#'enough to drown in; all of these scattered moments.'

[asiatic-apple]

Fluff prompt 1 with Sylus and female reader

Thanks for the request, nonnie! Hope you enjoy this one

Requests are open for my follower celebration

First kiss in the rain

Sylus x female reader

Prompt: getting caught in the rain together

Content: one mention of the pet name “kitten”, a little bit suggestive, making out in the rain

The sky had looked innocent enough when you left the cafe with Sylus. It was cloudy, sure, but not too threatening. It wasn’t until the two of you were halfway down the street that the first drop fell. Then another. And another.

Now you’re sprinting side by side, completely soaked, laughing as you duck under the overhang of a closed flower shop. Rain comes down in heavy sheets, drenching the pavement and painting the world in watercolor grays and glimmering reflections.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you mutter, breathless from the run and the ridiculousness of it all.

Sylus pushes back wet strands of silver hair, looking unfairly handsome when he’s soaked to the bone. “I told you we could have taken the car,” he teases, water dripping from the sharp edge of his jaw.

You elbow him lightly, feeling slightly embarrassed that you were the one who stubbornly pushed to walk back to your apartment. It’s more romantic to walk, you had said, sticking your chin out in that cute pout Sylus loves so much. Now you’re eating your words and drowning in the torrential rain.

But you’ve always been too stubborn for your own good. Some might call it a flaw, but Sylus likes that you stick to your guns—you’re his feisty kitten for a reason.

“I was right, though,” you exclaim over the patter of the rain. “This is way more romantic than a boring car ride.”

You playfully flick a droplet from his collarbone, subconsciously licking your lips when you watch it scatter into smaller rivulets that glide beneath the lapel of his dress shirt. Yeah, Sylus looks even better when his clothes are damp and sticking to him like a second skin.

You shiver without realizing it, and Sylus shifts closer, ready to take care of you. “Cold?” he asks with a raised brow. It’s unclear whether he’s smiling out of affection or because he knows exactly what made you shudder like that.

“A little,” you lie, wrapping your arms around yourself. Your own clothes also cling a bit uncomfortably to your skin. But your face is too warm—probably from how he’s looking at you.

“You should’ve let me bring my jacket,” he teases.

You scoff. “And have you suffer instead? No way.”

He hums thoughtfully, then steps in front of you, his hands reaching out to gently tug your arms from your sides. He wraps them around his waist, pulling you flush against him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“There,” he murmurs. “Now you can steal my body heat.”

You tilt your head back to look up at him. “This is very convenient for you, huh?”

“Extremely.” His smirk is handsome as always, but the look in his eyes is different now. It’s calmer, softer. Like the rain has washed everything else away but this moment between the two of you.

A drop of water slides down your cheek, and he brushes it away with his thumb. His hand lingers, warm against your skin despite the chill in the air.

You swallow, heart pounding. “We’re very wet.”

“I noticed,” he murmurs, his voice lower now. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth before returning to your cheek too quickly for your liking. “Should I pull away?”

“Not if you’re about to kiss me,” you whisper, already rocking forward on your toes to lean in.

The kiss is gentle at first, sweet and careful, as if he’s savoring the moment. But when your fingers curl into the front of his shirt, damp fabric bunching in your hands, Sylus deepens it with a quiet groan that makes your knees go weak.

His hands cradle your face, keeping you anchored as the rain hammers the pavement around you. For a second, you forget everything else. You forget the cold. You forget the puddles. You forget that anyone could walk by and see you both soaking wet, making out under a flower shop awning like something out of a movie.

You pull back just slightly, enough to catch your breath and whisper, “This is a little cliché, don’t you think?”

Sylus leans his forehead against yours, his soft panting the only sign that your kiss affected him just as much as it did you. “You say that like it’s a bad thing, sweetie.”

“It’s not,” you admit with a smile. “I like it.”

“Good,” he whispers, pecking you on the forehead. “Because I’ve been wanting to kiss you in the rain for a while now.”

You have half a mind to laugh, assuming he’s just being a tease as always. But the look on his face is sincere. You don’t have a witty response this time. All you want to do is kiss him again, until he’s breathless and dragging you back home to peel off these clothes that stick to your body.

The rain shows no signs of stopping, but for once, you don’t mind. Not when you’ve got Sylus pressed against you, his warmth soaking in deeper than the cold ever could. Not when your lips find his again, slower this time, like there’s no rush. Like this is exactly where you’re both meant to be.

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divider by @/thecutestgrotto

[lyssophobiaa]

Half spelled promises & cigarette burns.

Rusty Key Motel, Alabama.

May 22nd. $39.00 – cash only

Room 12. You left the door open while you showered.

Back:

I saw the scar on your hip.

I wanted to ask.

I didn’t.

You said I looked tired.

I wanted to say “I miss you,” but you were right there.

Isn’t that stupid?

—T

Marathon Gas, Louisiana.

May 25th. $7.03 – matches, Dr. Pepper, one cheap disposable camera

You took a picture of me while I wasn’t looking.

I almost deleted it.

Didn’t.

You said I looked like someone who still had hope.

You’re a liar.

—T

Motel 8, North Carolina

June 1st — $38.00

Receipt is torn at the corner, creased and over-folded.

You left the window open again.

I watched you fall asleep to the sound of trucks on the highway.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look so peaceful while being so loud.

You talk in your sleep.

You said my name.

I wanted to say it back.

Maybe next time.

—B

7-Eleven in Kentucky

June 18th — $6.63 (Slim Jims, sunglasses, one purple Slurpee)

You were asleep when I almost left.

Keys in hand, boots on, heart in my throat.

But you twitched in your sleep and muttered “Stay.”

So I did.

Just this once.

Maybe again tomorrow.

—T

Waffle House – 2am

June 26 — $17.89 (coffee, scattered hashbrowns, pecan waffle)

You stormed out after three bites.

Said I was “acting like a savior again.”

I didn’t follow you.

But I paid your tab anyway.

You’re not the only one who knows how to run.

—B

Motel 9 – Room 109

July 1 — $39.75

You slept with your back to me.

But you pulled the blanket over my shoulder at 3am.

I think that means you forgive me.

Or maybe you just didn’t want me cold.

Either way, thanks.

—B

Circle K – Tennessee border

July 27 — $5.31 (lighter, beef jerky, orange soda)

I came back, didn’t I?

You didn’t say a word. Just passed me the soda like we hadn’t just ripped each other in half.

That’s the closest we get to sorry.

—T

BP Gas Station, Mississippi

July 28 — $15.20

You said you didn’t need me.

Then you asked if I had a cigarette.

So which is it?

You either hate me or you’re scared to lose me.

I hope it’s the second one.

—B

Seedy Motel, unnamed town

August 6 — $36.99

You cried.

You never cry.

I didn’t know what to do.

So I held your hand like we weren’t both falling apart.

I said it was gonna be okay.

I lied.

I’m sorry.

—T

Motel 10 – Room 208 – August 24 – $41.70

Blood on the edge. Not enough to be alarming. Enough to wonder.

We fought.

Like, really fought.

I said things I didn’t mean. You did too.

You hit the mirror. It hit back.

I cleaned your hand.

You said, “Why do you always stay?”

I didn’t answer.

But the answer’s written all over this room.

—B

Rusted gas station on Route 53

August 30 — $6.12 (Red Vines, Twinkies, two packs of Marlboros)

I said I hated you.

You didn’t flinch.

Just said “okay.”

I didn’t mean it.

I just wanted to know if you’d fight for me.

You didn’t.

—T

Motel 11 –September 5 – $38.20

You kissed me in the shower like we weren’t drowning.

Like the water could wash the fear off.

It didn’t.

But God, you were warm.

—B

Motel 12, last one they stayed in together

October 15 — $41.11

You finally said it.

“I love you.”

Like it burned your throat on the way out.

I wanted to bottle the moment and drink it for the rest of my life.

I said it back. You looked scared.

I kissed you anyway.

You didn’t run.

That’s how I’ll remember you.

—B

Waffle House – October 16 – $18.04

You said, “We could stop running, you know.”

I said, “We can’t.”

But I wanted to.

God, I wanted to.

You make impossible things sound easy.

—T

Abandoned rest stop – February 7 – $0.00

You said, “Promise me you won’t leave without saying goodbye.”

I said, “I promise.”

I lied.

I’m sorry.

I didn’t know it’d be the last time.

I didn’t know you’d be the last thing I’d think about.

You always were.

—B

Motel receipt – found in Brian’s glovebox, never given to Tim – March 4 – $38.40

I’m scared.

Not of what’s out there.

Not even of dying.

I’m scared you’ll forget me.

Like I was just a pit stop on your way to burning brighter.

But God, I hope you don’t.

—B

The last one – no receipt, no amount. Torn corner of a map. Mud-stained. Ink smudged from rain. Tim’s handwriting. Unmistakably his. —

I looked for you in every motel hallway.

In every flickering sign.

In the static.

You’re nowhere.

But you’re everywhere.

I’m sorry.

I love you.

—T

[evergreen-dryad]

“One of my philosophy professors lectured wildly about love once, yelling: “When you’re in love with someone, that person is the lighthouse of your universe.” (I scrawled it inside Science and Poetry in pencil—lighthouse of your universe—as if I would ever forget that phrase.) He was a delightful caricature of his position. I could swear he literally tore his hair out while howling at us. He went on, “Nothing means as much without that person.” One of the men in the class repeated, incredulous, half-laughing, “So you’re saying you can’t enjoy, like, a vacation, without someone if you’re really in love with them?” “Of course not.” the professor replied. “Not completely. You recognize beauty, but beauty means less if they don’t witness it with you. Beauty is less. You see something sublime and your first thought is that they should be there with you. It’s not as good without them. They illuminate. They make everything more.”

— (via albinwonderland)

[gf2bellamy]

Can you write about reader and Spencer’s wedding night and him helping reader take down her hair and wash off her makeup and take off her dress. And reader and Spencer being goofy and practicing calling each other husband and wife because they’re new titles that they’re so excited to use

wedding night — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader saying she's suffocating in her dress?😭 a/n: i hope i did your request justice !! <3 i hope you like it <333 ( i wanna be married to spencer so bad oh my god )

You stood behind Spencer, your fingers resting lightly against his back as you waited—not so patiently—for him to unlock the hotel room door. 

“Hurry up,” you huffed, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “I need to get out of this tight dress.” 

Spencer fumbled slightly with the keycard, mumbling something under his breath that you didn’t quite catch.

Finally, the lock clicked, and he pushed the door open, stepping aside to let you in first. The room was dimly lit. Rose petals were scattered across the bed—a sweet surprise you hadn't expected—and the scent of vanilla lingered in the air. 

You barely had time to take it all in before Spencer turned to you, his eyes sweeping over you with the kind of admiration that made your breath catch. 

“You look beautiful,” he said softly. 

Something in the way he said it made your heart melt. You smiled, warmth spreading through your chest. “Thank you, Spencer.” 

But then you let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “But you’re going to have to appreciate my beauty without it now because I’m about to suffocate in this dress.” 

You turned around, exposing the intricate lacework of the back, and pulled your hair to one side.

There was a brief pause before you felt his fingers graze the zipper at the top of your dress. His touch was featherlight, almost hesitant, and the warmth of his hands sent a shiver down your spine. 

He took his time, carefully pulling the zipper down inch by inch, revealing the bare skin of your back. His fingers brushed against you ever so slightly, and despite the fact that you had been with him for years—had just married him today—his touch still made you shiver. 

Spencer let out a quiet breath, and you swore you could feel the warmth of it against your shoulder. 

“You have no idea how breathtaking you are,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. 

Your heart skipped a beat. 

You turned your head slightly, catching his reflection in the mirror across the room. His gaze wasn’t just admiring—it was adoring. 

A soft smile tugged at your lips as you reached back, taking one of his hands in yours. “I think I do,” you said, squeezing his fingers gently. “Because you always make me feel that way.” 

Spencer exhaled softly, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder, his lips lingering there for a moment. 

You smiled softly. But as the cool air hit your back from the half-open zipper, reality set in—you needed to get out of this dress completely and into something comfortable. 

Your eyes flickered around the room, searching for your bags. “Where did Penelope put our stuff?” you murmured, more to yourself than to Spencer. 

You were practically dreaming of slipping into one of his shirts—something soft, loose, and big enough to drown you in warmth. The thought alone made you sigh in relief. 

Spencer, still standing behind you, let his hand drop from your back, his fingers briefly brushing against your skin before he turned to scan the room. It didn’t take long for him to spot the neatly placed bags by the bed, courtesy of Penelope’s insistence on handling every little detail. 

Without a word, he walked over, unzipping one of the suitcases and pulling out a familiar button-down shirt. He held it out to you, his fingers lightly gripping the fabric. “Here,” he said softly, his gaze meeting yours. 

You smiled, taking it from him, your fingers brushing briefly. As he turned away to shrug off his suit jacket, you wasted no time in stepping out of the gown. The heavy fabric pooled at your feet, and you sighed in relief as the pressure around your torso was finally gone. 

Slipping Spencer’s shirt over your head, you felt instant comfort. It smelled like him. The fabric hung loosely over your frame, the sleeves falling just past your wrists. You buttoned it up halfway before rolling the cuffs slightly, already feeling cozier than you had all night. 

By the time you turned back around, Spencer was standing near the dresser, unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves. 

You couldn’t help but admire him for a second—how even after all these years, just looking at him could send warmth fluttering through your chest. 

Spencer glanced up just in time to catch you staring, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. “You look good in my shirt,” he murmured, his voice softer than before. 

You grinned, hugging yourself slightly as you rocked on your heels. “I love your shirts. I think I might steal this one permanently.” 

You turned away from Spencer with a smile, heading into the bathroom. The moment you stepped inside, your eyes widened in pure awe. 

“Wow,” you breathed out, staring at the luxurious space in front of you. 

Spencer, hearing your reaction, quickly pulled on something more comfortable before following you inside. “What—” He stopped mid-sentence, his eyebrows raising slightly as he took in the enormous bathroom. 

The walls were lined with elegant marble, a massive soaking tub sat in one corner, and a glass-enclosed rain shower took up nearly half the space. But what really caught your attention was the mirror—the biggest bathroom mirror you had ever seen. 

“I have never seen a bathroom this big,” you marveled, still taking it all in. 

Spencer chuckled softly behind you. “I think this is bigger than my first apartment.” 

Your gaze shifted to the countertop, and your heart swelled at what you saw. Lined up neatly beside the sink were a variety of makeup removers, cotton pads, and skincare essentials—things you hadn’t packed. 

“Oh my God,” you sighed happily, pressing a hand to your chest. “The girls are angels.” 

Penelope, JJ, and Emily must have planned this—always looking out for you, always making sure you had everything you needed. It was such a small gesture, yet it made you feel so loved. 

You reached for one of the makeup removers, ready to start wiping away the remnants of the long day, but before you could, Spencer stepped closer. 

“Let me help you,” he murmured, gently taking the bottle from your hands. 

You blinked up at him, a little surprised, but you didn’t protest. Instead, you let out a soft hum, leaning back slightly against the counter as he got to work. 

Spencer carefully poured the remover onto a cotton pad, then reached up, his fingers grazing your jaw as he began to wipe away the makeup with featherlight strokes. 

His touch was so delicate. His gaze was focused, brows slightly furrowed in concentration, and the warmth of his fingertips against your skin sent tiny shivers down your spine. 

You couldn’t help the soft smile that crept onto your lips. 

“Spencer?” you murmured. 

His eyes flickered to yours, pausing his movements slightly. “Hmm?” 

A grin tugged at your lips as you stared at him. The man standing in front of you—the man who was so impossibly brilliant, kind, and completely yours. 

“You know you’re my husband now?” you said, a teasing lilt in your voice as you grinned at the word. 

Spencer’s lips twitched into a small, almost shy smile. He resumed his gentle strokes, wiping away the last traces of your makeup before whispering, “Yes.” 

He tilted his head slightly, his thumb brushing over your cheek in the softest caress. 

“And you’re my wife now,” he murmured. 

Your heart melted. 

Hearing that word from him—knowing that it was real, that you were truly his and he was yours—made you want to throw your arms around him and never let go. 

You bit your lip, happiness bubbling up inside you like an uncontrollable wave. “Say it again,” you whispered. 

Spencer let out a soft chuckle, his hands still cradling your face. He leaned in, pressing the lightest of kisses to your forehead before whispering against your skin: 

“My wife.” 

Your stomach fluttered, and you grinned at the sound of it. 

Wife. You were his wife. 

Spencer paused for a moment, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek. Then, without a word, he set the makeup wipe aside and reached up, his fingers finding the pins holding your hair in place. 

You sighed as he carefully pulled them out one by one, loosening the strands from the elaborate style they had been twisted into all day. His fingers worked through your hair, letting it cascade freely around your shoulders. 

When he was done, he ran his hands through it gently, smoothing it out before tucking a stray piece behind your ear. 

“There,” he murmured, his voice laced with fondness. “Perfect.” 

You met his gaze, your heart swelling at the sight of him—of you together, standing in this moment as husband and wife. 

Spencer’s arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer against him. You let your hands rest on his back, leaning into his warmth. 

“I think I could get used to this,” you whispered. 

Spencer pressed a soft kiss to your temple, his embrace tightening slightly. “Me too,” he murmured. “For the rest of my life.” 

[lordprettyflackotara]

heroin kiss || kylo ren

‘& now i’m feenin’ for ya, cravin’ for ya, heroin kiss’

sum: after being captured, kylo ren is determined to extract what he wants from you. by any means necessary.

tw:smut, minors dni 18+. sorry poe. rough sex. inappropriate use of the force, cream pie, humiliation/degrading

a/n:kylo lives in my head rent free

You were fucked.

Completely and utterly fucked.

You struggled against the metal restraints that pinned you down to the metal table, blinding lights making your eyes water as they blinded you from above.

The room was unusually sterile, your nose burning from the sickening scent. You swallowed as you tried to move, your wrist and ankles restricted in the most uncomfortable manner. How long had it been since you had been brought here? You couldn’t recall, your mind drowning in fears of what was to come next.

You had been separated from the resistance, left behind in a desperate attempt for any of the fellow rebels to survive. Many were already dead. The scattered bodies on the ground below had proven that. You guessed they had presumed you dead, stranding you on whatever damned planet had resulted in your capture. You cursed yourself for not paying more attention on where you were landing.

Now you were trapped on the finalizer, misery and torture destined to come your way. You could feel the sound of people scrambling outside of your room, the metal doors sliding open. With wide eyes you stared at Kylo Ren, the leader of the Knights of Ren. The realization of how utterly fucked you were crashed over you, upon seeing his ominous mask stare down at you. Your body froze, staring at him as you awaited his next move. You were surprised to watch him take off his helmet, his face stern as he glared down at you. “For such a tiny little thing you put up quite a fight. How many of my men did you kill on your way in with that pathetic little blaster of yours? Three?” He questioned.

His amusement confused you, Kylo Ren being known for his ruthless wrath. You opted out of speaking, instead staring blankly. You knew this could end in various methods of torture. He could use the force to strangle you, cut off your limbs one by one with his light saber or-

“Enough with the various torture methods you’ve conjured up. They’re all absurdly boring and take absurd amounts of time,” Kylo said sternly, regaining your attention. Your eyebrows furrowed, causing him to snicker. “What? Did they forget about use of the force in your training? That pretty little mind of yours is all I need,” He explains plainly, as if you not knowing was utterly boring. Menacingly he walks beside you, his eyes never straying from your face.

He can read minds? What kind of left out training fuck shit is that?

This caused Kylo to snicker once more, his gloved hand grabbing your chin. He forced your lips to pucker out like a fish, your eyes widening in fear. Instinctively you struggle against the restraints, your bones clashing with the metal. “Such foul thoughts, I wonder if your lips are the same way. Let’s see,” He grins, his smile wicked and curled upwards in amusement. You can feel your mind becoming fuzzy as he steps into your mind, your body going limp as he explores your memories. You stand beside him in your own mind, watching every moment, from significant to minuscule, like a picture movie. Your lips are unmoving, but you’re screaming for him to stop, begging for him to wait.

Ever so achingly slow, he begins exploring each path of your mind. Your updated memories aren’t enough for him, the warlord intrigued and diving deeper. “Stop this at once! Get out!” You screech, your screams falling on deaf ears. Kylo’s unmoved by your demands, waving through the boring memories and landing on one that catches his eye. His eyebrows furrow as he begins to watch, your face twisting in disgust as you turn away. Kylo’s own face turns in confusion, his eyebrows raised as he watches the memories of you and Poe.

“Poe Dameron? That’s your type?” He questions. You can’t bear to watch the events of the past play out, your stomach churning as Kylo watches them. Every exchanged smile. Every training session. Every battle fought together. Kylo can feel the romantic feelings that pound in your heart at the sight of the pilots face. Every hug, then every kiss, every sexual encounter. Every plea you gave for him to fuck you harder. To choke you. To make you forget about the worries of existing. You cover your eyes, listening to the unforgettable sounds of Poe Dameron’s smooth voice. Kylo watches, puzzled. Your romantic entanglements did not intrigue him. They meant nothing to his search for helpful knowledge. But your reaction, your screams, your emotions. That did intrigue him. And so Kylo watched it all, watching you fall in love with the beloved pilot of the resistance. It was then the worst part was coming, that you wanted to curl up into a ball.

Poe Dameron was dedicated to the resistance more than anyone you had ever met. He knew his purpose for existing was to fight for what he deemed to be right. So much so, that he deemed a relationship with you a waste of energy and time. After all, what if you were to die? He’d never be a good pilot after that. He’d never be as good of a resource as the resistance needed him to be. So as ruthlessly and heartlessly as he could, he abandoned you. Every moment Kylo watched meant absolutely nothing to Poe Dameron, the pilot leaving you without a second thought. It was then Kylo left your mind, your head spinning as you both returned to a brutal reality. Your waterline was flooded with tears, your gaze focused on anywhere but Kylo’s face.

