes his parents these long letters every sunday, telling them he’s doing great, bookings are rolling in, everything’s perfect. you watch him carefully craft these lies with the sweetest intentions, not wanting them to worry. when he finally books days of our lives, the first person he calls is his mom. you can hear her crying in glee through the phone.

he’s weird about money in that prideful small-town texas boy way. when you try to pay for dinner at nice places, he gets this look like you’ve physically wounded him. you learn to be sneaky about it — “accidentally” leaving your card at the bar, telling him you have a gift certificate that’s “about to expire” he knows what you’re doing but eventually stops fighting it.

late nights at denny’s become your thing. 2am grand slams after you wrap a shoot, him coming from waiting tables at some beverly hills restaurant where they make him wear a lil’ bow tie. he does impressions of the customers, you tell him about the photographer who made everyone do nude yoga, and somehow these fluorescent-lit conversations feel more romantic than any fancy date ever.

the way he looks at your portfolio is different from how other guys in the industry do. instead of that calculating, “what can you do for me” gaze, he studies each photo like it’s art. asks about the locations, the photographers, if you were cold during that beach shoot. he remembers every detail you tell him!

when he’s learning lines, you help him run scenes. you’re terrible at it, of course, making him break character and laugh when you dramatically overact the nurse or secretary role. “baby, that’s not... i’ve never heard anybody talk like that.” “excuse me, i'm giving you range.” he starts requesting you specifically as his scene partner, swearing you’re his good luck charm. and he never ever criticizes your bad acting, always finding it amusing.

jensen gets star-struck in the weirdest ways. not by the big names but by working character actors he recognizes from childhood shows. “holy shit, that’s the guy from murder she wrote!” he’ll whisper-yell in your ear at catering, making you giggle. but when actual celebrities hit on you at parties, he just gets quiet and holds your hand a little tighter.

he keeps every magazine you’re in, even the random catalogs and newspaper inserts. you find them stacked neatly in his closet one day. “it’s not weird,” he defends, ears red. “i just... when you’re famous-famous, these’ll be worth something.” you both know that’s not why he keeps them.

summer days by his apartment complex’s questionable pool become your escape. he’s self-conscious about being pale (tv auditions always want that california tan), so you lie on cheap loungers and quiz him on lines while he slowly burns then freckles. the pool is probably 40% chlorine but it’s free and private-ish, minus the kids doing cannonballs

he practices his headshot poses on you, trying to find his “angles.” you teach him the modeling tricks — how to find his light, the tiny chin movements that make all the difference. he feels ridiculous but listens intently, and when his new headshots book him three auditions in a week, he credits you entirely.

[ freaks come out at night type shit ]

that texas boy thing extends to the bedroom — all “yes ma’am” and polite restraint until you make it clear what you want. then something shifts. he’s got this whole southern gentleman act that dissolves the second you climb into his lap, his hands gripping your hips like he’s been thinking about it all day (news flash, he has).

car sex becomes a necessity when you both have roommates. his Toyota’s backseat is barely big enough but you make it work, windows fogging up in some lonely parking garage at 1am. he jokes about feeling like a teenager until you do that thing with your tongue that makes him forget how to speak.

he’s got a praise kink a mile wide, even if he doesn’t know that’s what it’s called. the first time you tell him how good he feels, how perfect he is, he actually whimpers. gets this desperate look like he needs to hear more, so you tell him exactly what he does to you, how he’s ruining you for anyone else, and he loses it completely.

jensen’s possessive in this quiet, intense way. not jealous of your job — he’d never — but when photographers get too handsy or male models hit on you, you see that jaw clench. that night he fucks you like he’s trying to mark you, sucking bruises low on your hips where they won’t show on camera, making you say his name until your throat turns hoarse.

hotel rooms after your out-of-town shoots become your paradise. he drives hours to meet you in random cities when he can scrape together gas money. shows up tired and scruffy from the road, but the second that door closes, he’s all over you. months of sexual tension worked out on random hotel sheets.

he’s absolutely obsessed with going down south on you, could spend hours between your thighs if you’d let him. gets actually upset when you try to pull him up, mumbling “not done yet, darlin’” against your skin. you learn to just let him have his way, gripping his hair while he takes you apart for the third time.

the first time you blow him in his car after an audition, he nearly puts his fist through the window. “fuck, fuck, baby you can’t— ‘m gonna—” barely gets the words out before he’s coming everywhere, then apologizes for like twenty minutes after. you shut him up by climbing onto his lap and riding him until he stops talking entirely.

he’s surprisingly dominant once he gets comfortable, that whole ‘yes ma’am’ thing morphing into him calling the shots. pins your wrists above your head and makes you beg for what you want. “that’s not very specific, sweetheart. tell me exactly where ya need me.” makes you spell it out while he smirks down at you.

quickies in your agency’s bathroom become risky routine. you on the counter, legs wrapped around his waist, his hand over your mouth to keep you quiet. the thrill of maybe getting caught, ruining both your reputations, only makes it hotter. he always fixes your hair after, makes sure you look perfect before you go back out.

phone sex while he’s working late shifts at that fancy beverly hills restaurant. he huddles in the back alley on his break, whispering filthy things while you touch yourself in your empty apartment. “wish i could see you right now, bet you look so pretty falling apart.” his voice gets rougher when he’s close, forgetting to be quiet. he almost got caught once by his boss who stepped out for a smoke and he played it off as if he were trying to scare away a raccoon he’d found digging in the trash cans outside.

that texas stamina is no joke. young and eager and so focused on making you feel good. recovers stupid fast, ready to go again while you’re still catching your breath. “just gimme five minutes,” you pant. “i can wait,” he says, then proceeds to kiss down your spine until you’re begging for more and more rounda.

he’s got this thing about marking you where others can’t see. loves leaving bruises on your inner thighs, bite marks on your ribs, fingerprints on your hips. gets off on you being at some fancy shoot, knowing what’s hidden underneath all the designer clothes you wore. “think about that when they’re posing you,” he murmurs, admiring his handiwork.

hotel balconies at golden hour become your favorite risk. you in his lap on some tiny chair, sundress hiked up, him trying to keep quiet as you ride him slowly. the city spread out below, chance of being seen from other buildings, his hands bruising your thighs as he fights not to thrust up into you.

he starts getting more confident as pilot season approaches, that nervous energy manifesting in the best ways. fucks you against his apartment door when his roommates are home, hand over your mouth, daring you to stay quiet. takes you in casting office bathrooms, in his car in broad daylight, anywhere he can get you alone for ten minutes.

the night he books his first series regular role, you celebrate in every room of your quiet apartment. kitchen counter, shower wall, living room floor — he’s insatiable, high on success and possibility. keeps saying your name like a prayer, like you’re his breath of fresh air, like he plans to keep you forever. “gonna move us somewhere better,” he promises between kisses. “gonna give you everything.”

you believe him. because in your eyes, jensen can do anything.

[firehandlerfred]

Sorry can't talk right now, just finished campaign one of critical role. Yeah I'm a mess.

[ofstarsandvibranium]

3 Types of Neck Kisses

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Summary: Here are the 3 different ways Bucky kisses your neck.

Warning: light smut - fingering and p in v

Lovingly

It's late and you don't want to fall asleep. You just want to enjoy this moment with Bucky. Now with him campaigning to be the next Congressman, he's hardly home. You don't see him much and miss him like crazy, but you can't fault him for this.

You're cuddled up into Bucky now. The tv in your shared bedroom plays on low volume. He face is nuzzled into your neck and you feel his breath on your skin. Your arms are wrapped around him, fingers running through his hair that has him purring like Alpine.

His own arms are wrapped around you as well. He tightens his hold on you, pulling you even closer to him. He presses kisses onto your neck and mumbles, "Love you, baby," as he peppers more kisses along your neck.

You let out a content sigh and mumble back, "I love you too, Bucky."

Sexily

You didn't let him have his way with you when you stepped out of the bedroom earlier. The dress you picked out for tonight's charity event clung to you in delicious ways, yet still created a classy aura around you.

You couldn't help but snicker as Bucky's eyes raked down your body, "Down boy. We're going to be late and this is your event."

He pouted, "Baby-"

You shook your head, "Nope. Besides, I spent all this time to look pretty, I don't want it to go to waste. Now let's go."

Now, it's well into the night. Bucky's already said his piece, thanking all of the sponsors, donations, and attendees for the night. Then the dancefloor opened up, more drinks started flowing, which meant no one would notice Bucky dragging you to the nearest unoccupied room.

As soon as you enter the room, Bucky shuts the door, locking it behind him. He presses you against the door, hiking up your dress, "Been teasing me all night in this fucking dress," he presses a desperate kiss to your lips and groans when he realizes, "Fuck, no panties either?"

"Surprise," you reply with a smirk and the man moans into your neck. He kisses and nips into your skin as he wraps your leg around his waist. His metal fingers rub at your clit.

You grip at the lapels of his suit jacket, "Buck-"

"Just wanna make sure you're ready for me, baby. Been trying to hide this hard on for hours," he murmurs into your skin.

"Been dripping for you since we got here."

"Naughty girl," he says as he bites into your neck and slowly enters you. You gasp at he fills you and do your best to keep quiet while he fucks you.

Comforting

The assassination attempt wasn't expected. He thought that after everything he's done, even being a close friend to both Captain America's, people's view of him would be better.

Obviously he was wrong.

Being shot at was nothing new to him, but you? It was foreign territory. You've never been a part of that side of Bucky's life. You never had to fight aliens or enhanced individuals. You were a complete civilian, so of course you'd take this a lot harder than him.

Bucky hated it.

Now you were plagued with nightmares of him being shot and it broke his heart whenever he woke to you whimpering in your sleep, crying for him.

"No, no, please," Bucky hears you say as he stirs from his slumber, "Bucky, no," he hears again.

He scoops you into his arms, "Darlin', I'm here. I'm here, baby. It's okay," he whispers, wiping your tears away with his vibranium arm.

Your face scrunches and then your eyes blink open. Eyes red and watery, you rasp out, "Bucky?"

"You were having another nightmare, sweetheart."

You groan, rolling away from him, wanting to hide, "I'm sorry."

He pulls you close, spooning you from behind, "Don't be. I'm sorry you had to witness that. I'm used to being shot at, but you-I wish you never witnessed that." He leans in, kissing the back of your neck, "But I'm here, sweetheart. I'm safe." he tightens his hold on you.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't ever be sorry for this." He kisses your neck again, "I love you, I'm here. I'm here, baby. I'm safe."

He continues to repeat these words to you, while kissing your neck, reminding you that your nightmares are just that, nightmares.

[mrsbarnesblog]

˖˚⊹ old habits

➤ summary: you call Rafe out when he acts disrespectfully

➤ w/c: 1.5k.

➤ warnings: themes of toxic masculinity, emotional confrontation

➤ a/n: really wanted to be a part of @zyafics campaign, and I hope that other writers will consider doing it too <3

masterlist

The thing between you and Rafe was still new and fresh—only a few times going out on dates, lingering touches, and way too many moments that were more than just friendly.

Since the first time you had met him, you thought that he had grown to be a better person. He tried to change some of his old habits to become more mature. And you truly saw that, and it was a reason why you even started to catch feelings. But there were still times when he struggled, when some of the traits of that old toxic Rafe were slipping through, either because it was too hard to control things that he had been taught from a young age or because he truly didn’t see himself being in the wrong. 

That day he invited you to the new cafe near the beach on the mainland, saying that it was the best one. For you, Rafe was a gentleman. He picked you up, helped you to get in and out of his truck, complimented your dress and your hair, and let you hold his upper arm when he was leading you to the entrance.

He opened the door for you, and the place was dimly lit with yellow tones and just radiated warmth. It was a little bit too loud with people sitting everywhere, but if the place was good, you didn’t mind that one bit. You looked back at Rafe, sharing a smile, until the young hostess stepped in front of you. 

“I’m so sorry, but as you may see, we’re full right now. You may sit here until one of the tables is free.” With a polite smile, she gestured to the side. “The waiting time will be around fifteen to twenty minutes, if that’s okay with you.” 

You nodded to her words without hesitation. “That’s totally fine.” 

But beside you, Rafe let out a small breath. Not quite a sigh, more like a scoff. He raised an eyebrow and looked the girl up and down with something colder in his expression than you would’ve preferred.

“You’re telling me you can’t fit two people in? It’s not even full in here.” She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, briefly looking at you to figure out how to react. Rafe’s voice wasn’t loud, but you knew how intimidating and cold he might be, especially to people who were not used to it.

“Rafe.” You said his name sharply, tugging his bicep once in hope that he would let it go. 

He glanced at you, then back at the hostess, not getting the problem that you seemed to have. “We’re literally standing here, dressed nicely, just asking for a table. I’m not trying to be a dick. I'm just saying, you could make it work if you actually wanted to.” You didn’t wait for her to respond. You took a step back, slowly removing your hand from his arm.

“I’ll be outside.” You said. No emotion in your voice, hands already folded across your chest. 

You sat at the bench outside, one leg thrown over another, looking at the ocean and debating just simply going back home. Rafe walked out a few minutes later, with hands buried in the pockets of his pants, looking at you like he genuinely could not understand your behavior. 

“Are you seriously mad at me?”

“I’m not mad. I’m disappointed.” You said calmly, not even sparing him a glance. 

“For what? I didn’t even say anything bad. She was the one who couldn’t do her job properly.”

Your head snapped towards him with eyebrows raised in surprise. “No.” You said sharply, taking him aback. “You were being an asshole because you didn’t get what you wanted. She was doing her job, Rafe.” 

His brows knit. “Jesus, I wasn’t an asshole—I was just calling her out.”

“Calling her out for what, Rafe? For not breaking policy? For not giving you special treatment?” He looked away, jaw clenching. His hand reached his head to rub over his buzzed hair in frustration, while you simply looked at him, seeing the conflict that he had. Part of him clearly knew you were being reasonable, that he might’ve stepped over the line, but the rest of him, the louder part, wanted to be right. Wanted to win.

“I’m not dating someone who thinks talking down to people makes him important.” You said firmly, your voice low and calm but hard to let him know how serious that situation was for you. “That’s not cute. That doesn’t make you look cooler or whatever. That’s not something I tolerate.”

Rafe exhaled hard through his nose, briefly throwing his head back in frustration. “You’re making it sound like I screamed at her or something. I was just—I don’t know—frustrated.”

“Yeah, and she was working. Probably scared of losing her job because of kooks who talk down to her every day. Probably already dealing with a bunch of other men who think that they are better than everyone and that other people owe them something.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t do that.”

You stood up, stepping closer with your heels softly clicking against the wood. You squinted your eyes slightly, tilting your head to the side now that you were almost the same height. “Do what?”

“Make me out to be some kind of monster.”

“I’m not.” You shot back. “But if you don’t like how I make you sound by just talking about your actions, maybe ask yourself why instead of getting defensive.”

The silence that followed stretched long between you. You crossed your arms tighter, mostly to keep yourself from softening, because, God, you wanted to. Because part of you knew that he didn’t mean to hurt anyone, but still addressing the problem was important to prove to him that the said problem existed. 

You watched the gears turning behind his eyes, jaw tight, hands buried deep in his pockets. He looked off toward the ocean like maybe the answer was out there, like it could help him to understand how to break the default settings that were engraved in his brain. 

“I didn’t think it was that bad.” Rafe admitted finally, his voice quieter now, and you could hear the edge of hesitation. “I didn’t even notice I was doing it. That I was acting like…” He trailed off, and you knew what he meant. Like Ward.

“That’s the problem, Rafe.” You said softer now, but still steady. “You don’t even notice when you slip. I know that you’re trying to be better. I see it, but I also need you to acknowledge that sometimes you can still be mean, that sometimes you’re in the wrong. Otherwise we won’t work out.”

He looked at you then, as if hurt for a second, because for the part of him, it sounded like a threat or like a challenge that he didn’t want to accept.

“I don’t want to be that guy.” He said after a moment. “I’ve been trying. You know I have.”

“I know. That’s why I’m still standing here and not leaving.” You stepped closer, but you didn’t reach for him.

“But I’m not going to coach you through being a decent person every time you slip. You have to want it for yourself, not just to keep me happy, because I’m telling you right now, Rafe…” You met his eyes, staying your ground. “If that’s the man you choose to be, I will walk away. Even if I don’t want to.”

His throat bobbed in a nervous swallow, his eyes darted away, then back to yours, as if he was trying to measure if you were bluffing. And when a few seconds passed, when you looked at him steadily, waiting for an answer, he turned and walked back toward the café.

You watched him through the front windows when he hesitated near the hostess stand, tugging awkwardly at the expensive watch on his wrist, and then leaned in to speak to the girl. Her face was surprised at first, then softened as he continued to talk, before she nodded a few times, still slightly hesitant, and said something back to him. 

When Rafe returned back to you, the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease a little bit, though his jaw clenched when he rubbed the back of his neck and stopped in front of you like he wasn’t sure where to begin.

“I apologized. Told her I was out of line.”

You gave him a small nod. “Thank you.”

He shifted on his feet, nervous. “She said the table will be ready in ten.” You nodded again, waiting for him to continue. “You still wanna eat with me?” He asked, almost hesitant, like a boy who'd just been scolded.

“I do.” His lips stretched in a small smile, eyes glimmering with something like surprise and maybe a bit of shyness that you caught every once in a while. Rafe stepped closer, offering you his hand, and you playfully rolled your eyes, smiling back and interlacing your fingers. “Now I’m about to order the whole damn menu, Cameron. And it better be good.” 

[airosuiren]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔒𝔫𝔢𝔰 𝔚𝔥𝔬 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔦𝔠𝔢𝔡 𝔗𝔬𝔬 𝔏𝔞𝔱𝔢

A/N: Okay, so… You ever walk into a room where you were once unwanted, and every head turns because suddenly you’re everything they’re not? Yeah. That’s this chapter. 😌 This one’s for the readers who’ve leveled up in silence. Who were counted out too early, who walked out of the fire looking dangerous instead of damaged. This is [Y/N] stepping back into the space that broke them—and not breaking this time. Let’s be clear: this isn’t a reunion. This is a revelation. Grab your tea. Let’s shake a few foundations.

Thank You @arislia for this Idea!

And I'm sorry for not making this longer because I had this planned (I plan my series in google docs after tumblr deleted my old drafts). These will be shorter BUT, the next series I promise to make it longer!

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 1, 𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 3

You weren’t supposed to stand out. That’s the irony. You had trained yourself to be unseen, unheard, unfelt—because the moment you started to feel, you started to hurt.

But when the League summoned their families to a secure location, the world you built in the shadows was forced into the light.

You arrived alone.

Lois had offered to fly with you. Clark had said they’d wait at the entrance. But you declined. You wanted them to see you walk in under your own power. No crutches. No borrowed names. Just you.

When you stepped through those doors, the reaction was immediate.

The Queens lit up like someone had flipped a switch. Ollie pulled you in for a hug, Thea waved you over, and even Dinah looked proud. Clark’s face softened. Lois’s arm went straight around your shoulder like it belonged there.

And the Batfamily?

They stared.

Not with joy. Not even with confusion.

They stared like you were a ghost. Like they were seeing something they’d buried come back to life and demand retribution.

You didn’t smile. You didn’t greet them. You turned away from them the way they once turned away from you.

Because if they wanted to pretend you never mattered, then they didn’t get to matter now.

Still, their eyes followed you.

And then the meetings started.

The League began dissecting the threat. Hackers. Leakers. Global-scale blackmail. Someone had infiltrated systems that were supposed to be airtight. It wasn’t just about identities anymore. It was about dismantling everything.

You knew how the media would spin it. You knew how Gotham’s elite would react. And most of all, you knew how fear worked when it had the public in a chokehold.

So you spoke.

You laid out a counter-strategy like you’d done it a thousand times. Because you had. In Metropolis. In Star City. Behind the scenes of political campaigns and corporate power moves. You’d sharpened your teeth while the people who threw you away forgot you even had a bite.

The room listened.

Clark deferred to you. Lois backed you. Oliver vouched for you.

Bruce stayed silent.

But you caught the flicker in his expression when the others nodded along. When Diana praised your foresight. When J’onn said you understood humanity better than most.

The others? Dick tried to pretend he wasn’t surprised. Tim’s stare was surgical, dissecting you in real time. Damian looked like he’d bitten glass.

And the new girl? She finally looked at you.

With fear.

You weren’t the quiet reject anymore. You were something else. Something dangerous. Something they didn’t make—and couldn’t control.

Later, in private, Alfred brought you tea. You almost cried at the gesture.

Almost.

He said nothing about the past. Just, “You’ve grown.”

You wanted to scream, I had to.

But you just nodded.

The truth was, they needed you now. And you were going to help. Not because they deserved it.

Because the world did.

And even in the darkest parts of you, that mattered more than revenge.

But they would never forget this version of you.

Not the one they raised.

The one they abandoned.

The one who rose anyway.

𝕭𝖔𝖓𝖚𝖘! (𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚊𝚢 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝙻𝚎𝚏𝚝)

(this is kind of a bonus I thought of while writing...)

It had been late. Quiet.

The kind of quiet that seeped into your bones. The kind of quiet that made your footsteps echo like they didn’t belong.

You were fourteen. Maybe fifteen. You don’t remember the exact age—only the feeling. Raw. Unseen. On the edge of breaking.

Your ribs ached. Your shoulder throbbed. You’d taken a hit meant for Damian—an instinct, not even a choice—and landed hard on a rooftop ledge. Rolled too close to the edge. Limped all the way back. No call of concern. No one on comms. No “Are you okay?” Just silence.

It should’ve earned you a lecture at worst.

Instead, it earned you her.

The new girl.

Barely two weeks in.

Bright. Perfect. Adored.

You limped into the Batcave, helmet tucked under your arm, dried blood crusted over your eyebrow. You expected quiet, maybe concern, maybe just the acknowledgment that you existed.

What you got?

Laughter.

She was in your seat. At the computer. Wearing your gear.

The armor you'd trained in. The one Alfred helped custom-fit after months of trials. The one you’d stitched, cried in, bled into.

And she wore it like it had never belonged to you at all.

Tim leaned over her shoulder, pointing something out on the screen. Damian hovered close behind. Dick was saying something about how “clean” she moved in the field.

And Bruce?

Didn’t even look up.

You stood there, waiting. Expecting. Begging, in that small, desperate way you told yourself you’d outgrown.

Then, finally—his eyes flicked toward you.

And his voice cut through the cave like a scalpel.

“You’re benched. Permanently.”

Just like that. Like a weather report. Like an afterthought. Like you were a dented weapon tossed in a drawer.

You opened your mouth—“But—”—

And then Alfred was there.

With a tray.

Tea and towels. The same ritual. The same script.

But this time, he didn’t meet your eyes.

Not once.

You watched him walk past you like a ghost.

And then—then—came the final blow.

The girl in your gear turned to Bruce, tilting her head with practiced innocence.

“Was I a mistake too?” she asked softly.

A test. You knew it was a test. A way to secure her place. But you didn’t expect the knife that followed.

Bruce didn’t even hesitate.

“No,” he said. “But she was.”

He didn’t mean for you to hear it.

But you did.

And the sound it made in your chest wasn’t a crack. It was a shatter.

You stood there for maybe another full minute.

No one turned. No one asked you to stay. No one noticed the way your fingers curled so tightly around your helmet that the edge dug into your palm and drew blood.

You went to your room. Packed your gear. One piece at a time.

You stood in the center of that tiny space—bland walls, no posters, a bed that had never felt like yours—and realized you’d been living in a house, not a home.

You left the suit on the bed.

Left the tracker on the desk.

Left your voice in the hallway.

And shut the door behind you.

You never opened it again.

