#no strings attached

so there's no strings attached, no cords attached, and swap no cords attached... what about swap no strings attached? (no strings attached au and its au derivatives by @spedles)

Chapter 1 — Spark

Alba spends most of Friday’s 2-p.m. sociology lecture pretending to take notes while her thighs keep pressing together beneath the desk. She’s heard every word the professor has said in past semesters: social scripts, power dynamics, public versus private selves. Private self, she thinks, a flutter starting low in her belly. Hers has been starving since mid-summer, two months of tepid make-out sessions, no hookups, and a parade of dating-app chats that dissolved as soon as fall schedules dropped.

Rain taps the window behind her. She glances around the lecture hall, dangling earbuds, half-closed eyes, one guy in the back row mouth-breathing over his phone, then back to the blank page in front of her. She writes one line in neat cursive:

Need one night. No strings.

The words ignite a charge she can almost taste at the back of her tongue. How to make it happen smoothly, safely, on her terms? Dating apps demand swipes, bios, soft negotiations that stretch over days. She wants velocity.

Her pen taps the page. A memory surfaces: the campus health center receptionist hefting a bulk box of condoms onto the counter every Friday morning, free for the taking, rainbow foil squares in clinically perfect rows.

Her pulse quickens. What if she flips the usual chase? Instead of hoping to bump into someone bold and compatible, she could set bait that says I’m bold; come to me. The picture forms: a hand slipping a condom into a jeans pocket, the surprised smile when fingers brush a label with her number, the vibration of her spare phone in the dark hours afterward. Excitement cracks like static along her skin.

Class ends. Alba bolts for the campus print-shop before the afternoon rush. Ten minutes later she’s feeding matte-white label sheets into the self-service printer, the tiny preview screen glowing with hot-pink text:

ALBA 20f — TEXT ME (555) 017-0420

She uses her second SIM, the number friends barely know, so she can silence it tomorrow if things get weird. Forty labels per sheet, five sheets total. As the machine spits them out, she feels a rush of ownership, like she’s minted her own currency.

Next stop: the health center. Students mill around the reception desk, nervously pocketing condoms in twos and threes. Alba waits until the cluster thins, then steps forward with a bright smile that says I volunteer for peer-health events all the time. The receptionist hardly blinks when Alba lifts the plastic scoop and empties the entire tray into her canvas tote. “Orientation weekend, right?” the woman says, half-laughing. “Take what you need.”

Alba needs the whole haul. She slips out into damp afternoon air, heartbeat syncopating with raindrops on her jacket hood.

Back in her dorm, she queues a playlist that’s ninety percent bass and breathy vocals. The room smells like sugar and sex-promise. She settles cross-legged on her bed, laptop tray as her workstation, and begins assembly:

Peel a label.

Center it on the foil square.

Smooth out bubbles, running her thumb over the printed word TEXT until the letters warm under her skin.

She works in batches, imagining conversations that might spark from each packet: a flirty emoji, a question about her major, a midnight “You up?” with heat behind it. Each label is a door she’s cracking open to see who’ll step through.

Halfway through the pile she pauses, fingers tingling. The thought of strangers’ curiosity turning into touches, hands skimming her hips, lips tracing that sensitive spot behind her ear, sends a shiver down her spine. She pictures being pressed against a cool wall, the drag of fabric up her thighs, the satisfying stretch when she welcomes someone in. The idea alone is almost enough to make her gasp, and she has to bite her lower lip to stay quiet. Tonight, she promises herself, I’ll let that shiver finish.

Hours slide by in fragrant, focused silence until forty foiled invitations lie neatly stacked like poker chips at the edge of her desk. Outside, dusk has thickened into the kind of rainy twilight that makes city lights smear into gold ribbons. Alba stands, feeling the weight of the tote on her shoulder, heavy with possibility, and checks her reflection.

Black satin slip: tight enough to tease but short enough to move. Cropped leather jacket: armor and allure in one. Gloss on her lips, liner sharp at the outer corners, and a single silver cuff hugging the curve of her ear. She looks like her own best intention.

Her phone buzzes with a roommate’s text, Heading to Levit8 tonight?, and Alba smirks at the timing. She pockets the spare phone, leaves the other on silent atop her pillows, and turns off the lights.

Rain has eased to a sultry drizzle by the time she hits the street. Neon reflections ripple on wet pavement. Alba draws a slow breath, letting anticipation settle low and heavy, like a secret between her thighs.

Tonight she’s not waiting to be chosen. Tonight she is the invitation.

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End of part 1

Bucky Barnes x f!reader Druig x f!reader

Summary: "No strings attached" was always a trap, you should have known your situation wouldn't be any different. Falling totally in love with Bucky would only end one way: tragically. So you handle it the only way your self destructive tendencies will allow.

Or, actually, the time I lost the plot and this accidentally became a Druig fic

Warning(s): adult themes 18+, reader makes dumb decisions - it's for the plot just go with it, it's going to be a bumpy ride but happy endings like always I promise

masterlist | twitter profiles

What do you guys think is gonna happen in this chapter? 🤭🤔

You are also very welcome to let me know if there’s anything you want to see / read in the new chapter!