He stared down at you, releasing your face. “Torturing you isn’t going to get me what I need,” He said emotionlessly. You avoided his gaze, hot tears streaming down your cheeks. You hated how degraded you felt, humiliated by the warlord before you. With the flick of Kylo’s hand he used the force to undo your restraints, raising the table and forcing you onto your feet. You briefly stumbled, his gloved hand grabbing you and pushing you against the closest wall. His eyes bored down into yours, his touch harsh as he chose his next words carefully. “A factor you haven’t considered, is a fair exchange. I give you what you want more than anything else and you give me the same,” He says slowly. You swallow as you await his next words, your lips cracked as you slowly open them.

“W-What-”

“Don’t play coy with me. You want nothing more in this life than to feel loved. I can make that happen, you know I can. Then you’ll give me what I want in return,” Kylo says, glancing down at your lips. You shivered in fear and flusteredness as Kylo attempted to be gentle, shoving some stray hairs behind your ear. “I can read your mind, you know. I can see right through you. I can see your fears, your memories. But most importantly, I can see your filthy desires,” He whispered, leaning in close to your ear. You freeze as he smirks, relishing in the feeling of your fear.

“Little solider girl wants nothing more in this life than be ruthlessly fucked, is that right? To be treated like a worthless whore?” Kylo purrs, his breath hot against your skin. His gloved hand finds its place on your neck, holding you steady. “Submit to me. Give in,” He growls. He can feel his own desires washing over him, his body fizzling in anticipation. “Just say the word and i’ll make you feel so good, you’ll forget Poe Dameron ever existed,” Kylo continues. He knows what word you want to say. He can see how badly you want him. It’s evident in not only your flushed face, but your loud and filthy mind.

“Please.”

Your voice is barely above a whisper, your heart pounding. Kylo knows you haven’t been with anyone since Poe, your guarded heart not allowing it. He smirks as he uses the force to undress you, unmoving as the cold air creates goosebumps across your skin. Once you’re fully exposed he takes a step back, admiring your perky nipples and exposed form. You feel your face flush red. To you, sex is an intimate experience meant to be solely a love filled affair. Yet the primal gleam in Kylo’s eyes makes you feel different, your core throbbing with a different kind of desire. You were programmed to despise Kylo Ren and the ground he walks on. To, in any situation, blast him until he doesn’t move.

Yet you stand before him naked, desperate to be touched. Kylo takes a step back, soaking in your form. He forces you to sit on the ledge of the window, using the force to spread your legs. “Go on, amuse me. Touch yourself for me,” He orders, staring down at you like you’re a piece of meat. You gulp nervously as you lick the pads of your index and middle finger, before bringing them to your core. Kylo refrains from smirking at this action, your cunt glistening in the relentless bright lights. You begin to sheepishly circle your neglected clit, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact with the man before you. Your cunt is so wet it takes everything in Kylo to not pick you up and use you as a cocksleeve. Instead he wants to savor this, soaking in the sight of a rebel humiliating herself for his amusement.

You go to dip your fingers into your entrance but Kylo stops you. “I didn’t say to do that. Keep circling that pretty little clit of yours,” He orders. The sternness in his voice sends a chill down your spine, your fingers slowly circling your sensitive bud. Abruptly Kylo rewards your obedience, the feeling of two thick fingers plunging into your cunt. Kylo himself is still feet away, watching as he uses the force to finger fuck you. You can feel the fingers curling upwards, stretching you out while brushing against your g spot. “O-Oh fuck, Kylo-” You babble, choking on your own words. The sight of seeing nothing there, while Kylo cockily watches, only makes your core throb much more intensively. “Does that feel good? Falling apart before me for my entertainment?” Kylo ask, tilting his head to the side mockingly. He watches your hips rut into nothing, sinful whimpers escaping your lips.

This is all you should really want. Is to feel humiliated and to feel good from doing so. Kylo knows this what you want, which is why your next statement puzzles him.

“P-Please, cmere, wanna feel you-” You whine, barely able to keep up with the feeling of being finger fucked into oblivion. Kylo’s hardened expression falters for a moment, before he regains it. He ignores the way a spark ignited within him, his feet carrying him to you. He picks you up, your legs wrapping around his waist as he sets you on the metal table. Hesitantly he leans in, his gloved hand cupping your face. He can feel your breath hitch as he finally leans in, placing his lips against yours. This kiss feels different. Far different than any you had shared with Poe. You know this. Kylo knows this. You both want to chop it up to the heat of the moment. Two ruthless fighters being touch starved. Truthfully, maybe that’s all it was. But you knew better, your mind swirling as you passionately struggled to keep up with his eager lips.

He needed you, just as bad as you needed him.

Kylo allowed himself to give in, undoing his pants and cupping your breast. His gloved hands explored your body, worshipping each inch of your skin. No lover had ever made him feel so alive before, his cock brushing against your entrance. You struggled to keep up with the desperation that was behind his kisses as you grabbed his cock, desperately guiding it into of you. Both of you let out a groan in unison as he slowly slid inside of you, your walls clinging to him. You moaned into his mouth, his gloved hand finding its way to your throat. He squeezed your airway, watching your mouth drop into the shape of an O as he bottomed out inside of you. Kylo snickered as he read your thoughts, grinning in sick satisfaction.

“Im that much bigger than him?”

He moaned as your walls fluttered around him, the sound heavenly to your ears. You stared in the eyes of your enemy, sinful noises escaping your lips as he began to move his hips. “You like this? Hmm? Being used by your enemy for nothing more than my pleasure?” Kylo asked, his voice deeper than normal as he rutted into you. You grabbed his wrist for support, struggling to keep up as he fucked you properly. His gloved hands found their way to your ass, your legs wrapping around his waist as he picked you up as if you weighed nothing. You couldn’t control your strangled moans as he used you like a fuck toy, your hands grabbing his shoulders.

“A filthy cock sleeve, falling apart on my cock. You’re a worthless whore, aren’t you rebel scum?” Kylo seethed, fucking into you ruthlessly. All of his anger and frustrations were taken out on your poor cunt, your body going limp as you let him use you as he pleased. “Please don’t stop, fuck fuck fuck,” You whined, his cock abusing your g spot. You felt a knot form in your stomach, your orgasm threatening to come sooner than planned. Kylo sensed this, using the force to grab your face and force you look at him. “Not yet, not fuckin yet you pathetic whore,” Kylo snarled. Your body craved for release, your nails digging into his suit. “Feels so good,” You panted, your heart pounding in your chest. Kylo’s thrust never let up, his stamina one you couldn’t have imagined. Your vision grew more dazed, your body growing limp.

“I bet it does,” He smirked, feeling your walls clench around him. He slammed your body into a nearby wall, knocking the air out of your lungs. “Go on, cum for me. Cum on my fuckin cock like the good little cock sleeve you are,” Kylo ordered. Your body came on command, euphoria washing over you as your legs trembled. Your walls spasmed around his shaft, his cock filling your womb to the brim with his cum as he released. The two of you were panting messes, the warlord burying his face in the crook of your neck. It’s then you realize that you had no information Kylo wanted, none at all. You weren’t a high ranking general or pilot. You were nothing but an insignificant soldier knowing nothing beyond the bare minimum. Kylo knew this as well, sensing you had caught on. He wanted you just as bad as you wanted him.

As gentle as he could muster he pulled you against his chest, stroking your back.

“Let’s get you cleaned up and i’ll send you home.”

Those words were the last thing you heard, before falling into a deep and enticing sleep.

[rizzanon]

His place

a tim drake and batsis! reader oneshot | m.list

Summary: you remind your brother what his role is in the family | events somewhat align with pre-Red Robin if you squint

Tim Drake barely registers the destruction around him. The broken glass, the overturned books, the scattered papers—all of it blends into the edges of his vision, insignificant in the face of the storm still raging inside his chest. His breath is shallow, uneven, like he’s just come up for air after drowning. His hands are curled into fists against the floor, his nails digging into his palms, but he doesn’t move.

He can’t.

Everything feels wrong.

Bruce is gone.

Dick is Batman.

Damian is Robin.

And Tim—

He is nothing.

There’s a raw, open wound inside him, and he doesn’t know how to close it. Doesn’t even know where to start.

The word ‘replaced’ makes his stomach twist, but it’s the truth, isn’t it? It had taken Dick all of two seconds to strip the title away from him and hand it over to him.

Damian.

A murderer. A child who barely understood what this family was supposed to be. Who had killed and barely flinched. Bruce had spent months trying to reach him, trying to ground him, and now Bruce was gone, and Dick thought the best thing to do was put Robin’s colors on his back?

It’s like spitting on everything Tim had ever fought for.

He exhales shakily, the weight of it pressing down on him. He’s spent days holding himself together, clenching his teeth and pretending it didn’t matter, that he didn’t care, that he wasn’t unraveling beneath the surface. He knew Bruce isn’t dead, he knew something isn’t right, but nobody would believe now, would they?

And now, standing in the wreckage of his own room, he feels like all that certainty—the thing keeping him grounded—has slipped through his fingers.

His room is a disaster—papers strewn across the floor, glass glinting under the dim light, books lying open and discarded like corpses. The air is thick with the weight of his own fury, his grief, his goddamn exhaustion.

And yet, it still isn’t enough. He still feels hollow.

The room feels too small.

He blinks hard, staring down at the floor. His chest feels too tight. His heartbeat is too loud. The mess around him is suffocating, but he can’t bring himself to move, to clean any of it up.

And then—

The door creaks open. A quiet, deliberate sound.

Tim tenses.

He doesn’t need to look up to know it’s you.

You step inside quietly, careful with your movements. He listens to your soft, measured footsteps, the way you move carefully, deliberately, like you’re navigating through a minefield. You don’t speak. You don’t rush. You don’t even let out a sigh, though he knows you must want to. Instead, you just move toward him, stepping over broken pieces of whatever he destroyed, before lowering yourself onto the floor beside him.

Not too close.

But close enough.

Tim stares ahead, fixating on the cracks in the broken lamp, the scattered books, the torn papers. He listens to your breathing, slow and steady, the faint rustle of fabric as you shift slightly.

He wonders if you can hear how unsteady his breathing is.

You don’t push him to speak. You just sit there, patient.

You don’t sigh. You don’t try to fill the silence.

You wait.

Tim clenches his jaw.

For a long moment, there’s only silence.

Then, finally, he exhales sharply through his nose. “What, did Dick send you?” His voice is rough, bitter, but the exhaustion drags it down, taking most of the bite out of his words.

He regrets it the second it leaves his mouth.

Because you aren’t the problem here. You aren’t the reason everything feels like it’s caving in.

You don’t deserve to be on the receiving end of his anger.

You glance at him. “No.”

Tim scoffs, shaking his head. “Right, you here to tell me I’m overreacting then?”

“No.”

He huffs out a humorless laugh. “Great. That makes one person in this house.”

You don’t react, don’t flinch, don’t tell him he’s wrong. And for some reason, that makes his chest tighten.

“Why are you here, (Name)?”

You don’t answer immediately. You shift slightly, glancing around the mess of his room. Tim wonders if you’re judging him for it. If you’re piecing together everything that must have led up to this moment. If you’re staring at the wreckage and seeing him for what he really is—angry, bitter, and more lost than he wants to admit.

When you finally speak, your voice is softer than before.

“I just want to talk.”

Tim scoffs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Yeah? What’s there to talk about?”

You glance at him, and he hates the way your expression softens just slightly. Like you’re seeing right through him. Like you already know.

And then, finally, you say it. The thing he didn’t want to hear.

“You know you still have a place here, right?”

Something twists in his gut.

Tim swallows, forcing a scoff, his fingers dig into his knee. “Do I?”

“You do.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “That’s real funny, because from where I’m sitting, it looks like Dick made his choice.”

You don’t react the way he expects. You don’t rush to correct him or try to argue. You just look at him. Your gaze was steady and unwavering.

And for some reason, that’s worse.

“Dick needs you.”

Tim scoffs. “Yeah? Sure didn’t seem that way when he gave my suit to Damian.”

“He didn’t give your suit to Damian,” you say. “He just… gave him a suit.”

“Oh, that makes it so much better,” Tim snaps. “Like I should just be fine with the fact that he handed Robin to someone who doesn’t even understand what it means.”

You exhale through your nose. “Tim—”

“No.” He turns to you now, eyes burning, his voice sharp, bitter. “He knows. He knows what Robin is. What it means to me. And he still—” He clenches his jaw, forcing down the words that feel like acid in his throat.

He still chose Damian.

The words taste like poison in his mouth.

Like betrayal.

Because he and Dick worked together. Because Tim trusted him. Because Dick should have known better.

Robin was never just a suit. It was never just a name.

Dick made Robin a symbol, but Tim made it a legacy. He had built on everything that came before him, upheld it, protected it. He never saw himself as a sidekick—Bruce never treated him like one. And neither did Dick.

But then, the moment Bruce was gone—

The second he was gone—

Dick had replaced him.

He had given Robin to someone who didn’t understand it. Someone who didn’t earn it. Someone who treated it like it was his by default.

Someone who had killed.

And that—

That was something Tim couldn’t forgive.

“He didn’t replace you.”

Tim can feel your gaze on him. Studying him. Assessing him. You’re quiet, like you’re deciding what to say to him—what not to say, as if he was a bomb ticking. He hates that.

“You don’t get it.”

“Then help me understand.”

That makes his stomach twist, because you actually mean it. There’s no pity in your voice, no condescension. Just quiet sincerity.

Tim exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. His thoughts are spiraling again, overlapping, contradicting. He doesn’t know how to say what he’s feeling, how to put it into words without it sounding pathetic.

But you’re still watching him. Still waiting.

So he just—

He lets it out.

“Robin was mine,” he mutters, voice tight. “I—I earned it. I worked for it. I built on it. It wasn’t just a name, it was—” His breath shudders slightly. “It was a legacy. And Dick—he just handed it over to him like it didn’t mean anything. After everything. He didn’t even—” His voice catches for half a second before he forces it steady again.

He hears the shift in your breathing. Feels your hesitation.

“Tim… with Dick as Batman now… you and him can never have a Batman and Robin dynamic. Not really.”

Tim stills.

You hold his gaze. “You were partners. He respects you and your judgement. He trusts you to call the shots, the same way Bruce did.”

Tim’s chest feels tight. His hands twitch slightly against his knees.

“He doesn’t see you as a kid anymore,” you continue. “That’s why he couldn’t make you Robin. Not because he doesn’t want you by his side. But because he doesn’t see you as someone who needs to be Robin.”

Tim’s throat feels tight.

“You don’t need Robin, Tim.” Your voice is gentle but firm. “And Dick knows that.”

His jaw tightens.

“He believes in you, Tim. He always has, and he always will.”

Tim lets out a slow breath, his fingers twitching against the fabric of his jeans. His thoughts are spiraling again, analyzing every interaction, every choice, every word. He doesn’t know how to respond to that.

Doesn’t know what to say.

Had he really—?

Had Dick really—?

It’s stupid. It’s so stupid, but for some reason, the words hit something deep in him, something fragile and unspoken.

Dick trusted him.

He always had.

But Tim—he had been so focused on what he lost that he hadn’t seen what was still there. It was hard not to. His mom, his dad, Conner—

Tim exhales sharply through his nose, looking away. His hands curl into fists against his knees before slowly unclenching.

You shift beside him, your voice softer now. “You’ve already made your place in this family, Tim. Nothing can ever change that.”

Tim presses his lips together, staring at the floor.

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

Because the anger is still there, the frustration, the bitterness. But underneath it—buried so deep he almost missed it—there’s something else.

Something that makes his breath come a little easier.

He knows you’re right.

But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

His fingers tighten against the fabric of his jeans. He stares at the floor, at the pieces of his broken lamp, at the mess he made in a moment of pure frustration.

You don’t push him to respond. You just sit there, quiet, patient, letting him process, letting him breathe.

Eventually, after what feels like forever, Tim exhales, voice barely above a whisper.

“…It still hurts.”

You shift slightly beside him. When you speak, your voice is just as quiet.

“I know.”

“Where does this leave me?”

You hesitate. Tim feels the way your breath hitch, feels your gaze on him once more.

“Still here.”

And somehow—somehow, that’s enough.

His hands aren’t shaking anymore.

He barely notices. His pulse is pounding in his ears, his mind buzzing with too many thoughts at once, overlapping, colliding, turning over and over until he feels like he’s going to short-circuit.

His mind is spinning too fast, circling around the same thought, the same certainty that he knows—he knows—what he’s saying is real.

He lifts his head, forces himself to look at you. His voice comes out strained, barely above a whisper.

“Bruce is alive.”

The words are heavy, pressed between his teeth like something sacred. Something unshakable.

You shift beside him. He feels it before he even looks.

A pause.

Then—

“Tim—”

“I can’t tell you how,” he cuts in, sharper than he means to, his chest rising and falling too quickly. “I can’t tell you why.” He turns to you fully now, his hands gripping his knees, his eyes burning. “But I know.” His breath shudders slightly. “He’s still alive.”

You’re looking at him now. Tim watches every movement, every flicker of hesitation in your expression, every breath you take before responding. He can already feel the doubt coming.

You hold his gaze, steady but cautious. Then you sigh, exhaling through your nose as you place a hand on his arm.

“Tim…” Your voice is gentle. Too gentle. It makes something inside him twist, makes his throat go tight, because he knows what that tone means. You’re trying to ease him into something. Trying to let him down gently.

It makes his stomach sink.

“We saw Bruce’s body,” you say, fingers tightening slightly against his sleeve. “We can’t change what happened during Final Crisis. Bruce… he—”

“He’s alive.” His voice rises, strained, cracking on the edges. His pulse is too fast, his breathing shallow. His skin feels too tight, his own body suffocating him. “He’s still alive. I can feel it.”

You still.

You freeze.

Tim sees the way your lips part slightly, the way your shoulders subtly tense, the way your fingers twitch before curling against your lap. He sees it, and it sets something uneasy, something cold, deep in his chest.

You hesitate.

He can feel your hesitation.

You hesitate, and suddenly, Tim can’t breathe.

“We always base things off facts, Tim,” you say slowly, carefully. “You always base things off facts.” Your brows furrow. “But now… you’re trying to tell me Bruce is still alive because you can just… feel it?”

Tim’s stomach twists.

It hurts.

It actually fucking hurts, and he wasn’t prepared for that.

Because—because you were different.

You had always been different.

You were the one he could always turn to, the one who listened, who never brushed him off or made him feel like a stupid, reckless kid. You never doubted him. You never judged him. You never looked at him like he was losing it.

That’s why he told you first.

That’s why he needed you to be the first one to hear it.

And now—

Now, you’re hesitating.

Now, you’re doubting.

Now, you’re looking at him exactly how everyone else has.

He clenches his jaw, his hands curling into fists. His throat works around something thick, something unbearable, something raw and ugly that he can’t let out.

He doesn’t have an answer to that.

Because you’re right.

You’re right.

And yet—

He clenches his fists against his knees. His mind is racing again, replaying everything, twisting the words over and over, trying to find the logic, trying to find the missing piece, trying to prove it.

You don’t believe him.

You think he’s lost it.

Just like everyone else.

His breath hitches slightly, his body tense, his muscles coiling. He can’t tell if his chest feels tight from anger or something worse.

Finally, his voice comes out hoarse, strained, desperate.

“I know—I know it sounds fucking stupid.” He swallows hard, his heart slamming against his ribs. “That I don’t sound sane right now.” His chest is too tight. His vision is too sharp, too focused on the way you’re watching him, on the doubt in your eyes. His jaw clenches as he looks at you again, searching, pleading. He forces the words out, desperate.

“But you’ve got to trust me.”

Silence.

Heavy. Suffocating.

Tim watches you. Scrutinizes every tiny shift in your expression, every flicker in your eyes, every breath you take.

You aren’t responding.

You aren’t saying anything.

Your eyes dart slightly downward, like you’re processing, debating, deciding. The way your fingers slowly uncurl from his sleeve before settling against your own lap.

And suddenly, Tim knows.

He knows you think he’s lost it.

Just like Dick.

Just like everyone else.

His breathing hitches slightly, panic creeping up his throat. He tries to fight it down, tries to swallow it back, but he can feel his pulse racing, his hands trembling slightly where they’re clenched into fists.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if you—

“…Okay.”

Tim stills.

“I believe you.”

His stomach drops.

His mind goes blank.

“What?”

You hold his gaze, expression unreadable. “You’ve proven to me so many times that nothing is really what it seems. That there’s always more to a truth. More to a fact.” You exhale. “And if you say that Bruce… somehow… is still alive?” Your voice softens. “If you really believe that, then maybe—just maybe—you’re right.”

Tim doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe.

He can’t.

His mind is blank, wiped clean, like he just walked into an ambush he should’ve seen coming but somehow didn’t.

He doesn’t know what to say.

Doesn’t know how to say anything at all.

He can’t process what just happened, can’t process what you just said, can’t process the fact that—

You believe him.

You actually believe him.

And suddenly, before he can stop himself, before he can even think—

He’s pulling you into a hug.

You barely have time to react before his arms wrap tightly around you, his forehead pressing against your shoulder, his grip desperate, almost painful, his fingers gripping the fabric of your shirt like you might disappear if he lets go.

His voice is rough, barely more than a whisper.

“Thank you.”

It’s not enough.

It’s not enough to convey what this means to him, what you mean to him, but it’s all he can manage.

You don’t hesitate this time.

You just return the hug, solid and grounding and warm, and the feeling of it—the reality of it—hits Tim all at once, makes his chest feel too full, makes his eyes burn slightly, makes his throat ache with something he doesn’t know how to name. His heart is still hammering, but for the first time in weeks, it doesn’t feel like it’s suffocating him.

After a long moment, your voice murmurs against his ear.

“So… what are you going to do now?”

Tim swallows, pulling back slightly. He meets your eyes, searching for something—he doesn’t even know what.

“I’m not sure.”

You watch him, knowing. “I can tell you’re planning to leave.”

Tim lets out a breathy, humorless laugh. “Hah. Maybe…” He smirks faintly, something bitter in the curve of his lips. “But you know I’ll always come back, though, right?”

You sigh, shaking your head.

“You better,” you mutter. Then, softer, “And take care of yourself.”

Tim holds your gaze, memorizing every detail, every flicker of warmth, every ounce of trust.

He nods.