A/N: Whew. They called the meeting to fix a crisis—and walked into their biggest one yet: the ghost they buried came back golden, angry, and smarter than all of them combined. And let’s talk about that power shift. She didn’t gloat. She didn’t lash out. She just existed loudly in the place that tried to erase her. And they couldn’t handle it. This wasn’t revenge. This was justice with restraint. Power without apology. Presence that didn’t ask for permission. Next chapter? Let’s make them earn the right to say your name again.

—Your eyes-still-wet, hands-still-shaking, soft-but-spiteful author 🖤💫

Taglist: @feral-childs-word, @trashlanternfish360, @astro-girly1, @suneaterscape, @thatcatladywrites, @arislia, @kittzu, @ottjhe, @tinybrie, @wpdarlingpan, @ryuushou, @simpingpandas, @lettucel0ver, @moonxmio, @kneelforloki, @sirenetheblogger, @xzmickeyzx

Let me know if I missed someone!

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Imperfect Couple - 8

Character: politician!Bucky x ex-wife!reader

Summary: A separated couple must pretend to be happily married while the husband runs for Vice President, dealing with old issues and political pressures during his election campaign.

Warning: The couple's arguments could be triggering.

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 6 , Chapter 7 , Chapter 8 , Chapter 9 , Chapter 10 , Chapter 11 , Chapter 12 , Series Masterlist

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

The next day, the headlines dominated the news:

"The Barnes Brothers' Hidden Scandal Exposed"

"Shawn Barnes: The Untouchable Elite Dodging Justice"

"Political Candidate’s Family Ties to Corruption Unveiled"

At the campaign headquarters, the atmosphere was thick with tension. The usual hum of activity was replaced by silence, only broken by the sound of phones ringing off the hook.

Steve stood near the table, crumpling a newspaper in his hands, frustration written all over his face. Bucky stood by the window, his posture rigid as he stared out into the distance, lost in thought.

Steve let out a heavy sigh, massaging his temples. "I didn’t expect they’d bring up Shawn at the debate."

Bucky turned slightly, his voice calm but carrying an edge. "You know Brock. He always hits below the belt, always makes it personal."

Steve glanced out at the campaign team, who were scrambling. The room beyond was a flurry of chaos: phones ringing non-stop, staff members anxiously typing responses, pacing as they fielded questions from the press, all trying to extinguish the flames of the scandal. Steve ran a hand through his hair as he watched, feeling the weight of the situation.

"The numbers are tanking," Steve muttered, his face grim. "After this, the public’s furious. Voters won’t back a candidate whose family used connections to dodge the law."

Bucky’s jaw tightened as Steve continued, "People hate it when those with power think they’re above punishment. That’s the real damage here. It’s not just about Shawn—it’s about what it represents."

The trend #CatchShawnBarnes was everywhere, climbing to the top spot on social media. The timing couldn’t have been worse. The firestorm had erupted, fueled by rumors and bots likely hired by Brock and Edgar’s teams, intensifying the outrage.

Bucky broke the silence with a quiet, "I’m sorry."

Steve looked at him, shaking his head. "Don’t be. This isn’t on you, Buck." His tone softened. "Besides, it’s not your fault."

Steve had known the Barnes family long enough to understand the full story. Shawn, the eldest son, always had an ego, fed by the wealth and privilege of his upbringing. With everything handed to him, he acted like the world owed him, seeing himself as untouchable.

In truth, it was Shawn who was supposed to enter politics. But unlike Bucky, he lacked the charisma and leadership qualities. Caroline, their mother, had long since given up hope on her eldest son, who had failed to live up to expectations.

Back then, Bucky had been a quiet presence, almost invisible in his own home. Caroline had never even heard his voice much, even though they lived under the same roof. But everything changed when Bucky entered law school. There, he shone.

He joined clubs, became student president, volunteered, organized demonstrations, and eventually graduated as valedictorian. Every trait of a leader was there, clear for everyone to see—especially Caroline. She shifted her attention to Bucky, molding him into the perfect candidate, ensuring he stayed on the path to success.

Shawn, once the golden child, watched as the spotlight shifted to his younger brother. The attention, the purpose he had once enjoyed, slipped away. He felt lost, purposeless. That’s when the spiral began. The drugs were his escape, his way of coping with the emptiness.

At first, it was subtle. But soon, it became public knowledge—Shawn Barnes was a cocaine addict. In an attempt to save face, Caroline and Julius sent him to rehab. But the real disaster struck when Shawn escaped, driving under the influence. That’s when the accident happened—the night he hit someone with his car.

Steve didn’t know the full details after that. What he did know was that Shawn had paid bail and was sent to another rehab, the entire incident hushed up. The Barnes family had buried the scandal deep, hoping it would never see the light of day.

But as Steve thought to himself, no matter how deep you bury something, eventually the stench of rot seeps through.

"I’ll fix this," Bucky said, his voice low but determined.

Steve raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. "How, exactly?"

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

The Barnes household felt colder than ever, the tension suffocating the room. Shawn sat in the corner, hunched over, hugging his knees. His fingernails were chewed down to the skin, his pale face etched with panic.

"Shit... shit..." he muttered under his breath, eyes darting around the room like a caged animal.

Across the room, Caroline and Julius were in a quiet panic. Caroline paced, wringing her hands, her face pale with fear. Julius stood by the window, his jaw clenched, staring out as if searching for answers that weren’t there.

You sat on the sofa, watching the unfolding chaos like a distant spectator. It was almost theatrical—the Barnes family, once so composed, unraveling before your eyes.

Just then, the door creaked open, and you turned to see Bucky walking in. His face was a mask of determination, his eyes dark and unreadable.

You rose from the sofa and approached him. Before you could speak, he cut you off with a low, firm voice. “I want you to stay out of sight. Away from the windows.”

You frowned but nodded, sensing the weight of his words. He brushed past you without another glance and made his way toward Shawn.

Shawn looked up at Bucky, his eyes wide and filled with fear. He seemed so small in front of his younger brother, almost shrinking under the weight of Bucky’s presence.

“Get up,” Bucky ordered, his voice hard. Without waiting for a response, he reached down and pulled Shawn to his feet.

Shawn stumbled but didn’t resist. He followed Bucky like a lost child.

“Where are you taking him?” Caroline’s voice trembled as she rushed forward to stop them, but Bucky didn’t break stride.

“What he should’ve done years ago,” Bucky answered coldly, dragging Shawn along.

Caroline hurried after them, her heels clicking against the floor. “Bucky, wait! What do you mean?”

Bucky led them outside, the sound of the door swinging open making Caroline stop in her tracks. She froze as her eyes widened in shock. There, right outside their home, were TV station cameras, police cars, and flashing lights.

Caroline’s heart pounded in her chest. “Bucky,” she hissed, her voice sharp with disbelief. “How could you do this? This is a public execution! You’re putting a guillotine to your own brother!”

Julius stepped forward, his voice tired but stern. “Son, is this really the only way?”

Bucky turned briefly to look at his parents, his expression cold. “We have to set an example.”

Caroline’s face twisted in fear, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “Bucky, please... don’t do this.”

Before Bucky could respond, Shawn’s voice rang out, shaky but clear. “Stop!” he shouted.

Caroline flinched, her eyes locking with Shawn’s. His face was pale, but his eyes, for the first time in years, looked determined.

“Mother,” Shawn said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve been free from jail, but there’s been a shackle on me ever since. Guilt has haunted me every day. I’ve been hiding, running, pretending it didn’t happen. But it did. And I need to face it.”

Bucky gave his brother a nod, and Shawn took a shaky breath before turning to him. “Let’s go.”

They walked toward the press together. Cameras flashed as Bucky led Shawn to the bouquet of microphones, the press shouting questions over one another. Shawn took a deep breath and stepped forward. His hands trembled as he gripped the podium.

“I made a mistake,” Shawn began, his voice cracking. “I was reckless... I hurt someone. I ran from it, and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry—for what I did and for hiding it for so long.”

As the words left his mouth, you could see the weight of guilt lifting from his shoulders, though his face remained heavy with regret. He glanced at Bucky, who stood beside him, stoic but supportive. Bucky knew how much the accident haunted Shawn, how it had eaten him alive from the inside out.

After Shawn finished his confession, he stepped away from the podium and voluntarily walked toward the waiting police car. The press erupted with questions aimed at Bucky. One reporter shouted above the rest, “Why did you expose your own brother like this?”

Bucky met the reporter’s gaze, his voice steady and firm. “Because no one is above the law.”

As Shawn was driven away, Caroline stood frozen in the doorway, her face a mask of fury. She didn’t want to look at Bucky, not now, not after what he’d done. Julius said nothing, too exhausted to protest or intervene.

Once the commotion had died down, you walked up to Bucky, your voice low. “You don’t feel guilty? Sacrificing your own brother like that?”

Bucky leaned in, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, "I'll do anything to get that position. It’s all for you too, babe." His voice was low, dangerous, the tension between you crackling like a live wire.

You could feel the heat radiating off him, the intensity in his gaze as his lips hovered just inches from your skin. The closeness sent a shiver down your spine, your heart pounding in your chest. There was something intoxicating in the way he said it, like a promise that left you both thrilled and unnerved.

You met his gaze, your pulse racing. "You’re crazy," you muttered, though the words felt weaker than you intended.

Without another word, you pulled away, leaving him standing there, the charge of the moment lingering long after you had gone.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

The next day you returned to the campaign headquarters, where the atmosphere was thick with tension.

So much had happened in the past 48 hours. The campaign team buzzed with a frenetic energy, fueled by the fallout from Shawn’s confession. Despite the chaos, there was a flicker of optimism; his admission had managed to regain some trust from the voters.

Yet, you could sense the undercurrent of anxiety. Everyone was on edge, aware that the storm wasn't over. Phone calls rang out, strategy meetings were called, and you could see the weight of the situation pressing down on each team member's shoulders. You felt a mix of relief and dread—relief that there was hope, but dread about what might come next.

Your brother, Tim was still focused and serious as he poured over the reports, his usual calm replaced by a quiet intensity. You watched him for a moment, feeling a strange pang of guilt in your chest. But you couldn’t linger on that.

“I’m going to get some coffee,” you muttered, more to yourself than anyone else.

The streets were busy, but your mind was elsewhere, lost in the chaos of everything that had happened. The scandal, the press, Bucky. It felt like everything was unraveling. The nearest café was only a block away, and you pushed through the door, grateful for the brief respite.

That’s when you saw him.

Ian.

He was leaning casually against the counter, a cup of coffee in hand, but the moment he spotted you, something changed in his expression. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, but it was far from friendly.

You froze in place, staring at him for a beat too long. “Are you spying on us?” you asked, your voice low but sharp as you crossed your arms, trying to keep your emotions in check.

Ian's smirk widened as if he’d been waiting for this. “Isn’t it obvious?” he replied, his tone almost teasing but dripping with bitterness. “I work with the other side now.”

You felt a surge of frustration, but more than that, something inside you twisted—an old wound reopening. You took a step closer, your eyes narrowing.

“We’ve worked together, Ian. We’ve seen injustice and unfairness in the world. But this…” You hesitated, searching his face for any trace of the person you used to know. “This feels personal.”

Ian’s smile faded, replaced by something darker. He snapped his fingers, and in an instant, everyone in the café left, leaving just the two of you inside.

You were taken aback, a chill running down your spine as the door swung shut behind the last customer.

He stepped forward, closing the distance between you, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You got that right,” he said, his eyes burning with something deep and unresolved.

“The person who died in that car accident? The one your dear Bucky’s brother killed? That was my twin brother.”

Your breath caught in your throat, the world around you narrowing to just Ian and the heavy weight of his words. “Your twin…” you whispered, the realization hitting you like a punch to the gut.

Ian’s expression hardened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “Yeah. My twin brother. Both of us were put up for adoption. I didn’t even know he existed until I was fourteen years old.”

He turned his gaze away from you, the memories clearly painful, but he didn’t stop. “I was adopted by a British couple. Grew up thinking I was an only child. It wasn’t until I did some digging into my adoption records that I found out about him. My twin.”

You felt a chill run down your spine as you listened, unable to speak. Ian’s voice was tight with emotion, but he pressed on.

“I was so damn happy when I found him. We bonded right away, as if we’d never been apart.” His voice softened, but the pain was unmistakable.

“We stayed in touch. Became close. We had so much to catch up on, and it was like I finally had someone who understood me in a way no one else could.”

He shook his head, his jaw clenching. “But then…” He looked back at you, his eyes blazing with anger. “Then Shawn Barnes took him away from me. He killed him. And your husband family covered it all up.”

You flinched at the venom in his words, your heart pounding in your chest. You had no idea. You hadn’t known the full story, and now it was staring you in the face.

Ian stepped even closer, invading your space, his eyes searching yours for something—maybe regret, maybe guilt. “They buried it. Buried him. And now you’re standing by their side, supporting the man whose family let my brother’s killer walk free.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. You felt frozen, torn between your loyalty to Bucky and the weight of Ian’s grief and anger.

You knew about the cover-up involving Shawn, but who were you to uncover the truth, especially knowing it would be futile to fight against Caroline?

Now, guilt washed over you for having ignored this. It turned out the victim was closer than you had ever realized.

Ian’s voice softened, but the intensity didn’t fade. “Tell me,” he said, his gaze piercing into you. “After all of this… after everything you know… do you still trust him?”

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[n3ptoonz]

'Political Animals' II

okayyy so i had zero intention of adding on but the people YEARNNNN for this affair, and i thank you guys so much for the overwhelming support 💋!!!

now bc of that, i changed small things in the first part and hey, y'all wanted plot so i'm GIVING u plot 🤫 shit bout to get wicked.

New warnings/tags: Mentions of guilt, arguing, dom!reader, sub!bucky, riding, choking (m!receiving), floor sx, Bucky is a fucking freak, Bucky's kind of a dickhead but it's hot, husband mentioned/interaction, idk shit about the inner workings of the government so i'm bullshitting most of the plot, barely proofread so apologies in advance, it's about to be 5 am LOL

referenced this tweet at the end. foaming at the mouth.

Word count: 3.4k

Read first part/chapter here if you haven't already and feedback is MUCH appreciated <3

FINAL CHAP HERE

"Bucky-" your words caught in your throat as he shushed you, two of his fingers going at a relentless pace while buried inside you. The squelching sounds alone drowned out your heartbeat thumping in your ears. You clung onto him and balled up his blazer into your fist as you fought to stay quiet.

"You're so pretty like this," he whispered into your neck. Your ears started to buzz and ring quietly as you neared climax.

"If only he knew," he continued with a dry chuckle. When he curled his fingers, your vision went white and you gasped-

"Madam Secretary?"

The two words were like cold water being splashed on your face. You blinked a few times at the woman sitting in front of you at the table, your eyes trailing down to the recorder sitting there.

"I'm sorry, what did you ask me?" you said and subtly looked around to make sure you were back in reality. What happened? One second ago you were being interviewed by an "esteemed" journalist about the latest foreign affairs going on overseas, and the next you just...blanked.

"What do you think of Congressman Barnes?"

"What?" your eyes snapped to hers.

The woman's brows furrowed as she reiterated, "What part does congress have in this?" she asked slowly before pausing the recorder, placing her hand on the table and leaning forward, as if to scrutinize. "If I got you at a bad time-"

"No! No, it's fine. I just, didn't get much sleep last night. Paperwork, am I right?" you said as you waved off her concern. She nodded with a smile and grabbed her pen along with the notebook that you seemed to miss when you first walked in.

"Then, shall we start over?" she asked. There was something so slimy about her that you couldn't quite put your finger on. Journalists have always given you hell in one way shape or form. You nodded and watched her unpause the recorder, determined to stay focused this time.

It's been two whole months since you last even spoke to each other. Duty calls, and you were thinking of starting your campaigning today. Announce to the world that you will be running for president in the upcoming election.

You meant it when you said you had elections to think about, but what you didn't expect is for this long string of lack of interaction with Bucky to make you reflect. It was pure bliss that night, but you started to feel guilty. Especially because all it took was one good fuck and he ruined you for anybody else. Ruined you for your own husband. Which was his mission complete.

Bucky felt like the motherfucking man ever since. He practically spent his free time daydreaming about how you looked with his metal hand over your mouth. The desperation in your eyes. The sounds of your pretty voice ringing in his ears. The overwhelming urge to unmute the phone and show that prick what an authentic creampie sounded like-

"Congressman Barnes?"

He snapped out of thought and cleared his throat, that familiar frown appearing back on his face as he motioned for his assistant to come in. She handed him a stack of files with different labels on it.

"These have Information about what's going on overseas. There's going to be a hearing later at the White House, to which the Madam Secretary is going to lead. Likely to sway the votes towards sending resources over, but you didn't hear that from me."

Bucky nodded and skimmed over the print, rolling his eyes at the redacted documents. He was half listening and checked out when he heard you'd be there.

"Thank you," he said while holding it up. "When is it being held?" he asked, seeing her check her watch.

"In about an hour and a half, sir." she answered, "You'll have a vehicle sent for you in an hour."

"You aren't coming with?" he asked with furrowed brows.

"No, sir. I have to outline your schedule for the next two weeks just in case things go south at the hearing. Let me know how it goes. And don't forget your binder." she said with a thumbs up and then left. Bucky half waved goodbye and sighed. He was going to see you again after two months, front and center. Likely on strict business so he knew to watch his stares and remarks.

Stay professional, Buck.

The hearing went terribly. Almost a unanimous "no" across the board, and the questions being asked were atrocious. It wasn't new news that most of these old fucks never budged, but that didn't make the process any less frustrating. On top of it all, Bucky had been staring you down since you stepped onto that stage. The proud look in his eyes as you stood your ground, despite the situation made your heart flutter alone.

As if matters couldn't get worse, afterwards while you were shaking hands and well aware of the press lingering around, your husband pops up out of nowhere. To which he rarely does.

You turned and tried to maneuver through the crowd to avoid him, but, of course, like something from a cliche romcom, you walked into Bucky at the same time he turned. Just a face full of chest and tie. Probably the same tie he wore when...

"Oh- Madam Secretary," he said, catching your arm before you stumbled backwards. You cleared your throat and nodded with a half smile, removing his hand and taking it in your other hand to shake it.

"Congressman," you responded in a formal tone, like this was your first time meeting.

"Honey!" you heard from behind. Sighing and letting go of Bucky's hand, you turned and faced your husband with possibly the fakest smile you could conjure. You greeted him with a kiss on the cheek and backed up.

"What brings you by?" you asked. With your back to Bucky, you completely missed the deep grimace on his face at the whole interaction, but he stuck around.

"You weren't answering your phone, so I thought I'd swing by to ask if you could cook tonight? I have a meeting in an hour and I'm going to be out pretty late." he replied, either oblivious or unbothered by the way you froze with that same expression.

"What-"

"Oh, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?" he interrupted with his hand extended to Bucky as he introduced himself. Bucky's hardened expression completely vanished as he shook hands with the very guy he'd dangle from a ledge, had this been a few years prior.

Your eye twitched as you snapped out of your thoughts. This is bad. Really bad.

"Congressman Barnes," Bucky said with a genuine grin. To anybody else, it was friendly, to him and you, it was "You have no clue I'm fucking your wife."

"Well, um, I will get back to you on that. We should go before the press-"

"Have we met before?" your husband asked Bucky. Your heart dropped and you swore you were manually breathing now. You turned to Bucky with pursed lips, your eyes saying 'Wrap it the fuck up.'

Bucky glanced at you before his eyes went back to your husband. He knew he should leave it alone. Just say no and let you go deal with whatever it is with your man. Respect the boundary.

"No, I don't think so," he said. Your shoulders slumped in relief as you went to take your husband's hand and get the hell out of dodge.

"Are you sure? I really feel like I've at least heard your voice before." he pressed, his hand moving out of the way of yours. You resisted the urge to shoot him a strong glare at his stubbornness.

"Hun, if he says he hasn't met you before, then perhaps he hasn't-"

He snapped his fingers and pointed to Bucky, a flash of recognition on his face. "We spoke on the phone a while ago. You answered her phone and were generous enough to pass on my message to her."

Your entire body felt itchy all over. Seeing that oblivious smile on his face sent you an upcoming headache later.

"Right, yes. He was very kind to do that." you said with a tight smile.

"Oh, that's right. That meeting was pretty intense, I didn't want to interrupt but I had to make sure your lovely, hardworking wife heard from her husband. She's quite the determined one. A natural leader, might I add-"

"Yeah, that's nice, uh, honey?" he said, gesturing toward the exit so you two could leave. Bucky's lips formed a thin line as he held back every fucked up thing he could fire off at this very moment. You nodded and walked off without another word. You could just strangle the both of them with your bare hands.

-

"I guess they just let anybody into Congress," your husband said while pouring a small drink of whiskey. The same complementary drink that's been sitting in your office for some time now.

You looked up from your desk, "What?" you asked, tone harsher than intended.

"Your friend," he said like it was obvious. "It just clicked to me that he has a metal arm." he added and downed the drink in one go.

"So?"

"'So?' Honey, that's the Winter Soldier." he said in a dramatically hushed tone.

"I know who he was." you replied, purposely changing the wording to Bucky's defense. He looked at you like you were crazy.

"And you're just...okay with that? No concern or worry that he might...you know-"

"You think the government would let him even run for Congress if he was still unstable? Don't be ridiculous. And you just met him. Thought you two seemed friendly." you grumbled and put your attention back on the files in front of you.

"Yeah, cause I thought he was just some guy." he said. "But is this really the kind of guy you wanna be around. I saw the way he looked at you."

A lump formed in your throat. It wasn't abnormal for him to be jealous and/or just accuse men of wanting to take you from him, but this time it wasn't necessarily wrong...and he very well could've been looking at you...

"Do not start with that- Don't you have a meeting?"

"I do in a bit but I'm just saying. I know it's like your job to see the good in people-"

"Go." you said and stood up, pointing to the door. He scoffed and stood upright to fix the sleeves on his suit.

"Alright," he said and shrugged. Walking over to the door, he turned halfway and added, "Just to be clear, you aren't cooking tonight-"

"Go!" you exclaimed and watched him dart out the door. You huffed and chuckled dryly as you sat back down. The files on your desk reminded you that you forgot to talk to your assistant about contacting your old campaign manager.

You heard a soft knock on the door while you were rubbing your eyes in frustration, assuming it was him.

"Hey, could you get in contact with-" you began, but when your eyes landed on a man that definitely wasn't your assistant, you couldn't look even more annoyed.

"Bucky," you said in a not so welcoming tone. "Why are you here?"

"I... came to apologize, actually," he said and rubbed his chin. "I do apologize...but I couldn't help myself. Guy's a dickhead."

"You think I don't know that?" you responded and stood again but didn't move from your desk. "And you call that an apology?"

"What was I supposed to do? He wouldn't stop pressing the issue so I just, acted accordingly."

"Barnes-"

He interrupted with a scoff. "So now it's back to Barnes."

"Yes! It is back to Barnes, and it should've stayed that way. You knew how pissed I was because of that shitty hearing and now the man that I cheated with is playing buddy-buddy with my husband."

"And now I'm just the guy you cheated with?" he asked and placed his binder down before stepping forward to lean on your desk with his hands. "If I recall correctly, you had full reign to tell me to fuck off and you didn't. Don't pin this on me."

"I'm not pinning anything on you. I'm more mad you idiots distracted me, so now I have to make a few calls tomorrow and start campaigning later than I intended."

Bucky stared at you for a few seconds before standing up slowly. He rounded the desk and stood a foot away to your right.

"What's this really about?" he asked softly. You didn't look at him, but instead looked down at the desk. You began rattling off about your stresses these last two months, including how the guilt was eating you alive. You didn't notice he stepped closer until you felt the heat radiating off him. You put a hand on his chest and physically pushed him away.