And this time—

He doesn’t feel like he’s drowning.

lowkey self indulged with this lol 😅🫣 tim was really going through it in the comics during this period but hey! at least it gave us Red Robin Tim Drake 🤭

taglist (open): @k1arar3 @kingshitonly @rainnyydaysworld @ceridwyn3 @darkfaethedestroyer @blueiones @strwberryglass @lithiumval @thephantomdanny @eli-mayhaveatencats @rockyeatrock @dreaming-of-the-reality @shirp-collector-of-fixations @gneepgnorpsneepsnorp @skerbablo @dind1n | ask to be added <3

[thesecondhandwoman]

OVERWORKING HERSELF

Caitlyn x f!reader

Synopsis: Caitlyn has been working herself down to the bone, resulting in your girlfriend being tired and stressed, irritated and cold. But, despite your efforts to help, they only seem to backfire.

The rain pattered softly against the windowpane, its rhythmic sound blending with the scratch of Caitlyn’s pen on paper. She was hunched over her desk, eyes sharp but sunken from the weight of too many sleepless nights. Files lay scattered in front of her, a chaotic mess of reports, red strings of connections, and hastily scrawled notes in the margins.

You leaned on the doorway, arms crossed, watching her with concern that had been building for days. She was drowning in her work, and no matter how many times you tried to reach out, she pulled herself further and further away.

“I think that’s enough for tonight, Cait,” you said softly, not wanting to startle her but firm enough to be heard. “You’ve been at this for hours. You need rest.”

“I’m fine,” Caitlyn muttered, her voice distant as she scratched something onto the page, her eyes never lifting from the paper.

“No, you’re not,” you replied, stepping further into the room. “You’re exhausted, and you’re not thinking clearly. Come to bed, please.”

“I said I’m fine,” she snapped, her tone sharper this time, like a blade slipping from its sheath. Her grip on the pen tightened, and for a moment, she didn’t even look at you. “I’m not a child. I don’t need you telling me when to sleep.”

Her words had a bite, but you didn’t back down, you know you couldn’t right now. You stepped closer, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. “I’m not telling you what to do, Cait. I’m asking you to take care of yourself. There’s a difference.”

That was when she turned to face you. Her eyes, usually so full of clarity and precision, were clouded with fatigue and frustration. Her lips were set in a hard line, and you could see the storm brewing behind her gaze.

“You don’t get it,” she said, her voice low and cold. “You don’t understand what it’s like to have the weight of an entire city on your shoulders. You don’t do anything, and yet you think you have the right to lecture me? Especially now of all times?”

Your heart stopped.

The words hit you with the force of a cannonball, hollowing out your chest and leaving you breathless. You blinked, your eyes wide with shock, as if you weren’t sure you’d heard her correctly and were waiting for her to clarify. She’d never spoken to you like that before. Not Caitlyn. Not your Caitlyn.

Staring at her for a bit longer, your expression fell, and you cleared your throat awkwardly.

“Right,” you whispered, a quiet, bitter huff of a laugh slipping from your lips. Your heart was cracking, but you held it together just long enough to plaster on a smile—a small, sad curve of your lips that didn’t reach your eyes. “Got it. I’ll leave you to it, Commander.”

You turned away before she could see the hurt settling into your features. The moment your back was to her, your face crumpled for just a second, brows knitting together as you bit down hard on your bottom lip. You forced yourself to keep walking, slow and steady, until you reached the bedroom.

You didn’t hear her call after you. You didn’t hear anything at all.

The bed felt cold when you climbed in, pulling the blanket up to your chin. You lay on your side, facing the wall, your knees drawn up just a bit too tightly. The weight of her words hung in the air like smoke that refused to dissipate.

“You don’t do anything.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will away the sting of tears threatening to fall. You told yourself it was fine, that Caitlyn was just stressed, that she didn’t mean it. But that didn’t stop the ache in your chest from burrowing deeper.

Back in the study, Caitlyn sat in the same position for a long time, pen in hand but unmoving. The sharp click of the rain on the window was louder now, the quiet of the house pressing in on her.

Her mind replayed the moment, over and over again.

“You don’t do anything.”

Her heart twisted.

The exhaustion that had been numbing her thoughts gave way to clarity, and for the first time that night, she stopped working. She leaned back in her chair, hands covering her face as a low, frustrated sigh escaped her lips.

Gods, she was such an idiot.

Her fingers rubbed at her eyes, trying to scrub away the burn of guilt as if it were something she could wipe clean. She thought about the look on your face, that smile you’d worn like armor just before walking away. She’d seen that kind of smile on soldiers—the kind they wore just before going into battle knowing they’d already lost.

With a heavy breath, Caitlyn stood up. Her legs felt stiff from sitting too long, but she ignored it, moving toward the door like a woman with a purpose. The hallway was dim, moonlight spilling through the windows, and as she walked toward the bedroom, her steps were quieter than they’d ever been.

When she reached the door, she hesitated.

The sight of you lying on the bed, curled up on the far edge as if trying to make yourself as small as possible, nearly broke her. You always slept closer to the middle, one hand often draped over her waist when you were feeling particularly clingy. But tonight, there was no warmth between you. Just distance.

Caitlyn let out a slow breath before slipping inside. Her heart pounded with every step as she moved toward you, her weight barely creaking the mattress as she sat on the edge.

“Y/N…” Her voice was barely a whisper, hesitant but sincere. No response. She frowned, leaning forward slightly. “I know you’re awake.”

You stayed still for a few seconds longer before finally sighing, eyes still closed. “What do you want, Caitlyn?” you muttered, and she winced at how bitterly you said her full name.

Her hand hovered over your back before she placed it there gently. She felt you stiffen under her touch, and it made her heart ache.

“I’m sorry,” Caitlyn murmured, fingers tracing slow, careful circles against your back. “I was rude. I know I was, and you didn’t deserve that.”

You didn’t reply, your face still buried in the pillow, but you didn’t push her away either.

“I’m an idiot,” she continued, her voice cracking just a little. “I’m tired, and I’m scared, and I keep convincing myself that I have to do it all alone. But that’s not true, is it?” She leaned forward, resting her head on the pillow beside yours. “You’ve been here. With me. Every step. I see it, even when I pretend I don’t.”

Her arms slowly slipped around your waist, pulling you close, her chest pressing firmly against your back. She breathed in your warmth like it was the only thing tethering her to reality.

“You’re my partner,” Caitlyn whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your neck. “I’m so sorry for forgetting that.”

Her lips trailed down the curve of your shoulder, each kiss as soft and sincere as the words that followed. “I love you,” she murmured between them, her breath warm against your skin. “More than I know how to say sometimes. And I’m so, so sorry I made you feel like you didn’t matter.”

You let out a slow, shaky breath. Her words were like a balm to the ache she’d caused, but the sting hadn’t fully gone away.

“You hurt me, Cait,” you said quietly, your voice still a little hoarse from holding back tears. “You’re supposed to be my person like I am supposed to be yours, and you made me feel like I was nothing.”

“I know,” she said, pressing another kiss to your shoulder. “I know, love. I won’t do it again. I swear it.”

Her arms tightened around you, like she was afraid you’d slip away if she didn’t hold you firmly enough. Slowly, you reached down, fingers intertwining with hers. Her breath hitched at the gesture, and you felt the tension in her body ease.

Silence stretched through the room a bit longer before you sighed, pressing yourself back into her a bit more while squeezing her hand.

“You’re lucky I love you,” you muttered, your voice soft but still a little rough.

Caitlyn let out a breath that was almost a laugh. She nuzzled her face into the crook of your neck, her lips brushing your skin. “I am,” she agreed, her voice tender and warm. “I am the luckiest.”

The rain outside softened into a gentle mist, the sound no longer sharp but soothing. Caitlyn stayed wrapped around you like that for the rest of the night, her fingers tracing lazy, absentminded shapes against your stomach. Her steady breathing lulled you toward sleep, and you could feel her heartbeat against your back, strong and steady.

The weight she’d been carrying wasn’t gone, but for tonight, it was lighter. She had you. She had always had you. And this time, she wouldn’t forget it.

[fortunxa]

the sound of her absence

Jinx and Isha

summary: Bravery wasn’t in the noise, the chaos—it was in the silence that stood still against the storm.

cw: pain. nothing act II didn’t already deliver. reader not mentioned.

author’s note: i’m quick with it.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Zaun was a furnace, its heart always burning, always devouring. The city had been forged in suffering, a machine that never stopped grinding down the weak. And yet, somehow, in all its fire and ruin, a single spark of warmth had dared to flicker. A warmth impossibly out of place in the cold steel of Jinx's world.

Isha.

Her face came back to her, vivid and bright in her mind's eye. Wide, eager eyes that shined brighter than the neon glow of the city, full of a hope that had no place here, sparkling with questions, with admiration, with trust. The small, knowing smile of hers or the shrug of her shoulders, the one that said, "I'll be fine". And that moment—that moment—when Jinx's gaze locked with hers in the middle of the battle, when the world around them turned to fire and blood.

When the child who didn’t speak answered the world’s violence with bravery.

She had looked so steady. So determined.

So much like Jinx—staring down the chaos as if daring it to break her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but it didn’t stop the image. Isha, tiny and frail and far too fearless, standing in the firestorm. Her chest puffed up like Jinx's always did, that same reckless grin trying to stretch across her soft, round face. She had called out for her, her voice tearing raw against the chaos, but Isha didn’t hear her.

Or maybe she had. Maybe that was the problem.

She had always listened too closely.

The hideout was too quiet now, smothered beneath the weight of an absence Jinx couldn’t ignore, louder than any explosion she could create.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms and leaving bloody crescent shapes. The smog-heavy air seemed thicker tonight, each breath heavier than the last. She paced back and forth, her boots scuffing the floor, the sound filling the oppressive silence. She couldn't stop replaying it in her mind.

The air still smelled of gunpowder, acrid and sour, like a wound festering. Her fingers, smudged with grease and blood, itched for something to fix, but there was nothing left to save.

Jinx hadn’t been fast enough.

She hadn’t been good enough.

She hadn’t saved her.

She dropped to her knees, her fists slamming against the floor. The sound echoed through the empty space, but it did nothing to drown out the memory of Isha’s final moments. The way she’d thrown herself forward, packing gemstone after gemstone—overloading the power source of the pistol—before firing it at Vander. Or what used to be Vander, at least.

Hot and bitter tears blurred Jinx’s vision, dripping down onto the cold floor beneath her. She pressed her hands to her face, shaking her head as if she could shake away the weight in her chest.

“Why’d you do it?” she whispered, her voice trembling. It cracked beneath the weight of the question, but the silence gave no answers. “You were supposed to stick around. You were supposed to live. Not… not this. Not for me.” Not for anyone.

But there had been no hesitation in Isha’s eyes.

Jinx slammed her fist into the floor again, harder this time, until pain bloomed across her knuckles like some cruel reminder that she was still here, alive, while Isha wasn’t. “You didn’t have to prove anything!” she shouted into the void. “You were already… You were perfect. You didn’t have to—” Her voice broke, the words dying in her throat.

She crumpled in on herself, her knees pulled tight to her chest, as though folding herself small enough could make the world rewind. Make it undo itself.

She opened her eyes to the dim, scattered wreckage of her hideout and glanced up at the walls, where one of Isha’s stick figures still smiled beside a crooked sun.

“Stop haunting me,” she hissed, her voice breaking on the last word. But they stayed, stubborn in their simplicity, a silent declaration of the joy she had tried to bring into Jinx’s chaos.

She crawled to the wall, her fingers brushing over the faint lines. The chalk smudged under her touch, disappearing just like Isha had—too easily, too quickly.

Jinx’s hands trembled as she picked up one of the little girl’s old chalks, the color a soft yellow that barely showed against the grime of the walls. Her fingers shook as she pressed it to the floor instead, sketching the outline of a sun. The lines wavered, uneven and fragile, and she hated how much it looked like Isha’s.

Hated how much it didn’t.

She snapped the chalk in half, the pieces tumbling from her fingers, and rested her head against the wall, her blue hair spilling over her face like a curtain, hiding her tears from the empty room. “I wasn't worth it.” Her voice broke again. “Why'd you try to be like me?”

But hadn’t she wanted this? To be someone worth admiring? To be someone a kid like Isha could look up to? And now that it had happened, all she could feel was the weight of it, heavy and suffocating, like chains around her chest—grief.

Grieve.

“I’m sorry,” she choked out, but the apology fell apart in the still air. "I'm so sorry." The tears come harder now, Jinx’s shoulders shaking with the force of them. She bit down on her lip until she tasted blood.

Her pink eyes darted to the far corner of the room, where Isha’s jacket still hung on a nail. It was too small, patched and frayed, the kind of thing someone would have laughed at in Piltover. But Isha had worn it with pride, like it was armor.

Jinx got up and dragged herself across the room, her footsteps heavy in the silence. She pulled the jacket from the nail and held it close, the fabric rough against her fingers. It still smelled faintly of her—chalk dust and grease and something warm Jinx could never name.

She sank to the floor again, rocking back and forth with the jacket clutched tightly in her arms, as if holding it could somehow hold Isha, too. But the fabric was empty, and her hands came away as hollow as the rest of her.

Be like you.

Jinx shook her head violently, a sob tearing from her throat. “Not like me,” she spat, her voice cracking. “Not like me, Isha. You were supposed to be better. You were supposed to—” Her words disintegrated into ragged breaths, and she buried her face in her hands as the tears came in full force.

She couldn't breathe.

In the dim, flickering light, she felt her world splinter further while the quiet mocked her.

Jinx pressed the jacket to her face, inhaling deeply as if the lingering scent could anchor her to a world that lost its sense once again. But all it did was remind her of how empty everything felt.

She sat there for hours, her breath hitching, hiccuping, her heart racing as her tears soaked into the grime of the floor, her sobs echoing through the empty space. And when she finally looked up, the room was still the same.

Isha was still gone.

All that remained was smoke from that single spark of warmth that had dared to flicker.

[milfsloverblog]

Helloooo!! I was wondering if you could write something like Larissa x VampireReader.

I'd like some tension that makes me freak out, and maybe some smut idk 🫦 or something like hate sex? I don't know, I'll leave it up to you, I hope you can do it 🫶

I'm using translator so an apology if there are mistakes or something

Beneath Her Fangs (nsfw)

Larissa Weems x vampire!fem!reader

A/N: Me when I get the opportunity to write some scrumptious angst—😏 I hope you’ll enjoy what I did with your request and the plot I created!

The conference smells like pride and polyester.

A thousand voices blur into one endless academic murmur—principals, instructors, scholars of outcast institutions from across the globe, gathering under one roof to exchange theories no one listens to. You don’t belong here. You never did. But tradition demands attendance, and you’ve followed worse calls.

You’re halfway through a glass of something red—not blood, disappointingly—when you feel her.

It’s not scent that hits you first, though it follows fast. No, what you feel is pressure. The cold density of moonlight forged into a woman’s shape. Years haven’t softened her. If anything, she’s grown sharper, more polished. A weapon sheathed in silk.

You turn, and there she is.

Larissa Weems.

Hair still carved from ice. Lips too perfect for kindness. Her body tall and statuesque and dressed in pearl-toned cruelty. She moves like she owns this place. She probably does. You can smell the fear clinging to the others when she walks past.

Her eyes land on you like a blade. You let them. You let her look.

The last time she saw you, she didn’t beg you to stay. That’s how you remember it. She watched you go, unflinching. Made it easy.

And yet now, here she is—hovering across the conference room like the ghost of everything unsaid.

You're seated beside her at the afternoon panel, of course.

Shaping the Future of Outcast Education: Balancing Heritage and Modernity. A pompous title, and a poorly veiled excuse for posturing. The selkie moderator offers everyone two-minute introductions. Larissa speaks with practiced elegance, gesturing with a hand so poised it could slice glass.

You go last. And you smile with your teeth when you speak.

“Ashthorne Academy has always encouraged… flexibility. Adaptability, even. Some of us, after all, aren’t bound to the past.”

Larissa doesn’t look at you. “And some of us aren’t running from it.” She mutters.

The moderator makes a noise like a drowning fish.

You don’t look away. You smile. “I wouldn’t expect Nevermore to understand evolution. Fossils rarely do.”

Her lip twitches. It’s not a smile. Not quite.

But it’s close.

You don’t plan to corner her in the elevator. And she doesn’t plan to follow you into it. But somehow, the steel doors shut behind you, sealing you both inside.

The air goes still.

You watch the mirrored wall rather than her reflection, which says enough. Her scent clouds the elevator—white musk, lavender, something cold beneath it. It tightens your hunger like a fist.

“So,” she says, breaking the silence like porcelain. “Still playing headmistress?”

You scoff. “Still pretending you never cared?”

“Please.” Her voice is cut-glass. “You were never that special.”

“You were. Once.”

She smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “And you’re still running.”

“You think I left to spite you?”

“I think you left because you couldn’t stand the things you felt.”

Your laugh comes low, bitter, ancient. “I’ve felt things older than your bloodline, Larissa.”

Silence.

Then, just as the doors open on your floor: “You left me.”

You step out, slow. Deliberate.

Then turn back, voice low. “You never asked me to stay.”

She knocks on your door thirty minutes later. Not hard. Just once.

You open it without a word.

The moment she crosses the threshold, it’s war.

Her mouth finds yours like punishment. Her nails rake down your shirt, buttons scattering like pearls. You shove her back, hard enough to make her gasp.

“Is this how you mourn?” you mutter against her mouth. “Years of silence and now you want to fuck it out?”

“I don’t mourn you.”

“Liar.”

You push her against the wall. Your hand closes around her throat—not to choke, just to hold. You feel her pulse jump under your fingers, fast and sharp.

“You want to be ruined,” you breathe.

She bares her throat in answer. Your mouth is on it before you can think. Her pulse drumming against your tongue.

“I could kill you,” you whisper into her skin. “You know that, don’t you?”

She arches beneath you. “So do it.”

You bite instead.

Not deep. Not enough to break skin. Just a threat. A promise. Your teeth rest just above the artery. She moans like it’s worship.

The bed catches her knees when you push her. She sprawls like she’s meant to be devoured—pale and furious and breathing hard. Her blouse is already open, bra skewed. Her skirt rides high on her hips, revealing expensive lace, white and obscene.

You step between her legs. Drag your fingers up the inside of her thigh, slow as a sin.

“You’ve imagined this, haven’t you?” you ask. “Years, and you’ve touched yourself thinking about me.”

“Not once.”

You laugh—low, dark. “Liar.”

You tear the lace. Not enough to ruin it. Just enough to make her gasp again.

Your fingers slip inside her—hot, wet, furious.

She groans. Bites her lip. Tries not to give you the satisfaction.

So you press deeper. Curl slow. Watch her shudder.

“Do you hate me?” you murmur.

Her hips buck.

“Yes,” she hisses.

“You’re wet for someone you hate.”

She meets your eyes, glassy with lust. “You’re wet for someone you abandoned.”

Your mouth crashes into hers.

You take your time.

You drag her shirt off completely. Kiss her collarbones. Her throat. Her breasts. Suck her nipple until she arches and claws your shoulders.

You murmur things into her skin. Taunts. Confessions. Half-truths and full regrets.

“You could’ve had this every night. All of me.”

“You didn’t offer.”

“I did. You just pretended not to hear.”

You make her come with your fingers buried deep and your palm grinding against her clit. She bites her own hand to muffle the noise.

You don’t stop.

You slide down her body and hold her thighs open with unforgiving strength.

“Look at me.”

She does.

You don’t kiss like you’re being kind. You kiss like you’re making a point.

Your tongue drags over her—slow and precise. You keep eye contact as she whimpers. When she tries to squirm away, you pin her harder.

She comes again. Louder. Broken.

Still, you don’t stop.

You want to see her unravel. Entirely. Want her too sore to walk. Want her to remember.

When you finally rise, her hair is wild, her lipstick gone, her eyes glassy with overstimulation.

“You don’t get to pretend anymore,” you whisper.

“I wasn’t pretending.”

You arch a brow. “You just liked pretending I was the villain.”

“Maybe I did.”

“And now?”

She lays beside you. Silent. Breathing shallow.

You watch her from the shadow of the headboard.

“Tell me you didn’t want this,” you say.

She doesn’t reply.

“I would’ve stayed,” you add softly. “If you’d asked me.”

She turns her head then. Meet your eyes in the dark.

“I couldn’t,” she says. “Not when I didn’t even know what it was.”

You nod.

Understand.

But knowing doesn’t make it hurt less.

You were centuries old. Still, heartbreak never stopped tasting new.

————————————————————————

taglist: @weemssapphic , @im-a-carnivorous-plant , @dingdongthetail , @gwensfz , @erablaise-blog , @rainbow-hedgehog , @renravens , @kaymariesworld , @niceminipotato , @witchesmortuary @notmeellaannyy , @weemswife , @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 , @redkarine , @women-are-so-ethereal , @opheliauniverse , @willisnotmental l , @raspburrythief , @fictionalized-lesbian , @ness029 , @geekyarmorel l , @h-doodles , @cxndlelightx , @m1lflov3rrr r , @winterfireblond @nocteangelus15 , @aemilia19 @spacetoaim22 @vendocrap8008 8 @jkregal @gela123 @lilfartbox1 @xuukoo @bellatrixsbrat @sadsapphic-rose @dumbasslesbi @larissalover3 @friskyfisher @fliesinmymouth @imprincipalweemspet @forwhichidream11 @amateurwritescm @imlike-so-gaydude @sugipla @lvinhs @http-sam @gweninred @a-queen-and-her-throne

[marvelstoriesepic]

Angstober (day 16)

Pairing: Tfatws!Bucky x Shield!Reader

Prompt: No one else to turn to

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: mentions of blood, wounds, fainting

Author’s note: I'm a little behind with the fics but I'm trying my best! Hope you enjoy :)

Angstober Masterlist

This is ironic, really.

Downright absurd. Laughable.

You’re just not in the position to laugh, or even crack the semblance of a smile. Your face feels stiff, evidently held together by a fragile patchwork of cuts and bruises that might split open at the slightest twitch. Not that you’d want to smile, even if you could.

You had assured Sam that you’d be fine to drive yourself back home after landing back on base about 25 minutes before. There actually had been a genuine belief that you’d be able to make it, so you told him all you needed was a hot shower to wash away all the blood and some rest, ignoring the wary looks of Sam as he watched you drive off.

Well, turns out it was a bad idea.