"You need to go." you said quietly. His metal hand came up and pressed it closer. If you paid attention, you could hear his heart fighting to stay inside. He said your name in a silent plea but you persisted. This connection, the electricity between you two was no stranger, but at the end of the day he was crossing a boundary. You're still a married woman who had an election to think about.

He didn't say anything else and just...left. You took a deep breath and rubbed your temples. But the bullshit wasn't over. Your gaze fell to the binder he forgot to pick up before leaving. Groaning loudly and actively resisting the urge to hurl something across the room, you decided you'll cool off by finishing your work for the night and bringing it over to him one you're finished.

-

You stood at the foot of his office door, staring at the name tag as you took a deep breath. Was this a bad idea? Was this stupid? Silly? Setting yourself up for failure? It's just a binder. And it's also just the man that had you shaking under him not too long ago. It's ridiculous. The whole thing seems childish.

Without second thought you knocked. A few seconds later you heard him tell you to come in, which kind of annoyed you because you hoped he'd come to the door and just retrieve his stuff.

You walked in and saw his gaze snap to you. Bucky had his blazer slung over the back of his chair. He stood and walked over to stand directly in front of you, his eyes never glancing at his binder in your hand.

"You left your binder." you tossed it to a nearby table and kept his gaze. He didn't look phased at all.

"I know." he said in a soft tone. He took a step closer and your back pressed against the door. Your chest tightened as the seconds went by. This had to end.

This has to end...right?

You just stood there. Like you did at the door. Whatever you were going to say, whatever speech you had prepared died on your lips.

"Barnes-"

He exhaled and rolled his eyes. He can't take it anymore.

Bucky gently grabbed your face and kissed you, just like he did two months ago. It was like no time passed since. He couldn't stop himself. You are a carnal desire and it needed to be satiated.

"I love you," he whispered.

"Bucky, don't- mph-"

And alas, it all clicked. He wrapped his arms around your torso and lifted you as he kissed you once more. You didn't care anymore. You needed him. He needed you. Badly. You even kicked off your heels once off the ground.

Bucky carefully spun you away from the door, so lost in you and how life just felt perfect in your presence. His taut muscles flexed against his shirt as he brought you both to the floor, lying in between your legs and hooking his knee under yours. He ground himself against you like a wild animal, grunting against your mouth like he hasn't eaten in so, so long.

You dragged your nails against his back, earning a snap from his hips while you straddled him harder. You figured the only way you'd be able to stay at the volume you wish so that nobody would overhear, you had to take control.

Somehow you managed to gain enough strength to flip him over so that you were on top. 99% of you is convinced he let you. You shed your blouse to reveal your bra, leaning over him and placing his hands on your ass.

"If I had known the day would end like this, I would've worn something nicer," you purred, seeing his pupils blown wide as she smiled.

"You're fuckin' perfect," he said breathlessly and squeezed. He pushed your skirt up and you reached down between your legs to undo his pants with fervor.

He managed to get them down enough for you to pull him out and waste no time sinking down onto him. You had to hold back a guttural moan from waking the city. Sure, you've experienced him before, but this angle was purely ungodly; sinful.

James Buchanan Barnes is an enigma. But if it's one thing that is no mystery, it's that he had a big dick. It was like getting used to another man.

"Take it." he whispered with his eyes closed, his hands resting on your hips. He wanted to save a mental image of your tits threatening to spill out while you were on top. "Take it all."

You started to move your hips slowly, purposely sinking your hips harshly against his. The sound of your whimpering while trying to concentrate was sending him to another dimension.

You cursed aloud and closed your legs around him tighter to get better leverage. Now at this point you were fucking yourself on him. He could die like this.

You grunted and bounced harder. Perhaps you were feeling yourself just enough to close your hand around his neck.

And that was the first time you heard Bucky whine.

You looked down at him with heavy breaths. Did you hear that correctly? Maybe it was the sticky substance forming under you that made you hear things.

"Harder." he said quietly as he eyes opened again and seeing your bra strap hanging off your shoulder. "Please." he barely uttered.

You squeezed a little harder and you could swear you felt him get harder inside you.

"Fuck." he groaned and gripped your hips hard enough to leave a mark. "You keep looking at me like that and I'm gonna give you a son."

You bit your lip to stifle your own moan while shooting him an attempt of an unamused expression, but he looked dead serious.

"Ugh- Wouldn't wanna- fuck up your image though-" he added and blew air through his cheeks to stay focused. He was definitely about to cum. "Madam President." he said under his breath and smirked.

"Shut the fuck up." you said in one breath, one word. He called out your name in a moan and sucked in his breath.

"You gotta get up," he strained, like he wasn't still assisting in you using him like a fuck toy. "Gonna be dripping for days if you don't."

You just needed a few more. Just a few more and you were there. This is possibly the biggest risk you've ever taken, and you've been in war zones.

He said your name again in a pleading tone and it took one, two, three more and you were gone. You pulled yourself off him and nearly collapsed if his chest wasn't there to hold you up. He bucked and twitched under you, some of his cum hitting under your thigh. You rolled off of him and laid on the ground to stare at the ceiling while catching your breath and feeling the aftershocks.

You shook your head in disbelief and grabbed your phone that luckily didn't crack when it hit the ground. You called your husband, and when it went straight to voicemail, you sat silent for a few seconds before glancing at Bucky, still dazed and fucked out.

"I want a divorce."

[gmasttin]

Really Good, Actually | Kylian Mbappé

| Summary: A Madrid-based creative unexpectedly finds herself leading the rebranding of Kylian Mbappé. Between cold coffees, impossible deadlines, and tense creative sessions, something more than just a campaign begins to take shape. An ironic, intimate, and emotionally sharp story about the chaos of feeling alive just when you thought you were only surviving.

| Chapter 2 is already out!!

| 3.6k words

| A/n: I read the book “Really Good, Actually” by Monica Heisey and after binging a bunch of romcoms, I decided to finally start and post one. A lighthearted story, with some romcom vibes, that I’d actually been thinking about writing for quite a while. I hope you enjoy it, and sorry for any mistakes, it's the first one I've ever written and as it's obvious, English is not my first language. Enjoy <3.

Chapter 1

Back when life was simpler, and all you had to worry about were Tupperware containers, briefs, and whether you’d make it to the 7 p.m. Pilates class.

Some mornings, you wake up with this strange sense of clarity, like everything’s aligned. The coffee’s just right, the subway arrives on time, no one crushes your toes with a pair of impossible stilettos in their rushed way to their fancy offices.

This is not one of those mornings. You’re not sure if it’s because of the weird dream (the one where you’re marrying Louis, your ex, except he’s the one wearing that wedding dress you kept eyeing, and of course, his mother steals your spot at the altar), or because you ended up arguing with your own mother again, over text, at 12:47 a.m.

But something’s off.

You feel it in the way your toothbrush slips out of your hand, at least three times. Or how your coat gets caught on the door handle right when you’re running late. Also in the fact that, for some reason, you’re wearing two completely different shoes and don’t notice until you’re already in the elevator.

You don’t go back to change them. After all, no one looks at your feet in a marketing agency. Unless you work in fashion. And you don’t work in fashion.

You work in “emotionally driven brand storytelling strategy.” Which is just a fancy way of saying you come up with excuses for people to buy things they don’t need.

At 9:08, you get to the office. You know this because the biometric check-in clock reminds you, like a threat. You throw on your jacket with the defeated air of someone who already knows there’s no hot coffee left for her.

There are two people in the office's kitchen: Lucía, who always looks like she’s either about to cry or fall in love, and Guillermo, who speaks with an exaggeratedly British accent that no one really understands.

“Morning,” he says without looking up from his phone.

“How are you?” you reply, not because you care, but because silence feels even more aggressive.

“Busy. So busy. We have that pitch with the Swiss skincare brand at eleven. And then there’s the meeting.”

Ah. The meeting.

Your boss had announced it yesterday on Teams with the gravity of someone introducing the new Messiah:

“Tomorrow, we have an important meeting. Very important. Like, potential long-term strategic client important. I need your best brains, team. Bring attitude.”

You head back to your desk, a white table that’s far too small, which you share with three other people and a dying plant everyone pretends not to be turning their backs on.

On your screen, thirty-seven tabs are open. Nine are unfinished briefs, three are online clothing stores, and one is a search for: “how to tell if you’re having an emotional breakdown or just sleep-deprived.”

You take a deep breath. Open your calendar. The event is there:

10:30 – Confidential meeting.Subject: Project Star.Attendees: Management, PR, you.

You. Lowercase. Like a typo someone forgot to fix.

You try to focus. Take a sip of your coffee (cold). Open the Excel file with your corporate smile, the one you once practiced in the kitchen mirror. But it doesn’t last.

Because at 10:28, you get a direct message from HR:

Marta (HR): | Head up to Room 5. They’re all here. Including him 👀

Including him.

Who is him? And why that emoji?

Room 5 is the good room. The one with the Scandinavian sofas and the fancy capsule coffee machine. It’s almost always empty, as if reserved for things that matter. Or for people who earn more in a year than you will in your entire career.

When you walk in, the first thing you see is your boss, wearing that smug “I closed this deal even though I didn’t do anything” smile. Then three people you don’t recognize. Suits. Serious. A woman holding a folder full of documents, and two men who look like they haven’t laughed since 2017.

And then you see him.

He’s sitting in the corner of the sofa, staring at his phone like it’s blowing up. White shirt, sleeves rolled up, expensive watch. The kind of person who doesn’t need an introduction because you’ve already seen his face twenty times—on bus stop billboards, Nike campaigns, and a live-through nightmare involving penalty kicks and your grandmother’s best friend, who is Argentine.

Kylian. The footballer. That one.

Your first thought was: He’s even better looking in real life. Your second was: Don’t look impressed.

Your boss catches your eye and motions for you to sit down.

“This is Y/N, our trusted creative director,” your boss says in that tone he uses when he’s trying to sound cool and young, despite he is entering his middle 50’s. 

You smile as best you can. Your heart’s pounding like it’s doing cardio on your behalf.

Kylian looks up. And for a fraction of a second, he looks at you.

Not in a “who are you?” kind of way, but more like “right, so you’re the one who’s supposed to fix this.”

You sit down on the opposite end of the sofa. Far enough not to seem intimidating. Close enough to pretend you’re not trying to seem anything at all.

Your boss clears his throat. That thing he always does right before saying something that sounds like a headline but means absolutely nothing.

“Well, as I was saying, this is a special project. A unique opportunity to… rewrite the narrative.”

“Rewrite the narrative” is his new favorite phrase. He’s been using it ever since someone said it at a networking event and he jotted it down on his iPhone, right next to gems like “pivot from authenticity” and “emotional capital.”

“Kylian is entering a new chapter,” he adds, as if talking about a divorce or a spiritual awakening. “His team wants to work on his personal brand from a more honest place. More connected. Something… human.”

Kylian says nothing. Still staring at his phone. Like none of this matters. Like he’d honestly rather be out training in the rain or under 600-watt studio lights.

One of the women across the table finally speaks. She looks like she handles PR. Her voice sounds like one of those self-help podcasts that tell you everything happens for a reason while selling you a course on productivity.

“We want people to meet the real Kylian. Not just the athlete. The boy who grew up in the suburbs, who loves art, who’s investing in cultural initiatives for young people.”

The boy who loves art. Right. Like every bored millionaire who collects neon sculptures and Warhol prints they don’t even understand.

“We’re thinking of a series of documentary-style content—something intimate but visually strong. Also, a small social media campaign where he speaks directly to the audience. No filter.”

Your boss nods, enthusiastically, as he adds.

“And that’s why we have Y/N. Our top creative. Brilliant. With a unique sensitivity. She knows how to connect with difficult audiences. She’s worked with NGOs, tech start-ups, an inclusive pottery workshop…”

Your name, your career, your work, it all sounds like it’s being read out loud at your professional funeral. You smile. Because that’s what’s expected.

You turn toward Kylian. He looks at you. Finally. As if he’s only just now mentally arrived in the room.

“You write the scripts?” he asks. His voice is deeper than you expected. Like someone who doesn’t rush his sentences.

“I write the ideas,” you reply. “The scripts too. But if everything goes well, no one will remember the words. Just how it made them feel.”

You’re not sure why you said that. Maybe because it sounds like something a brilliant creative would say. Maybe because you’re just a little tired of being treated like a walking PowerPoint.

He nods. Says nothing else.

Your boss clears his throat again. There are more details, of course: deadlines, photo shoots, potential trips, a budget no one dares to say out loud. Words like “engagement,” “authenticity,” and “rebranding” hover in the air like LinkedIn mosquitoes.

And you, meanwhile, are sitting there wondering how this even happened. How you went from creating ad campaigns for titanium frying pans to looking into the eyes of someone who’s probably going to be the next football legend.

At the end of the meeting, he stands and everyone follows.

You stay behind a little longer, unsure if you should head back to your desk or pretend you need to go over your notes.

He turns at the door. Gives you a quick glance. Like he’s not sure whether to say goodbye.

“So, I guess I’ll see you soon,” he says.

And without thinking too much, you reply: “Looks like it.”

Later, in the office kitchen and dining area, Lucía looks at you like you just had dinner with Brad Pitt, her eternal crush.

“So? What was he like? Was he nice? Did he talk to you?”

“He asked me one question.”

“And? How was it? Can you tell he’s French?”

“Not really. You can tell he didn’t want to be here.”

She laughs. “So basically, just like you. Soulmates.”

You pour yourself more coffee. Even though it’s already noon and you know you shouldn’t. But you need something to remind you you’re still awake. That this wasn’t just a celebrity reality show fever dream.

Your boss messages you on Teams:

“Great impression. He liked you. Work your magic.”

Work your magic. As if it were that easy. As if magic weren’t, almost always, just logistics and anxiety.

You spend the afternoon going through the briefing. They’ve sent you a 17-page document titled: “A New Era: Humanizing the Legend.”

The title alone makes you want to jump out the window.

The phrases are full of vague objectives: — Position an emotional identity. — Connect with non-sports audiences. — Turn notoriety into relatability.

There are black-and-white photos of him. One with a vintage bike. Another reading a book with no title. A third holding a little girl (his niece, according to the caption). You wonder which parts of all this are real. And which ones you’ll have to invent.

You start jotting down notes. On a post-it, you write:

What if instead of pretending he’s “the guy next door,” we show him as someone who also had to fight for what he truly wanted? Distance as truth. Fame as fracture.

You like that sentence. Fame as fracture.

You stick it to the edge of your monitor. Right next to another post-it that says: – Call the dentist. – Stop stalking Louis. – Buy tampons.

The next morning unfolds like the mornings of the past six months: fast, half-hearted, with a light drizzle of anxiety—which today, for obvious reasons, feels slightly more intense.

You’ve been summoned to a more intimate meeting. Proposed by his PR manager. Just you, the PR manager, and him.

It’s in a coworking space in Chamberí that looks like a Pinterest café with people-pleasing issues.

When you arrive, they’re already seated. He’s wearing a cap. And sunglasses. Indoors. As if he didn’t want anyone to recognize him.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi,” he replies. Dry. Tired. Then silence.

The PR manager talks for eleven straight minutes. You know it because you count it mentally. He nods occasionally, as if he’s listening. But you watch him and know he’s not really there. So you go for it.

“Sorry. Can I ask something?”

They both turn to you. The PR manager, with a thin smile, the kind that expects you to compliment her long monologue where she’s said everything and absolutely nothing. The kind of monologue that’s made you consider requesting medical leave and handing this project off to someone else, if all future meetings are going to be like this.

“Do you actually want to do this?” you continue.

He blinks. “This?”

“Yeah. The campaign. The rebrand. Are you actually interested in it, or are you here because someone told you to be?”

The PR manager shoots you a look that could be categorized as brand sabotage.

Kylian, however, laughs. A short laugh. But a real one.

“Does it matter?”

“A lot. If you’re not into it, it’s going to show. And if it shows, everyone’s going to see it. And if they see it, they’ll call you fake. And, then we’ll have to redo the whole campaign, but this time using the drama as the hook.”

He looks at you. “All right. I’ll try.”

“Try what?”

“To care.”

You nod and make a mental note: Functional sarcasm. Potential sense of humor. Possibly shy (or just reserved, does he not like me? If so, bad start). Possibly just fed up.

They send you clips of him “for inspiration.” Interviews. Matches. Viral moments.

There’s one in particular. A phone-recorded video on a plane. He’s on his phone. Someone off-camera asks if he’s nervous about the final. He answers:

“No. I’m tired.”

Tired. Not in a physical sense. Existentially tired.

That’s the crack. That’s where you can slip in.

The next day, he shows up at the office. Unannounced. Wearing a watch that probably costs more than a year’s rent on your flat, and the look of someone who Googled “how to dress normal” this morning and gave up halfway.

It’s four in the afternoon. You’re working the late shift today, you swapped with Mireia so you could work in a quieter environment, with fewer people to distract you while you try to figure out how the hell you’re supposed to frame this project.

“I’m here to work with you,” he says, walking toward your desk. The desk you’ve been saying for over a month now that you’ll tidy up, because honestly, it’s starting to get embarrassing. And now the embarrassment is fully devouring you from the inside out.

“Did you bring ideas? Proposals? Do you want to change something in the project?” you ask, because you’re not entirely sure why he’s here.

He doesn’t trust me, does he?

To be fair, your boss didn’t exactly sell you very well. And you wouldn’t trust someone either if they looked like they hadn’t been laid properly in five months and seventeen days (which, if asked, wouldn’t be too far from the truth), to run the documentary that’s supposed to reinvent your public image.

“No.”

You raise an eyebrow. Definitely doesn’t trust me. You think. Or maybe his PR manager sent him to spy on you, because she also doesn’t trust how you do your job, especially after you, let’s be honest, gently shredded hers the other day.

He grabs a spare chair and sits next to you, stealing Pablo’s seat, who’s now watching the interaction from the water machine like it’s a live episode of something he didn’t know he needed.

“These ‘meetings’ usually happen with PR,” you tell him. “You don’t have to be here. They can send you the details.”

“I don’t care,” he shrugs. “It’s a project about my life, right? I should know what’s being said. And what’s not.”

Then, with just the right amount of cheek: “Got any coffee? Pour me one.”

You stare at him. Did he just tell me to make him coffee? Like I’m his assistant?

And you stare a little longer. He holds your gaze, half-smirking, half-testing. That kind of expression that doesn’t fully commit to being rude or polite. As if he hasn’t decided which version of himself is most useful in a Madrid office on a Tuesday afternoon.

You inhale. Slowly.

“We don’t have personal assistants here.”

You get up. Walk toward the coffee machine without looking back. Spine straight. Jaw set. Your version of saying don’t mess with me without saying it.

“Then make us both one,” he adds from your chair, like that somehow makes it better.

The laugh escapes before you can stop it. Dry. More of a stylish snort than a laugh, really.

“Sugar? Or do you want me to draw your logo in the foam?”

“No sugar. I'm in season, gotta watch the sweets.” He says it softer this time. Almost like an apology.

When you come back with the two mugs, he’s already leaned into your monitor. Arms crossed. Eyes fixed on the project timeline you’d left open.

“All this... you do it alone?” he asks, not looking at you.

“Did you think I had a team?”

Now he turns. Looks at you fully. Something’s shifted in his face, like irony was the password to get into his world.

“No. It’s just... a lot.”

You shrug.

“It is. But hey, at least no one makes me chase a ball for a living.”

He laughs. An unexpected one. Brief. Almost sweet. And that’s when it hits you: He’s not just looking at you. He’s watching you. Like he’s trying to figure something out about you that’s not in your resumé.

The next forty minutes, you work in silence. Or at least, what passes for “working” when two people are hyper-aware of each other and there's a quiet tension in the air that neither of you knows how to name yet.

Every now and then, he asks something. About the script tone. The order of the clips. Whether his accent is “too French” for a voiceover.

“Do you think I should speak Spanish in the videos?” he asks.

You consider it.

“If you want people to see you’re making an effort, yes. If you want to sound perfect, no.”

“I want to sound real.”

“Then leave it as it is. With mistakes. With pauses. With ‘ehh’ and ‘I don’t know.’”

He nods. And something opens there. Just a crack. A window slit. But it’s real.

He’s smarter than he looks. You realize that somewhere between the conversation on narratives, social media, and how to show vulnerability without sounding like a performance. He has opinions. He asks. He listens.

And you... You’re confused. Because you don’t know if this is still work. Or if you’re slowly being pulled into the gravity of it all. Of him. Of this moment.

At some point, he laughs at something you say and looks at you like you’re brilliant. Not beautiful. Brilliant. And for some reason, that disarms you more than any physical compliment.

The next day, at 10:36 a.m., the unofficial break time for Lucía, as if the universe had conspired for this conversation to happen, Lucía shows up at your desk with a cookie in hand.

“Was it real? He was here? Pablo told me.”

You raise your gaze to meet Lucía’s eyes, like she’s reached the juiciest part of a novel she can’t stop reading. You simply nod and turn your attention back to the monitor of your computer.

“So, how was it?”

You glance at your empty coffee cup resting next to the mountain of discarded post-its, all with ideas that still don’t quite fit this project. Ideas that seem to wander like echoes, failing to capture the essence.

“Strange.”

“Strange good or strange bad?” Lucía insists, now sitting on the edge of your desk, making it feel like an interrogation. 

You sigh, gathering your thoughts.

“Strange ‘I want him back.’” You admit, letting yourself be pulled into that mix of confusion and realization you’ve been keeping to yourself.

You told her about that strange back-and-forth, that feeling you couldn’t quite describe, but Lucía, after hearing it, defined it as “professional flirting in disguise.”

“We’re not flirting.”

“Of course you are. It’s just that instead of telling him you love his smile, you told him his current storytelling is weak and redundant.”

“Because it is.”

“And he looked at you like he wanted you to write his biography and emotional resume.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Girl, I’m telling you, as a friend and as someone who’s seen all the seasons of The Bold Type, that guy cares more about your feedback than winning the Ballon d'Or.”

Exaggerations aside, something was there. A subtle thread of mutual curiosity, something that was growing without you realizing. And now, here you were: immersed in a project that would last several weeks, working alongside him. Defining the tone of his communication, developing digital pieces, planning interviews… All while trying to maintain your composure and stay focused on your workday.

You’ve come to the conclusion that it all boils down to the fact that you were bored.

You could say it was the algorithm. You could blame a well-executed digital strategy. You could use any excuse, really, and not be lying. But deep down, you know it was that. Boredom. The deadliest of mental states.

And there you were, last night, a Wednesday, with your emergency bun and a lopsided dinner in front of you, watching a video of Kylian Mbappé talking about motivation in a square format with black-and-white subtitles. He wore a white shirt, the collar a little stretched, and several buttons undone. And you wore what was left of your self-esteem and a glass of supermarket red wine.

The worst part is, the video wasn’t bad. The worst part is, it actually seemed sincere. It was in English, with a strong accent and a hesitant intonation, like he was afraid of offending the language. He said things like, "you can’t be your best version if you don’t know who you are," and you nodded. YOU NODDED. After that, you turned off your phone as if it had slapped you and went to bed without washing your face. Because boredom doesn’t just make you vulnerable; it also makes you lazy.

You told Lucía the story as if it were some ridiculous anecdote. Something to laugh about during her unofficial coffee break. But Lucía, who is not just your coworker but your version with steroids, looked at you as if you’d said something important.

“Girl, what if this is a sign?”

“A sign of what?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.

“That you need a change. Or a quickie. Or both.”

[diceramblesaboutocs]

Undirected Connection || Idia x Reader || Chapter 1

Prologue

Author’s note: wow I actually updated. :) Also the mandatory: English isn't my native language so...

Rating: Teen Pairing: Idia/Reader Words: 3 884 Tags: GenderNeutral Reader - Reader is from Ignihyde - Cat and mouse chase dynamic - minimal editing - I just try to write stuff - no beta, we die like men

The Board Game club. A place for introverts alike to find their voice as they played against other students, something that they all had in common so they had something to talk about. Or for people who like to stay one jump ahead of everyone else, like Azul Ashengrotto, the housewarden of Octavinelle. In the whole college, there was no more ruthless businessman. Strategy games? Be ready to be dominated by the cephalo-punk (as Savanaclaw's housewarden called him). Or witness him develop the best technique to throw the dice so he would always land the favorable numbers for his turn in a game of chance. Either way not many people were willing to play against him. Other than Idia, who could give a good fight and occasionally even win. It was a battle of equal wit and smarts. A match to witness.

But this evening, Idia found himself struggling. Not because of the game but because Azul's newest obsession and he needed Idia's help.

“Just name your price and we can negotiate.” Azul's clear and benevolent voice slithered towards Idia, like a seawitch's tentacles wrapping around someone valuable.

“No.” For once Idia didn't stutter. Maybe it was because they were in the middle of a game, one of his favorite games in fact. The Court of Wonders, a board game of horror and mystery, taking place in an old gothic city based on Fleur City. Fully cooperative, roleplaying puzzle game with combat and story campaigns where the player characters could investigate, fight eldritch beings, die or worse, go insane and start sabotaging the fellow players. Idia had been so excited when he got the newest expansion for the game that he brought it to the club without a second thought. He had done the prep work for it ahead of time. He had a mental list of how he would convince Azul to play the game with him.

But he didn't need the list. Azul had accepted the choice of game way too easy. And now he knew why.

Azul let out a hefty sigh, trying to tug on Idia's heartstrings. Who would help the helpless, benevolent housewarden of Octavinelle? “You do understand that this is a once in a lifetime opportunity?”

Idia's brows knitted together in frustration as he gestured towards the game hoping that Azul would give up. “For you, now play your turn.”

“And I’m willing to compensate for your efforts. I’m not just a decent businessman, I'm a benevolent one!” The silver haired businessman smiled with controlled brightness, very sure of himself that he would eventually tear down Idia's defenses.

“Azul, it’s your move. What will your character do? We could really use more clues.”

“Listen, Idia, you aren’t understanding the gravity of the losses I’m having here. Through this Litae, I could be making thousands of thaumarks.”

To use his superior technical skills to locate one sorry student who had piqued Azul's attention? If anything, that sounded low tier D rank quest. Idia had better things to do than that. “I can make you a voice generation software, just play your turn.” He had already done the text-to-speech app for the presentations on the Culture event, doing a voice generation on top of that would be a piece of cake. He could look through the best voice banks and implement those to the learning algorithm. He would actually create something, not spy on someone's online activity.

Azul wagged his finger in front of him in protest. “No, no. That won’t do. I need the real deal.”

Why couldn't Azul just let it be? “I’m not going to use my free time to chase after some weird online voice.” The tips of Idia's hair started to shift their hue to more orange as his frustration started to morph into anger.

The change didn't go unnoticed by Azul. “... Very well, I didn’t want to do this, Idia, but you leave me no choice. Jade.” He looked at the door out of the classroom and Idia instinctively followed with his eyes to see the tall eel man with the most gentlemanly demeanor that hid something deep and dangerous beneath it.

The teal haired henchman gave his most polite smile to Idia, who's hair seemed to turn a bit paler in fear. “Yes, Azul.”

Before Azul could even give his orders to lynch the blue haired mage, tha panic had settled in Idia's mind. “Were you waiting for him to call you in like that?! Like some sort of BBEG?!”

“Jade here has some very interesting information on you, it would be a shame if someone made it public knowledge…” Azul crossed his hands in front of him and leaned in a bit, smiling deviously.

“... Wait wait, why are you taking this so seriously? Chill, dude, don’t you think you are going a little bit overboard with this? Like zero chill.” Idia saw how Azul loved to see him squirm under the pressure. He wasn't eager to let his browser history or his other cringe interested to be public knowledge. He was already half-way in becoming a social pariah, he really didn't need a boost for that.

“I just wanted to make sure that you understand how serious I am about this, Idia.” The merchant of the depths said his name with a singsong tune, happy about his victory in this game. “Shees, I wish I could report you. … Fine.” Idia sighed and slumped in his chair, cursing the cephalo-punk in his mind.

“I’m glad we got into an understanding. Let’s discuss the details of payment.” Azul pulled a very official looking paper out of his bag, tapping it gingerly with an expensive onyx ballpoint pen.

***

It wasn't only the day for the Board Game club to gather, but also for the Film Research Club. All the members were busy with their newest project, a horror short film with stylized visuals and extravagant setting. Using the Night Raven College Campus for the setting was ideal, as the tall castle set the mood to the correct base line. [Y/N] loved the project idea. Even though their little family quirk could be used in many ways in performative art forms such as acting or singing, they loved creating stuff with their hands. It was a creative outlet, where their form or sound of their voice mattered little. Only what they created mattered and they poured their heart and soul into them.

They had just finished creating the base for a miniature hill with a large and bare tree on top and was preparing a glue mixture to cover it with. This served as the adhesive for the dirt, gravel and small pebbles. Vil had been very particular about the color of the ground so [Y/N] had to collect right colored rocks that could be grinded down to smaller size to fit the criteria. It was lot of work, but it was worth it. They would never admit it, but getting praise for a job well done from Schoenheit made them feel very proud of themselves.

While other members were busy with costume designs and hunting down the era specific props, [Y/N] had the workshop class all on their own. The Film Research club had used its funding to get all sorts of tools and smaller scale machines to help with the production, ranging from sewing machines to sawing machines. The big windows of the old classroom made sure the daylight filled the room and gave the best light to compare colors in different environments. Two huge workshop tables occupied the center of the room, the other now filled with all the tools [Y/N] would need for the miniature setting.

“And here is the last stop of the introductions." Vil's clear voice echoed clearly from the hallway as he opened the workshop door completely. Behind him floated a familiar figure to all Ignihyde students, Ortho. Idia's "little brother". A technomantic humanoid, a marvel of scientific potential. He seemed to scan around the workshop quickly, eager to take in everything he saw. Vil on the other hand didn't waste time as he strut with decisive steps to [Y/N]. "This is [Y/N], they are in charge of the special effects, practical and computer graphics. But as you know, the film industry is so saturated with CG that people like to see something real and tangible.”

As Ortho's face recognition verified that indeed, [Y/N] was part of the Film Research club, his eyes smiled. “Ah, [Y/N]! I was told that I wouldn’t be the only student from Ignihyde.”

[Y/N] lowered their headphones and gave a quick wave of hand to Ortho with a small smile. “Oh yeah, I did hear you joined the club.”

“Yes, I hope to understand human emotions better and be better at emoting them to others. I got special permission to enroll as a student here so I hope to be a good underclassman for you.” The young humanoid was eager to explain the situation, embodying the very essence of child-like curiosity.

[Y/N] gave a small laugh. They enrolled in NRC the same year as Idia, so it was weird to think Ortho as an underclassman. “... You have been here as long as I have been so I wouldn’t exactly say that you are an underclassman in that sense. But it is nice to see you excited about this.” Now that they thought about it more, Ortho seemed different compared to their first year. His movements and speech had evolved to be more natural, and one could see him hover alone at times, asking questions. Maybe he was trying to make sense of life even back then. But one had to admit, he seemed even more different now. [Y/N] wondered what had triggered it.

Ortho nodded enthusiastically, his eyes looking past [Y/N] and fixating on the miniature base model. “What are you working on?”

“As our current project is a short horror movie inspired by old school movies, we asked [Y/N] to create sets and effects to work in that context.” Vil was quick to take the center stage again, now looking at the work in progress on the table too.

“Yeah, what Vil said. This here will be a miniature set for an establishing shot for the movie.” Feeling already proud because of Vil's words, [Y/N] gestured towards the project. The little gray pebbles were now neatly placed as naturally as possible on the base, waiting for the glue to cure.

Barely audible sound of scanning took place as Ortho leaned closer to the project on the table. “Ooh, yes, I can see it now. You use hard foam as a base and then add details and such with other materials like polymer clay, artificial miniature grass and foliage to make it look like the actual environment. I’m familiar with it as I used to help my brother work on Pirates of Treasure Planet figures and battle arenas.”

The mentioning of the popular miniature strategy game made [Y/N]'s smile wider as the nostalgia flowed into their mind. “That’s pretty much where I picked it myself too. Well I didn’t play the game myself, but my older brother too used to be a huge fan of the game when he was younger.” Their brother let them help with painting the figures and designing the battle arenas that they then took to the local comic book store. The game itself seemed quite deep and complex, [Y/N] was more interested in the creative aspect of the hobby than actually playing the game. “I see.” Ortho smiled.

Vil took a moment to look at the clock on his phone. “That said, have you informed the art club of our order?”

[Y/N] nodded, reaching out for their notes in their bag. As they grabbed the notepad, they could feel as the bag vibrated gently on silent. There was so many notifications coming a long. As soon as the club time was over, they would have their work be cut out for them. But every request would be a step closer to Wonderlink console. “Yes, I delivered the offer and advised them to send portfolios in the club email address. Right now there are couple applications but I haven’t checked them any further. I wait for couple more to arrive.”

“Very well. Forward the best candidates to me as soon as possible.” Vil would quickly take a look at his face through the front camera and then type a message to someone. He really was a busy and wanted person. Always going and reaching for new heights. One could hope to have such passion for everything that they did.

Ortho looked at Vil and then at [Y/N], trying to make sense of the conversation. [Y/N] gave a small shrug, it wasn't really a secret. “Candidates for matte painting for the background of this miniature set.”

“How exciting, you guys hire people from other clubs to work for the projects too?”

“Making films are collaborative efforts, dear Ortho. To get the best film, we need the best talent. Depending on the project, we might need a very wide range of talents to help with it.” Vil gave his signature pose whenever he was offering advice to anyone who just happened to be listening.

Ortho nodded and processed the information for a moment. “Say [Y/N], would it be okay for me to come to such meetings sometimes. I would like to know how these kinds of things really work in real life.”

“I don’t see a harm in that.” The idea didn't seem bad at all. Having someone like Ortho with such appointments would probably be very beneficial. He was an information bank and most likely had cameras installed into him. If some other student started to be too much of an arrogant bitch, they would have evidence. You never knew with students of Night Raven College, the S-rank troublemakers.

“Ah yes, the best way to learn acting and how people talk to each other is in the natural setting. I will allow it.” Vil gave his blessing, which meant that it was more than okay.

“Thank you!” Ortho beamed at Vil and turned back to [Y/N], his eyes fixating on their bag on the table. “Someone is really trying to reach you there. It is barely audible, but my sensors pick up vibration in frequency that would indicate that your phone is getting notifications.”

“Ah, sorry. Yeah, it is probably my friends sharing weird videos on magicam.” [Y/N] said as they pulled their phone out of the bag, the well worn phone charm dangling from it. A graphic presentation of constellations inside a silhouette shaped like a pegasus embellished with silver lines, giving it a look of an enamel pin.

The eyes of the young technomatic humanoid widen in recognition. “Is that the pegasus star system logo from Star Rogue?”

“Oh, yeah, it is.” [Y/N] moved the phone closer to Ortho, showing the small phone charm to him. It was an old charm, but it was beautiful. You rarely saw phone charms anymore, the smart phones rarely had any way to tie one on them. Even now, the old Star Rogue charm was looped around a self-made hole in the phone case.

“Me and Idia used to play that a lot when we were kids. It is one of my all time favorite games ever.”

Of course they would have played it. It was a cult classic. A legend of a game. The story, the graphics and the game mechanics were revolutionary when it was published. “It is a classic! I have played it too many times already, even tho I’m not that good at bullet hell games.” [Y/N] added.

“Maybe someday I can get Idia show you the no-death meteor run!” Ortho seemed more than happy to ask his brother to do that. Though [Y/N] had their doubts, it was already a rare sight to see the housewarden outside his room. Once in a full moon, the older Shroud emerged from his cave of a room and even then he tried not to draw any attention to him. Maybe he really just played all day and night in his room. Well, they could not be too mad about it, Idia still held best marks when it came to tests in school. Expect physical education. He really struggled with that.

“Oh, he has managed that? Serious props to him.” [Y/N] had to admit. It was a pretty amazing feat.

***

The cup noodles became too soggy again. Idia snarled but food was food and he had to eat something. Served him right as he got too immersed in the third volume of Sled Over Heels. It wasn't the newest anime around and the manga was only retelling of the anime, but the original creators were part of the writing process and he saw it 100%. Maybe one day he would learn to put on a timer and not trust his own judgement when 3 minutes had passed.

He sat into his gaming chair, the signed agreement generating damage over time, area of effect debuffing him, reminding him to do his "job". Major L. The agreement and the soggy noodles.

Fortunately, Ortho let himself into his big brother's room, enthusiastic as ever. “Hey Idia! How was the board game club today?”

“Ah, Ortho… It was a drag really… Azul was being crazy obsessed by some mystery entrepreneur and pretty much blackmailed me to help him locate them.” Idia didn't even look at Ortho's entrance, slurping on his meal and glaring at the official paper hoping it would burst into flames just then and there.

The smaller Shroud's eyes filled with worry and he approached Idia. “... You can’t let him do that. I will go to the Octanivelle dorm and have a chat with him.” He would. If no one else was his brother's friend and protector, he would be. It might have been his programming or the fact that his personality was based on Idia's dead younger brother, but he was always worried about him. Idia was quick to bend to his fate, whatever it may be. The depression and the social anxiety had him almost immobilized, and Ortho didn't want anything more than his brother to get better and find happiness and friends.

The offer made Idia's social anxiety raise its ugly head. “No, no no, no really, it is fine. I don’t want him to get super salty at me. It is already awkward to go to the club, I don’t really want the added awkwardness on top of that, plz.”

Ortho sighed. “Very well…” If Idia wished him not to say anything, he would respect his wishes. Even if it pained him. As much as it could pain a technomatic humanoid with artificial intelligence. But he wasn't sure if those were once again programmed emotions or was he truly feeling it. He shook his head. It didn't matter. What mattered was that Idia was feeling comfortable.

The silence that was born out of Ortho's submission to his wishes didn't help Idia's anxiety. “But hey, how was your club? The first day of the film study club.”

“Oh it was great! Vil showed me around and introduced me to everyone there. And guess what, I’m not the only Ignihyde student there.” Ortho didn't want to prolong the heavy atmosphere either and he truly felt excited about his day.

“Mm… I suppose there would be someone who would be interested in films here.” The older Shroud leaned back in his chair, trying to remember if there were any loud movie fans in the dorm. Or atleast any he talked to.

“It is [Y/N], they are from Class D of the third year” Ortho floated next to his charging station, preparing the device for the night.

Idia squinted. “... I have no recollection of them.” One would have to have a booming voice and loud opinions or otherwise eye catching for him to actually remember them. Someone like Malleus Draconia or the Leech Twins. Riddle Rosehearts made himself very unforgettable with his scary presence.

“Well anyway, they seemed super cool, and promised to let me observe as they would negotiate with other clubs for the film!”

“That’s pretty MVP behavior.”

“I know, right!”

Idia was happy to see his brother excited and making friends. At least one of them was and Ortho was always the more extroverted one anyway. It fit his character and Idia was content how the things were. Dealing with other people was tiresome and awkward. And with that thought, dealing with the stupid agreement he was blackmailed to agree to.“... Ortho, I would like to you to help me a bit with Azul’s demand. The entrepreneur in question makes personalized greetings for the clients, with the voices of known big wig celebrities or characters. If you could run your detection algorithm over the greeting I get to see if there is any indications of AI generation, patterns or pitches that could give us a lead for the person in question.”

Ortho tilted his head a bit as he assessed the brief. “Sounds doable. I suggest we choose a famous person who is well documented so we can compare the audio data against them.” “Yeah. Hmm… How about Neige LeBlanche? He is pretty popular and active on Magicam so there would be lots of casual footage and professional quality audio to run the tests through.” Even Idia knew who he was, the rivalry between Vil and Neige was almost a meme on its own.

“That’s a good choice!” Ortho beamed and readied his audio sensors for processing the possible information.

Idia took his phone out and started to type in the contact information and request details for this mysterious Litae. The money would not be a problem, but his mind blanked as soon as he reached the request text box. “... What should I ask them to say…” He looked at Ortho.

“How about a good luck shout or encouragement? Or a good night's wish while playing one of their characters from a beloved film?”

“... Let’s go with that.” Who was he to shoot down the suggestion? He didn't have any better ideas. Hopefully this would give enough data that he didn't need to do this again. He typed in the request: "Neige LeBlanche. A good night's wish." He stared at the request details in silence only to admit that he didn't know any films starring Neige LeBlanche. So maybe his actor persona would be enough.

He pressed send and in ten minutes an audio file was sent to his spare email. There was no way he would use his primary email to something like this.

With a swift click of a mouse the audio file was downloaded and it played its contents clearly: “You look so sleepy… haha… maybe you should go to sleep. Don’t worry, I will bake you an apple pie tomorrow. Like I promised. Good night, my dream. Sleep well.”

It really sounded like Neige. No immediate detection of audio artefacts from audio generation. The voice was clear and soft.

And this all made shivers of cringe travel across Idia's back.

[wangxianficfinder]

Fic Finder

Aug 24th

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1. Hi! For 3 grueling days I've been on a hunt for a fanfic where Lan Wanji and Jiang Cheng go back in time and change everything! I remember that at one point that WeiWuXian is exposed for hurting himself after Jiang Cheng yells at Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan for bing shitty parents and runs off crying where he is later joined by Jiang YanLi and WWX. Also that YZY immediately regrets everything along with JFM. And then a disciple says that he's never heard heart wrenching sobs before. Please help. It's a wonderful read. Thank you!!! @makkachinno

FOUND? Brother-In-Law’s by Loveable_Psychopath (M, 332k, WIP, JYL/JZX, wangxian, JC/WQ, canon divergence, time travel fix-it, Memories, Butterfly Effect, Sexual assualt, Self Harm, Self Doubt, BAMF JC, Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rape Recovery, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Everyone Lives au, PTSD, good parent YZY, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Depression, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Canon-Typical Violence, Warning: JGS, Emotional Manipulation, Manipulation, Second Chances) chapter 29 for the screaming part and the cying is the next chapter

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2. Hi!! For this fic finder :

Its a fic i read long ago , wangxian was alr an established couple, It was after the canon series had ended i beleive and wwx has an identity crisis abt being mo xuanyu and theres a recurring theme of the burial mounds haunting him and it talks abt his ptsd (specifically I remember of cannibalism? The fic was maybe dead dove too..)

Wwx wld sleep walk aswell and during one of his sleepwalking episodes he didnt recognize the juniors and thought he was a teenager.

In the end i think he revists the burial mounds?

Thank you for the work you put in for the fandom!💗💗 @jnxi839

FOUND? Mud on Your Feet by AvoOwO (Not Rated, 59k, WangXian, JC & WWX, Nightmares, Sentient Burial Mounds, Burial Mounds, Possession, Panic Attacks, Night Terrors, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Good Sibling JC, Hurt WWX, Soft WangXian, Feels, Blood and Injury, Hallucinations, Delusions, JC Loves WWX, Insomnia, Good Sibling WWX, Sleepwalking, Sleeptalking, LWJ just wants to sleep with his husband, Protective JC, WWX Sees Dead People, LJY pulls through, POV LWJ, Cloud Recesses, PTSD, Post-Canon, YLLZ WWX, resentful energy, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Thirteen Years of WWX’s Death, WWX’s Three Months in the Burial Mounds, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, WWX is tired, LWJ literally just wants to sleep with WWX again is that too much to ask for??, Soft JC, Yunmeng Siblings Feels)

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3. Please help find fic

Wei wuxian cursed to be close to Lan wanji and stops feeling pain. Open ending. Curse gets progressively worse as fic goes on. They have to stay at an inn during the fic because wei wuxian hurt his foot. @opalkittencat

FOUND? Tether by Annerb (M, 161k, WangXian, Cursed LWJ, Canon Divergence, Post-Sunshot Campaign, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Pining, Family Feels, Yin Iron, Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, aftermath of a war)

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4. hi!! i’m looking for a fic and it’s driving me crazy bc i’ve read it more then once. but it’s a modern au and it starts with llan zhan going on a random date and getting stood up. and wei ying pops up to sit with him and make him feel better since he’s alone. and immediate wangxian love ensues. and at one point point they overhear the guy talking and basically being like “haha that guys so boring i told u he would go out with me. i didn’t even show up.” or something like that. ofc that’s a complete paraphrase but that’s the general vibe of what the guy says . i don’t think the fic was very long. oh! lxc is also very protective in it but i can’t remember how. so sorry this is so vague i rly cant remember more of it. hoping anyone could help 😖 but totally understand if this is not enough info to find it. also tysm for all u do! this blog is so helpful!

FOUND! Blooming Days by Atsushiis (G, 7k, WangXian, LWJ & LXC, LWJ & MM, Modern, College/University, Meet-Cute, First Dates, First Kiss, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, LWJ Has Feelings, Let LWJ talk about his feelings agenda, Romance, Falling In Love, Wangxian are softer than a baby bunny, gratuitous handholding, Give LWJ hugs agenda, LWJ Protection Squad, Spanish Translation Available)

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5. so I remember this ff- it was on Wattpad (idk if y'all do Wattpad) if it was a sort of modern au with WWX as a teacher, one of his students have a crush on him, but he leaves and a sub (Lan Sizhui) is covering for him, I really remember that the class took a field trip to cloud recesses, where they found out about WWX and LWJ. Sorry if it was not so specific. and it is totes find if y'all cant find it, but the cover was sort of a Wangxian modern fanart, if that would help? @bitter-lemonzz

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6. I have been searching for the fic for so long but cannot find it. It was about Wei Wuxian accidentally being pushed into a pond by Lan Wangji and then it's angst. I think Madam Yu was a supportive figure for WWX in this fic. (⁠◕⁠ᴗ⁠◕⁠✿⁠) @yilinglaobunny

FOUND! i won’t say i’m in love by kazzywx (E, 18k, WangXian, rape/non-con, A/B/O, Arranged Marriage, Miscommunication, Angst with a Happy Ending, Omega WWX, Alpha LWJ, skippable NSFW scenes, wwx’s is basically meg from hercules with his “i wont say im in love” shtick, Hurt WWX, Boypussy, WWX Has a Vulva, Intersex WWX, Dubious Consent, Feminization, Mating Bites, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, WWX Has a Fear of Dogs, Mpreg, WWX & WQ Friendship, WWX & WN Friendship, Possessive LWJ)

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7. Hey, someone told me that you could help me find this fic. It's a short story...might be a one shot where after the canon wwx sets wen ning up on various dates and at the end wen ning finds 'the one' that he tackles (if I'm not wrong) because of some misunderstanding. Also I think the final male character that wen ning shows interest in is from another famous fandom. It's all sweet and cute. Please if you know this story or can find this story, let me know...I've been searching for a long time. Thank you so much! You are doing an amazing job❤️ @madarmy

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8. Hi! I am looking for a specific canon au fic where soulmates are announced by an angry goose. Like, literally, when soulmates meet a goose pops up out of nowhere and heckles them until they recognize (? fall for?) each other. I think it was during the Cloud Recesses Lectures and Lan Qiren kept getting interrupted because geese kept popping up between the students. I remember honking geese breaking the quiet and calm of Cloud Recesses :D

FOUND? 🔒💖 No Matter What I Do I Feel The Pain (With or Without Goose) by Trickster_Angel (T, 3k, WangXian, Soulmates, The Soulmate Goose of Enforcement, Crack, Not tagging animal abuse but they have to fight off the geese, Not Serious, Humor, First Kiss)

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9.Hi! So, I've looking for this fic that take place when wei ying is in the burial mounds with the wens and decides to end his life, and wen ning is the one that tells lan zhan of it, and he has a panic attack? anxiety attack? and it leads to everyone helping the wens while they grief ... (sorry if there is misspelling, second language) @belenleal2111

FOUND? To Offer a Heart by WhiteCrane (M, 111k, WIP, wangxian, major character death, Sad WWX, Hurt WWX, YLLZ WWX, soft wangxian, Cinnamon Roll WN, WWX Whump, WQ is a good sister, WN is a good brother, everybody loves wwx, yunmeng siblings, Triggers, Suicidal Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst with a Happy Ending, Taking care of WWX, Give WWX a break, Canon Divergence, Disturbing Themes, Changing Perspectives, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Grief/Mourning, Temporary Character Death, Getting Together, Redemption, Sibling Bonding, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Brother-Sister Relationships, Parent-Child Relationship, Sad and Sweet, Tragedy, BAMF WWX, BAMF JC, BAMF JYL, BAMF WQ, Slow Burn, Slow Build, Everyone Needs A Hug)

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10. hello! I hope you're doing well 🌷 I'm looking for a fic where female! WWX is getting married to the second son (Lan Zhan) of the esteemed Lan family who are well known tea merchants. Nie Huaisang is female too. Uncle Jiang arranges this marriage for Wei Ying. The fic starts with Uncle Jiang saying "Wei Ying, I accepted a marriage proposal for you you're getting married next month". Jiang Cheng keeps saying UNKIDNAPPABLE! because that's why the Lan Clan extended a marriage proposal to Wei Ying cos she's impossible to kidnap. WWX and LZ don't know each other prior to this. They have a summer wedding and the makeup auntie puts 3 layers of thick white face powder on WWX's face and tells her not to touch her face after which wei ying immediately feels the need to scratch her face off. Lan Zhans hand is a bit damp when he helps WWX into the palaquin cos it's hot as balls and he's sweating under 3 layers of robes. Wei Ying said she can't wait to become a dowager cos she'll get to wear clothes that are her style (darker). Someone tells wwx to not stand up too straight and she folds into an exaggerated slouch and then yelps and straightens up again when MianMian (her handmaid) slaps her butt. Sorry, that's all I remember! Thank you please help me find this 🙏🏼 @darkchocobun-blog

FOUND? a harmony between qin and se by Alaceron (E, 62k, WangXian, Gender Changes, Historical, Female WWX)

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11. Hi Mods! I am looking for a wangxian fic with these details:

-YilingWei Sect wangxian AU

-WWX takes MXY and his mom (Mo WeiYa) away from Mo manor to keep them safe but he has to go to Koi Tower for some reason about Meng Yao...