A terrible idea, considering the door you find yourself standing in front of right now. You don’t even know if he’s home. For all you know, he could be drowning whatever’s left of his sanity in some bar, down some street.

And even if he is here, he has every right to slam this door right back in your face. Perhaps after giving you the I told you so speech.

But in your defense, you really thought this mission would be simple. Sam and you both had thought so. It was supposed to be one of those in-and-out deals. But of course, it’s always those easy missions that turn ugly in a matter of seconds, spiraling into a slaughter that neither of you was ready for.

But hell, you even guessed Bucky saw that coming. Maybe that’s why he was so determined to join you two, but Sam and you declined immediately, insisting on sparing him the confrontation. After all, it was supposed to be a quick cleanup. Hydra remnants scattered like dust, nothing worth dragging Bucky back into that mess for.

So, Sam and you both figured he’d be better off staying behind, working with Torres on whatever else needed doing.

You’re glad you held back the comment about him hindering you on this mission by perhaps a disturbing memory or some shit. That wouldn’t have helped your current situation at all. And you did think it would have been a little harsh. Even for the bickering kind of relationship the two of you have.

Bucky wasn’t having any of that. He was ready to suit up and follow you into the fray, whether you wanted him there or not. Though, Sam and you took off before he could even strap on his gear. Simple, clean.

Predictably, that would definitely leave him in a foul mood. But to be real, grumpy isn’t new for Bucky. Actually, you only ever saw his expression soften when he was lost in thought, so lost he didn’t even notice you watching him. Or perhaps in that moment he really didn’t care.

Still, that irritable look seems to be his default setting. And, to be honest, perhaps he doesn’t even care enough to even be mad. You aren’t friends. Hell, you wouldn’t even call him an acquaintance.

You two are more like tolerated inconveniences for each other, sparse conversations always laced with sarcasm and banter. You doubt he sees you as anything other than a nuisance - someone always getting under his skin with your remarks.

So, you are well aware you really don’t have any business standing in front of his door, blood drying on your skin, looking like death warmed over.

But that’s the problem. You don’t have a choice. Because there is no way you’re making the 20 minutes to your apartment. You also won’t make it back to the base. Not to mention that driving in this state will not only endanger you, but rather the traffic around you. You're already feeling the blackness that tries to seep into your irises, pulling at your consciousness, threatening to drag you under, making you pass out before you’d even hit the halfway mark. And you don’t have anyone to blame but your stubborn self.

Bucky is your only option and you also start running out of time, the longer you linger outside his apartment, scared to knock. Terrified to do anything. You begin to sway on your feet. The longer you hesitate, the harder it gets to stay upright, and passing out on his doorstep for him to find you is perhaps even more embarrassing than this already is.

With trembling muscles, you try to lift your hand. Knocking on a door shouldn’t take this much effort, but it feels like it’s costing you everything. You’re burning energy you don’t have, and it’s starting to show.

Your hesitation seems to have been for nothing since there’s no answer after your knock. The only thing you hear is the blood rushing through your ears and your heartbeat loudly pounding against your ribcage, almost like a warning.

Another knock. It saps what little strength you have left. Your breathing grows heavier, more ragged, each inhale feeling like a sharp stab. There is a tightness in your chest that could be an indication something inside you might have torn, making it impossible to get in enough air.

The apartment behind the door is still silent.

You lean your forehead against the rough wood, the coolness grounding you for a moment. It’s as close to a third knock as you can manage. Your eyes slip closed for just a second too long.

“Barnes?” He surely wouldn’t be able to pick that up without his enhanced hearing. “It’s me.”

You’re not even sure what to say; not sure what you can say that will get him to open the door. But your thoughts are starting to slow, each one taking longer to form than the last. The blood loss is getting to you, causing every joint to feel like it’s rusting over.

“Are you home?” you murmur, a faint laugh caught in your throat at how stupid it sounds.

For a moment you think you hear something, perhaps a faint shuffle from the other side of the door. But your brain is swimming in exhaustion and pain, and it could easily be your mind playing tricks on you, teasing you with false hope. Maybe you didn’t even give him enough time to get to the door. You have no idea how long you’ve been standing here - standing might be too strong of a term by now.

Time is slippery in moments like these, hard to grasp, impossible to track.

A heavy and burning sigh falls from your lips, dragging your chest down with it. You push yourself off the door with a struggle that tears at your skin, shaking your head at your own stupidity. You’re not sure if your head even followed through with the movement.

You shouldn’t have believed for a second that he’d be around, or that he’d care if he was.

You attempt to step away, aiming for the staircase, but it seems your body isn’t in the mood to listen to any signal from your brain at all. Your foot catches on itself, and before you know it, you stumble, crashing into the wall beside his door with a loud thud. A pained groan forces its way out of you, the impact shooting excruciating vibrations through your body, curling into every nerve like they’re planning to stay. You press a hand to your side, movements not entirely your own, but it does nothing to soothe the ache.

You curse under your breath, or at least you think you do, eyes fluttering dangerously. You’re not sure how much longer your feet will carry you. Are you even still standing at all?

Muffled curses break through the rushing sound in your ears, blending into the tumultuous pulse of your own blood pounding in your head. They don’t seem to come from you though.

“Fucking hell, Y/n.”

All you can manage in response is another weak groan.

Before you can fully process what’s happening and where that frustrated voice came from, you feel strong arms wrap around you, lifting you effortlessly into the air. Insanely enough, a surge of exhilaration bubbles in your belly and you feel weightless for a moment, like you’re floating in some strange void that’s just barely tethering you to reality but still keeping a strong grasp on you.

The sensation is short-lived and you almost let out a whine. Not at all from the pain. You’re lowered onto something softer than you guessed the floor would feel like, cushions beneath your back. You try to wrap your head around how that could have happened.

That weight returns. The hands around you, however, don’t leave you. Your thoughts are sluggish and trying to focus on anything is an effort you’re not able to keep up with. Your vision is a spinning blur, dizzy head trying to make sense of your situation, but you can feel the tender press of the back of a hand on your forehead, checking for something you can’t quite grasp.

Blue. That’s the first thing your mind manages to hang on to. A vivid, piercing shade of blue. But it’s not just color. It’s wrapped up in something deeper. Emotions, swirling and twirling, so heavy it almost hurts to look at. The sight alone drags another groan out of you, low and pained.

“I know, sweetheart, I know. Just hold tight, you hear me? I got you.”

Wait.

You know that voice. Rough around the edges, always carrying a certain weight, but now laced with something you don’t recognize. Those eyes on you - the blue ones - you know those, too. Of course, you do. But there is something new, something like panic flooding them, you never thought you’d see in Bucky Barnes.

“Barnes?” The word barely falls from your lips, more of a croak than anything, but it’s enough. He was home. He heard you. He carried you inside.

There is something stirring inside of you, a warmth threading through the pain. Relief, maybe, or something close to it. You know Bucky and you have your problems sometimes but hell you never doubted him being the good man he is.

“Yes, it’s me,” he murmurs, so soft, you want to lay in it. Bathing in the gentleness of his voice, getting rid of the blood and pain your body holds. “Try not to talk, alright? There are some nasty bruises around your neck. You gotta go easy on your voice.”

You hum in response, the sound barely more than a soft but uncomfortable vibration in your throat. His words slide through your mind like shadows, half-formed and hard to grasp, but you understand enough.

There’s the sound of clattering around you, hurried shuffling of hands working beside you, perhaps on you, somewhere nearby. But instead of jarring you, it’s comforting, like white noise. It lulls you deeper into the fog.

Suddenly, his voice cuts through it all, sharp and urgent.

“Hey!”

It startles you. Your eyes snap open - you didn’t know they closed in the first place - body jerking from the force of his tone.

His face looms closer, those blue eyes boring into yours, pinning you down with an intensity you can’t ignore.

“I’m sorry, Y/n, but you have to keep your eyes open. You hear me?” His voice trembles in a way you never heard, and that - more than anything - forces your mind back to the surface, your eyes clearing just enough to make him out.

It’s disorienting, seeing Bucky like this. Surprising. He moves in a way that almost associates incoordination, a frantic energy surrounding him. There is something off about the way he handles himself, the way his hands fumble with supplies, clattering objects that should have stayed silent. It’s startling, unsettling even. Bucky Barnes is a man in control. Just not right now.

His hands return to your body, his touch firm and still tender, but there is a shakiness in them as his fingers skim over your torn-up skin.

He’s pressing gently where he can, wincing as if it’s him in pain every time you flinch. The fabric of your slightly torn suit sticks to your body, and he curses softly under his breath, grabbing a pair of scissors from somewhere beside him. With a few quick, jagged snips, he cuts away parts of the fabric of your suit to get a better view of your torso, revealing the bruises that litter your skin, darkening it in a sickening way.

He apologizes for every hiss, groan, and whimper you can’t suppress at the sharp sting that slices through the dull ache due to the antiseptic he uses on your skin.

His brow is furrowed deeply as he wipes the blood away with almost erratic strokes, trying to clean the area but moving a little too fast for his usual precision. The cloth is stained dark in no time, and he tosses it aside, reaching for gauze, fumbling with the tape as if he’s forgotten how to use it for a moment.

Every breath feels heavier as he continues to work on your wounds, pain pulsing with every fresh inhale.

Bucky’s eyes keep darting between your face and the wounds as if he’s checking not only for your injuries but for something else - for a sign that you’re still with him, still conscious, still breathing.

His hand moves back to your forehead, brushing some strands of hair aside with so much gentleness as he checks your temperature again. His face is tight, his jaw clenched.

It is odd, almost comforting in a way you haven’t expected. Bucky Barnes, always so composed, now seems to have trouble holding it together. And somehow, seeing him this unfiltered, this human, makes your earlier doubts vanish. Those persistent thoughts, that he wouldn’t care if you showed up on his doorstep battered and bleeding, that he’d turn away, turn you away, or doesn’t even open the door in the first place - they all but disappear.

He does care. More than you ever thought possible, more than you imagined he even knew how to. You can feel it in the way his hands linger on your skin, urgent yet careful, and in the way his curses are filled with so much apprehension and frustration.

The same Bucky you thought might not give a damn is now fighting some battle with himself as if his sheer will could hold you here.

And for some reason, that knowledge eases something inside you, delightfully loosening that knot of tension in your chest. Again, your body starts to feel like it’s floating, somewhere in the air but instead it’s sinking deeper into the cushions beneath you, slowly letting go. It’s not your body that’s floating this time, it’s your mind. As if it decided to detach itself from the pain, from the reality of your wounds and your situation, and simply drifted away. It’s weightless, flying through a space just beyond your reach. It’s almost surreal, like you’re suspended in air but you know, somehow, that you’re still lying on that couch.

And Bucky’s here.

His hands are on you. His voice is in your ears but none of it feels quite real anymore.

You don’t have it in you to fight it anymore. Your body is letting go, surrendering, and you can’t muster the strength to resist.

Bucky’s voice sounds closer, much more than you thought it had been, but it seems distant too. It’s rough, desperate; words coming out with a crack. He’s pleading with you, urging you to stay with him, to keep your eyes open.

But you can’t. You’re slipping. Still, you feel like smiling if your face would have allowed it.

Bucky is here. And although you stopped listening to his words, losing the sense of his presence, you know he will stay.

You’re in good hands.

🍁 October Writing Challenges Masterlist 🍁

[cheriedivine]

𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 | chapter 5

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꩜ synopsis: you’re best friends. just best friends. except when she lingers a little too long at your door. except when she calls you her favorite, and it doesn’t feel like a joke. except when her fingers graze yours and neither of you pull away. except when you start to wonder if she’s wondering, too…

꩜ Pairing: Ellie Williams x fem reader (no use of y/n)

꩜ CW: your usual swearing.

꩜ WC: 6.2K

꩜ A/N: I’m back my loves, (finally) and i’m terrified and excited about this chapter, it took me a bit to get it right so i hope u like it<3 (also this is NOT the end ok, i have some more tricks under my sleeve wink wink)

୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧

Blind. That’s what Ellie was. Blind.

How the hell hadn’t she seen it sooner?

All the lingering glances, the racing pulse whenever you smiled at her, the way her fingers twitched when yours brushed hers—God, even platonically. The way your voice settled in her chest like it belonged there. How everything—every sound, every thought, every corner of her mind—always came back to you.

She should’ve known.

But maybe she did know. Somewhere, deep down, in that place she never let herself go. She was just good at burying it. Smothering the feelings before they could fully form. Drowning them in sarcasm, in excuses, in "we’re just friends" and "don’t be stupid, Ellie."

But how could she bury something that bloomed every time you looked at her like that?

Like she was your person. Like no one else mattered.

Maybe she imagined it. Maybe you didn’t know. Maybe you didn’t feel it too. But that night—God, that night—you leaned in. Almost. Just enough to drive her insane replaying the moment ever since.

She cursed the goddamn event coordinator since then.

What if she hadn’t said her name?

Would you have kissed her? Pulled away? Laughed? Would you still be speaking to her now?

It was all one big what if, hanging heavy over her chest.

She hadn’t been able to look at her phone without her stomach flipping. There was still so much left unsaid, and Ellie didn’t know if she was ready to say any of it. But Jesse, as always, wasn’t about to let her hide.

She was pacing her studio, camera lenses scattered like thoughts. This place used to be her safe space—somewhere to escape. But now, even here, she couldn’t get you out of her head.

“That’s what you’re doing, y’know,” Jesse said, casually flipping through an old photography zine on the couch. “You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling,” Ellie muttered, dragging her hands down her face. “I’m just… stuck.”

Jesse raised an eyebrow. “Ellie, you’re pacing a hole into the floor.”

Ellie dropped into her chair, elbows on her knees, fidgeting with the frayed hem of her shirt. “She didn’t back off when I leaned in,” she said, voice quiet. “She didn’t move. I swear to God, Jesse, we were right there.”

“Yeah. Until that lady came in—Eva?” Jesse tilted his head. “She’s the villain now?”

“Public enemy number one,” Ellie muttered. “She burst in right at the worst fucking moment.”

“You sure that’s a bad thing?”

Ellie hesitated. “I don’t know. I’m not even sure what would’ve happened if she didn’t.” She leaned back with a groan. “I probably would’ve panicked. Or kissed her. Or both.”

Jesse set the zine aside. His expression softened. “You really care about her, huh?”

Ellie’s jaw clenched. “She’s my best friend, man. But it’s not just that. It hasn’t been just that for a long time. I didn’t even realize it until the gala, and now it’s like… I can’t breathe without thinking about her. I don’t even know if she wants the same thing. What if I ruin it?”

Jesse was quiet for a second. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “What if you don’t? What if she’s waiting for you to say something because she’s scared to lose you too?”

Ellie swallowed, chest aching. “I hate this.”

“I know. But you hate not knowing more.”

Ellie leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling. Her throat felt tight. Her fingers curled into fists on her lap.

“I can’t fuck this one up,” she whispered. “Especially not her.”

The diner was packed, as usual. Maria had asked you to cover for Jasmine—who’d called in sick, though you were almost certain she was just nursing a hangover. Either way, here you were, caught in the middle of the lunch rush chaos—juggling orders, wiping down sticky syrup-coated tables, and trying not to lose your mind. That’s when the soft chime of the bell above the door caught your attention.

You didn’t even need to look up to know it was Dina. She always came around this time on Wednesdays—part routine, part check-in.

You slid a menu across the counter without saying a word, and Dina gave you a look. “You’re doing the thing again.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you act all chill but you’re obviously losing your shit.”

You exhaled through your nose, pouring coffee on the mug that sat in front of Dina as if the act alone could ground you. “I told you everything already.”

“Yeah, at one in the morning,” she said, stirring cream into her coffee. “You called me mid-panic. I need details now that we’re both functioning humans.”

You chewed your bottom lip, glancing around before leaning in a little. “We almost kissed.”

Dina blinked, then leaned forward with a sharp whisper. “What?! You didn’t say that part!”

“I didn’t?” You frowned. “Shit—my bad.”

“Don’t you think, that’s like—vital information. What do you mean ‘almost’?”

You set the coffee pot down and grabbed a fresh order from the kitchen window, heart pounding. “We were close. Like, close close. I swear if that woman hadn’t called Ellie’s name, I think we might’ve—” You stopped. “But I don’t know. What if I imagined it? What if she wasn’t going to kiss me at all?”

Dina raised her brows. “Did you want to kiss her?”

You paused for a beat too long.

“…Yeah.”

And it wasn’t just a little want—it was the past two years of built-up something. Longing. Fear. Yearning. You had felt it that night like a wave, about to crash.

“She looked at me like she wanted to kiss me too,” you added, quieter now. “But then she left. And when she came back, it was like it didn’t even happen. Like we didn’t almost change everything.”

Dina leaned back in the counter, arms crossed. “Okay. First of all, I’m like 90% sure she’s just scared. I mean, it’s Ellie. Her idea of confronting a situation is to run away from it.”

You cracked a tired smile, heart still aching under the surface.

“We haven't texted much,” you admitted. “I mean we have been pretty busy too but, I don’t know if she’s avoiding me or if I should just pretend none of it happened.”

Dina’s voice was softer now. “What do you want to happen?”

You didn’t answer immediately. You picked up the empty coffee pot again, refilled someone’s mug, then came back to lean against the counter.

“I want her to kiss me,” you said finally. “I want it to mean something. I just… I’m scared, Di. What if I lose her?”

Dina gave you a look that was both sympathetic and knowing. “You’re already halfway gone, sweetheart. So is she. You’re both just too stubborn to admit it.”

You stared out at the diner, its quiet hum a stark contrast to the storm inside your chest.

You hadn’t said it out loud to Ellie, and maybe you wouldn’t for a while. But still—it was there, gnawing at your ribs like a secret too big to keep.

You were in love with her. And it was terrifying.

“Yeah, well—speaking of,” you said, shifting subject with a knowing grin. “What about you and Jesse?”

Dina froze mid-sip, eyes narrowing at the sudden ambush. “What about him?” she replied coolly, taking a longer gulp of her coffee like it might wash the question away.

You raised your brows, giving her your best you’re-not-getting-away-with-that look. “Don’t bullshit me, Di. I’m over here spiraling about my best-friends-who-almost-kissed disaster, and you’re gonna pretend you and Jesse haven’t kissed a couple of times?”

Dina nearly choked. She set her mug down with a thunk. “Three times,” she muttered under her breath, like she hoped you wouldn’t catch it.

But you did.

“Three—Dina what the fuck?!” you gasped, practically leaping across the counter to sit beside her. “Explain. Now.”

The chatter with Dina had flowed easily, a welcome distraction from the mess in your chest. Eventually, she left for her afternoon class, and you were left behind to wrangle the chaos of the diner. You wrapped up orders, wiped down greasy tables, and made sure everything ran smoothly for the rest of the evening.

It was better that way—keeping your hands busy so your thoughts wouldn’t wander back to her.

To her smile, her freckles, those green eyes you could get lost in forever. To the way she’d so obviously gotten jealous when you were talking to Abby.

You needed to talk to Ellie. You wanted to. But it scared the living shit out of you, the thought of her not reciprocating those feelings made your stomach twist with nausea. Losing her would mean losing a part of you.

But how were you even supposed to bring it up? It’s not like that kind of thing just comes up in casual conversation. Hey, did you want to kiss me too, or was I just drunk on sparkling apple cider?

Not exactly Wednesday small talk.

You hadn’t seen her in four days. That alone was strange—Ellie usually dropped by the diner just to say hi, sometimes to grab a coffee she didn’t even want. Her absence sat heavy on your bones. The uncertainty was eating you alive.

And then, as if summoned by your spiraling thoughts, your phone buzzed in your pocket. A new message.

It was from her.

Ellie had sent you one of the photos she’d taken at the gala. It was stunning—you, captured mid-laugh, the soft lighting curling around you like something out of a dream. Ellie always made you feel like a princess, or something out of a renaissance painting. She didn’t just take photos—she saw you.

You smiled without realizing it, fingers hovering over your screen before finally typing:

“Omg Ellie, you made me look like I have my shit together.”

Meanwhile, Ellie let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She hadn’t texted you in days, and it had been killing her. Not knowing how you were. Not hearing your voice.

She felt guilty—half avoiding you, half drowning herself in work. Telling herself she was too busy. Which she was. But she was scared. Scared that if she saw you, all the feelings she’d buried would come spilling out, no longer willing to be ignored. So instead, she hid.

Your message made her chest ache in the best way.

“The magic of photography, babe.”

She hesitated before sending it, then threw her phone across the couch like it was radioactive.

Your reply came quickly, “I miss ur stupid face. Wanna hang out soon?”

You nearly threw your phone across the diner the moment you hit send. It wasn’t even a risky text. A normal thing. Something friends said. Right?

Ellie read it three times, heart pounding. You wanted to see her. You missed her. And she—god—she missed you too. So much.

She just needed to keep it together. To not lose her mind.

“I miss u too. Sorry I’ve been busy w work. But u should come over so I can show u the gala pics ;)”

She almost hid her phone under a pillow after that one. Like a teenager. Like an idiot.

“I would love that. I’ll see u tomorrow then?”

“I’ll be waiting here for you with your favorite Thai food.”

You smiled at the screen. Of course she remembered.

“You’re an angel.”

And with that, you tucked your phone back into your apron pocket, heart fluttering quietly.

You finished closing up the diner, but the quiet didn’t bring relief. If anything, it made your mind louder. You lingered at the counter longer than necessary, pretending to wipe down an already clean surface. The warm buzz from texting Ellie had begun to fade, replaced by something heavier.

Doubt.

What if things felt different when you saw her? What if you couldn’t fall back into your usual rhythm? What if she looked at you and everything that almost happened hung in the air like fog, thick and unspoken?

You tried to shake it off, but it clung to you. Even as you left the diner and walked home under the soft glow of streetlights, the air felt heavy. Like the moment you’d been both longing for and dreading was finally catching up to you.

At the same time, Ellie lay on her bed with her arm flung over her eyes, heart stuttering like it didn’t know what to do with itself.

She’d texted you. She’d invited you. She was going to see you tomorrow.

What the hell were you gonna say to each other?

Would you bring it up? Would she? Would you both pretend that nothing almost happened? Would it hurt if you did?