-Mo WeiYa imprints on JGY and makes WWX take him back too and treats him like a kid

-there was also a part where WWX said something about taking MXY under his wing and LWJ assumes he's gonna marry his mom and adopt MXY but ofc he was wrong

-JGY later becomes his deputy in his sect despite WWX trying to find a different one...yes JGY was corrupt before and WWX doesn't trust him.

-it was a multichap (I think) and complete (I think). Help?

FOUND!🔒 if you can’t beat them, recruit them by moeblobmegane (T, 228k, Wangxian, NHS & WWX, WWX & WQ, Time Travel Fix-It, Conspiracy, Spies & Secret Agents, Team as Family, Found Family, Burial Mounds, Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Pining, Morally Ambiguous Character, Rumors, Politics, Developing Friendships, Good Uncle LQR, Demonic Cultivation, YilingWei Sect)

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12. This is an odd ficfinder request, but I remember there was a VERY long fanfic I read a while ago on AO3 where the author gave the Meishan Yu a motto that went something like "We remember what is owed." I thought it was "Things to do with Flute During Wartime" but I can't find it in there. Anyone have any ideas? Thank you for ALL you do, mods! <3 <3 <3 @kimboo-york

FOUND! could be any of a few by stratisphyre but is likely the exploration of a courageous heart (all this unexpected glory) by Stratisphyre (T, 54k, JYL/LXC/NMJ, Canon Divergence, Not Everybody Dies, (but some canonical character deaths), Childhood Sweethearts, Arranged Marriage, Threesome - F/M/M, Kidfic, Hurt/Comfort, JYL Best Jiejie, Friends to Lovers, Sibling Feelings, Not JFM friendly, Enormous Amounts of Head Canon, Multiple Pov, Canon Typical Violence, Implied Past Abuse)

NOT FOUND! the other long stratisphyre fic with that Meishan Yu motto as a line in the fic is in stillness, clear water to the bottom by Stratisphyre (T, 40k, CSSR/WCZ/LQR, LQR & Madam Lan, LQR & WWX, Sect Leader Nie/NHS's Mother/NMJ's Mother, Canon Divergence, Time Travel Fix-It, Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Threesome - M/M/F, Getting Together, Friends to Lovers, Everyone lives, (mostly), (not you QHJ), Family feelings, Madam Lan lives, references to past rape)

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13. trying to find a specific fic! it's a modern au roommates-to-lovers. the most specific thing I can remember is that Jin Zixuan is the one who asks Lan Wangji to let Wei Wuxian stay in his spare room. thanks in advance! @strinak

FOUND? ❤️ the best of you by sysrae (E, 41k, WangXian, XuanLi, Modern AU, College/University, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Getting Together, slightly undernegotiated kink, but in a very soft and consensual way, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, JFM and Madam Yu’s A+ parenting, Dysfunctional Family, Mental Health Issues therapy is good actually, the most tender of railings, Reference to animal attacks/animal cruelty, descriptions of past violence)

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14. Hi! In 2021 (approx) I read a fanfic where Lan zhan tries to save, (through a simulation that has Wei Ying's soul) wwx but always fails in the attempt, it is not until Wei Ying becomes aware of this and both confess to each other, that they manage to save everyone and wangxian stay together until old age and the time of his death as companions. However, this occurs within a simulation and wangxian says goodbye. The fic ends with Lan zhan leaving his seclusion but with his mind at peace knowing that he had a chance to be at peace and happy with his love and is ready to raise a-yuan.

I remember reading this on Wattpad and in Spanish. But I always wondered if it was on ao3 and it was actually a translation. Please, if you have any information I would be happy to read you. Saludos

Pd: Sorry for Google traslate

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FOUND? my apple tree, my brightness by trickybonmot (E, 5k, WangXian, Science Fiction, Angst, Not A Fix-It, Not a Time Loop Either, sweaty sex, sweat as lube, Come as Lube, But don't worry they're cultivators, LWJ's Regret, LWJ in Seclusion, Hopeful Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Not a ton of comfort but some!, Grief, Healing, [Podfic] my apple tree, my brightness by shash_reads (sunkitten_shash), [Podfic] my apple tree, my brightness by nonminus (nonplussed))

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15. Hi. I saw this ao3 fic on twitter but it refreshed before I could save, I only remember a few tags it was a wangxian case fic where they look after three ghost children, I guess it was The Untamed post canon fic. Can you help? Thank you.

FOUND? a home carved of love by omegawangji (T, 12k, WangXian, Case Fic, Post-Canon, Child Abandonment, Past Child Abuse, Accidental Baby Acquisition, wangxian adopt ghost (corpse?) babies, Soft WangXian, Family Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Pining LWJ, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, WangXian Get a Happy Ending, Good Parents LWJ and WWX, Found Family, Getting Together, First Kiss)

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16. For fic finder: Hello! I am looking for a canon-au fic where Wei Wuxian was able to use demonic cultivation to create shadow copies of himself, kind of like Naruto shadow clones. He used this to fight in the Sunshot Campaign and there was a cool scene where he took down a Wen supervisory office all by himself by having a ton of hims fight each Wen soldier. There was also a scene where he dueled with Jiang Cheng and Jiang Cheng had to cut down all of the clones before finding the real Wei Wuxian. I think this technique caused his soul to shatter after death, but I could be wrong/confusing multiple fics. Thank you for your help!

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17. Fic finder request plz!! It’s a fem Wangxian in an omegaverse setting where Alpha NMJ has Alpha LWJ visiting and they invite WWX over. I remember at the end, LWJ came into the kitchen to get fancy water for WWX and wanted to know what snacks she liked. I can’t remember anything else. 😭😭😭

FOUND? good friends by plonk (Not Rated, 11k, NMJ/WWX/LWJ, WangXian, Modern, Gender Changes, A/B/O)

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18. Hi!! It's my first time asking here!! I've been trying to find a fic where wwx makes the cultivation world forget abt the wens and him, and by consequence the baby lwj is pregnant with!! I will be so grateful if u guys could help me find it!!

FOUND! could be this threadfic (locked to followers)

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19. Hi, there's this one canon divergence fic I read where WWX inevitably becomes part of the Burial Mounds and has become pretty vampire-adjacent and he thinks of himself as a monster. When LWJ finds out, there are multiple times in the story where he cuts his hand/arm and pours the blood in a bowl so WWX could "eat."

At some point in the story it's revealed that WWX was transported to Diyu before he died and yeah. At Wangxian's wedding he invites the overlord(?) of Diyu and even tho he didn't go, he was amused by the invitation and sent someone else to be there for him LMAO 😭😭

Can you please help me find this fic? I also highly rec it! Thank you!

FOUND!🔒A Heart Undying by NonsensicalRambling (M, 114k, WangXian, Undead WWX, Canon-Typical Violence, canon-typical dead things the burial mounds, Fix-It of Sorts, Canon Divergence, Eventual WangXian, No Yīn Tiger Seal, Morally Gray WWX, Animals Eating People, WWX's questionable choices, Morally conflicted LWJ, Oblivious WWX, WWX Creates a Sect | Yiling Wei, YLLZ WWX, Sect Leader WWX, LWJ & WQ have an Understanding)

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20. fic finder req: a really sad post canon fic. it's a hurt/no comfort sick fic, where lwj falls ill with what eventually turns out to be a terminal illness (maybe a blood curse of some sort?). I think lwj falls unconscious at some pt, and they use the incense burner to spend lwj's last moments tgt with family and wwx. wx tries and fails to find a cure for it, and only succeeds many years after lwj dies, working closely w the gusu healers. the fic ends with them meeting in the afterlife, where lwj has been waiting for wwx. I've tried all the tags I could think of, but it's lost among my countless bookmarks... i haven't been able to find it and I'm worried it's been taken down. please help!

FOUND! I will be gone by seachronicles (M, 28k, WangXian, Angst, Sickfic, Hurt LWJ, Hurt WWX, Sick LWJ, LWJ Whump, WWX Whump, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, but a lot of hurt, Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Reincarnation, POV LWJ, POV WWX, Sad WWX, Sad LWJ, Married WangXian, Major Illness, Implied/Referenced Sex, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, but very briefly)

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[ashwhowrites]

can you write a cheerleader reader x eddie story where eddie and the reader are acquaintances but they both like each other. eddie has a best friend who’s just like him into metal, d&d, black and reader is the exact opposite! i’m talking wears pink 24/7 unless she’s in cheer uniform, room full of stuff animals and ballerina decor and whitney houston. the ultimate girly girl. well one day eddie is supposed to meet reader after hellfire to finally ask her out after flirting for a few weeks and eddie’s best friend sees reader waiting and is a total bitch to reader. says that eddie would never like a girl like her and that she’s in a completely different world than eddie and that eddie is just using her to make the best friend jealous. let’s say they used to hook up or something just to add some angst 😮‍💨 then eddie comes looking for reader and his best friend just says that you left and eddie is very confused because you seemed like you liked him or whatever and after avoiding him for a while he finally confronts you and you explain everything. maybe it ends with them finally getting together and eddie making his friend apologize. this was so long i’m so sorry and i hope you’re feeling better!

I absolutely can! I love this idea. I hope this is what you were looking for and you enjoy it <3

The opposite

Eddie Munson liking a cheerleader was something Hellfire didn't think they'd see. And seeing Eddie swoon over a girl was different for them. But they secretly adored it. He was like a puppy as he watched her from across the cafeteria. His eyes locked on her during the cheer routines.

And people were shocked to see how much she liked him too. How often she stared right back at him. Her flirty smiles in the hallways had Eddie walking into lockers. Everyone seemed to be rooting for them, except Eddie's best friend.

Britton did not like the popular crowd. She stood by the words Eddie used to mean. The endless rants about how the popular are scum and won't exist outside of high school. But here he was, drooling over the head cheerleader like every other guy. She hated it. She hated watching Eddie do everything he could to get Y/N's attention. She can't stand that all he talked about was her.

"I did it! Your boy got himself a date!" Eddie cheered, sitting down at the cafeteria table. Slamming his hands down to make sure everyone's attention was on him. The table cheered but Britton felt herself rolling her eyes.

"Told you she'd say yes!" Dustin said, slapping Eddie's shoulder as a congratulations. Britton knew exactly who Eddie was talking about and it tasted sour in her mouth. She'd been after Eddie for years after he broke off their arrangement, and she didn't understand how Eddie could like a cheerleader over her. She was just like Eddie, and they had so much in common. Way more than him and a cheerleader.

"When is it?" Britton asked, smiling sweetly as she softly touched his hand that rested on the table. Eddie quickly moved his hand as he answered, "Friday night after hellfire." It was a few days away, but he was already excited.

Y/N wasn't someone he thought he'd be into, but she was gorgeous. She wore bubble gum lip gloss, pink sweaters and skirts, pink nails, and always had a smile on her face. Eddie adored her in her cheerleading uniform, but the soft sweaters felt amazing against his body when she'd smash him in a hug. She smelt like flowers and something sweet. He was obsessed with her.

Britton and Eddie had a past, one that Britton didn't want to end but Eddie called it quits. She was still hung up on it and Eddie moved on. They were in two different places and Britton couldn't handle that.

~~~

Friday night arrived, and Eddie and Y/N were nervous. Eddie spent the whole day figuring out what to wear for tonight. He had to wear his hellfire shirt for the campaign so he figured he'd change after it was over.

They spent the whole day smiling and blushing as they passed each other. They didn't have many classes together, but their eyes were always looking for each other.

"Are you sure this is a good idea? You guys are opposites." Britton tried again.

"Yes, I'm sure. We've been talking for months, we have hung out as friends a few times and we exchanged phone numbers. If we didn't get along, we wouldn't be going on the date." Eddie explained, rolling his eyes as he walked through the halls to hellfire.

"Oh come on Eddie! She's the head of the cheerleading team. And probably listens to Whitney Houston while she dances in her bedroom. She's not your type!" Britton argued. She couldn't believe how lovesick he was for Y/N. He'd never dated a girl like that in years.

"And what's my type?" Eddie snapped, turning around sharply as he looked at her. He was sick of Britton bad-mouthing Y/N every single time he brought her up.

"I don't know, maybe someone that knows what DnD is or listens to the same music you like. Someone edgy and alternative. Not miss Pink Ballerina. And not a cheerleader." Britton argued, trying to make him realize how idiotic he sounded.

"What, someone like you?" He chuckled, he knew Britton wasn't going to let their past fling go but damn he wished she would.

"Don't laugh. In case you forgot we were together, Eddie. I'm just like you and I am your type! We would make so much more sense than you and Y/N, why can't you see that? She's popular! She's going to ruin you and embarrass you. She probably doesn't even like you, some type of game the squad is playing and you are the idiot falling for it. All because you want to date the prettiest girl in school." She scoffed.

"And in case you forgot it was just sex and I called that off. You aren't my type. Yeah, she's popular, but she's sweet and caring. She isn't an asshole like the rest of them. Do you think I'm stupid? I'm not being used or being treated as a joke. She and I have something and I don't care if others don't see it. I like her and she likes me. You and I were nothing and will never be anything. Now leave me the fuck alone and keep her name out of your mouth." Eddie spat, turning around to walk into the classroom.

Britton was fuming, her eyes glaring as his body disappeared into the room. At one point, Eddie did like her, and she was the main attraction in his life. Now he's blinded but she had a plan to get him to see clearly again.

~~~

Y/N rocked on her feet as she waited for Eddie outside of the school. She changed out of her uniform and into a pink dress. Her white sneakers scrape rocks back and forth. She was nervous but relieved that Eddie asked her out. She loved talking to him and hanging out with him. And she was worried he'd only want to be friends and she'd be the only one with a crush. But the feelings were mutual and she couldn't wait for their first date.

She checked her watch as she waited. She knew Eddie's campaign could go longer so she wasn't worried. She took out her pocket mirror and reapplied her lip gloss, when she closed the mirror she jumped as she saw a girl standing there.

"Oh hi!" She greeted, trying to recover from her frightened state. She wasn't sure who she was but she knew she was a friend of Eddie's. She's seen her walking around with him countless times.

"Hi! I just wanted to talk to you about Eddie. Girl to girl, I can't let him do this to you. It's too unfair." Britton pouted, faking a sweetness in her voice as she went to grab Y/N's hands.

"Um, what?" Y/N asked, now growing nervous as the girl looked at her with pity.

"You see, Eddie and I used to have sex all the time. Then he asked for a relationship and I just wasn't ready. He was so broken up about it, so much that he never brought it up. But I can tell what he's doing. He's just using you to make me jealous, sweetie. Look at us, you are the exact opposite of me. If he likes me, why would he like you? And I'm so sorry he'd do that to you." Britton patted Y/N's hands. That same fake pout on her face as she watched her words hit Y/N where it hurt.

"But...but how do you know? Maybe he just moved on." Y/N tried to defend him. Not wanting to believe Eddie was that shallow and would use her like that.

"We made out an hour ago." Britton shrugged, a smirk on her face as Y/N took the bait. Y/N removed her hands from Britton's a pained smile on her face.

"Thank you for letting me know," Y/N said, quickly racing to her car as she dug for her keys.

Britton stood proudly as she watched the cheerleader race into her car. A smirk on her face as she watched Y/N wipe her eyes and pull out of the parking lot.

~~~

Eddie threw his hellfire shirt into his backpack as he finished changing. He walked out to the parking lot with his keys dangling on his fingers. He looked around to see where Y/N was waiting but he saw no one. The lot was empty except for his van. He felt disappointed but he knew her. She probably had an emergency, and she'd call.

But when Eddie got home, he received no messages and no calls. He didn't hear a word from her. Was Britton right? Eddie didn't want to believe so. He liked Y/N and he wanted to hold on to the hope that something just came up.

But then he didn't hear from her the whole weekend. Even when he called her, he received nothing.

When Monday came around, he kept his eye out for her. Hoping he'd have a chance to pull her aside and ask her what happened.

"How was date night?" Britton asked, a small smirk on her face as Eddie visibly deflated.

"Got stood up." He mumbled, embarrassed to admit Britton had been right.

"Shit, Eddie. I'm sorry." She said, her eyes looking behind him to see Y/N watching from afar.

Britton quickly wrapped Eddie in her arms, hugging him as she whispered in his ear, a smirk on her face.

Y/N felt her stomach turn seeing Eddie and Britton wrapped up in each other. The smirk on Britton's face gave Y/N a tiny insight into what she was whispering in his ear. She swallowed the lump in her throat when Britton kissed Eddie's cheek.

It was true. She was a game piece.

"Thanks," Eddie said, pulling himself away from Britton. He hated to admit it, but all the popular kids were the same.

~~~

Eddie couldn't get a second with her. Once he found her, she went in the other direction. She ignored him as he yelled her name over and over. She's never been so distant with him and it killed him. He hated the giggles from the other students when they'd watch her completely ignore him. He was being made fun of again, and it was because of her. Because she stood him up because she ran away, and because she refused to acknowledge him. Everything he believed she was wasn't real.

~~~

A few days passed and neither spoke. She was still hurt by his actions and he was pissed at her. She tried to ignore the sting she felt every single time she saw Britton and Eddie together. They were always together, even more now that she was out of the picture. It seemed like Eddie's jealous plan worked.

Eddie still felt anger towards Y/N. Glaring whenever he saw her walk by. She was a coward and Eddie hated her for it. He deserved answers and he deserved an explanation. But she wasn't going to give it to him.

~~~

The winter dance was coming up and Eddie was nervous. The school offered little snowflake flowers to send to someone in the school. Eddie ordered one for Y/N before their falling out and now he wished he never bought it.

Y/N was reviewing her notes when a bouquet with snowflakes was placed in front of her. She looked up confused as the student walked away. She grabbed the bouquet, a small smile on her face. She'd never received something like that before. But her smile fell when she saw who it was from...Eddie Munson.

Eddie was smashing books in his locker when the door was slammed on him. He jumped back as his fingers barely made it out alive.

"THE HELL!" he yelled, looking to see Y/N standing there, holding the flowers and a pissed-off look. He matched her look, glaring at her.

"Your little jealous plan worked, so leave me the fuck alone." She spat, shoving the flowers in his chest, bashing her shoulder into his as she walked past him. But Eddie was confused about what she was pissed about, and what plan. He clenched the flowers as he followed her.

"Nah uh, missy." He growled, catching her elbow as he turned her around. She snatched her arm away, crossing them as she snarled in his direction.

"Now when someone gets you flowers, the nice thing to do is say thank you," Eddie mocked, a smirk on his face as he watched her growl. "And what the fuck are you pissed about? I should be the one pissed off. Which I am!"

"You? Why in the hell would you be mad? You got everything you wanted. I'm pissed off because you hurt me and used me like I meant nothing." Eddie watched as her hard expression broke down. A look of vulnerability crossed her face.

"What are you talking about? You stood me up and then refused to talk to me. You acted like I didn't exist in your preppy little world." Eddie scoffed. He refused to let her guilt trip him. No matter how sad her pretty eyes looked.

"I stood you up because Britton told me everything!" She snapped, her eyes hard again mentioning Britton. Eddie felt his body stiffen. His jaw tight and his teeth clenched.

"What did she tell you?" He said through his teeth. He was even more pissed and not toward Y/N anymore.

"You guys had a fling and you wanted more. She said no and you used me to make her jealous. Well congratulations Eddie, you got your girl." She smiled as she turned around but Eddie stopped her again.

"She lied! It was the other way around. I never liked her like that and she wanted a relationship. I called it off when we started talking. I didn't want anyone else but you. She's been trying to get me to forget you for months. But she won't be able to. You are all I think about and all I want to talk about. I love spending time with you and I was so excited to go on that date. I love being friends with you but fuck I want so much more with you." Eddie explained, praying to anyone listening that she'd believe him. "You have to believe me." He pleaded.

"I don't know, Eddie..." she trailed off but Eddie refused. He flung himself to his knees, the flowers in his hands as he looked up at her.

"Eddie, what are you doing!" She panicked as the bell rang. A flood of students made their way through the halls, and froze as they saw Eddie on his knees.

"Get up, people are looking." She spazzed, trying to yank him up but he refused.

"I am sorry for everything and for the shit, she said to you. I really like you and I want to give us a fair shot. I'm on my knees, begging for you to believe me, and to ask, Y/N will you be my date to the dance?" He dramatically gave his speech, his voice echoing through the halls for every student to hear. She found herself laughing at his ridiculousness.

She pretended to think, the students circling around them.

"PLEASE Y/N PLEASE," he begged, shouting with a smile as she laughed down at him.

"YES! Okay now stand up!" She giggled, Eddie smiled as he jumped back up to his feet. Handing the flowers over to her as she happily accepted it this time.

"NOTHING TO SEE MOVE ALONG!" he shouted, the students going their own ways as Eddie smiled at her.

"You won't regret it." Eddie promised

"Better not, Munson." She smiled, kissing his cheek as she excused herself to walk to class. She looked over her shoulder to smile at him one more time.

Tags!

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[hyperfix-wip]

Octobie Wildcard: Double Interrogation

Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Detective! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Detective! Reader

Summary: Hobie reluctantly accepts going into a police interview but bites off more than he could chew once he realizes his ex will be interviewing him.

Word count: 4.8k

Author's Note: I MADE IT IN TIME FOR WEEK 3!!! I'd like to thank @pinksugarscrub for beta reading an earlier draft of it! Event by @the-kr8tor and banners by @mushroom-graphics-allotment . This prompt is based on a DND campaign from Dimension 20’s Unsleeping City: https://youtu.be/Ukt_uoeh_YY?si=laDicS-fMXIMazGB

Tags: Ex!Hobie, Older!Hobie, Ex!Reader, Older!Reader, Detective!Reader, American!Reader, Explicit Language, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

As far as Hobie can remember, this is probably the first time he’s been inside a police station without being charged for something.

He sits back against the backrest of the metal chair in the interrogation room, tipping the chair back and balancing it on its back legs while his long, gangly legs rest on the dark wooden table. It was a surprise for Hobie when his friend Gwen begged him to go into a police interview in her stead for a freak criminal attack at a wedding in Manhattan, resulting in a few civilian casualties and the capture of some obscure criminal duo he can’t seem to remember at the moment. She knows damn well about how he feels about those blue pigs– especially with his history with the corrupt law system back home– but any inkling of refusal died on his tongue the moment she mentioned that the interview was going to be with her dad of all people. Seeing Gwen’s desperation to keep her identity a secret as she trembles in front of him, Hobie could only sigh and reluctantly agree.

Damn, he’s getting soft. 

A quiet groan rumbles in his chest as he rolls his head back to look up at the ceiling. The room itself is dim, with only a couple of barred windows filtering sunlight inside and a small light hanging in the middle of the ceiling. The dingy fan quickly spins around, making the silver plastic pull chain swaying back and forth with soft clinks echoing in the room. His spider senses tingle in a low hum against his skin as another bored groan rumbles up from his throat. His eyes glance over to the one-way glass, his brows furrowing from his spider senses not picking up any bodies on the other side of the window, before brushing it off and glancing back up at the ceiling.

Thought there were supposed to be a group of them watching over these kinds of interviews, Hobie thinks to himself as his hand reaches up to the hem of his mask and pulls it up halfway. He absently tugs on his lip ring with his front teeth while he scratches his chin, his scruff brushing against his calloused fingers. He’s tempted to push himself off the uncomfortable chair and get the hell out of this room, but the hairs of his arms barely stand up before the heavy metal door finally opens. A uniformed young woman with a police badge walks into the room with a tray of small chocolate biscuits and a paper cup with the tea bag string hanging off the lip.

“Sorry about this,” the young officer shyly sets the plate and cup down on the table in front of him. “I know you were supposed to meet with Captain Stacy and the rest of the Criminal Investigations Unit, but there was an emergency hostage situation at Upper Manhattan, and… well, I’m sure you and the rest of the Spider Gang are already aware of it and are already taking care of it with them.”

Her eyes then widen as she nervously smiles at him, “but we do appreciate you coming here to cooperate with one of our other cases! I just hope this isn’t a waste of your time being here instead of with your team.”

A small scoff slips through Hobie’s lips as he grabs the warm paper cup, his nose subtly crinkling from the familiar smell of Lipton tea wafting into his nostrils before he politely takes a sip. “S’alright, love,” Hobie reassures her with a wave of his hand. “I’m sure all of the other Spiders are handling it without me.”

Although being over there would probably be a lot more interesting, Hobie thought to himself before grabbing a chocolate biscuit and taking a bite of it. The bittersweet chocolate and hazelnut flavor floods his mouth before he reluctantly washes it down with the hot flavored water (he refuses to call that tea). “Should I come back at a later time if the captain–” Hobie internally grimaces from the polite term– “is unavailable?”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry!” the young woman smiles at him sheepishly. “One of the detectives from the CIU will still be able to interview you. She just needs to gather all of the files Captain Stacy left her before he and the rest of the unit left.”

The young woman then starts to head towards the door, “I’ll check up on her, so hang tight.”

As the young woman leaves the room, the polite smile ghosting Hobie’s face instantly disappears before a bored frown takes over. He lifts his arm to check on his Web-Watch, already scanning through the updates from the other Spiders and their missions, including the hostage situation mentioned earlier. His eyes soften as he sees a small photo of Mayday and Peni hanging over a ledge with some Jamaican patties in their hands while Gwen, Miles and Pavitr swing into what seems like the Alchemax building.

A small snort slips through his nose as a small smile curls up on his lips. Even after working with them for almost ten years, he still can’t help but remember all of them as the bright-eyed young Spiders. Even Mayday, who he met with Peter when she was only a year old, has grown up into the fiery little spitfire that he knew she would become, helping out behind the scenes with the rest of the younger Spiders while the veterans handle the more dangerous missions.

Fuck, Hobie’s getting old.

Hobie shakes his head and tugs his mask back down as he continues to scroll through all of the updates, his eyes quickly spotting an exasperated Captain Stacy and a bewildered Captain Morales-Davis of the Emergency Service Unit, before a private message from Gwen pops up. His brows furrow as he taps onto the message on the screen while more messages pop up.

Gwen: Just saw my dad at Alchemax

Gwen: Almost all of CIU actually

Gwen: Well…except one

Gwen: Sorry, Hobs 😭

Wait, what?

Before Hobie can respond to the messages, his skin crawls underneath his spandex and his heart almost drops to his stomach from the familiar tingle in the back of his head, that tingle sending an overwhelming, bittersweet wave of emotions he was not prepared for. He instantly jumps up from his seat and knocks the metal chair over, the chair clattering against the linoleum flooring, but the heavy metal door opens before he could pry the bars off one of the windows.

His eyes quickly dart at the young officer standing underneath the doorway with some papers in her arms, and right behind her is you.

You, one of the youngest detectives of the Criminal Investigations Unit in the New York Police Department. The rookie detective who helped the newly-formed Spider-Gang at the time figure out and crack down the notorious Sinister Six at the height of their power. The detective in the running to be promoted to Sergeant despite your age. One of the few people who personally knows all of the Spider-Gang’s identities.

And his ex-girlfriend.

Hobie quietly mutters an “ah fuck” under his breath before he reluctantly picks the metal chair back up and flops back down on the seat, resigned to the awkward conversation awaiting him. At the same time, you stare at him with a stoic face while slowly walking into the interrogation room, setting an old-school recorder down on the table across from him while the young officer sets the files down in front of you. You quietly thank her as you take your seat across from Hobie, and she nods back at you before glancing over at Hobie again. With a slight blush on her cheeks, she turns away and scurries out of the room, closing the metal door behind her.

An awkward silence instantly looms inside the interrogation room as you adjust the recorder and straighten out the stack of paperwork, your eyes staying downcast and on the items in front of you while you ignore Hobie’s tensely apprehensive figure. His skin crawls and tingles at the sight of you in spite of his dread of seeing you again after the tumultuous breakup before your transfer to the CIU. After that you mainly kept in contact with the rest of the Spider-Gang throughout your career, seeking their cooperation when there were metahuman cases that you deemed too dangerous for the NYPD alone, and made no contact with him for five years until today.

And he's going to have a very long talk with Gwen after he’s done with this damn interview. 

With everything set up to your liking, you let out a reluctant sigh of your own before finally looking up at him.

“You can take the mask off,” you finally break the silence as you massage the bridge of your nose. “Nobody else is here to watch over this, and I already disabled all the cameras in the room. Per request by Ghost Spider, of course.”

Hobie furrows his brows at your cool, formal demeanor, as if you don’t go out for lunch with Gwen during your rare days off– not that he needed to know that– but he shrugs it off. True to your word, his spider senses only sense you in the room and no one else on the other side of the one-way glass, and with a grudging sigh, his hand reaches up to the hem of his spike-mohawked mask before slowly peeling it off his face. His newly twisted dreads flutter down to his shoulders, and his silver piercings glint against the lights as his piercing dark eyes land on yours again. His eyes briefly soften at the obvious dark circles under your eyes and the slight gauntness of your cheeks before hardening to a bored stare again.

You stare at him back with your own impassive look in your eyes before speaking again. “Thank you. Now, per protocol, I will ask for your permission to record this interview–”

“Is that really necessary?” Hobie interrupts you, his annoyance slowly peeking through as he clenches his jaw and furrows his brows again.

Your eyes sharpen with an unamused narrow as you sit back against your seat and cross your arms against your chest. With a click of his tongue and a scoff, he looks away from you and waves his hand, signaling you to continue.

“...as I was saying,” you resume with a hint of irritation in your voice, “do I have your consent to record this interview?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Hobie mutters under his breath, and you ignore the slight twitch in your eye before continuing.

“Alright then,” you manage to keep most of your irritation out of your voice as you press the play button on the recorder with a click. “This is Detective Y/N L/N of the New York Police Department 21st Precinct Criminal Investigations Unit. I am currently interviewing a member of the vigilante group Spider-Gang, Spider-Punk–”

“Spider-Man.”

“No, I’m not calling you that–”

“Spider-Man.”

“There’s like five Spider-Men in the group. I am not confusing Captain Stacy with which Spider-Man I’m talking to when he reviews this tape–”

“Spider. Man.”

You let out an exasperated groan and massage your temples as a small headache ebbs out from his stubbornness. Breathing in a deep breath before slowly exhaling until your lungs briefly deplete, you stare at Hobie with a deadpan before relenting with a roll of your eyes.

“Correction, the member is Spider-Man–” you narrow your eyes at him with an annoyed look as he gives back a mocking smirk before reverting back to his guarded nonchalance, “ –also known as Mr. Brown as provided by Ghost Spider–”

Hobie instantly sits up on the metal chair with a loud scrape, staring at you with disbelief as you instantly stop the recording with a scowl of your own.

“Have you lost the bloody plot?! The hell are you doing giving my last name–”

“Hey– Gwen was the one who gave the damn list of aliases for you guys. I don’t know why the hell you were just written as Mr. Brown, but that’s what she picked for you!”

“Goddamnit–” Hobie clenches his fists in the air with a frustrated inhale, briefly lamenting why none of the Spiders know how to lie properly, before heaving out another sigh. “Y’know what, whatever. Fine. I don’t– just– just keep going.”

As Hobie drops back down on his seat with a disgruntled huff, you roll your eyes with a slow angry exhale before you press play on the recorder again. “As stated before, Spider-Man, also known as Mr. Brown, is in interview room 138 with me today for the metahuman criminal attack at a wedding in Central Park. As requested by Ghost Spider, the interviewee will be referred to by an alias to protect their civilian identities if there is an unforeseeable future where any tapes involving the vigilante group fall into the wrong hands.”

You clear your throat before looking up at him with a professional, impassive deadpan. “Now, Mr. Brown, thank you for coming into this interview–”

“You seriously gon’ call me Mr. Brown,” Hobie scoffs under his breath as he crosses his arms against his chest, and your eye twitches again as you glare at him across the table.

“Are we really doing this now?”

“Oh my god– no, I just– this thing is just–”

“I’m at work, okay–”

“Yeah, I get that, but Mr. Brown is just fucking stu–”

“So the thing here with me, ‘bie, is that I’m at work right now. Okay?”

Hobie clicks his tongue and looks away from you again, ignoring the small flutter from hearing your slip of the tongue with that stupid pet name. Meanwhile your eyes harden and sharpen at him as you stare daggers at him, one of your hands balling up into a fist as you take another breath to calm down before you continue on with the interview.

“So, Mr. Brown,” you emphasize with as much irritation in your voice as you can without breaking your professional demeanor while glancing at the papers, “Based on my understanding with one of the written interviews with Spider-Byte at the crime scene, you were one of the first respondents who arrived at the scene to stop the attack of…”

You glance at the paper again and raise an eyebrow, your eyebrows furrowing in slight disbelief of the next words coming out of your mouth.

“...Styx and Stone.”

“May break my bones,” Hobie mutters under his breath as he glances at you with a bored look again before straightening up on his seat. “Yeah, I was one of the first respondents to arrive at the scene, along with another vigilante who was there before me.”

In a petty impulse, a strained smirk curls up on his face. “Black Cat, who I have personally worked very intimately with along with the rest of the Spider-Gang–”

CLICK!

“Fuck you!”

“No, fuck you–”

“Fuck you–”

“No, fuck you–”

“Go fuck yourself–”

“A’ight, I don’ actually want to do this–” Hobie growls out as he holds his hands up in a frustrated surrender, but you were still fuming across from him.

“I always knew there was something going on between you two–”

“No, there was nothing–” Hobie sputters out as he slams his hands against the table and pushes himself up from the table and glares at you– “there is NOTHING between me and Felicia–”

“Felicia?!” You bark back as you follow suit, slamming your own hands against the wooden table and pushing yourself up. “Oh, so you two are on first name bases now, since you two are so intimately acquainted–”

“Oh my fucking god–”

“You’re such a piece of shit, you fucking dog–”

“No, don’t even start this shit!” Hobie’s voice grows louder and rumbles against the walls.

“Oh, please–” you scoff as an overwhelming surge of adrenaline grows and lumps up in the back of your throat– “so you’re telling me you were faithful, protector of New York City–”

“I AM FAITHFUL!” Hobie screams out in anger and anguish, his hands balling up into fists as he slams one of them against the table, “I WAS FAITHFUL! I WOULD HAVE CONTINUED TO BE FAITHFUL–”

Both of you scoff and look away from each other as you both slowly lower yourselves onto your seats again, the brief fire of the familiar, bitter back-to-back from the end of your relationship now extinguishing into a slow, quiet simmer. After a long moment of awkward silence, Hobie lets out a defeated sigh.

“...’s not actually like that,” he quietly admits as he slowly slumps down on the metal chair, the hard edges digging into his flesh. “I just…”

Your eyes flick back to him, his figure almost shrinking under your scrutiny before Hobie finally looks at you with an unreadable expression. 

“I…I’m just miffed, alright?” he adds on with a slight sulk. “She was there to try to nab some expensive necklace the bride had ‘cuz the groom was from some rich family, so it was just a coincidence for her to be there during the attack…”

Hobie squirms under your hawk-like gaze, oblivious to your eyes softening slightly the longer you look at him. “I don’t– I don’t why I said it like that, it was honestly just business as usual…”

You stay quiet as he trails off, the raw hurt and resentment still lingering in your chest, before you look back down at the papers with a tired sigh of your own. “Business. Right.”

You absently worry your bottom lip with your front teeth, which Hobie’s eyes briefly linger onto before flicking away, before you glance back up to him and press the play button on the recorder again. “So, what? Was that attack from Styx and Stone just a coincidence or something, or are they connected to like a bigger organization like the Sinister Six–”

“No, no,” Hobie instantly shakes his head as he runs his fingers along his dreads, “it’s a fucking coincidence. The gang and I made sure to look into them ‘n everythin’. Think one of them had some personal connection with the bride’s side or sumthin’.”

You let out a low acknowledging hum as you flip through some of the papers. “Hm, yeah, I think one of my colleagues got that written down, but I don’t think they got the full details.”

Your fingers continue to leaf through the paperwork, your eyes downcast to avoid looking at him now. “Did you or any other member find out what the connection was, or if you heard any other conspiracy of another attack from the duo or a key witness at the scene?”

Hobie’s face drops to a pensive frown as his hand reaches up to scratch the scruff of his chin. “According to Stone, I think, his partner used to work for the bride’s father’s research company, and the father laid him off and cut the funding of his lab work or sumthin’. Tryin’ t’ r’member what that company’s called. Sumthin’ Chemical–”

“No, the name is fucking pretentious,” you mutter under your breath as you grab one of the papers and bring it closer to yourself. “Symbi-Ottic Chemical.”

“Yeah, that,” Hobie nods along with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Apparently they had some scandal involving some animal-testing that they had to sweep under the rug. Pinned the blame on the scientist one of the duo, and he wanted some revenge ‘n shit. Petty shit.”

You give another hum of tepid acknowledgement as you grab the rest of the papers on the table and shuffle them, your face reverting back to that impassive deadpan before you stop the recording again. Hobie raises his pierced eyebrow in confusion before you prop your elbows on the table and lean forward.

“This is strictly off the record,” you sigh with reluctance, your fingers fidgeting slightly against each other, “I just came across this information, so not even Captain Stacy and the rest of my team know about this, but…”

Hobie slowly leans forward against the table, waiting for you to continue. You hesitate from his gradual closeness before you glance away and brush it off.

“Symbi-Ottic Chemical is a branching company of Alchemax.”

Hobie’s eyes widen as you continue. “And knowing that Alchemax was a merger between Oscorp and another chemical company, I am merely speculating that the attack at Central Park and Alchemax might be more connected to each other than we both initially thought…”

You shrug while setting the stack of papers down on the table. “I don’t know. I’m just… I doubt this can actually be related to the Sinister Six since Osborn is gone, and I don’t have any conclusive evidence or anything like that, but…I’m trusting you guys could look into that hunch for me, okay?...”

Still reeling from that small revelation, Hobie quietly nods as he grabs his mask from the table. Your eyes glance over at the spiked mask before you shake your head and look away with a huff of disbelief.

“My life’s a fucking comic book.”

“Okay, seriously–”

Hobie stares at you in disbelief while you glare back at him, “No, because this whole–” you gesture to his spider suit in frustration– “costume getup, supervillain attacks and conspiracies, and the whole secret identity - slash - double-life bullshit is getting ridiculous!”

Hobie groans as he rubs his face against his hands before looking back at you with a tired stare. “Y/N, you’re still in law enforcement. You’re still taking care of normal crime shit, not just the metahuman cases–”

“Oh, oh– so I should just get used to stopping some purse snatcher that may or may not have some fucking superpower that could–”

You quickly cut yourself off and hold your hands up in the air, the headache from before gradually throbbing as you take another breather. “I…probably… go through, like, six cups of coffee a night just to go through all the paperwork for these metahuman cases–”

“That is so bad for you, Cherry,” Hobie interjects with a flash of concern in his eyes, not noticing his slip of the tongue, “you could at least call me or something if you’re struggling with that–”

“Oh, what, so you can do your fucking–” you wiggle your fingers in agitation– “spidey hands?!”

Hobie groans into his hands again, his fingers pressing against his eyeballs in frustration as tension builds up in his shoulders. His hands slowly drag down to look at you with a haggard stare. “Look, I- I don’t want to argue with you about this…”

“I joined the forces so I can help people, Hobie,” you cross your arms against your chest as your eyes grow glassy, ignoring the burning sensation rising up in your chest. “I didn’t sign up to deal with the politics between humans and metahumans and the cleanup of the aftermath–”

Hobie swallows down the bile burning the back of his throat as you look away with a sniffle, refusing to look vulnerable in front of him before you look back with a tired look.

“...when Peter and Miles were trying to stop The Sandman from rampaging last week, one of my colleagues and I got hit by a sand attack,” you grumble with a slight flush on your cheeks. “Do you realize how unpleasant it is to get sand out from between your ass cheeks and other crevices in your body after a fucking week?”

Hobie lets out a small huff of laughter in spite of himself before clearing his throat to stifle the rest of the laughter. “I-I can only imagine…”

He continues to look at you, his eyes traveling along your face and body as you sit in front of him. Your dark circles are more prominent to him now, your shoulders tense and in a proper need of a massage, your cuticles picked to hell– god, you picked up your skin picking habit again– and the dimmed light in your eyes. His heart painfully lurches at the sight as his face drops to a pensive frown.

“Look, Y/N, what the hell do you want me to say?” Hobie whispers to you, struggling to keep his voice even. “I’m sorry? I’m sorry that we met? I’m sorry that I fell in love with you? That you fell in love with me? That we got together and I trusted you with my secret and everybody elses’?”

His breath hitches as he continues, the back of his eyes burning while his eyes start to get glassy too. “I’m sorry that when you graduated from the police academy and joined the forces, you got caught up in one of Green Goblin’s attacks and almost died in your first year? I’m sorry that I was stubborn and kept trying to push you to quit when you didn’t want to? I’m sorry that I broke up with you when you kept refusing? That I basically dragged you into this whole thing where you have to be a fucking mediator between the gang and those blue pigs now. That you’ve been talking to Gwen and Miles while avoiding me this whole time for five years even though I gave you a bloody fucking Web-Watch to contact me–”

He quickly looks away to the ceiling, refusing to let the tears in his eyes roll down his cheeks, before he lets out a shaky exhale and looks at you again. His chest aches again at the sight of you shaken up, your own eyes welling up as your face pinches up to fight off your own tears.

“What do you want me to say?” his voice comes out in a defeated, broken whisper. “And please, please, don’t call me Spider-Punk, Spider-Man, and especially Mr. Brown…”

A stray tear rolls off your cheek at his quiet plea, hesitation and longing briefly flickering in your eyes, and you turn your head away to wipe the tear streak off with a sniffle before clicking the play button on the recorder again.

“...Mr. Brown, thank you for your time.”

A sharp sting stabs at Hobie’s chest at your answer, but he reluctantly nods before languidly standing up from his seat and slides his mask back on. “Yeah, sure. I’ll…I’ll give you a ring or have someone else in the gang to, if we find out anything more about your case.”

You nod with a solemn frown as you slowly stand up and shuffle the papers before stopping the recorder one last time. With a heavy heart Hobie starts to walk towards the door, his heavy combat boots echoing against the walls as his body itches to finally leave the stifling interrogation room.

His hand wraps around the cold metal door handle, but before he can pull it open, his ears pick up soft footsteps behind him.

“Hobie…”

You slowly approach behind him, your eyes lingering on the planes of his back, even with the layers of his spandex suit and leather vest covering his towering figure. Memories briefly flicker in your mind, one of a younger, much happier Hobie wrapping his arms around you, peppering kisses against your face until you burst out laughing with him. Ones of him holding onto you as he swings through New York with his web-shooters, both of you flying against the sunset and over the cityscape with adrenaline running through your veins. Ones of the quiet nights in your little crappy one-bedroom apartment where you both fall asleep in each others’ arms after he comes home from patrol, safe and sound and with you–

You swallow down the lump in your throat before you quietly speak again.

“...please be safe.”

For me, you end your last words in your thoughts, not finding the courage to say it out loud after seeing him for the first time in five years.

Hobie stands frozen in front of you, his back still facing you, making you stare at that spider emblem on his vest, his symbol for his role as Spider-Man.

Before you can take it back, he suddenly turns around and pulls his mask halfway up before pulling you closer to him, pressing his lips against your forehead goodbye. He just as quickly pulls away from you and lets go of you before yanking his mask down and slipping out of the interrogation room, leaving you standing there alone stunned and flustered. 

Meanwhile, Hobie rushes out of the police station with a flick of the wrist and a web shooting out of his shooter before he swings off and escapes to the city, his mind racing and his heart thrumming against his ribcage. Depending how the rest of the day goes, he’s either going to be dealing with more silence or an angry/flustered call from a soon-to-be sergeant.

[eponastory]

Watching From the Tower Part 3

Bucky x F! Reader

Your code name is Scout and your job was easy. You worked the cyber side of things for the New Avengers. You directed them where to go with your hacking skills, and you are the eyes in the sky. There was just one problem... you don't like leaving the tower. You are not a complete agoraphobe, but you are pretty close. Leaving makes you feel so unsafe and people touching you, that's even worse. So, when James Buchanan Barnes the former 'Winter Soldier' tries to get you out for one mission, things got a little hectic after that.

Part 3 Summary: We learn how you met Bucky for the first time and then what is going on with the radiation in Singapore... and then an intimate moment happens.

One Year Ago…

Your coffee machine was broken again. It was on its last leg to begin with because you had it since you were in college and it’s been close to twelve years. You took very good care of your coffee maker because without caffeine, you couldn’t get the work done that you needed to. It just didn’t happen without your four cups of coffee in the first part of the day. But lately, it’s been having some issues. That didn’t matter as long as you were able to pour that delicious, warm smelling brew in your ‘I’m a Hack’ mug and then add more creamer than coffee. You were golden. 