She turned onto her side and stared at the old camera sitting on her desk. She’d found it while cleaning—an impulsive attempt to distract herself from how much she missed you. Ellie had scrubbed every inch of her place, unpacked boxes she forgot she even had. And there it was. Her first camera. An old instax fuji. It was the first one she ever owned. Joel gave it to her on her seventeenth birthday, and it was the reason she fell in love with photography in the first place. Her fingers twitched with the memory of it. How heavy it felt in her hands back then. How lighter it felt now.

She stared at it like it might blink back at her.

You were her muse, not that she’d ever say it out loud. Not yet. But there was something about you that fascinated her endlessly, like the light always hit you just right.

She could practically hear Jesse’s voice in her head, teasing her, urging her not to be a coward.

But it wasn’t that simple. Because this was you.

And you were everything.

She closed her eyes and let the weight of that settle deep into her bones.

The next day crept in quietly. Your shift at the diner was slow, save for one entitled Karen who nearly ruined your mood—but didn’t. Not really. Maria let you clock out early since the place was practically empty, and you thanked her with a tired smile before heading home.

You used the extra time to shower. The hot water melted the day off your skin, steaming the ache from your muscles. Wrapped in your towel, you stood in front of your closet like it was some impossible puzzle.

Three outfits in, and nothing felt right—too casual, too try-hard, too boring.

Finally, you settled on your favorite jeans and a soft shirt Ellie once said she liked, though you pretended you didn’t notice at the time. But of course you did.

You tugged it on, paused at the mirror and stared at your reflection, trying to figure what could be missing. Makeup. Just a little. Enough to look like you slept more than five hours. Concealer for the bags. A bit of blush. Chapstick.

Then you paused. Looked again.

Was this okay? Did you look like yourself? Did you look like someone she’d maybe want to kiss?

The thought made your stomach twist. You busied yourself brushing your hair, then reapplying chapstick, then pacing your room in slow, nervous loops.

Across town, Ellie was going through it.

She changed shirts at least ten times. Maybe more. She lost count.

Graphic tee? Too Ellie. Button-up? Too formal.

Now she stood in the mirror in a plain white tank and an open flannel she couldn’t bring herself to button. God, why did she care so much?

Her hair was messy, framing her features just right, she didn’t think too much about it.

She sat on the edge of her bed, buried her face in her hands.

“It’s just her,” she whispered.

But it wasn’t just you.

It was you.

Her eyes flicked to the camera on the desk.

“Okay,” she muttered to herself, standing again. “Jesus, what's wrong with me? It 's just her.”

You were already on your way. Fidgeting with your phone on the bus, rehearsing how to act casual even though your chest felt like it was hosting a four-piece marching band.

This was fine. Totally fine. Best friends hang out all the time.

Even if they almost kiss. Even if neither of you had stopped thinking about it since.

Totally. Fine.

There was a knock on Ellie’s door, she sprang from the couch, almost tripping on her feet. She cleared her throat, running a hand through her hair, and opened the door with what she hoped was a casual, ‘I definitely didn’t almost trip just now’ expression.

But it wasn’t you. It was the delivery girl.

Mid-twenties, eye liner so sharp it could cut heads and a smirk like she knew something Ellie didn’t, holding the brown paper bag like it was a bouquet of roses.

“Thai food for…” she double checked the receipt taped to the bag, meeting Ellie’s eyes this time, “Ellie?”

“Yeah that’s me,” she said awkwardly, tattooed arm reaching for the bag.

But the girl didn’t let go just yet.

“You know,” she said, cocking her head, tone slightly seductive, “you have that like… tortured artist vibe. It’s pretty hot.”

Ellie blinked. Did she hear that right?

“Umm thanks?” She took the bag and stepped back, her voice mixed with confusion and politeness. “Tip’s already in the app.”

“Oh…” The girl looked disappointed, she hadn’t got what she wanted, a reaction from Ellie.

“Alright then, have a good one” Ellie forced a smile, then closed the door with a soft click. She stood there for a second, blinking at the door. Usually–normally, she would’ve flirted back, get the girl’s hopes up… But now, it felt wrong, not because the girl wasn’t cute or whatever, but she felt like she was betraying you, somehow.

She exhaled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and went to set the food on the coffee table. Everything was in its place–blankets, laptop, dim lamps lit, just enough to make it feel cozy without screaming date night.

She started to doubt, was it too much? Not enough?

Her thoughts were dissolved by the knock on the door. This time she knew it was you, and her stomach did a backflip.

You stood on the other side of the door, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, trying not to fix your hair again. It was fine. You looked fine. Normal. Friendly.

The door swung open almost immediately, Ellie’s cheeks flushed like she had ran a marathon.

“Hey stranger,” you said, smiling.

“Hey,” Ellie echoed, stepping aside to let you in.

You were wearing her favorite shirt, the one she mentioned months ago that looked good on you, and on top of that a jacket Joel had given you last year for christmas. You looked warm. Beautiful.

The silence stretched—not awkward, but heavy.

You looked at Ellie, green eyes meeting yours. God. You could die right now.

Her studio was dimly lit, warm in that quiet, lived-in type of way that made it feel safe. A few lamps were on, and she had set up her living room into a cozy almost picnic set up, blankets sprawled on the floor in front of the coffee table, with a few cushions adorning it. The place smelled like her—cedarwood soap, and something faintly citrus.

You kicked off your shoes and glanced around, eyes falling into the messy table near the kitchen, where all her camera gear sat down. A stack of freshly printed photos sat on the coffee table.

“Wow,” you said, crouching beside the prints, “You’ve been busy.”

Ellie scratched the back of her neck, shutting the door. “Yeah, trying to keep myself occupied.” She moved towards the couch, gesturing to the food. Two takeout boxes sat on the small coffee table, beside her laptop, which was connected to her camera.

“I already set it all up. Got your favorite.”

Your chest fluttered, “You remembered.”

“Of course I did, you never shut up about this pad thai.”

You huffed a soft laugh, the cozy silence settled easily between you, like a familiar blanket. You sat cross-legged on the rug, steam curling up from the takeout boxes, while Ellie clicked through the gala pics folder. The warm lighting from a single lamp painted soft shadows on her face. You couldn’t help watching her hands move on the keyboard—precise, fast, confident in a way that made your stomach flutter for entirely new reasons.

“So what’s up with all those empty boxes outside of your door?” you asked, breaking in half the pair of chopsticks that came inside the bag of takeout.

“Oh, It’s just garbage and shit. I got the urge to clean out my whole place. I was bored I guess.”

“Too bored without me I’d say” you said smiling, but you actually meant it.

Conversation with Ellie was always easy, natural. It was the best part of your day, and you truly had missed her. You updated each other on what had been going on with work and stuff over the last couple days (and of course Dina and Jesse gossip) as you both ate slowly, your chopsticks tapping the inside of the paper box occasionally. Ellie made an offhand comment about one of the photos, and you followed with one of your own, as well as updates on the last few days, the diner, her work. A few minutes passed. Then a few more. At some point, your legs stretched out, brushing against hers under the table. Neither of you moved them away.

“I missed this,” you said, voice low. “Us. Hanging out.”

She nodded. “Yeah me too.”

You were about to reach for another napkin when your fingers brushed hers. Neither of you had realized you were reaching out at the same time. A blush crept down Ellie’s neck, and you were so glad the room was almost too dark for her to notice the heat on your own cheeks.

“Okay so,” she broke the silence, “I edited these at like, three in the morning, so they’re not finished. If they look bad, it’s because I was sleep deprived—”

“Shut up, Ellie,” you cut in, nudging her elbow with yours. “You’re literally the most talented person I know.”

Ellie tried to hide the way her ears turned pink. She looked back at the screen, clicking through photos: Dr. Anderson mid-speech, guests caught mid-bite, posed shots, the venue decked out in fundraiser banners, some group photos of the donors—and then…

You.

You nearly choked on your noodles.

There you were—caught mid-laugh, the blurred twinkle of lights behind you, your head tilted slightly looking toward Ellie’s direction, like you were somehow looking straight through her lens.

Ellie clicked her laptop shut. Like she was trying to hide something.

“Hey… I was seeing that,” you said, feigning annoyance.

“They’re not even that good,” she muttered, not meeting your gaze.

“Oh shut up, let me see—come on…” You reached over, your fingers grazing hers as you pried the laptop open again. You clicked back through the folder, finding the shots she’d tried to hide.

And your breath caught.

Candid after candid of you at the gala: leaning against the bar, turning over your shoulder, your eyes glowing under golden lights. Your eyes widened.

“Holy shit, Ellie,” you whispered. “How—how are these even real?”

“That’s how I see you,” she said softly.

You turned to her. “What?”

She blinked, shook her head. “Huh? Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”

But she was still staring at the screen. Pretending to scroll. But her fingers weren’t moving.

The silence thickened, soft and heavy.

Your heart pounded loud and obvious in your chest. You were about to speak when Ellie abruptly stood.

“I wanna show you something I found. I’ll be right back.”

She walked down the short hallway to her room, disappearing for a second. You heard a soft clatter of something metal, then the quick shuffle of her feet as she returned, holding a small, older camera.

“Joel gave me this when I was seventeen,” she said. “First one I ever owned.”

Her fingers curled around it like it was sacred. “Still works,” she added. “Wanna see?”

Before you could answer, a soft click—the flash burst to life.

“Ellie!” you laughed, blinking spots out of your vision.

She grinned, camera still raised. “Nope. Nuh uh.”

You tried to cover your face.

Her hands trembled just slightly as she adjusted the lens, wiping her palms on her jeans.

“Come on, don’t be a party pooper,” she said, softer now. “You’re my favorite thing to shoot.”

You froze.

So did she.

“Just a few shots, I promise,” she said, giving you those puppy eyes you couldn’t say no to.

“Fine… but I’m burning them after.”

“You wish.” She started snapping pictures. Her voice wasn’t casual anymore—it was softer. Compliments slipping out in murmurs.

“Don’t move… yeah, like that. You always do that little smile when you’re unsure. It’s cute.”

Your breath caught.

She knelt on one knee, camera focused, trying a different angle, whispering again: “You’re fucking unreal.”

You looked away, flushed, brushing your hair behind your ear.

Ellie lowered the camera, inspecting the shots. Her cheeks pink, her smile soft.

“Okay,” she said, “these actually came out so good.”

You groaned and flopped onto the rug. “I can’t believe I let you take pictures of me while I’m full of pad thai.”

She laughed, setting the camera in her lap. “You look beautiful.”

You blinked. Sat up halfway. Heart tripping over that word.

She hadn’t even flinched when she said it.

After a beat, you reached toward her, with a mischievous glint in your eyes, grinning. “Okay, okay. My turn. You’re not escaping this.”

Ellie blinked. “What? No. No way.”

You grabbed the camera anyway. She clutched it to her chest like a teddy bear. “You don’t even know how to use it.”

“Ellie. Come on. Fair’s fair.”

“Nooo—”

“Yes.”

“I’m camera shy.”

You snorted. “You took twelve photos of me in a row. I get at least one.”

She hesitated, lips twitching. “…Fine. One.”

You beamed, taking the camera and fiddling with the buttons, while she muttered quiet instructions, blushing.

“Stay still, Williams,” you teased.

She stared up at you, completely frozen.

You lifted the camera and snapped a picture. “You’re, like, criminally photogenic,” you whispered.

Ellie groaned, hiding her face behind her hands. “Stop.”

“You look nervous,” you teased again. “Something you wanna admit to me?”

She rolled her eyes, voice softer. “I just… don’t like being on this side of the lens.”

“Well, lucky for you,” you said, lifting the camera again, “I’m great at making people feel comfortable.”

She sat cross-legged, glancing down. And you catch it—how unsure she looks. How soft.

“Ellie,” you whispered. “Look at me.”

She did.

You clicked.

Then again.

She gave a shy smile. You grinned. “You’re kind of adorable, you know that?”

Her nose scrunched. “Fuck off.”

“Never.”

You crouched down slightly, readjusting the lens. “Tilt your head. Yeah—like that.” She obeyed and you stepped in closer.

“Okay now, act like you’re not the coolest person I’ve ever met.”

“Shut up,” she muttered, covering her face again.

You laughed, gently pulling her hands away. “Come on. No one’s gonna see these. Just me.”

Your fingers lingered on her wrist a second too long. She noticed.

You lowered the camera, your voice dropping. “…Stay like that.”

And before she could ask why, you were hovering her, slowly, deliberately, you climbed into her lap, straddling her hips, pinning her gently to the floor. Legs caging her in. Her breath hitched. Your hands hovered over the camera adjusting the lens.

Her hands flinched against the rug.

“Wh—what are you doing?” she asked, voice uneven, her eyes flicking between yours. Propping up on her elbows.

“Making sure you don’t run away,” you murmured.

You raised the camera again. “Ellie. You’re so beautiful.”

She stared up at you—blushing. Breathless.

“You’re insane,” she whispered.

But she wasn’t pushing you away.

You rested the camera against your chest. Her eyes—green and wide—met yours.

“I mean it,” you said, barely audible.

She looked at you like she was unraveling. Every part of her, tight with tension, heat, want.

You leaned in.

The space between you shrinking.

“Why haven’t we talked about the gala?” you whispered. A sting of pain in your tone.

Ellie swallowed. “Because I’m a coward.” Her eyes never meeting yours, like she was too scared to even look at you.

You blinked. Your voice was soft. “You’re not.”

“I—I almost kissed you.”

“I know.”

Now she was looking at you. Raw. Scared. Hopeful.

“Are you…” she asked, voice trembling, “drunk? Or tired? Or…”

You shook your head. “No.”

Your voice was steady.

Your heart wasn’t.

She stared like you’d just said the most terrifying and beautiful thing she’d ever heard.

Ellie’s lips parted, but she didn’t say anything.

She just looked at you, like she was searching for something. A sign. Permission. Courage.

So you gave it to her.

You leaned in, just a little—enough that your noses brushed, your breaths mingled. Her hands hovered near your waist, uncertain. You reached up, slowly, cupping her jaw like you were afraid she might vanish if you moved too fast.

“Ellie,” you whispered, barely audible. “It’s okay.”

Then she leaned in—slowly, so slowly, like she was giving you every chance to pull away. You didn’t.

Her forehead rested against yours for a beat. She exhaled your name like a prayer.

And then—finally, finally—her lips found yours.

Soft. Tentative. Warm.

It wasn’t rushed, or clumsy, like you thought it might be. It was soft. Reverent. Like she’d been imagining it for a long time, and was finally brave enough to ask the question with her mouth. Her lips moved against yours like a secret, like she wanted to memorize the taste of you, learn you. Like she wanted to remember every second of this. One of her hands slid up your back, the other gently cradled the side of your face, grounding you both.

You kissed her back like your life depended on it.

Like all that heat, all that tension, all those almosts were finally allowed to become something real. You melted into her, one hand tangled in her hair, the other gripping her shoulder like she was the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

She pulled back just a little, foreheads pressed together, both of you breathless.

Her hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin like she couldn’t believe you were real. You were both holding your breath and breathing each other in at the same time.

Her voice was a whisper. “Fuck.”

You smiled. “Yeah.”

Ellie looked stunned—like the weight of all the what-ifs had finally lifted and left her with this. With you.

“Can we…” She swallowed. “Can we do that again?”

You didn’t answer. You just kissed her again.

Slower this time. Deeper.

You smile into the kiss. She sighs into it.

Like there was no going back.

Everything softens.

The camera, somewhere between you, quietly flashes once.

Click.

You didn’t pull away right away.

Neither did she.

Your lips hovered against hers, like both of you were scared to break whatever spell this moment held—like even blinking too hard might ruin it.

Ellie was still holding you like she couldn’t believe you were real. One hand braced on your waist, the other lightly fisted in your shirt like she needed something to hold on to. Her breath was shaky against your mouth.

You were the first to pull back—just barely. Just enough to look at her. Enough to breathe, your forehead still pressed to hers. Both of you grinning—dumb, breathless, shocked. Your heart— pounding like it was going to crawl out of your chest.

She was flushed. Stunned. Her lashes fluttered like she was still catching up to herself.

“…Hey,” you whispered.

Her eyes flicked open, wide and a little dazed. “Hi.”

You let out a breathless laugh, eyes crinkling.

Ellie laughed too, except it caught halfway, like it hurt a little. She tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, her fingers trembling just slightly. “Holy shit…”

“Yeah. Holy shit,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

She gave you this look—half awe, half disbelief. “I wanted to do that for so long.”

Your heart clenched. “Me too.”

You were both just looking at each other. Like the world had narrowed down to this little pocket of space between your faces. Everything else felt quiet. Blurry.

She brushed her thumb gently across your cheekbone, like she was trying to memorize it. “You kissed me.”

“You kissed me.”

“Not how I remember it.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Ellie smiled, and it was this small, crooked, completely undone kind of smile. The kind you’d only ever seen when she let her guard all the way down.

You shifted slightly in her lap, still close, still breathing the same air. “Is this gonna be weird now?” you asked quietly.

She shook her head. “No. I don’t think it could ever be weird with you.”

You leaned your forehead against hers. “Promise?”

She nodded. “Promise.”

There was a soft, comfortable silence. Her hands were still on you. Yours resting lightly on her collarbone. Neither of you moved to get up.

You looked at her again. Her lips were pink and kiss-bitten. Her eyes were glassy. You’d never seen her like this—open, vulnerable, glowing.

“You’re gonna be in my dreams tonight,” you said, half a joke, half truth.

“Dirty ones I hope,” she whispered, and you gave her a playful smack to her chest.

You swallowed around the tight feeling in your throat. “I should probably go. It’s getting late.”

Ellie nodded slowly, like her body agreed but her heart didn’t. She helped you off her lap, standing with you, both of you still quiet. Still stunned.

At the door, you lingered. So did she.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” you asked, voice soft.

Ellie smiled—warm, sure, “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

You stepped into the hallway. The door had barely begun to close behind you when she called out—

“Wait.”

You turned just in time for her to reach you. She kissed you again—this time messier, hungrier, like she couldn’t help herself. Like she wasn’t ready to let go. Like she needed to be sure this was real. That you were real.

And you were kissing her back, like it was the only thing that made sense.

When you finally pulled away, your breath caught somewhere in your throat. Lips glossy, a little swollen, you smiled—shy and stunned and glowing. Like you were in fucking highschool again and had just kissed someone in secret behind the bleachers.

“Goodnight, Ellie,” you whispered, the words almost getting lost in your smile.

Then you clicked the door shut.

Ellie was lying flat on her bed now, hands over her face, like if she stayed still enough she’d disappear.

She didn’t know how long she’d been there.

There was a camera lens digging into her side. Her tank top was riding up. She felt like she was vibrating out of her skin.

“Holy. Shit,” she muttered into her palms.

Her brain was looping like a broken record:

You kissed her. You fucking kissed her.

And she kissed you back.

She sat up too fast, ran a hand through her hair like it would knock some sense into her.

Was it stupid?

No.

It wasn’t stupid.

It was the most real thing she’d felt in years.

She let herself fall back down again, groaning.

“Fuuuck.”

You looked so pretty when you leaned in. So sure. Like you wanted her. Like maybe all those late nights and long stares and shared beds meant something after all.

Her fingers curled in her bedsheets. She felt insane.

And now you were gone. And she didn’t know what to do with herself. You said you’d see her tomorrow. But what if you changed your mind?

She almost got up three times to text you. Didn't.

What was she even supposed to say?

“Thanks for the kiss, save me my usual booth at the diner?”

She groaned again, grabbing a pillow and muffling a scream into it.

Then, a whisper to no one. “…I’m so fucked.”

But she was smiling when she said it.

And she already knew she’d wake up early tomorrow. Because you’d be at the diner. And maybe—if she didn’t completely combust—she’d get to kiss you again.

Meanwhile, you leaned back against your apartment door after it shut, keys still in hand, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. Your brain was still buffering.

You kissed Ellie.

Your best friend. Who you had been in love with for god knows how long. And she kissed you back. She kissed you like she meant it. Like she’d been waiting for that moment just as much as you had.

You slid down the door slowly, heart thudding out a whole rhythm section. Your fingers brushed over your lips, like you had to double-check they were still there.

Still tingling.

Still hers.

Then the questions came flooding in. Was it real? Was it a real kiss or a heat-of-the-moment kiss? Did she regret it? What if you just ruined everything?

You let your head thud gently against the door. “Oh my god.”

Your phone buzzed in your pocket and you jumped like it had caught you doing something illegal.

You pulled it out fast, breath hitching. It wasn’t her.

God, you wanted it to be her.

You stared at your screen like you could will her name to appear. She said she'd see you tomorrow.So why did that feel like an entire lifetime away?

You scrolled to her name.

Typed a message. Deleted it.

Typed again. Deleted again.

You ended up sending nothing.

Instead, you curled up in bed, fully clothed, heart thudding like it was too big for your ribs.

You couldn’t sleep. Because every time you closed your eyes, she was still there. And you didn’t want her to leave.

୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧

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[lazysoulwriter]

let me, baby. - pedro pascal. ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: waitress!reader, emotional support, stress, financial help offered with love, protective!pedro, soft reassurance, a happy ending

---

he notices it in the small things first.

the shift in your posture. the way your smile doesn’t reach your eyes when you get home. how you fall asleep before the second act of a movie — not because it’s boring, but because you’re running on fumes.

you still show up, still kiss him soft and slow, still try to pretend everything’s fine.

but he knows you.

and he knows something’s not.

-

one night, he catches you sitting on the kitchen floor, back against the cabinets, laptop open and bills scattered across the tile. your name tag’s still pinned to your shirt. your hands are shaking.

“baby,” he says gently, crouching beside you.

you jump a little, startled, then try to laugh it off. “hey. didn’t hear you come in.”

he doesn’t say anything at first. just sits down next to you, his knee touching yours, eyes scanning the pile of papers in front of you.

class notes. tuition emails. your work schedule. your shifts for the next two weeks — doubles, mostly.

“this looks like hell,” he says softly.

you exhale, finally letting your head drop onto his shoulder.

“it’s just a lot right now,” you murmur. “i’ll figure it out.”

he wraps an arm around you.

“you know you don’t have to kill yourself trying to balance both,” he says.

“i don’t have a choice.”

he’s quiet for a moment.

then:

“yes, you do.”

you blink. “what?”

he pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes.

“i want to help.”

you start to shake your head, but he stops you gently, fingertips brushing your jaw.