As it was, you were on the trail of something big. Of course, it was brought to your attention by an anonymous whistleblower named ‘Isurvivedthewarforthis1917’ which had you in stitches because you immediately traced the email to a specific IP address in Brooklyn, New York. Well, he may be old, but he at least knows how to work an email. Hell, you had a feeling he knew you could track him down. Since he was on the campaign trail that he obviously had no reason to hit, you were definitely on to him just as much. 

He was on the news on the daily at this point with someone always bringing up his past as the Winter Soldier and how he killed JFK. You were pretty sure that pardon he was given didn’t even hold up to the people that were against him. 

You smile as you see him on the news looking very awkward in front of the camera and partially choking up a little when asked questions he was uncomfortable with. You could see in his eyes. Of course the interview had been completed on Thursday and today was Saturday. It was really silly how the emails he sent you started off with him sending documents that he uncovered because one of his interviewers asked him something. What that was, you didn’t really know, but it was pretty much a given. 

Actually, you’re still not sure how he even found you. You just know one day there was an email from ‘Isurvivedthewarforthis1917’ with a name and a few documents that were definitely classified. How did he get them? You weren’t sure, but maybe the Winter Soldier was smarter than people gave him credit for. 

Maybe.

You sit at your desk when you get the alert on your screen. It’s on the messenger app that you made him download because emails are easily traceable and you can do something about the app because you made it. 

Isurvivedthewarforthis1917: I need your help with something. 

Yournamesobvious: Okay, what do you need? BTW. You looked awful in that interview.                        Ever thought about getting a stylist?

Isurvivedthewarforthis1917: Was it the hair? Or the suit?

Yournameisobvious: Sorry, but it was totally both. Anyway, what’s up?

Isurvivedthewarforthis1917: I knew it. 

Isurvivedthewarforthis1917: Valentina, she’s going to be hosting a gala later this month. I would like it if you could work the crowd. 

You panic. You’ve barely left your apartment in close to three years and this man who is pretty much a complete stranger you’ve been doing some ‘research’ for is asking you to go into public? 

Yournameisobvious: Uh… sorry. I can’t go. I have a thing I have to do that night. 

Isurvivedthewarforthis1917: I didn’t even tell you the date. 

Isurvivedthewarforthis1917: Is it because you are afraid of going out? 

Your hands freeze over the keyboard. You’ve never told him about your phobias. 

Isurvivedthewarforthis1917: I get it. Trust me.

Yournameisobvious: I don’t think you do.

Isurvivedthewarforthis1917: Try me. 

There is a knock on your door and you look at the messages on your screen before you make them disappear. You don’t know who could be at your door right now, but you do everything you can to clear your space, hiding the evidence of the PI files you were working on and everything else. 

“Just a moment!” You yell out before putting everything back in the filing cabinet by your desk and moving to the door. ��I swear to God Philis if that is you, I didn’t take your mop.” You unfasten the chain lock and turn the four deadbolts on your door before opening it. 

Your eyes go wide when you see Future Congressman James Buchanan Barnes leaning up against the wall on the outside of your door dressed in black with his hood up over his head. You shake your head because you have no idea how he found you. Then again, he was a former brainwashed assassin. He holds his phone up as you look at him in disbelief. 

“Wasn’t hard to find you.” He shows you the last thing he sent before putting his phone in his pocket. You question him with your eyes because you’re too stunned he’s there to speak. “Backdoor tracer. Very handy when you’re looking for someone. Been using it since the mid 2000’s.” 

You shake your head and come to your senses. “Backdoor tracer? Really?” You scoff. “Old school, but efficient.” Opening the door wider, you decide to let him in and he removes the hood from his head. He’s tall, broad shouldered, definitely not what you expected in person, but you can’t be picky. “How did you figure out which apartment was mine?” 

“It wasn’t hard. Your name was on the buzzer, but I managed to use another old trick to get in by buzzing someone else and acting like I was bringing food.” He puts his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “And I got your name from the same person who told me about you. It was on her phone while she wasn’t looking.” 

“Illya.” You sigh hard when you realize who you were dealing with here. “Alright, so you are resourceful.” You run a hand through your hair and then slap your hands against your thighs. 

“She left her phone where I could get a hold of it.” He smirks in a way that makes you think he’s joking, but he really isn’t. 

“Okay, so what are you doing here?” Crossing your arms, you shift from one foot to the other. “I guess I’m not what you expected, huh?” 

He shrugs. “I may have done a background check on you.” He says it like it’s not a big deal. “Besides the point, I’m here to see if you’ll help me with this one thing and if it’s a no, then I’ll leave.” He looks over at the door. 

“I don’t like leaving my apartment.” You don’t need to explain any further when you see his face change. “You know what happened don’t you?” 

“I saw the police reports.” He doesn’t mention if he had seen her medical reports. “What happened to you, it’s unforgivable.” He takes a step closer, but you take a step back and he sees that. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” 

“Do you ever leave?” The question is not what you expected. 

“For the necessary things– like the doctor and sometimes when I really need something.” The last time you left your apartment was for that one doctor appointment that you dread every year. The one no woman likes to go to. “I have to force myself out.” You sit on your couch, grabbing a throw pillow and hugging it to yourself to guard against whatever he might do. Bucky Barnes is still a stranger in your home, even if you’ve been talking to him through the internet. 

He sits down on the opposite side and you notice his vibranium hand then. He doesn’t hide it. You’d think that he would, but he doesn’t. It’s there for everyone to see. Somehow that interests you a little more than it should because it’s Wakandan technology that anyone would want to get their hands on. 

“I need your help.” You aren’t sure if he’s pleading with you are if he’s demanding, but it’s clear that he’s desperate. “The files I asked you to dig up, what did you find out?” 

“Everything is locked up tight.” You have been working for three weeks to get into tight encryptions to unbury those files. “When I do get into something, it’s like there is nothing to see, but it’s clearly been tampered with. There are outlines where code has been changed by an algorithm and then a scrambler.” You pick at the sleeve of your hoodie. “She has someone doing this and they are just as good as I am.” 

Bucky shrugs. “We’ll figure it out.” Then he switches back to the reason why he is here. You were waiting on his strategy. “I have to work the people at the Gala to see what I can find out and gather evidence.” 

You aren’t good with crowds. The thought of being anywhere else except right where you were made you panic because it was unsafe and someone could be right around the corner ready to… no. You can’t think about it. Squirming in your seat, you start to shake as memories you wish stayed buried resurfaced again. Of course, he notices and puts his eyes on you. You can’t stand the look of pity that anyone gives you once they realize what is happening, but instead those blue eyes are filled with something else. 

Understanding. 

Public knowledge of what he had gone through was the reason you were wary of him, but it was the things that you didn’t know that made you feel different. Not so much scared, but cautious because there were only so many things you could find about him. The rest you had to ask him about. So, you sit there on the couch, crossing your legs and holding onto a throw pillow. Its your shield against him. 

“I can hack the cameras and hack cellphones to listen to chatter.” You offer him this one thing. “Its pretty much all I can do from here.” 

“That's all I need.” He gives you a half smile. 

You stand up going to your filing cabinet that you hid everything in and rifle through it looking for something. There it is. A small case about the size of a business card and as thick as a USB drive sits at the bottom. You pull it out before bringing it to Bucky and handing it to him.

“These are comms. Stark-tech that is made to be discreet. Fits right on the inside of the ear and you’ll be able to hear me from the gala. It works off of satellite transmission.” You watch as he opens the case up to see tiny little dots that are of different skin tones. “You’ll have to call me when you put them in so I can hook up the satellite.” He looks up at you, impressed by what you have. “You stole these from Stark?” 

“I made them.” Before the Snap, before five years of torture. “Stark didn’t like the idea, he wanted something more along the lines of Wakanda.” You had never been to Wakanda or seen what they had to offer so matching technology was problematic. “I think they are just as good, if not on par.” 

He nods as he looks at how tiny they are. “No one else will hear you?” 

“Nope. It’s directional and I calibrate them to your specific hearing range.” 

“Perfect.” He shuts the case and stands up. “I’ll call you when I get to the gala.” Bucky pockets the case. “I’ll keep checking in with you until then.” 

You watch as he leaves, feeling like he is going to be a permanent fixture in your life. 

Now 

“Are you sure that it's Plutonium?” The same man who came to your apartment over a year ago walks beside you as you both walk through the halls. 

He's got the tablet in his hands with all the information you could dig up from spectrometers within the area of the mission. You are positive that its Plutonium, but more so positive there was a good amount that had been pooled together for whatever reason. Its radioactive isotopes were picked up at least five kilometers out from the source, which is not good. Still, besides the bouts of nausea and fatigue that the team encountered, the radiation was mild. 

“Bucky, I'm pretty sure that some experiment went wrong there and now we either have some super villain or a monster growing in there.” You had used another satellite to keep an eye on it and noticed that the heat was clustering together into a smaller area. “My bet is on a super villain.” 

Bucky stops, grabbing at the fabric of your cardigan to pull you back. “Wait a moment… you're saying someone pulled a Valentina.” 

“Or… a Banner.” You cock your head with a smile. “Bucky, there are dozens of people out there that are capable of doing some really bad stuff with their knowledge… you know this.” 

“Yeah, I do.” He starts walking again and you go with him. “But we cant fight someone who is literally nothing but radiation.” 

“No one can.” You shrug. “But the worst part is, whatever it is will be around for a very long time.” Thinking back to your days in college level organic chemistry, you think of the scenarios that could've led to this. “In 1945 there was an incident involving a core of Plutonium. Two scientists didn't handle it properly and were exposed to the radiation. Both died within days.” The Demon Core was a well known radiation incident that happened just after Project Manhattan concluded. Radiation wasn't understood well enough then, but now, someone had to be an idiot to do something with it. 

“So what do we do?” 

“This is a very different beast, so I have no idea.” The thought of your team, your family, going up against something so deadly terrifies you. “Bucky…” 

“I know.” He stops right in front of the elevator. “We can't fight this. At least, I don't think we can.” The doors open and you both step inside. “We'll keep an eye on this though.” He hands you the tablet and you take it, sliding it under your arm. 

“Right.” There is definitely a lot to be concerned with. “Shouldn't we alert the government about this?” 

Bucky looks at you. “Yeah, that's what I'm going to do now.” He gives you that half smile that you both love and hate so much. “Then, after that, its lunch time because I am starving.” 

“Are you eating chili dogs again?” 

“No.” He scoffs. “I'm ordering Greek today.” You hum, standing in silence for a moment before his vibranium pinky reaches over to wrap around yours. “You want some?” He looks at you from the side. 

Feeling his pinky wrap around yours is a little jarring at first, but it's clearly something he's testing with you. Testing your boundaries has been his motive lately, but he's been respectful about it. Ever since he carried you to your apartment a week and a half ago, he's been doing these little gestures to get closer to you. Its not out of character for him, but its something you find both annoying and endearing. But this? This is surprisingly okay. You can handle this. 

“Yeah, I'll take some.” You squeeze his pinky with yours. “You think you're so sneaky.” 

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” The doors open and he walks out to the hub where the team can usually be found, however it was just Bob. “It’s unusually quiet here today.” He notices just like you do. 

No Walker bickering with Ava over something stupid. No Yelena arguing with Alexei. It was just quiet, except for the sound of Bob playing the Nintendo Switch. You actually miss the noise, but at the same time, you aren’t sitting at your desk rubbing your temples in frustration when Walker tries to explain something that is so simple. You look at Bucky, still holding on to his pinky before he’s pulling you towards his office without anyone there to see, because there can’t be any rumors or ideas. 

His office is spotless. No clutter because he hates not being able to find anything while your apartment looks lived in. You’ve never been to his place, but you can imagine that his home is just as spotless as the office he occupies. There aren’t a lot of things that make it look like its his space, but you do see the books on the shelf behind the desk. The ones that you ordered for him sit on the shelf and then you see one on the desk with the bookmark you gave him in it. It makes you smile that he kept it. You know he keeps you on his mind because you are the first person he texts in the morning. 

When he shuts the door behind you, his hand leaves yours. You aren’t sure how to feel about that because you’ve become accustomed to his pinking hooked around yours after a short time. You watch him as he stands in front of you, his eyes looking into yours, asking permission to do something. You aren’t sure what he wants, but you take the initiative and reach your hand out to touch him. 

Your fingers ghost the material of his jacket sleeve before you grip it. Maybe giving him something would ease the tension that has been slowly building between the two of you for over a year now. 

Bucky inhales before he’s lifting his right hand to your cheek, brushing it with his thumb and then leaning forward as his vibranium hand moves to your side. He places a tender kiss on your lips, giving you the chance to back away if you need. It’s fine. You aren’t feeling violated or forced. You don’t feel the panic that you think you would feel as close as you are to a man. To anyone really. You know Bucky. You trust him because he protects you from everyone. He gets in between you and Val when she comes up to be petty or pick on you. He is always hovering over you because he knows you’re vulnerable, and sometimes its annoying as Hell. Still, you let him because you do care about him. 

When he pulls back, he looks into your eyes to see if he did something you didn’t like, but you lick your lips. You tasted whiskey on them. Probably from the sip he had earlier before he came to you for the results of the scans. 

You don’t say anything when you crash your lips against his. But just as you do, alerts start going off and you want to shoot whoever is calling in for a mission now. 

“Goddamnit.” He spits out as you break apart. 

The timing couldn’t be any worse. 

Part 2 Master List Part 4

[twentysidednerd]

hello i’m bored and need something to take my mind off of Bad Thoughts so here’s a list of my top 5 favorite LOA characters regardless of campaign:

1. Ko Tetsutora - I mean. Do i even have to elaborate lmao. her whole vibe is fantastic and i’m a sucker for the reckless, older sister, punk types of characters. she’s a badass and i love her. she does anything for the people she loves and the causes close to her heart and i am just. ah, i love her

2. Victoria Isaacs - On the other side of the character types, we have Victoria lol. She feels so tragic most of the time and knowing more about her on the second, third, and even fourth rewatch of “Curse of Strahdanya” makes her even more tragic. I’m a firm believer that her situation with Ilmater was kinda similar to Marius Renathyr’s situation with Lethander. how the Duchess of Sin was able to exert so much power over Marius that Lethander was unable to fully reach Marius despite multiple attempts. I believe that because Victoria is a half shadar-kai elf with the Raven Queen’s blessing quite literally in her blood, she was never Ilmater’s. Perhaps he tried to answer her prayers, but she was a child of the Raven Queen. and she was already suffering enough as it was. knowing what i know about Ilmater, i don’t think he wanted Victoria to inflict more needless suffering on herself (wow that was an essay, i’m sorry. i just really like Victoria lol)

3. Caprice De Sesto - another contender for the “stuck under the influence of the wrong person” crowd. he’s such a goof but also has such a big heart and doesn’t wanna see anyone get hurt. his songs make me laugh as much as they make my heart ache

4. Silas “Shepherd” Morgan - always a sucker for a cowboy. AND a gunslinger?? girl, i’m sold lol. another character with a huge heart and a moral code as admirable as it is fierce. he’d do anything for the people he loves but also tries to adhere to his moral code as best he can. his scenes with the kids from the mill are just. mmm so good

5. Daisy (i can’t remember if she has a last name) - What?? An NPC?? No fuckin way! Look, she’s a baddie and no one will ever tell me otherwise. she’s been through so much but absolutely REFUSES to let it get her down. she’s funny, she’s sassy, she’s hardy. i love her so much. she also finds a way to take up her own agency in a campaign that’s as brutal as Icebound and i’ve never been so happy for a fictional character lol

(obviously this is not an exhaustive list. i love a lot of the characters in the Avantris world but these are just MY personal top five who i think about the most :P)

[cccakessslicemeee]

+some thoughts but I don't have the time to create a full fic so uh... Here if you like?

Season 3 spoilers??? Yeah read at your own risk

I guess also season 1 spoilers???

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Y'all think there's a world where Riz takes on so much fucking stress his heart gives out and his mom is the first person to find him home and dead?

Papers all over the place. Kristen's campaign scattered across his desk. No sign of a struggle, lukewarm coffee on the desk. He worked himself to death.

And she just has to have a second to really process what this bullshit friend group is putting her baby through. Are they even his friends? Why is he putting his blood, sweat, and tears into their bullshit? Why can't they step the fuck up?

She has him revived and brings him to a hospital because gods know how long it's been since he's had a real check up. She's fuming.

Riz feels like absolute shit. Sure he's alive but the tension all over is still there and his chest still kinda hurts. Ugh. This sucks.

He doesn't fight with his mom or the doctors he kind of wishes everyone would fucking shut the fuck up. The lights are too bright and everyone's voice is three times higher than it needs to be. Man what level do wizards or whatever get to be able to casts zone of silence?

What follows next is the biggest crash from burnout. It swallows Riz whole and puts him in a functional depression but he doesn't have the energy to do literally anything. He doesn't say a word to his friends about what happened because honestly it's just so fucking dumb. They don't need to know.

Sklonda probably pops off when her and Gorthalax have dinner or whatever. Obviously I don't think she'd bad mouth Fig Infront of her father but boy shitting howdy does she have essays about Fabian and Kristen. Everyone honestly probably has essays to spew about Kristen and her nonsense but regardless.

Gorthalax very subtly tries to mention something to fig but she figures that shit out real quick and oh fuck Riz was so stressed out his heart popped. She goes german shepherd about it and makes a lotta stops at Riz's place. Only to her surprise Riz is not in his business casual. Who the fuck is this guy? It's Riz but he's swimming in sweaters and he looks so tired. He doesn't want her here right now he doesn't feel good.

There's a long pause between the pair before Riz knows that she knows and they both feel so fucking bad.

"I went to bard class today. And I'm gonna go again tomorrow."

"...so you're doing what you're supposed to do? Finally? Congratulations?"

"Yeah...so everyone's at Mordred if you wanna pop over? Lydia made so much chili-you know how she do."

"I do, know she cooks for an army. Thanks for stopping by but I really just want to sleep. Save me some?"

"No promises. You can sleep at the manner with us. No one can get into my room so like if you wanna be left alone you can be alone but with us?"

"I would really appreciate being truly just alone right now. Thanks."

"That sucks. I miss your face. Can I come in?"

"Please don't. Fig I really can't. Please just leave me alone. I don't want to be bothered. "

"Is it because it's me? Because like I could go get Fabian or Adine."

"No. Sometimes people just want to be alone."

"Oh. Okay I get that. Yeah so if you need me I'll just be outside the door."

"Fucking hell-no. NO! I want to be left entirely alone. Please go back to the manner. It's gonna be so weird if you just hover at my door."

"Well it's that or I crash on your couch? Or you come to the manor? "

"Why are you like this?"

"I went shepherded mode. Sorry. I promise to shut up if you let me inside. Please?"

For the first time in his life he thinks about putting a hole in his friends chest. For only a half second. Fig is just being herself and this is how she shows love. By being a clingy pain in the ass. He begrudgingly lets her inside because if he doesn't he'll never get to sleep again. She'll do something about it.

He goes to bed. She watches the fantasy equivalent of legally blonde and whatever else comes across the T.V.

Riz loses the desire to do anything. His clue board looks fucked up but he couldn't care less. His briefcase feels so damn heavy in his hand now, the suits are so damn restrictive and hard to breathe in. The necktie his father gave him feels like a noose now. Ugh. It's too much. He's a bad son whatever, worse agent.

Maybe his dad calls to check in. He was doing a mission wasn't he? He doesn't have the stomach to lie to his dad so he just doesn't pick up. Can't lie if you don't say anything right? He can apologize later when he doesn't feel as shitty.

Riz spends a lot of time in bed doing nothing. It's such a hard pivot and Sklonda has no idea how to handle this. She tries.

Fig tells the bad kids that Riz is in a funk and she blames herself because she's probably the reason his heart popped. When they get the gritty deets I think it ticks something in all their brains collectively and they crack down on the school bullshit. Mainly helping Kristen and Fig through their stuff and Gorgug you can't really do much for him because the teacher hates him but they still try.

Riz doesn't want to do a fucking thing. He just wants to sleep. Fabian sees Riz in a state of being similar to his mom and it's wild. He doesn't know how to handle that.

"Riz if you don't get the fuck up, I'm going to stab you."

"you know where the door is. You can leave."

And Fabian stabs Riz in his side. The goblin frenzy's so hard bc what the fuck man that shit hurts why are you being a huge piece of shit ow! There's blood on my sheets you pompous asshole.

They have a fight. It's more of like a pissed off cat clawing the shit out of its owner and the owner just trying not to lose an eye while lil Tiffany calms the fuck down.

Fabian hog ties Riz and they go to Mordred Manor where Kristen was practicing her campaign speeches Infront of a wide audience of Zayne Dark shadow, Jawbone, Sandra Lynn, Adine, and quite possibly a couple of other spirits just floating about. She's really stepped up her game and even put on a clip on tie! God she's so like, professional now. Maybe she's got a suit on bc she's really fucking trying.

Riz is kind of impressed. Like it's still not good but the effort Kristien is pouring into this still counts for something. And it's better than it was before.

Jawbone probably cheers for her. "Hell yeah, Fetty Wap. ((Who the fuck is that?))" And Adine has to whisper explain it to him.

Sandra Lynn sees something in Riz she can relate to and she doesn't like that. He's so young. He shouldn't be having those feelings. Jawbone clocks it too but doesn't get in the way or dog pile Riz. For now they put him at the table and just try to get him something to eat. No appetite. Go figure. They've seen him inhale food before and three bites (pretty generous honestly) of chili are not enough to fill his belly. There ain't no way.

Adine sees Riz's fucked up foot and she looks to Fabian already knowing what happened. "Did you stab him?"

"it was a friendly stabbing. Thank you. It got him up and out of bed."

And Fabian is also covered in claw marks and several bites

"well I suppose that's true."

Kristen's got it. She heals up Riz's foot and Fabian's everything.

Riz tries to leave after a lil bit but they won't let him. He really wants some space. Everyone's kinda suffocating him in a way where they are trying *not* to be on top of him. It sucks.

Riz does something crazy. He slips off his shoes and socks and climbs out the window getting on the roof just to get away from all the "Riz would you like to..., Riz could you.., Riz come here a second.." he needs to breathe.

When he gets to the rooftop Sandra Lynn is there smoking a clove. "You have a high tolerance." She remarks.

"yeah well... Yeah." He sighs.

"you want me to leave? If you promise not to fling yourself from the rooftop I'll let you have the roof."

"I'm not gonna make Kristen waste her spell slots on me."

That's horribly telling.

"kiddo... What good is a cleric who doesn't heal her friends? That's kinda the whole point of having revivify and greater restoration. Isn't that why YOU ripped a defibrillator off the wall on freshman year?"

His ears bounce. "How do you even know about that?"

She laughs. "Jawbone does not stop talking about you guys. They haven't had the time or the funding to replace that one in the cafeteria you yanked yet he was complaining about it being a safety hazard and I asked who would be dumb enough to rip that thing off the walls."

"Oh. Wow. That feels like a lifetime ago."

"Doesn't it?" She muses. "Hey. I know Jawbone is a lot to some people but if you need to talk to anyone and it's not him he knows a lot of other reputable people."

"why does everyone think that? I'm perfectly fine."

"...Are you? You took your shoes off to climb the manor. It's a pretty long climb."

Frustrated. "Did you know I'd be up here?"

"You think you're the only one who needs a breather? I love my daughters so much but there are times I have to get the fuck away from them. I'd do anything for them. Anything. But sometimes I have to take a puff of a clove and not be near them and their energy. It's not because I don't love them, I wish I could tolerate the nonsense as well as Jawbone does. Truly. But some people have thinner nerves and weaker stomachs."

"it's because of Kristen isn't it?"

She smiles and then shrugs. "It's because of Kristen this time, but mostly because I see myself in Fig and I can do almost nothing to stop her from walking in the same direction I did when I was her age. I think you help her with that, you all do so before I run my mouth all night thank you for making sure my daughter has good friends who love her."

"I know she loves me a lot too. I don't get it with her...nonsense but I know she loves me and that means a lot."

"I have love for you too kiddo. Don't feel like you can't reach out to any of us. Okay?"

"...yeah. thanks."

Sandra Lynn smiles. She ruffles his hair a little bit then goes back inside so Riz can stare at the stars until the sun comes up. Tomorrow is another day.

[softlypossessive]

Lately i've had on my mind Lev (haikyuu). I would love to read a model Lev x male actor reader, they met on a photshoot for a brand like ck and reader caught Lev attention (if it's possible smut and you can add your own plot to get to that part, with lev as the top) sorry if a made mistakes, english is not my first lenguage

♡･ﾟ𓏸  Flash, Lights 𓏸･ﾟ♡

♡ Characters: Model!Lev Haiba x Male Actor!Reader ♡ Warnings: NSFW (18+), oral (receiving), rough sex, praise, voice kink, size kink, hair pulling, public risk (semi-public), dirty talk (some in Russian), possessive!Lev, handjobs, top!Lev, bottom!male reader, marking (light), slightly dom/sub vibes, aftercare, reader lowkey losing his mind over how hot Lev is (mood), slow burn into very fast burn, use of [Y/N] ♡ WC: ~4.2k ♡ Notes: Thank you for the prompt—it absolutely devoured me. This is my first Haikyuu fic on this blog, and also my first ever mxm smut, so please be gentle lol. I only meant to write a cheeky little one-shot but then I got carried away and now we’re 4.2k deep and sweating lmao. Russian cameos included because Lev forgets what language he’s speaking when he’s turned on :3 Hope you enjoy this fever dream of hot lights, tension, and absolutely unhinged chemistry.

𓏸⋆｡˚☁️˚｡⋆𓏸

The studio buzzed with the kind of controlled chaos you’d grown used to—assistants darting around like caffeinated wasps, lights humming as they flickered to life, and the sharp clack of a makeup artist’s brush hitting the counter. 

You leaned against a prop table, arms crossed, the crisp white button-up you’d worn to the gig still hanging loose over your frame. 

Today was a big one: a Calvin Klein-inspired underwear campaign, all sleek lines and bare skin, the kind of shoot that’d plaster your face—and a hell of a lot more—across billboards from Tokyo to Times Square. 

You’d done shirtless before. Hell, you’d done nude for that one artsy indie flick last year. Cameras didn’t faze you. People did. 

The call sheet had warned you about a co-star, some model fresh off a European runway, but you hadn’t recognized the name until the door swung open fifteen minutes late, and in he strode—Lev Haiba, all six-foot-six of him, a walking skyscraper with silver hair that caught the light like a damn halo. 

He was late, sure, but the way he moved—long legs eating up the floor, shoulders rolling with that lazy, model-off-duty swagger—made it clear he didn’t give a shit. 

A black hoodie hung off his frame, unzipped to show a sliver of pale, chiseled abs, and those green eyes, sharp as cut glass, flicked around the room before landing square on you. 

“Fuck me,” you muttered under your breath, gripping the table’s edge a little tighter. “God, please don’t make me pose with him shirtless.” 

“Alright, boys!” 

The photographer—a wiry guy named Kenji with a permanent vape cloud around his head—clapped his hands, voice cutting through the hum. 

“Wardrobe’s ready. Let’s get you stripped and styled.” 

Your stomach dropped as an assistant rolled a rack toward you, black briefs dangling from hangers like a minimalist’s wet dream. 

Matching sets, of course—low-rise briefs with a waistband that’d sit just below your hips, paired with a cropped jacket that’d leave your torso bare. Tasteful, sure, but a thirst trap all the same. 

You glanced at Lev, who was already peeling off his hoodie, revealing a chest so sculpted it looked like he’d been carved out of marble. 

He caught your eye mid-motion, smirking—a quick, lopsided flash of teeth—and you turned away fast, heat prickling up your neck. 

Wardrobe was a blur. You shed your shirt, stepped into the briefs, and shrugged on the jacket, the fabric cool against your skin. The mirror showed a guy who knew how to work a lens—sharp jaw, mussed hair, a body honed from years of fight choreography and late-night gym runs. 

You were ready. 

Or so you thought. 

“Positions!” Kenji barked, and you stepped onto the set—a stark white backdrop, lights blazing, the air thick with the scent of hairspray and hot metal. 

Lev was already there, towering beside you, his own jacket slung open, briefs clinging to his hips like they were painted on. His skin was pale, almost luminescent under the lights, and those long, lean muscles flexed as he shifted, finding his mark. 

“Closer,” Kenji directed, waving a hand. “Chest to chest, let’s feel the heat.” 

You swallowed hard, stepping in. 

Lev’s shadow fell over you, his height forcing you to tilt your chin just to meet his gaze. He smelled faintly of cedar and something sharper—maybe mint?—and his body heat rolled off him in waves, brushing your bare chest as you pressed closer. 

Your hands hovered, unsure where to land, until Kenji snapped, “Lev, hands on his waist. [Y/N], arms loose around his neck. Sell it.” 

Lev’s hands settled on your hips, fingers splayed, warm and firm, and you looped your arms around his neck, fingertips brushing the soft silver hair at his nape. His grip tightened—just a fraction—and you felt the jolt of it low in your gut. 

The camera clicked, but all you could focus on was the way his breath hitched, barely audible, as your bodies pressed flush. 

“Good, good,” Kenji muttered, circling with the lens. “Lev, tilt your head down. [Y/N], look up—eyes locked.” 

You obeyed, lifting your gaze, and fuck—those green eyes were closer than you’d braced for, sharp and piercing, like he was peeling you apart layer by layer. 

His lips parted slightly, a faint flush creeping up his neck, and then—then—he glanced down. Quick, deliberate, straight to your mouth. 

Your breath caught, and his fingers twitched against your waist, digging in like he was fighting the urge to pull you tighter. 

“Perfect,” Kenji called, oblivious to the tension coiling between you. “Hold that—give me longing, give me want.” 

Lev’s eyes flicked back to yours, and there it was—want, raw and unfiltered, simmering in that green stare. 

His tongue darted out, wetting his bottom lip, and you felt your pulse kick hard, heat pooling somewhere dangerous. You shifted, just enough to brush your chest against his, and his breath stuttered again, louder this time, a soft sound that made your skin prickle. 

“Fuck, you’re good at this,” he murmured, so low only you could hear, his voice rougher than it’d been when he’d apologized for being late earlier. 

His thumbs traced slow circles against your hips, and you had to bite back a sound of your own. 

“Years of practice,” you shot back, keeping your tone light, but your hands tightened at his nape, fingers threading deeper into his hair. 

He leaned in—barely an inch, but enough that his nose brushed yours—and the camera clicked again, freezing the moment. 

“Alright, break!” Kenji yelled, and the spell snapped. 

Lev’s hands lingered a beat too long before dropping, and you stepped back, chest tight, trying to shake off the electric hum buzzing through you. 

He didn’t move, just stood there, watching you with that same damn look—half-flustered, half-predatory, like he was already imagining what came next. 

You turned away, grabbing a water bottle from the table, but you could feel his eyes on you still, burning a hole through your back. 

The shoot wasn’t over, but the real tension? That was just getting started. 

The studio’s pulse didn’t slow, even as the main shoot wrapped. Assistants scurried, dismantling lights and coiling cables, while Kenji barked at someone about lens filters. 

The air was still thick with heat, the kind that clung to your skin and made every breath feel heavy. 

You stood under the harsh glare of a lingering spotlight, jacket slung over one shoulder, the black briefs still hugging your hips. Your chest glistened faintly from the sheen of sweat the shoot had worked up, and you were itching to hit the dressing room, peel off the wardrobe, and call it a day. But Kenji had other plans. 

“Oi, you two!” he called, waving you and Lev back to the set with that manic grin he got when inspiration struck. “One more setup—something softer, intimate. Think lovers, not strangers. Can you sell that?” 

You shot Lev a sidelong glance, expecting a quip or at least a smirk, but he just nodded, those green eyes flicking to you for a heartbeat before he looked away. 

His silver hair was mussed now, strands falling into his face, and his jacket hung open, showing off the long, lean lines of his torso. He looked like he’d stepped out of a fever dream, and it was doing things to your focus you didn’t want to admit. 

“Fine,” you said, tossing your jacket to an assistant and stepping back onto the set. 

The backdrop had shifted—less stark white, more moody gray, with a low bench draped in black velvet. Kenji gestured wildly, explaining the pose like it was high art. 

“[Y/N], you’re half on his lap—Lev, one hand on their waist, other arm braced behind. Close, like you’re stealing a moment.” 

Your stomach flipped, but you played it cool, smirking as you straddled the bench, one knee brushing Lev’s thigh as you settled in. He slid into place behind you, his hand finding your waist with a touch that was too warm, too deliberate. His fingers splayed wide, thumb grazing the bare skin just above your briefs, and you felt the heat of his chest radiating against your back. 

You leaned in, almost in his lap now, your shoulder pressed to his collarbone, and draped one arm lazily around his neck, fingers teasing the soft hair at his nape. 

“Closer,” Kenji muttered, circling with the camera. “Lev, tilt your head toward them. [Y/N], turn your face—cheek to cheek.” 

You shifted, your jaw brushing Lev’s, his breath warm against your ear. The stubble on his cheek grazed your skin, a faint rasp that sent a shiver down your spine. His hand tightened on your waist, not enough to hurt but enough to make you hyper-aware of every point of contact—his thigh against yours, his chest rising and falling, the faint cedar-mint scent of him wrapping around you like a vice. 

“You’re shaking,” Lev whispered, so low it barely carried, his lips close enough that you felt the words more than heard them. 

His voice wasn’t teasing—it was too intimate, too raw, like he’d noticed something you hadn’t even seen yourself. 

You forced a laugh, tilting your head to meet his gaze, your noses almost touching. 

“Cold in here,” you lied, keeping it light, but your voice came out rougher than you meant. 

His eyes didn’t buy it. They locked onto yours, green and piercing, stripping away the banter like it was tissue paper. His thumb traced another slow circle against your skin, and you swore he leaned in—just a fraction, just enough to make your pulse spike. 

“Bullshit,” he murmured, lips twitching into a faint, knowing smile, and you felt your face heat up, the cocky actor mask slipping under the weight of that stare. 

“Got it!” Kenji shouted, shattering the moment. 

“That’s a wrap—great work, both of you.” 

The crew erupted into motion, but Lev’s hand lingered, sliding off your waist with a reluctance you could feel. 

You stood, breaking the spell, and grabbed your water bottle, chugging it to drown the buzz in your veins. Lev stayed on the bench a beat longer, watching you, his expression unreadable but heavy with something that made your skin prickle. 

The dressing room was a cramped, fluorescent-lit box at the back of the studio, all concrete walls and chipped mirrors. 

You pushed through the door, Lev right behind you, his presence filling the space like he was twice his size. The air was cooler here, but it didn’t do shit to cut the tension. 

Your clothes were piled on a chair—jeans, a worn tee, your usual comfort gear—but you didn’t move for them yet. Instead, you leaned against the counter, catching your reflection in the mirror. 

You looked flushed, a little wild-eyed, and it pissed you off how much he’d gotten under your skin. 

Lev stripped off his jacket, tossing it onto a rack, and started unbuttoning the spare shirt he’d been handed for the last shot. His movements were slow, deliberate, like he knew you were watching. 

You caught his eyes in the mirror, and there it was again—that stare, green and unrelenting, raking over you like he was memorizing every inch. 

“You keep looking,” you said, turning to face him, arms crossed, voice sharp to cover the way your heart was hammering. “What’s the deal?” 

He paused, shirt half-open, a sliver of pale chest peeking through. His lips parted, then closed, like he was weighing his words. 

“Can���t help it,” he said finally, voice low, rough around the edges. 

He stepped closer, closing the gap until he was right in front of you, so tall you had to tilt your head back to hold his gaze. 

You raised a brow, leaning into the challenge. 

“That your line for everyone?” 

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t smirk. Just stood there, eyes darkening, his breath coming a little faster. 

“No,” he said, and the word hit like a punch, simple and heavy, no room for bullshit. 

The air crackled, the space between you shrinking until it felt like gravity was pulling you together. You could see the pulse jumping in his throat, the faint flush creeping down his neck. Your hands itched to do something—push him away, pull him closer, anything to break this fucking stalemate. 

“Stop looking, then,” you said, voice dropping, stepping right into his space, your chest brushing his. “And do something.” 

Lev’s eyes widened for a split second, like he hadn’t expected you to call his bluff. Then something snapped. He moved—fast, no hesitation—his hands grabbing your face, long fingers curling against your jaw as he kissed you. Hard. Hungry. His lips crashed into yours, all heat and desperation, teeth grazing your bottom lip as he pressed himself closer, his body a wall of lean muscle pinning you to the counter. 

You kissed him back, just as fierce, one hand fisting in his open shirt, yanking him down to your level. He groaned into your mouth, a low, broken sound that sent heat pooling low in your gut. His hands slid down, gripping your hips, lifting you onto the counter with a strength that made your head spin. 

Your legs parted instinctively, and he stepped between them, kissing you deeper, tongue sliding against yours in a way that was filthy and perfect. 

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, pulling back just enough to breathe, his forehead pressed to yours. 

His hands were everywhere—your waist, your thighs, tugging you closer like he couldn’t stand the inch of space between you. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve been—fuck, you’re unreal.” 

You grinned, breathless, and grabbed his collar, pulling him back in. 

“Show me, then,” you said, voice rough with want, and that was all it took for the last of his restraint to burn away. 

Lev’s lips were a furnace against yours, all heat and hunger, his tongue plunging into your mouth with a ferocity that made your head spin. 

The dressing room counter dug into your lower back as he pressed himself closer, his massive frame caging you in, his hands—fuck, those hands—roaming like he couldn’t decide where to start. 

One gripped your hip, fingers bruising, while the other slid up your chest, shoving the cropped jacket aside to splay across your bare skin. His touch was electric, rough and warm, and you arched into it, grinding your hips against his, the friction of his briefs against yours sparking a low groan from deep in his throat. 

“Боже, ты такой горячий,” God, you're so hot, he muttered between kisses, the Russian rolling off his tongue like liquid sin, rough and guttural. 

You didn’t know what it meant—didn’t need to. The way he said it, voice wrecked and desperate, was enough to make your cock twitch against the thin fabric separating you. 

You pushed back, trying to keep the upper hand, one hand fisting in his open shirt to yank him down harder, the other sliding up his neck to tangle in that silver hair. But Lev wasn’t playing your game—he was rewriting it. 

His kisses turned sloppy, teeth scraping your bottom lip, his breath hot and ragged as he pressed his chest flush to yours, his heartbeat hammering through the thin layers of skin and cloth. 

Your shirt—or what was left of it—rode up, bunched under your arms, and Lev’s hand slipped beneath, palm flat against your stomach, tracing the lines of muscle like he was mapping you out. His fingers were long, calloused from God-knows-what, and they dipped lower, teasing the waistband of your briefs, making your breath hitch. 

“Fuck, Lev—” you gasped, breaking the kiss, but he didn’t stop, just chased your mouth with his, swallowing the sound like it was fuel. 

“Ты даже не представляешь,” You have no idea, he rasped pulling back just enough to look at you, green eyes dark and wild, pupils blown wide. 

His lips were swollen, glistening with spit—yours, his, who fucking cared—and that cocky little smirk was starting to creep back, cutting through the haze of want. You were losing it, slipping under the sheer size and heat of him, and it pissed you off how much you liked it. 

Grinding harder, you rocked your hips into his, feeling the thick outline of his cock straining against his briefs, and he groaned again, louder, head tipping back for a split second before he snapped forward, kissing you so deep it felt like he was trying to crawl inside you. 

The counter wasn’t cutting it anymore. 

You shoved at his chest, and he stumbled back a step, just enough for you to slide off and spin him around, pushing him against the wall instead. 

The concrete was cool against your palms as you pinned him there, his back hitting it with a soft thud, and he let out a breathy laugh—half-surprised, half-turned-on—that made your blood burn. 

“Oh, you’re feisty,” he said, voice low, but his hands were back on you in an instant, one sliding down to grip your ass, pulling you tight against him, the other tugging at your briefs like he was two seconds from ripping them off. 

You didn’t give him the chance. Hooking a leg around his thigh, you ground into him again, slow and deliberate, watching his eyes flutter shut, his mouth parting on a shaky exhale. 

His shirt hung open, a useless scrap of fabric framing that pale, sculpted chest, and you dragged your hands down it, nails catching on his skin just enough to leave faint red lines. He hissed, hips bucking into yours, and you could feel him—hard, throbbing, fucking desperate—and it was unraveling you faster than you’d admit. But then Lev shifted, and the dynamic flipped. 

He grabbed your wrists, spinning you both until your back slammed against the wall, the impact knocking a grunt out of you. 

He loomed over you, all height and heat, and before you could catch your breath, he dropped—slow, deliberate, sinking to his knees like a fucking predator playing at submission. 

His hands slid down your thighs as he went, gripping hard, and he kept his eyes locked on yours the whole way down, that green stare burning with something dark and filthy. You’d expected shy—some pretty-boy hesitation from a guy who looked like he’d been sculpted for magazine covers. 

What you got was ruin. 

Lev’s fingers hooked into your briefs, yanking them down in one smooth pull, the cool air hitting your cock before his breath did, warm and teasing as he leaned in close. 

“Fuck, look at you,” he muttered, voice rough, almost reverent, and then his mouth was on you—lips wrapping around the tip, tongue flicking slow and deliberate, tasting you like he’d been starving for it. 

Your head hit the wall, a low moan tearing out of you as he took you deeper, no hesitation, no warmup—just straight to the back of his throat, his nose brushing your skin. 

His hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging in, spreading you wider as he bobbed his head, slow at first, then faster, wet and messy. 

The sounds were obscene—slick, sloppy, the faint gag when he pushed too far—and you couldn’t stop the way your hips jerked, fucking into his mouth as he groaned around you, the vibration shooting straight up your spine. 

“Lev—shit—” His name spilled out of you, ragged and needy, and he pulled off just enough to look up, spit dripping down his chin, lips red and wrecked. 

“You sound better than the cameras,” he said, breathless, grinning like a bastard before diving back in, sucking harder, one hand sliding up to cup your balls, rolling them gently while his tongue did things that made your vision blur. 

Your hands found his hair, tugging hard, and he moaned around you, loud and shameless, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls. 

He was relentless—throat tight, lips slick, eyes flicking up to watch you fall apart—and you were, piece by fucking piece, every thrust of his mouth dragging you closer to the edge. 

“Fuck, Lev—don’t stop—” you gasped, and he didn’t, just hummed in response, the vibration pushing you right to the brink.

His tongue swirled, lips sucked, and those long fingers gripped your thighs so hard you’d have marks tomorrow. 

Your hips bucked, chasing the edge, and he groaned around you, the sound raw and filthy, vibrating through your cock until your knees nearly gave out. 

“Fuck—Lev—” you gasped, voice breaking, and he pulled off with a wet pop, green eyes glinting up at you, spit-slicked lips curling into a grin that was equal parts cocky and wrecked. 

“Какой ты вкусный…” You taste so fucking good he rasped, voice hoarse, wiping his chin with the back of his hand as he stood, towering over you again. 

His chest heaved, shirt still hanging open, and his briefs were tented obscenely, the outline of his cock straining against the fabric. 

You didn’t have time to catch your breath—he grabbed your wrist, tugging you toward the makeup table in the corner, its surface cluttered with brushes and half-empty water bottles. 

“Here,” he said, voice low and urgent, spinning you around so your chest hit the edge, hands bracing against the chipped wood. 

You barely registered the semi-privacy of it—the dressing room door was shut, sure, but the studio beyond still hummed with distant voices, the faint clatter of equipment being packed up. 

Lev didn’t care, and neither did you, not when his hands were on you again, yanking your briefs down to your ankles, leaving you bare and exposed. The cool air hit your skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of his palms as he pressed himself against your back, his cock—still trapped in his briefs—grinding against your ass. 

He started gentle, like he was testing the waters, one hand sliding up your spine to grip your shoulder, the other guiding himself as he freed his cock with a rustle of fabric. 

You felt it—thick, hot, the tip slick with precum—nudging against you, and he paused, breath ragged in your ear. 

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured, a faint echo of that earlier softness, but then you moaned—low, involuntary, desperate—and it flipped something in him. 

“Fuck,” he growled, and gentle went out the window. 

He pushed in, slow at first, stretching you open with a burn that made your jaw clench, but then you moaned again, louder, and he lost it. 

His hips snapped forward, burying himself deep, and you cried out, hands scrabbling at the table, knocking a bottle to the floor with a plastic clatter. 

“You looked so confident all day,” he panted, voice rough against your neck as he thrust again, harder, the table creaking under the force. “Now look at you—fuck, look at you.” 

Your elbows buckled, dropping you to all fours across the table, ass up, chest pressed to the cool wood as he fucked into you, each thrust punching the air from your lungs. 

His hands gripped your hips, pulling you back to meet him, and the wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, loud and shameless. 

“If I’d known you were like this,” he said, breath hitching as he leaned over you, lips brushing your ear, “I would’ve kissed you on set—fucked you right there in front of everyone.” 

You tried to stay quiet—bit your lip, muffled the sounds—but Lev wasn’t having it. One hand slid around, wrapping around your cock, stroking in time with his thrusts, and you couldn’t hold back the moan that tore out of you, high and broken. 

“I want them to hear you,” he growled, voice dark, possessive, and he thrust harder, deeper, the table rocking with every move. “Let ‘em know who’s wrecking you.” 

Your vision blurred, pleasure coiling tight in your gut, and his hand sped up, slick with your precum, thumb swiping over the tip until you were shaking, gasping his name.

“Lev—fuck—Lev—” 

He groaned at that, a guttural sound, and his rhythm faltered, thrusts turning sloppy as he chased his own edge. 

“Shit—gonna—” he choked out, and then he was cuming, hot and thick inside you, his hips stuttering as he rode it out, hand still working you until you followed, spilling over his fingers with a cry that echoed off the concrete walls. 

He didn’t pull away immediately. 

His chest pressed to your back, both of you panting, sweat-slick and trembling. Slowly, he eased out, a low hiss escaping him as he did, and you felt the drip of him—warm, messy—sliding down your thigh. 

He grabbed a stray towel from the table, wiping you down with a gentleness that felt almost absurd after what he’d just done, his hands steady now where they’d been frantic. 

“Ты в порядке, да?” he murmured, Russian soft and lilting, his lips brushing your shoulder as he pulled you upright, turning you to face him. 

“You’re okay?” 

You nodded, still catching your breath, and he smiled—soft, sheepish, the feral edge gone, replaced by something warm and disarming. His fingers brushed your jaw, then your sweat-damp hair, smoothing it back as he muttered more quiet words you didn’t understand.

“Так красиво, черт возьми,” So fucking beautiful his voice a low hum that settled something deep in your chest. 

You slumped against the table, legs shaky, and he didn’t let go, just held you there, one arm looped around your waist like he was afraid you’d bolt.

After a beat, you smirked, tilting your head to meet his gaze. 

“Next shoot,” you said, voice rough but steady, “we’re faking the chemistry a lot less.” 

Lev laughed, a bright, unguarded sound that cut through the haze, and leaned in to kiss you—slow, lazy, tasting of sweat and satisfaction. 

“Deal,” he said against your lips, and you knew he wasn’t going anywhere unless you told him to.

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