“listen. i know how hard you work. i see how hard you work. And I love that about you, baby, I do. But this?” — he gestures to the mess in front of you — “this isn’t living. this is burning yourself out. and I don’t want to just stand by while you drown.”

your eyes start to sting.

“pedro…”

“let me cover things for a while,” he says, voice low and careful. “just enough so you can cut back at work. finish your semester without collapsing. I don’t care about the money. I care about you.”

you swallow hard.

“I just… I don’t want people to think I’m using you.”

he smiles — that soft smile, the one that makes you feel like maybe everything might be okay after all.

“baby. fuck what anyone else thinks.”

he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours.

“you’re not using me. you’re not asking for anything. i’m offering, because I love you. and I want to see you sleep again. smile again. breathe.”

you close your eyes.

you nod.

and he kisses your cheek, arms wrapping tight around you as if to say, I’ve got you. let me have you, just for a little while.

and for the first time in weeks — you let yourself fall.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

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[channieschaoscorner]

New Beginnings- Part Four - Stray Kids x female!9th member

Pairing: Chan x 9th Member

Summary: The pressure from your duet is now starting to take its toll on you and Chan. You’re both trying your best to keep it together but you don’t realise how the other is drowning too.

Genre: Angst, slow burn (I promise this will eventually have a happy ending guys, we’re all in this together)

A/N: Part four guys!!! I’d love to hear your thoughts on this so far or any theories if you have them :) thank you all so much for your support and comments and re logs, it really means so much to me!!!! I hope you enjoy <3

Part Three

Masterlist

────୨ৎ────

You knew the second you stepped into the practice room that today was going to be hard.

It wasn’t the exhaustion tugging at your limbs or the dull ache in the back of your leg from stretching too quickly. It was the silence that fell over the room the second Chan looked at you.

Not that he said anything. He didn’t have to.

His eyes flicked down, just briefly, before darting away. That’s when you realized—

You were wearing his hoodie.

The one from years ago. Oversized, soft from too many washes, a little stretched at the sleeves from him tugging on them during late-night studio sessions. You hadn’t meant to grab it this morning. It had just been hung on the back of your door, and your body had moved on autopilot.

Now it felt like a spotlight. Hot and heavy on your back.

You swallowed hard, ignoring the twist in your chest, and made your way to the center of the room. The others were already stretching, laughing about something Hyunjin had said. The room was buzzing with energy, but it all felt a little too loud, a little too far away.

You felt like glass, like one wrong word might shatter you.

“Let’s run it from the top,” you said, forcing your voice to stay strong, steady. “Focus on formations today, we’re still rushing transitions, I want everyone to finish each move before moving onto the next, okay?”

They nodded, obedient, unaware of the current threatening to pull you under.

You clapped to count them in, turned to the mirror, and started the choreography. The music pulsed through the speakers, grounding you in rhythm. This was familiar. Safe.

But every time you turned, every time your gaze skimmed the room, you felt him there. Just behind you. Not too close. Not too far. Watching.

And you could feel the weight of it, just heavy enough to throw you.

You were halfway through the second verse when it happened. Just a small misstep, barely noticeable—but Chan noticed.

Your foot slipped out of sync, and your arms lost their sharpness. Your balance faltered for a beat, not enough to draw attention, but enough to break your flow. Enough to remind you that you weren’t okay.

You glanced in the mirror.

Chan’s eyes were on you. Not cold. Not angry. Just concerned. Guarded.

And somehow that made it worse.

You pushed through. Forced yourself to keep going. To pretend like the air wasn’t thick and tense, like the silence between you hadn’t grown a thousand walls tall. You had a job to do. You had to set an example.

You weren’t allowed to fall apart.

But your chest was tight. Your head spun. The last few days had been too much.

The kiss. The fight. The guilt that clung to every glance you shared.

Now here you were, in his hoodie, standing in front of everyone, pretending you didn’t want to scream.

When the music cut, you bent over to catch your breath. Sweat dripped from your temple, your pulse thudding too fast.

Chan didn’t say anything. But you could feel him moving toward you.

“Grab some water and we’re going again.” you said quickly, wiping your face with your sleeve before he could get too close, before you broke.

The others nodded, scattering across the room for their bottles, for a moment to breathe.

You didn’t move. Just stood there, still catching your breath, arms crossed over your chest as if you could hold yourself together with sheer will.

You could feel Chan watching.

But neither of you said a word.

Because you both knew that if either of you did, something would crack.

And you weren’t ready to bleed so you did what you did best, you stayed silent.

────୨ৎ────

The hours raced by thankfully, it wasn't long before you were close to the end of this practice. Your eyes practically burning through the clock on the wall, counting down the seconds until you could escape.

There was one last thing to do and you were determined to get it right. Determined to finish knowing that you could still show up for the others even when it felt like you were falling apart.

You’d done the flip a hundred times before.

Launched off the solid base of Changbin’s hands, flipped through the air with the confidence of muscle memory, and landed with precision like always.

But not this time.

Not after the day you were having. Not after the hours of silence and cold glances and the weight of Chan’s avoidance pressing down on your shoulders like another member in the formation.

You were already exhausted, but the group needed to finish this run-through and you needed to feel like you could actually do your job. You needed to pull yourself together and finish on a good note.

“Alright, reset.” Chan called out, voice firm and distant.

You tried not to flinch at the way he didn’t look at you when he said it.

The music started. You took your place. Breathed. Told yourself this was just muscle memory. You’d already done this a dozen times, what was once more?

So you ran and you jumped.

Everything was normal until that one second as you left the ground. Your eyes found his across the room, just for a second.

And your stomach dropped.

It wasn’t a long look. It was so short that it could barely even count as eye contact.

But it was enough.

Just enough of him to unravel your concentration, to make the twist come too fast, your knees not tuck in tight enough, your focus crack like glass under a heel.

You knew you wouldn't make it.

You braced yourself for the impact that was coming.

And then…

You hit the ground hard.

A sharp smack of skin against the floor, air knocked out of your lungs, a wince caught in your throat before you could hold it back.

“Shit!” someone yelped—Felix maybe—but all you could hear was Chan’s voice before anyone else even moved.

“Don’t move—don’t move.”

The room stopped.

Hands reached out but Chan was already there, crouching beside you, his hand hovering inches from your arm, not touching but ready.

“Where does it hurt?” he asked, voice low, trembling with something close to panic. “Tell me where it hurts.”

“I’m fine.” You breathed, trying to sit up.

“You fell hard.” he said sharply. “Don’t get up yet.”

You blinked, taken aback by the force of it. Not the volume, but the fear underneath.

“I just landed wrong.” you whispered, avoiding his eyes. “I’ve done worse.”

“Not when I was watching.” he muttered before he could stop himself.

You both froze.

He knew it was too much. That he was showing too much. So he pulled back, physically and emotionally, as if catching himself right before falling off a ledge.

“Sorry,” he added quickly, eyes flicking away. “Just management would kill us if anyone got benched before the comeback.”

But that wasn’t why.

And everyone in the room knew it.

You could see the confusion on the other members’ faces.

Why was Chan reacting like this? Why was he pacing behind you now, fists clenched, jaw locked, like he was about to explode?

You rolled onto your hands and knees, took a deep breath, ignoring the protesting from your ribs and pushed up.You switched weight between your feet, wincing at the pain that shot through your right side. Your ankle rolled uncomfortably when you took a step forward but as far as you could tell, nothing was broken.

“I’m okay.” you said again, gently, for him this time.

Chan gave a stiff nod. “We’re done for today.” he announced, voice curt. “Let’s cool down and head out.”

No one argued.

As the group scattered, Hyunjin lingered beside you, picking up your bag along with his own, offering his arm to help you walk out but it didn't register with you, not properly. Your eyes were burning into Chan’s bsvk byt he didn’t even glance your way again. He picked up his water bottle, slung his towel around his neck, and walked toward the door.

But just before he left, he hesitated.

You caught it. That half-second pause. That internal war.

He didn’t turn around.

Didn’t speak.

Just left.

And you were left wondering what would’ve happened if you’d called out to him. If you’d asked what he wasn’t saying, what he was so scared of.

Because it wasn’t the injury.

It was you.

And it was him.

And everything neither of you could afford to admit.

────୨ৎ────

You hit the floor so hard.

And Chan couldn’t breathe.

It had all happened so fast. Just a missed step, the wrong angle, but the second you slammed into the floor and your body crumpled, the air had been ripped from his lungs.

He didn’t remember how he got out of the practice room.

The fluorescent lights blurred into the black of the hallway, into the cold sting of night air outside. He just kept walking, like if he stopped moving, the panic would catch up to him and take him down for good.

You said you were okay.

You smiled, brushed it off like it didn’t matter. But it did.

It mattered more than anything.

Because seeing you fall, seeing you in pain, was enough to undo him entirely.

His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

He’d clenched them into fists the moment you reassured everyone you’d be fine. But all he could hear was the sound of you hitting the floor, the gasp of pain that you couldn’t stop escaping, the way the room had gone silent, how everyone looked at him like he should’ve done something.

Like he should’ve known.

Back at the dorms, he didn’t go looking for you. He wanted to. Desperately. He stared at your door as he passed it in the hallway, stood there for a long moment with his fist halfway raised.

But he couldn’t do it.

Because if you looked at him with even an ounce of fear or disappointment, he wasn’t sure what it would do to him.

So he walked away.

He went to his room, shut the door, and sat on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands.

This duet. This stupid duet.

It was pulling everything to the surface, everything he’d worked so hard to bury.

The way you looked at him now. The way your voice sounded when you laughed too hard. The memory of how it felt when your hand brushed his. That night in the practice room years ago—the kiss neither of you talked about. He couldn’t stop remembering it. Couldn’t stop feeling it.

And that scared him more than anything.

Because you meant everything to him.

And that meant he couldn’t feel this way about you. Not the way his heart begged him to. Not in a way that could cost him you.

He lay back on his bed, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling until sleep finally dragged him under.

And in his dream—

You were his.

Not in a grand, dramatic way. Just there. Sitting beside him on the floor of the practice room, feet crossed under your legs, your head resting against his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He kissed your forehead.

You closed your eyes and smiled softly at the feeling.

It felt right.

It felt like home.

He woke up with your name on his tongue and a hollow ache in his chest.

This couldn’t happen.

He couldn’t feel like this. Not about you.

Because if he did—and if he lost you because of it—

He didn’t think he’d ever recover.

────୨ৎ────

The dorm was quiet.

It was late, too late. The kind of late that made the walls feel thinner, like everything in the world had gone to sleep except him. Chan sat alone on the couch, hood pulled low, phone untouched beside him. He hadn’t even bothered with music. It was too much. That dream had shaken him, scared him out of his own bed to the point that he was afraid if he went back to it that he would dream of you again.

And he couldn’t do that.

So instead he told himself that he was only staying awake in case you needed something. You were injured and he was just looking out for you. That’s what a good leader would do.

You were still in your room, wide awake.

He knew you were. He’d heard your door close softly when the others trickled back from the studio hours ago. Heard Hyunjin’s voice for a while too, gentle and low. That had reassured him for a moment. At least you hadn’t been alone. At least someone had stayed close.

But it didn’t settle him for long.

The image of you falling was stuck behind his eyes, on repeat. That moment where you made eye contact with him, just for a second, and then everything went wrong.

He blamed himself. How could he not?

You’d been distracted because of him.

Everything between you had been spinning tighter for days, and he hadn’t done a damn thing to stop it. He’d been short with you, colder than he ever meant to be. It was the only way he knew how to protect himself. Protect you. If he didn’t feel it — didn’t let himself fall — then maybe you could both stay safe.

But then you wore his hoodie.

You walked into the practice room like it was just another day, sleeves too long, hood too big pulled over your head, and it hit him all over again. Just how tightly you were wound into him, even when neither of you acknowledged it.

Even when it hurt.

Now here he was, sitting in the dark with a tightness in his chest that wouldn’t let up, jaw clenched, trying not to cross the hallway and knock on your door.

But he needed to.

He couldn’t sit here one more minute, not knowing how you were, not knowing if you were still hurting or angry or scared. Not knowing if you blamed him too.

So, heart pounding, he stood.

The hallway stretched long in front of him, silent. Your door was closed, the light beneath it soft and steady. He hesitated there for a moment, fist raised halfway — and lowered it again.

“Coward.” his mind spat. “You’re such a coward.”

But it wasn’t cowardice.

It was fear. Of saying the wrong thing. Of hurting you more. Of unraveling whatever fragile thing still existed between you.

Still, he knocked.

Softly.

Once.

He heard you move, the rustle of the pile of blankets you kept on your bed and then your voice, muffled. “Yeah?”

He almost turned back. Almost gave in to the doubt, the instinct to run. But when you opened the door, standing there in fresh clothes, hair slightly damp from your shower earlier and eyes still red-rimmed with exhaustion, he froze.

You looked at him surprised, unsure but said nothing.

Chan cleared his throat, voice low. “I just… I needed to see if you were okay.”

Your brows pulled in, softening just a little. “I’m fine.” you said, even though your voice betrayed it.

“You’re not.” His throat tightened. “That flip–it wasn’t supposed to go wrong. You’ve done it a hundred times and I— I knew you weren’t ready today. I should’ve—”

“Chan.” you interrupted gently, but he kept going.

“I should’ve stopped you. Or said something. I saw it in your eyes. You looked at me, and I— I froze. I’m the one who—” He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated, angry, scared. “I wasn’t thinking. Not about the team. Not about you. I— I messed this up.”

There was a pause.

Then you stepped forward.

You reached for his hand carefully, slowly, like you would with a frightened animal, and laced your fingers with his.

His breath caught.

“I’m okay.” you said again, this time softer, like you wanted him to believe it. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“But I—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You leaned up and pressed your lips to his.

It was gentle. Warm. Reassuring. Nothing like before.

It said all the things you couldn’t.

That you didn’t blame him. That you were still here. That you still wanted to be here.

His hand rose, hovering like he wasn’t sure what to do, before resting lightly against your waist. Too hesitant, too protective, too afraid of making it worse.

When you pulled back, your forehead lingered against his, breath shared in the quiet.

“I’m okay.” you whispered one last time.

And Chan let himself believe you.

He didn’t kiss you again.

He didn’t pull you closer.

He let you go, fingers slipping from yours as you stepped back inside and closed the door behind you.

And he stood there, alone in the hall, heart still aching, knowing this would break him — this feeling he kept trying to bury — but to feel like this silently, from a distance, still felt safer than admitting it and losing you completely.

────୨ৎ────

The next morning, you arrived at the practice room a little later than usual.

No one said anything even though you could feel their eyes on you, flicking briefly to your ankle as you walked with a slight limp, the sleeve of Chan’s old hoodie pulled long over your hands. You hadn’t meant to put it on again, but like before your body moved without thinking. It was soft, warm, familiar. It smelled like safety. Like him. So once you realised, you didn’t want to take it off, you needed the extra comfort today so you let yourself indulge in it.

Which, now, was its own kind of problem.

The sweet kiss from the night before lingered in your memory like a ghost. Gentle, comforting. Too much and not enough all at once. But it hadn’t fixed anything. It hadn’t changed the wall still between you. If anything, it made it harder to look at him without remembering what it felt like to have his lips on yours, trembling with guilt and worry.

When you stepped into the room, the others greeted you with a quiet kind of warmth — gentle smiles, softened edges — and you were grateful they didn’t push, didn’t ask questions. They just moved out of the way, making space for you to sit near the mirrors with your notebook, ready to instruct without pushing your ankle.

You sat down, slowly, trying to hide the wince in your movements.

Across the room, Chan was already there. He hadn’t greeted you, hadn’t looked your way. But you noticed the way he stood slightly apart from the others, hands tucked into his pockets. And in his hand — almost hidden, barely visible from where you were sitting — was your scrunchie.

Your scrunchie.

The one that he’d stole years ago during survival show filming. The one you’d teased him about, half-joking that he’d stolen it because he missed you. You’d never seen it again.

Until now.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t show it off. Just held it quietly, turning it between his fingers once before slipping it into the pocket of his hoodie.

You looked away quickly, heart clenching.

Minho clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Alright, let’s warm up before we run the chorus section again.”

The boys moved easily, a little more subdued than usual, but still focused. You began calling out instructions from where you sat, voice steady even though your chest felt tight. You kept things light, cracked a joke when Seungmin slipped on a spin, praised Jeongin for hitting his marks perfectly.

You avoided looking at Chan.

But he kept glancing your way.

You felt it each and every time, like gravity tugging at your skin. His gaze felt heavy on your skin. Not angry or cold. Never that. Just unreadable, always unreadable in moments like this. Like he was waiting for you, for something you weren’t ready to give yet.

You kept giving feedback, biting back the exhaustion creeping into your limbs. The bruises on your ribs and ankle were making everything harder, but you wouldn’t stop. Wouldn’t show weakness. You had to hold everything together. You couldn’t stop just because you were having a bad day. You had to push through even when you felt like you were breaking apart.

Felix brought you a water bottle at one point, kneeling beside you with a soft smile. “You sure you don’t wanna rest properly? You can go back home, we’ll be okay.”

“I’m fine.” you murmured. “Promise.”

He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t push. Just nodded, patting your shoulder before returning to the group.

Chan hadn’t said a word.

But when the music stopped after a particularly intense run-through, and the boys were catching their breath, he glanced your way again. Not just a flicker this time. It was longer. Lingering. And he looked like he wanted to say something this time.

You didn’t let him.

You dropped your eyes to your notebook in your lap and called out the next section.

The tension buzzed beneath the surface like a wire being pulled too tightly from both ends. You knew it would snap eventually. You just didn’t know when.

And despite everything, despite the kiss, the hoodie, the scrunchie in his pocket. Neither of you reached out to break the silence.

Not yet.

────୨ৎ────

The studio was cloaked in silence, the soft hum of your laptop the only sound as you reviewed the day’s rehearsal footage. The boys had long since departed, leaving behind the echoes of laughter and the scent of sweat-soaked determination. You’d dismissed their efforts to bring you home, determined to get your work done. You might not have been able to dance yet but that didn’t mean you couldn’t review their progress and give them feedback.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, Chan’s hoodie enveloping you in its familiar warmth. The fabric, worn and frayed at the cuffs, still carried his scent somehow after all these years. It was your armor, your comfort, a tangible piece of him that you clung to in the quiet moments.

The door creaked open, and you looked up to see Chan entering, his gaze settling on you.

“You’re still here.” he said softly.

You offered a small smile, nodding. “Just reviewing some stuff I filmed today.”

His eyes drifted to the hoodie you wore, and he hesitated before speaking again.

“Why do you still wear that thing?”

You looked down at the sleeves, fingers tracing the frayed edges. “It makes me feel safe,” you admitted. “Like I have a part of you with me.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions. Chan’s gaze softened, and he stepped closer, the dim light catching on something around his wrist.

Your breath caught when you saw it — your scrunchie. The one he’d taken years ago, the one he hid in his pocket earlier, now sat looking particularly comfortable and familiar on his wrist. It was faded now, the color dulled, but it was unmistakably yours.

“You kept it.” you whispered, eyes meeting his.

He nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It reminds me of you.”

The room was thick with tension, the air charged with the weight of everything left unsaid. You both stayed still, hearts laid bare, and still neither of you moved to bridge the gap.

Finally, Chan broke the silence. “I should go.”

You nodded, watching as he turned and walked away, the door closing softly behind him. No progress had been made, no truths confessed, just the lingering ache of what remained unspoken.

You stared at the closed door for a long moment, half-expecting him to walk back through, to say something, anything but he didn’t.

You were alone. Again.

You pulled your knees to your chest, burying your face in the sleeves of his hoodie. It still smelled like him. Still felt like him. Like safety. Like home.

But it wasn’t enough. Not really.

Your heart ached with the weight of what just happened or more painfully, what didn’t happen.

You told him you wore the hoodie to feel close to him. He showed you he’d kept your scrunchie all these years.

It should have meant something. It did mean something.

But neither of you had the courage to say it out loud.

You wanted to scream, to cry, to throw the stupid hoodie across the room just to do something but you didn’t.

You stayed there, sitting on the practice room floor, head tipped back against the mirrors, the laptop forgotten beside you, letting the quiet swallow you whole.

You were terrified of ruining what you had with him.

Terrified that if you reached for more, you’d lose even the pieces you still clung to.

And worse, you knew he was just as scared.

The silence between you wasn’t just silence anymore. It was everything you were both too afraid to say.

Every almost-confession. Every glance held too long. Every time you ached to reach for him but held yourself back.

You wondered if he was feeling the same weight right now, alone in his own room, clutching your scrunchie like it was some lifeline.

You wondered if he regretted walking away.

You wondered if he ever wished he hadn’t.

But you were too scared to find out.

Instead, you wiped at your eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, stood up shakily, and gathered your things.

You told yourself you’d be fine. That you could survive this aching emptiness.

That pretending was easier than risking it all.

You pulled the hoodie tighter around you and stepped out into the hallway, the cold biting at your skin.

One foot in front of the other.

One breath at a time.

Even if it broke your heart a little more each day, you would keep pretending.

Because losing him completely?

That would destroy you

────୨ৎ────

He didn’t get far.

Only a few steps down the hallway before he stopped, his hand braced against the cool wall like he needed it to hold him up.

He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing hard like he’d just sprinted miles.

But he hadn’t gone anywhere.

He couldn’t go anywhere, not really. Not from this. There was no escape from this.

Your words echoed in his mind:

“It makes me feel safe…like I have a part of you with me.”

And he’d seen the way your eyes softened when you noticed the scrunchie on his wrist. The one he’d carried with him like some ridiculous secret all these years.

It should have been so easy.

It was right there, wasn’t it? Everything you both couldn’t say?

But the fear — God, the fear — that was louder.

It drowned out the hope.

It told him that if he reached for you, he’d lose you completely.

Chan let out a shaky breath and tugged the scrunchie loose from his wrist.

Held it between his fingers.

Something so small, so worn, so you.

His throat burned. His chest felt like it might cave in.

He pressed the scrunchie to his forehead, gripping it tightly like it could somehow anchor him, fix the gaping hole he could feel splitting wider inside of him.

He wanted to go back.

Wanted to turn around, walk into the room, pull you into his arms and tell you everything.

How he needed you more than anything.

How the distance between you was killing him.

How he didn’t care if it was reckless and messy and terrifying, all he wanted was you.

But he didn’t.

Because he couldn’t.

Because if he said the wrong thing — if you didn’t feel the same —

He would lose you completely.

And that was a risk he couldn’t survive.

So he stuffed the scrunchie into the pocket of his hoodie, like hiding it could somehow bury the ache inside him too.

And he walked away.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Further away from you, no matter how badly he wanted to turn around.

────୨ৎ────

It was past 2AM when Chan gave up pretending he might sleep.

The glow of his phone lit up the dark room as he turned it over in his hand, the screen too bright, too sharp against the aching pull in his chest.

He unlocked it without thinking.

Muscle memory.

Habits built from years of late-night check-ins, “Did you eat?” texts, “Get home safe,” messages, blurry photos of snacks left outside your door after hard days.

He opened your chat.

The familiar thread of texts that stretched back months, years even, full of jokes, plans, worries — the kind of soft friendship that had built your whole world together.

He stared at the blinking cursor for a long time.

Started typing.

Deleted.

Started again.

Deleted again.

Finally, his fingers moved — slow, clumsy.

Are you ok?

He hovered there, thumb just above the send button.

It felt wrong.

Too small.

Too big.

Too dangerous.

Because what he really wanted to say, what he wanted to tell you was buried deep down and none of it would come out.

He could barely even type three words without feeling like he might shatter.

After what felt like an eternity, he hit delete.

Every letter, one by one, disappearing into nothing.

He locked his phone again and dropped it onto the nightstand like it burned him.

Rolled onto his side, clutching the scrunchie so tightly it hurt his hand.

“Idiot.” he whispered into the darkness, voice wrecked and raw.

Because he knew that you were just down the hall. You were just an unlocked door away, but it didn’t feel like that. You’d never felt further from him, like there was a cavan between you now. It was widened by fear, and it continued to grow with everything. By mistakes, by what should have been said out loud but had been silenced by the thought of losing what little friendship you had left.

Chan squeezed his eyes shut, willing the ache to quiet, even if just for a few hours.

He couldn’t reach for you.

Not now.

Not yet.

So he stayed still.

Silent.

Drowning quietly in everything he didn’t have the courage to say.

────୨ৎ────

It was supposed to be a “team bonding” night.

Pizza, movies, dumb games — the kind of thing you all used to do without thinking.

The boys had begged you for it, claiming the excuse of everyone working too hard for the comeback. You’d agreed to it along with Chan, marking out time in everyone’s schedule. Originally you’d been looking forward to it.

But now?

Now it felt like trying to hold two magnets together by sheer force of will.

You sat cross-legged on the floor between Seungmin and Felix, your smile stretched a little too tight as you watched Minho dramatically argue over the rules of some game one of them had picked. The living room was loud — laughing, shouting, teasing — but under it all, you could feel the static between you and Chan.

Thick.

Heavy.

He was across the room, half-curled into the corner of the couch, a cap pulled low over his eyes like it could hide him from you. He barely spoke. When he did it was short answers, distracted smiles.

It made your chest ache. This used to be the kind of evening he lived for. The dorm happy, full, everyone home together.

A family.

You tried not to look at him. You really, really tried but your eyes kept betraying you. Kept dragging back to the worn scrunchie still looped around his wrist, no longer hidden away. To the familiar hoodie he’d thrown on, you remembered stealing that one at one point before he stole it back, claiming you already took too many of his clothes. To the quiet, almost invisible way his shoulders tensed when the others teased you — the way he still instinctively reacted, still cared, even if he pretended he didn’t.

You fumbled your turn in the game, making Seungmin crack up at your bad luck.

“You’re usually so good at this!” he wheezed, clutching his stomach.

You laughed as well, too loud, too unbothered, brushing it off like you weren’t crumbling inside.

Chan didn’t laugh. He just watched. Silent. Guarded. Hurting.

When Felix leaned into your side, draping himself dramatically over your lap to try and distract you, you felt Chan’s stare sharpen — a quick, barely-there flicker — before he dropped his gaze again.

It was killing you. The pretending, the silence. The invisible wall that had risen so high between you it felt impossible to climb. You missed him. You missed your best friend.

You missed laughing with him until you cried, missed falling asleep in the studio surrounded by music and half-empty coffee cups. You missed being able to look at him without feeling like the ground might shatter underneath you. But you couldn’t go back and neither could he.

So you played along. You laughed when you were supposed to. Shoved Felix playfully when he got too dramatic. High-fived Changbin when your team won. And all the while, you ached.

You caught his eye — just for a heartbeat.

And in that tiny moment, you could feel everything that hung between you both.

The noise of the dorm wrapped around you like a storm. Laughter echoed off the walls, it was loud, bright, endless.

You couldn’t breathe.

You were drowning in it — the pretending, the weight of everything unsaid. It had been easier, once. You had been better at lying to yourself. Now, even smiling hurt. You stood up too fast, disturbing Felix who’d been lounging next to you.

“Hey, you okay?” Felix asked, glancing up.

“Yeah.” you forced a laugh. “Just remembered something — I, uh— I forgot to finish choreographing that new section for the group routine. I told the backup dancers I’d have it ready tomorrow.”

The lie slipped out before you could stop it.

You hated yourself for it.

There was a pause — just a beat too long — and then everyone nodded, accepting it easily.

Everyone except Minho. His eyes narrowed slightly, watching you. You felt it — the way he saw through you, like he always had. He didn’t say anything in front of the others, but when you bent to grab your bag, he followed you to the door.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked quietly, out of earshot of the others.

You kept your gaze trained on the floor.

“Yeah. Just tired, I can’t believe I forgot about this.” you mumbled, shouldering your bag.

Minho didn’t move. Didn’t push. Just stood there silently, arms crossed loosely, studying you like a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.

You knew he was letting you go because he trusted you but you also knew he didn’t believe you.

Finally, he exhaled.

“Don’t push yourself too hard.” he said simply. His voice was low, rough around the edges in the way it always got when he was worried.

It made your stomach knot uncomfortably.

You managed a small smile. It was real, even if it was weak one and nodded.

“I’ll be fine.”

Minho didn’t answer.

Just reached out and lightly flicked your forehead, it was a small, affectionate gesture, more comforting than a thousand words before stepping back and letting you go.

You walked out the door, his eyes heavy on your back. The second it closed behind you, the lie twisted tighter in your chest. You weren’t fine. You weren’t even close but you didn’t know how to be anymore, not when it felt like everything that kept you standing was slipping right through your hands.

The noise of the dorm, the shouting, the laughter, the forced normalcy. It had wrapped around your throat like a noose all night.

You needed out. You needed space. You needed to stop pretending for just a second.

Your legs carried you on autopilot.

Out the door.

Down the street.

Across the empty parking lot.

You pushed open the side door of the JYPE building and the familiar fluorescent lights buzzed against your skin.

The practice room.

Your safe place.

Your sanctuary.

The only place where, once, you could let go without fear. Now? Now it felt haunted. You slipped inside quietly, letting the heavy door click shut behind you. The room was empty, the mirrors black and cold in the low light.

You dropped your bag by the wall, pulled your hoodie tighter around yourself, and sank down onto the floor. Back braced against the wall, knees pulled to your chest.You stared at your reflection, blurry in the dimness.

You looked tired. Defeated. Someone you barely recognized. You buried your face in your arms. The tears came before you could stop them.

Hot, silent, relentless.

You didn’t sob.

You didn’t wail.

You just broke.

Piece by piece.

All the pressure — the performances, the choreographies, the endless expectations.

All the heartache — Chan’s silence, his distance, the way he looked at you like he wanted to say everything and nothing at once.

All the fear — of losing him, of losing yourself.

It all cracked inside you.

You stayed like that for what felt like forever.

Alone.

Invisible.

Too caught up in your own feelings that you didn’t hear the door open.

You didn’t notice him until you felt his presence — heavy and warm and unmistakably him.

You stayed curled on your side on the studio floor, you weren’t sure when you slipped from sitting to lying down, but that didn’t matter now. Right now you were trying and failing to swallow the broken sobs shaking your chest.

For a moment, there was just silence and then the floor shifted , the air stirring as Chan slowly, carefully, lowered himself down.

You felt the heat of him in front of you, not touching, but close enough that it made your heart ache.

Your breath caught when you finally opened your eyes.

Chan’s face was so close — closer than you could bear — his eyes burning with a mixture of worry and something deeper, something you didn’t dare name.

He hesitated, just for a second. Then his hand moved between you, fingers trembling slightly, and he hooked his pinky around yours. Soft. Tentative. A promise.

You didn’t move, you didn’t pull away. Instead, your pinky tightened slightly around his, clinging to that tiny anchor between you. And something in him jumped.

He edged a little closer, just enough that your foreheads brushed together, the barest touch, but it felt like an earthquake inside you. The soft press of his skin against yours was grounding, overwhelming, almost too much. You squeezed your eyes shut, another tear slipping free.

That was when you heard it. It was barely a whisper, it was raw, bare, pulled back.

“We can stay here… as long as you need.”

You shuddered out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding, your forehead still pressed to his, your pinkies still tangled together.

There were a thousand things you both wanted to say. A thousand ways you could shatter each other but instead, you stayed like this.

Silent.

Steady.

Together.

Neither of you moved.

The studio was so silent you could hear the faint hum of the lights overhead, the distant thump of someone closing a door down the hall, the world carrying on without you.

But here, it was just the two of you.

Your breathing slowly evened out, still shaky but steadier, syncing naturally with his. The tiny contact, pinkies linked, foreheads barely touching. It anchored you both more than any words could have.

You should’ve pulled away. You should’ve said something. You should’ve moved, anything to stop this feeling from growing too big to control. But you didn’t and neither did he.

You felt it every time he exhaled, the way his breath warmed your skin, the way he stayed perfectly still like if he shifted even an inch, everything would shatter.

You wanted to ask him why he followed you, wanted to ask if he could hear how fast your heart was beating, wanted to ask if he felt it too — this fragile, burning thing stretching between you.

But you were both cowards when it came to this.

So instead, you stayed there, tangled in this moment that wasn’t supposed to happen. After a while, your fingers slid just slightly along his, not breaking the pinky hold, just moving closer.

Almost holding hands.

Almost something more.

You heard him breathe in sharply at the touch, a sound so soft you almost missed it. Still, he didn’t pull away. And still, you stayed.

Long past the point you knew you should have.

Long past the point where pretending it meant nothing was still believable.

But you were too tired, too broken to face it tonight.

So you lay there with him — forehead to forehead, pinky to pinky — pretending the tiny world you’d built between you was strong enough to hold all the things you weren’t brave enough to say.

And for now you let it be enough.

Even though deep down, you both knew it never really could be.

────୨ৎ────

You weren’t sure how long you stayed on the floor, time lost all meaning once you entered that room. It was like it existed outside the real world for you. Here, you didn’t have to pretend. In here, you could be honest with yourself.

Eventually, Chan shifted just slightly, breaking the tiny pinky hold to gently brush your hair back from your forehead, his fingers so careful, so tentative it made your throat tighten.

“We should probably go back to the dorm.” he whispered, voice hoarse with something neither of you were ready to name.

His thumb hovered for a second longer against your temple, like he couldn’t bring himself to stop touching you.

You shook your head, just the smallest movement but it was enough.

He closed his eyes like it physically hurt him.

“I know,” he said, voice cracking. “I don’t want to either.”

Because you both knew.

As soon as you left this room, you’d have to go back to pretending.

Go back to being what everyone thought you were.

Go back to holding everything inside until it hurt.

And somehow it felt easier to stay here, lost in this fragile, breaking thing between you, than to go back to lying to yourselves.

You didn’t know who moved first. Maybe it was you. Maybe it was him.

But suddenly his hand was cradling your jaw and you were leaning into him and then—

His lips were on yours.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t careful.

It was desperate, bruising, full of every feeling you’d both buried for years, pouring out all at once because neither of you were brave enough to say it with words.

You gasped into him and he swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss like he couldn’t stand the thought of letting you go, fingers sliding up to tangle in your hair as he pressed closer, closer, until there was no space left between you.

It was messy.

It was aching.

It was everything you were both too scared to admit.

You kissed him back just as desperately, hands fisting in the front of his hoodie — his hoodie— the fabric worn and soft and his, and it made you want to cry.

You could feel it in the way his mouth moved against yours — the frustration, the longing, the pain of wanting more and being too afraid to take it.

It was the kind of kiss that could’ve turned into something else if you’d let it.

It was right there, just hovering on the edge of losing control.

And maybe you would have fallen over that edge if not for the sudden slam of a door somewhere down the hall, loud enough to jolt both of you back into yourselves.

You broke apart like you’d been burned, breathing hard, staring at each other with wide, stunned eyes.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you moved.

Because you both knew — if you said anything right now, it would unravel everything.

And neither of you were ready for that.

Chan’s hand hovered for a second in the empty space between you, like he wanted to reach for you again but he didn’t.

And you didn’t either.

Instead, you both sat there, raw and shaking, pretending you hadn’t just crossed a line that neither of you could uncross.

────୨ৎ────

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[whimsyvixen]

Hi! I just read your Rusty Nail fic, and I was wondering if you have SFW and/or NSFW head cannons for him? I love your writing and hope you're doing well :)

A/N: ~I'd like to apologize for waiting two years to answer this ask 😭. I've been watching slasher movies again and my motivation was brought back so I decided to have fun with writing this! Once again, I'm very sorry for the late reply but I hope you and every one else enjoys this! 🫶~

~

NSFW Alphabet | Rusty Nail | Joy Ride

Pairing: Rusty Nail x Female Reader

Rating: 18+

Synopsis/Excerpt: He also loves how easily you bruise, a smug grin forming in his face when he sees his marks of ownership scattered all over you.

Tags/Warnings: explicit content, dubcon/non-con themes, unprotected sex, choking, creampies, brief mention of captivity/kidnapping, overstimulation, large cock, vaginal sex, Rusty being sweet and a monster at the same time.

Minors do not interact

A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

He's very affectionate, peppering kisses along your flushed face and caressing the dips and curves of your body as you're fighting to catch a breath after his vigorous fucking love making.

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His hands are his favorite instrument, large enough to wrap around your throat and squeeze until his veins protrude from the force. He loves every dip and curve of your body, not knowing where to start because of how obsessed he is with your fragility and softness. He also loves how easily you bruise, a smug grin forming in his face when he sees his marks of ownership scattered all over you.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

He's a big man with an equally big set of balls and dick. When he cums, it's in copious amounts and he always makes sure to come inside, ignoring your distressed cries and your hands pushing against him when you feel the sudden heat in your spasming walls. He licks your tears away, grinding his hips further into your puffy pussy to make sure none of his cum escapes your womb.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He read books by Nicholas Sparks and liked them. 

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

He's very experienced. He prioritizes your pleasure over his because he loves seeing you come apart under his ministrations. Once you're twitching from the neverending pleasure, does he spread you wide and spears you with his cock in one smooth thrust. He listens very intently at every little gasp and moan escaping your lips so he can discover the rhythm and technique your most vocal on.

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

His favorite position is cowgirl. He loves seeing how shy and nervous you get when you're hovering over him, licking his lips in anticipation when your pussy presses down on his engorged cock. He lets you go at your own pace, fighting the urge to thrust his hips up as you're slowly taking him inch by inch until your pelvises smack lewdly against each other. It is when your legs grow tired and your movement goes sluggish, that he takes charge and brings you down to clash with every upward thrust into your welcoming pussy. His eyes roam greedily between your sexes smashing violently together and your fucked out expression every time his cock kisses your cervix.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

He enjoys teasing you, especially knowing how flustered you get when he whispers dirty things to you. Lacking any sexual experience prior to him, your face quickly gets heated and you can’t look him in the eye when he’s promising to drown in your pussy and fuck you until the bed breaks. If he's feeling humorous, he might start to tickle you to get you to smile and shriek to make you forget your embarrassment at his words.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

He's a hairy man. His hair grows rather quickly so he needs to shave often, but he prefers to trim instead of shaving anything off fully. The hairs on his chest often tickle your nose when you're laying on him and the raspiness of his beard leaves a pleasant tingle behind on your skin when he kisses your cheeks. You have to look away when he stretches, his happy trail bringing memories of how deep you’ve had him in your throat, your nose pressed right against his pubic hair and smelling his manly musk before he proceeded to face fuck you to oblivion.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

He wasn't always kind to you. Your refusal to accept your place as his beloved had forced him to be the bad guy early on in your relationship. However, after months of secluding you from any form of contact besides his, you've become dependent on him and jump into his arms when he releases you from your prison in the basement. As he's stroking your back and hugging your hiccupping form, he hushes your whimpers with sweet murmurs of never leaving you like the people that abandoned their search for you long ago. When he’s making love to you upstairs in his bedroom, he confesses his feelings for you and worships every inch of you with his mouth and hands. He will make sure you would be protected and loved by him and him alone. 

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon)

He tries not to think about you while on the road because of how easily just the thought of you makes him hard under his pants. When explicit memories of you won’t leave him, he grumbles in frustration and tries to find somewhere secluded to rub one out. Once he’s parked his vehicle, he opens his glove compartment to find the piece of cloth he tore from you earlier that day. He then pleasures himself while sniffing the remnants of your cum soaked panties, shuddering at the musky scent and envisioning your pussy wrapped around him and your mouth begging him for more. 

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

The man has a breeding and lactation kink. He often places a pillow under you so his cum can stay in place inside your unprotected womb and sucks on your nipples to the point of pain imagining you plump with his baby and leaking milk into his mouth. 

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)

He'll have sex with you just about anywhere. He particularly enjoys doing it in his truck, reclining his seat back to watch you bounce up and down on his fat cock in the middle of nowhere, dirty praises trickling past his lips about how much of a pretty slut you are for him and how good he'll give it to you later at home. He loves having you for dessert when he gets home from work (and killing) too, kneeling under the table in the kitchen to eat you out as you're struggling to eat the food you cooked for him while he gnaws at your clit and folds.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

It's your skittish behavior and the way you bite your lip when he's near you that drives him crazy. Despite your stubbornness not to give in to his lecherous hands, he has you bent over before you can voice out a protest. He runs his fingers lightly along your trembling legs, eyeing the way your soaked panties cling to your vulva and asking what you want him to do to you. If you stay silent for too long, he’ll lean down and threaten to leave you as you are, pressing his hardened cock between your cheeks all the while. Just as he’s about to pull away, you push your hips back and look at him pleadingly. You’re still too shy to tell him what you want so you’ll open your legs wider hoping he catches your drift. He’d want to tease you further but even he has a limit. Your panties are torn off and the clink of a belt is heard right before the room is filled with wet smacks of flesh and breathless cries and grunts echoing throughout the house. 

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He would never share you. He'd kill any man or woman who dared touch what was his. 

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

Over the years, he entertained himself with a few lot lizards and learned how to perfect his technique with each encounter. By the time he met you, he knew exactly where to kiss, lick and suck to have you creaming in his mouth within minutes. He's never tasted a pussy as good as yours and will often eat you out for long periods of time, ignoring the way you're tugging on his hair to try to remove him from your overstimulated clit and quivering walls.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

Depending on how well behaved you are, he can make it slow and sweet for you. He prefers his sex fast and rough, but will be gentle when your sex is sore from the poundings he gave it. However, his gentleness goes out the window when you start acting rebellious again. If you disobey him and try running away, he will catch you and  fuck you in a rage until your crying and begging for forgiveness. He'll fuck you like a bull all night until you pass out from exhaustion. You'll wake up alone and locked inside the basement again, what little freedom you had earned gone in an instant.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

He's not a particular fan of quickies because he likes to take his time with you. He enjoys seeing how your will chips away with every stroke of his hands, mouth, and cock, your body fighting against your mind to reach its climax and forcing you to cry out for him after the pleasure becomes too much for you. 

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Considering how creative he is when torturing his victims, you can bet he’s just as creative in the bedroom. He's a bit of a sadist and will be curious to find out what your limits and pain tolerance is. He smiles at you when you freeze at the rope and chains he has in his hands. You’ll cry out when he handles you none-too-gently, having little time to protect yourself when he wraps a hand around your throat and forces the other down your panties. He’ll tighten his hold on your neck, wheezes and choked gasps escaping you as your eyes beseech him for mercy. In the midst of this punishment, you are horrified to feel your arousal spike, strands of your slick running down your legs as he fingerfucks you roughly. Once he finds out how much you can take, he will subject you to the same painful pleasure at a later date.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

He’s only human and has to suffer through a refractory period so he makes sure you cum multiple times before he does. He is able to accomplish this by pumping his fingers inside your pussy, stimulating your g spot while he is forcing his tongue down your throat to muffle your mewls. He’ll have you cumming on his fingers within minutes, allowing you to witness him licking the residue of your orgasm before trailing his body down to the juncture of your thighs. He’ll bury his face in your cunt, holding you in place with one hand on your stomach and stroking himself with the other. Once he’s successfully made you cum again, does he line himself up along your soaked entrance. It is a challenge not to cum once his cock is enveloped by your heat, your walls constricting like a vice around him and making him grit his teeth to prevent himself from spilling inside you too soon. He’ll pump his hips slowly at first, trying to adjust to your gummy insides and closing his eyes in concentration. His careful pace gets shot down to hell when your heels brace on the bed, tilting your hips up and colliding with his next downward thrust. He opens his eyes startled, taking one good look at your disheveled appearance and your chest heaving in a tantalizing fashion before he grabs on to the headboard and slams his hips down in one meaty smack. Within a few moments, you orgasm two more times and your head is lolling to the side by the time he fills you with his cum.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

While he does use restraints on you, he does not own any toys. He's aware of their existence but has never really thought of using them on you. He's confident in his ability to bring you pleasure by his touch alone. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

As was said before, he enjoys teasing you due to your inexperience with sex. His sexual innuendos and jokes make you fidget and squirm where you’re at. No matter how often he’s fucked you, he can never seem to rid you of your embarrassment when you’re both naked and touching each other intimately. It amuses him how cute you are, removing his shirt purposely in front of you before tackling you down playfully on the bed to begin teasing you further.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

He'll grit his teeth to lessen his gasps and groans, preferring to hear the sweet symphony of your pleasured cries and moans instead. He'll hide his face on your neck, bracing his knees on the bed before pummeling you hard enough to make the bed creak and your voice rise with each snap of his hips. Heated puffs and throaty moans would spill from him once your walls constricted around him and coaxed him to cum inside your warm heat. 

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

It was a passing conversation he heard between truckers on the cb radio while he was driving. One of them mentioned how he and his lady kept their sex life interesting and alive for so many years. They did this by role-playing and wearing salacious outfits to spice up the sex. Rusty listened on to the conversation, his mind conjuring up images of you dressing up as a scantily clad nurse or maid, waiting to treat him and service him in any way he desired. It was another trucker’s similar experience but with pet play that had him stunned. A flux of images of you on your knees in cow print lingerie and a collar around your neck stormed his brain, triggering his lactation kink and imagining you whining about the fullness of your chest and needing his help to ease the hurt. That night, he didn’t give you a chance to welcome him home. He ripped your clothes off in a frenzy, paying special attention to your tits while you let out confused moans not knowing what’s gotten into him. He fucked you especially hard, your sweaty bodies colliding violently as his silent determination to get you pregnant echoed like a mantra in his head. 

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

Being well over 6 feet tall, the dick must match the man. The first time you saw it in its entirety, you had quickly slammed your legs shut out of fear. Now you knew why you were always so sore. His cock bobbed out in the open, the weight of it nearly dragging it down as he walked purposefully towards you on the bed. It took very little effort to spread your legs, slapping your hands away when you tried to hide your sex from him. A gasp left you when the heavy weight of his cock slapped on your pubic mound, the length of it reaching your belly button as you lay frozen in place. You could feel it throbbing angrily along your soft belly, your pussy twitching like crazy as you imagined it splitting you open.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

His sex drive nearly kills you. He's always ready to go and he is not ashamed to grind his erection against your ass so you can feel how much he wants you. Even after he cums, he will continue to play with your body, ensuring you’re always ready for him once he gets hard again. 

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Once he is completely spent, he's a heavy sleeper. It's hard to get out of his arms when the brute barely feels you squirming and continues to snore softly above your head. You have to bite him to get him to wake up.

A/N: Believe it or not, writing this killed me. Next time I make one of these, I'm only doing certain letters of the alphabet, not the whole thing 💀. Anyways, I hope you guys really enjoyed this! Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated 🫶!

Aand I've got a nice treat for my followers to go with this writing~🖤

🔞Full NSFW image here🔞--> <⁠(⁠￣⁠︶⁠￣⁠)⁠>

[kurooh]

★ 03. PARTY MONSTER

☆ denki takes you to your first ‘party’ at UA studios to meet his friends and your co-stars. the whole night’s a blur of new people, save for one who catches your eye from the start.

warnings. 18+ content — mdni, fem! reader, everyone is over 21, drinking alcohol, introductions, lowkey a filler chapter but there’s better things coming in the future 💔 | 3.6K words

xoxo, juno. showtime is BACK! (i said this the last time i updated which was like 3 months ago…. 🗿) happy early valentine’s day, comment & rb if you enjoyed 🩷 !

SHOWTIME MLIST.

smooth and sleek, the sporty car glides into the parking slot under denki’s ministrations. easily, almost as if he’s trying to impress you, he shifts gears and hops out of the car to quickly race around to your side. a little smile plays on his lips as he helps you out, taking your hand in his own like it’s an unskippable step in a daily routine.

above you, the sky is swathed in darkness and scattered with hundreds of stars, drowned out by the pollutive city light. denki’s car beeps as he locks it, fixing you with a giddy look. “c’mon, it’ll be alright. they’ve totally been dying to meet you!”

“precisely,” you sigh, walking along beside him. “i just . . i didn’t know i was this popular outside of shiketsu.”

“you didn’t see the views or get any proposals to film?” when he grins, lips tugging up at the corners, nervousness bubbles up in his chest. it’s impossible not to be a little starstruck, walking around so casually with someone who’s definitely out of his league. all he wants is to play it cool, maintain his composure and not get too caught off guard like he is right now—looking into your eyes long enough for you to awkwardly clear your throat. he continues when it’s time to stop at the elevator, and his voice slightly cracks. “no way, babe.”

“yeah, i was being ripped off,” your voice is light as you clarify, momentarily recalling past bitterness while he presses his fingertips into the button. “i just had a shitty agent and little access to any of my accounts.”

oh, shit. denki was messing with you, and now he’s feeling heat quickly bloom in the apples of his cheeks like he’s just done something bad. so, he says what comes to mind first, expression immediately softening as he tries to control his surprise. it’s not that surprising, though, considering how common it is to be taken advantage of in the industry—it’s only ever happened to stars outside of UA, ones he’s met on set and occasionally talked to afterwards. but for something like this to happen to you—he’s disappointed.

“god, that sounds terrible,” unconsciously, his fidgety fingers press the button a few more times. “did you report ‘em? oh my god, please tell me you reported that slimeball.”

with a ding, the elevator comes down and opens shortly after.

you suck in a short breath, a little uncomfortable. “heh, something like that . . anyway, i forgot to ask! should i grab some beer or no?”

“well, i’m glad that’s all behind you now. and nope, there’s no need,” denki steps into the elevator, pressing a dull button. the number five comes to life, illuminated by fluorescent light and power as the doors shut behind you. “you won’t need any beer when you try hanta’s cocktails.”

“they’re that good?”

“you’ll get it when you meet him, but i’ve gotta tell you now. hanta’s amazing at mixing shit up! once, he got a frat guy to pole dance for a few at a strip club he used to work at.”

an uncontrollable laugh bursts out of you. “he what? did the guy end up getting the drinks?”

recalling the memory makes a smile spread across his face, and it grows wider once he hears your hushed giggles. “unfortunately, he did, even though he could barely work the pole.”

there’s a few more laughs before a comfortable silence stretches between the two of you, allowing him a moment of respite as he savors the brief journey up with you. it was hours ago, but he’s still thinking about when he fucked you on set and feels a flutter in his stomach whenever it pops into his mind. there’s something . . you’ve got a certain charisma he hasn’t quite encountered with other actresses, and denki’s sure his friends will feel the same.

he had been the first to become totally enraptured with you, since he’d submitted a faceless ad of yours to r/pornid. since then, it’s been history—finally finding your profile set into motion an imaginative attraction that eventually leaked into everyday, casual conversations with his friends. it had led them to also subscribe to you, each of them dreaming to meet you on or outside of the UA sets. see, you’d first gotten your start on camera with a partner, your face usually obscured by his body or out of the frame altogether. it wasn’t often, but you’d revealed your face a few times, only in subscription locked videos that weren’t ever up for more than a few days. eventually, the videos of you with other men dwindled before stopping completely, save for the rare repost of an old clip. word on the industry corners had been that you stopped accepting acts with partners, instead opting to make your own content.

a few years of mystique and intrigue had obviously built you quite the fanbase, many of them prominent actors and actresses at UA studios. now, as you get off the elevator, your pulse quickens in anticipation; even as you try to reassure yourself, psyche yourself up about how much easier future films will go after a simple introduction, your efforts are almost entirely fruitless.

beside you, denki’s equally nervous, just for different reasons. 

honestly, he’s concerned about his friends, praying to any higher deity that they don’t embarrass him. they’ve all got their different personalities, and some are looser cannons than others . . oh god. casually, to hide the tremble of his hands, he cards his fingers through his blonde hair and catches your eyes.

“my friends can be a lot sometimes,” he admits earnestly, giving you a spiel that’s really meant to calm his own nerves, “but they’re cool, you’ll settle in quickly. i just hope they’re not too embarrassing, heh.”

you nod, swallowing the small lump in your throat when he starts to bang on the door. although it’s a brief wait, each second passes and leaves you feeling more hesitant then the last. the muffled sounds of music and laughter seep out from under the door, reminding you of just how new this experience will be. at shiketsu, you didn’t often go to parties or get togethers, something you’re grateful for since that scandal came to light. finally, the door swings open to reveal a tall figure and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

his hair is dark and a little spiky, hanging over his brows as though he’d decided it was good enough in the middle of combing it. warm and friendly, his eyes twinkle with something mischievous, like he’s used to having a good time and pulling others into it too. despite his relaxed demeanor, it’s clear that he’s interested to meet you, extending his tanned hand comfortably. a grin tugs at the corners of his lips, showing off his straight teeth as he starts to talk, gaze never straying too far. “hanta’s the name. it’s nice to finally meet you.”

the handshake is simple, and your firm grip only makes you all the more attractive. a minute hasn’t even passed since the door opened, and yet denki can tell you’ll fit well with his friends. although you’re nervous, you mask it like it’s nobody’s business as you step into the warm apartment. denki slips off his shoes, so you do the same without being asked.

“god, haven’t you opened a window?” denki’s nose crinkles when he shuts the door behind him, immediately taking in the mingling scents of both liquor and food.

“i can’t believe you’re complaining,” hanta huffs, heading toward the kitchen island, which is completely filled up with various pizza boxes, sushi trays, and liquor bottles. it’s not necessarily messy, just crowded with the evidence of too many people crammed into one space at once. “denks, you’re the first to make the place stink.”

“dude! all i’m saying is some air would be good!” he whines, cheeks becoming a blotchy pink as he shoves his friend. for denki’s sake and ego, you pretend to be enamored with a sealed tray of salmon futamaki. 

“nice spread, huh?” hanta pointedly ignores his friend and offers you a paper plate, tossing open the fridge to pull out a sealed bottle of water. “go ahead ‘n take what you like! there’s soy sauce and condiments on the counter behind you, then the napkins are to your right.”

slowly, you make your plate, filling it up with a few different things to try while you make conversation with everyone. not far from the kitchen, there’s a lot of arguing in the other room. whoever it is obviously doesn’t concern themselves with their volume or their word choice, something that slightly puts you on edge. 

denki tries to pull his friend to the side, but his whispering is loud enough for you to hear clearly. “i thought i told you to deal with him! like, seriously. first of all, we don’t need any more complaints from the—”

“long time no see, huh?”

a very familiar voice catches your attention and tears you away from the peeved whispers behind you. holding an empty plate and a cup of something, shoto’s leaning coolly against the edge of the island as he fixes you with a look of interest and a quirked brow. even though you’re not on the set and instead far from it, that familiar professional confidence rises in your chest. “can’t believe it’s been a whole day.”

subtle as ever, the hint of a smirk tugs at the corners of his lips as he opens the lid of the sushi tray, using his chopsticks to effortlessly pluck more than a few pieces out. “guess you’re making waves already. settling into UA easily, i hope?”

“definitely, everything’s been smooth sailing since the first day,” after a bite of food, you chuckle. “is that your favorite kind of sushi roll, shoto?”

“sorry, i need to grab something behind you,” he murmurs, fingers lightly brushing against your side as he moves past you to grab a small bottle of hot sauce. “i like sushi, but i’ve had enough. this one’s for my friend, he demanded that i come over here and get him a second plate because he’s so busy.”

in spite of the fact that someone’s audible yelling turns into aggravated shouts of his name, shoto’s expression remains serene. it’s when he begins dousing the sushi in the hot sauce that your eyebrows raise, startled by the sheer amount of spice.

“he can handle it,” shoto supplies, settling the bottle down and waving you toward him. “why don’t you come with me to meet everyone?”

“i’ll mix up some drinks while you’re at it!” hanta calls, grabbing liquor bottles by their necks while denki throws open a cabinet to look for supplies to assist his friend.

not trailing too far behind shoto, you shuffle into the living room, where it’s a little warmer than the kitchen. the air’s thick with the smell of pizza and soy sauce, mixing with the low hum of the tv. everything’s laid back, both figuratively and literally; two people sit in front of the tv, ps4 controllers in hand while another lounges on the couch with his legs sprawled out. there’s something familiar about them, but it’s nothing you can place immediately—you’ve definitely seen their faces before, and it wouldn’t come as too much of a surprise if they’ve seen you too. when he speaks above the mingling voices and video game noises, shoto introduces you with a gentle hand atop your shoulder. “everyone, she’s here, and also the reason the kitchen’s quieter now.”

in an instant, the flashing lights of the game come to a stop as one of its players hits pause. the strong, defined muscles of his back ripple beneath his shirt, drawing your attention until he turns around with a wide grin on his face. those sharp white teeth gleam in the low light, and he’s enthusiastic as ever when he introduces himself. “it’s really great to meet you! kirishima here, i hope you’re enjoying the party so far!”

“tch, whatever. no need to make it weird,” seemingly uninterested, kirishima’s video game opponent looks back at you, curiosity briefly flickering in his eyes as he quietly accepts his plate from shoto. “hey.”

with dark, green hair hanging just over his eyebrows, the person on the couch seems a little more frazzled than the others when he jumps up. he stumbles slightly, tripping over his foot before regaining his balance and extending a scarred hand. “hi, i’m midoriya! nice to meet you!”

so many new, different personalities thrust upon you all at once. it certainly bodes for an interesting night, the kind that would be much smoother with a drink or two; just as you’re offering midoriya a smile and nod with your hand in his own, denki’s right on cue, bumbling down the hallway holding a heavy tray filled with drinks. dewy condensation beads on the sides of the glass, stray droplets of water mingling with the juice from the carefully sliced orange perched on the edge. “alright, people! who’s ready to loosen up a little, huh?”

“don’t you dare spill that,” hanta warns grimly. of course, it doesn’t bother denki in the slightest, his face still lit up by an excited grin. like some kind of featherlight ballerina, he hops from one spot on the carpet to another, handing out drinks as his energy fills the room and people in it. some of them, at least—the ash blond guy who’d been playing video games with kirishima aggressively wipes hot sauce from his chin. 

“i’ve gotta get going soon.”

“c’mon, kacchan,” orange liquid sloshes over the rim of the glass when denki hands it to him, whining either to convince him to stay or to piss him off. “why do you have to go so soooon?”

“shut up,” he snaps immediately, scowling when some of the drink splashes onto his pants. “i have a goddamn schedule, and you already know that.”

“let’s not get too worked up,” midoriya’s lighter voice cuts through the bickering and ultimately makes things worse. “here’s a napkin for the—”

“shut it! i never asked you to get started too!”

you watch as the scene unfolds, nodding a thanks when denki hands you a drink. beside you, shoto tips his head down and whispers into your ear, “they’re always like this.”

“even when they’re working?” it sounds horrific to work with arguing co stars, especially if they’re not acting. “does he act like that on set?”

finally, you learn his name. “bakugo’s always been like that, on and off of it.”

denki claps his hands enthusiastically, ignoring bakugo’s grunt of fuck you doing that for? and successfully draws everyone’s attention. “now that we’re on the road to getting drunk, it’s time to make things interesting.”

“don’t you dare suggest seven minutes in heaven,” hanta pins his friend down with a glare and a disdainful shake of his head. “just don’t.”

“and let’s please forget about never have i ever.” midoriya takes a sip of his drink while bakugo grunts in assent, still dabbing at the orange stain on his pants. 

“alright, fiiiine!” denki relents easily, holding up his hands in mock surrender before wickedly rubbing them together as a lightbulb turns on in his head. the small gold hoops in his ears catch the low, comfortable light, swaying subtly with every exaggerated motion. “i raise truth or dare instead.”

“aren’t we adults?” shoto sips his drink as though he didn’t say anything at all, while the others collectively nod in agreement. 

“i swear, if you make me kiss someone—” bakugo’s ready to jump up and strangle his friend, infuriated by the mere thought of the imaginary scenario. 

“there won’t be any kissing! c’mon, kaminari, tell him!” strong arms pull him back even though he thrashes against kirishima’s chest, nearly clawing out of his grip until hanta steps in to help too. 

childish as ever, denki continues on with his unbothered smile stretching from ear to ear as his eyes glint with obvious mischief. “we’ll give everyone a turn before we move on. there may not be any kissing, kacchan, but it’ll be exciting nonetheless. hanta, it’s time to whip up some more drinks, man!”

☆ ☆

“whoa, don’t reach for that,” the words are laced with concern as he gently pulls the liquor bottle from your grasp and sets it down. quickly, his dutiful hands fetch a cup from the shelf and fill it with cool tap water. “here, drink this instead.”

“i’m f-fine,” it doesn’t even sound like you talking, not when you’re wobbling on your feet and grabbing onto his wrist to steady yourself. careful, as if he’s afraid to let you go for fear of you somehow losing your balance and falling, he helps you lean against the counter. “it’s, um, kinda hot in here.”

“that’s why i’m handing you the water,” kirishima presses, his own cheeks flushed a rosy pink from all the alcohol he’d drank during the game. “take one sip and i’ll stop bothering you about it, okay?”

the game.

right, that’s what led to the decline of your inhibitions. almost everyone in the circle was throwing back as many drinks as you were, some of them getting too wasted to do much more than sit or pass out. a giggle slips out from your mouth before you can realize it or care enough to stop what starts to happen next. lightly, your manicured nails rake over the skin of his wrists, feeling him up and making him laugh as he slowly pulls away.

“do you even know how drunk you are?”

“you’re as drunk as i am,” you whine, eyes drawn to the visible crest of his flexing muscles beneath his t shirt. that initial pull you’d felt a few hours ago when you met him is stronger now, and much clearer than before, something the alcohol likely has an effect on. he’d been magnetic from the start, flashing you a winning smile and comfortably talking with you throughout the time you’d played the game.

he hiccups, eyes widening at the beginning of an entire fit. 

“see? just look at you.”

“hand me that cup of water.” once he gets ahold of the cup, he immediately guzzles it down as if he’s been dehydrated for days. “oh, god.”

a laugh tumbles out of you, the kind that he wouldn’t normally appreciate, but in this drunken, defenseless state, he doesn’t quite mind it. “if we kept drinking, maybe the hiccups would stop. didn’t think of that, huh?”

“i’m not blacking out in their apartment,” kirishima grins, pushing his fingers through his vermilion hair. the spikes fall, softening under his light touch. “plus, i don’t think you’d want to risk a nasty hangover tomorrow.”

more slippery than it’d be if you were sober, the floor seems to give out beneath you—or maybe it’s your legs? either way, time slows as you inevitably plummet toward the tiles, until a pair of strong arms catches you. they hoist you up onto your feet once again. when your eyes refocus to take in your surroundings, an intangible heat permeates the air. you’re close, close enough that you can make out a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose and dark flecks of crimson in his irises. startled by the proximity, kirishima’s face steadily flushes a darker color, but the thought of pulling away does not cross his mind.

his gaze flickers to your lips, and the mid-laugh expression on his face starts to melt away. it’s a subtle sign, but his intentions are nothing less than clear—he doesn’t lean in until you give a slight nod, an invitation that he’s more than eager to accept. it’s a gentle brush of skin against skin, one that is infused with the essence of hesitation and innocence. 

but then, the growing heat of the moment takes over and kickstarts the kiss into an unrestrained rush of alcohol and physicality, which deepens between clashes of teeth and heady gasps for breath. it’s too much and all at once, in the best kind of way—your brain shortcircuits as your body surrenders to the sensations of it all, and everything outside of this bubble you’ve created is muffled, irrelevant. the pleasant scent of cedar cologne twists and twirls in the air, filling your nose each time you inhale. polite hands grapple at the small of your back as kirishima pulls you flush against him, reveling in the softness of your body as his mind races to memorize the blurry details. 

here, now? kissing in the kitchen doesn’t seem like the wisest idea or even the soberest. although you want to think about what you’re doing and why, kirishima’s teeth lightly graze your lower lip and turn each thought back into the air they came from.

a loud bang from the living room shatters the moment, ending the kiss as abruptly as it began. slowly, you back away, still tasting the alcohol on his tongue and feeling the remnants of his touch. dazed, you gather your bearings as you wipe away the glossy string of saliva that connects your lips to his. “that was . . interesting.”

“interesting’s one way to put it,” he clears his throat, voice a little rougher than usual. “guess we got carried away, huh?”

you laugh lightly, feeling the alcohol buzzing its way through your veins. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

a sheepish chuckle escapes kirishima as he rubs at the back of his neck, focusing on ignoring the sweltering heat pooling in his stomach. “well, for starters, i may not remember this at all tomorrow.”

“for now, let’s just leave it at this,” you suggest with a cheeky grin, making him laugh. “we’ll pick it up on set or outside of it.”

“sounds like a—”

“oh my god, you two!” hanta’s raised voice cuts through the air as he races into the kitchen with an unlit cigarette between his lips and a face that plainly says he has news to share. “we got todoroki to do a fucking handstand! c’mon, you have to come see!”

[spear-of-moonlight]

DEADLINES AND CUDDLES | LEE FELIX

genre: fluff warnings: kissing? —w.c: 1.14k masterlist A/N: wrote this for my darling @enimsiyobeht

Your eyes reflected your laptop screen and exhaustion. The low hum of the air conditioner seemed to mirror the static in your head as your fingers flew across the keyboard, barely registering what you're typing. You were drowning - exams, papers, presentations, and an essay you've been procrastinating on because you couldn't string words together after your classes that drained all of your energy. You flipped through the pages of the heavy textbook resting open on your desk, trying to find the page a senior recommended as reference. A variety of other papers were scattered across your desk, held in place by your laptop and a mug with droplets of coffee drying on the inside. Your hair—messy from you running your hand through it as if you could clear your mind with your fingers—fell across your forehead.

You were hit with a random thought of food, like a pop-up message in your brain, making you realise you haven't eaten since lunch. Your stomach was filled with coffee and dread, but you kept typing. The essay was due in two days, and you have a full day of classes tomorrow. You tilted your head back with a groan, head falling backwards off the chair as you rubbed at your face with your ink-marked hands. When you opened your eyes, you were met with the sight of your rumpled bedsheets and those soft, soft pillows. Even upside down, it looked as tempting as sin. But you know if you so much as laid down, your brain would shut off everything else and pull you into sleep. You sat up straight again, an ache in your back lingering from sitting for hours.

Soft footsteps made you turn your head. Felix stood in the doorway, concern etched across his features. He walked in, pointing at your laptop screen when he reached your desk. "Save." You opened your mouth to protest, but he cupped your face with his sweater paws, your sweater sleeves falling below his palms. "Sweetheart, listen to me. You need rest," he chided gently, leaning down to kiss your forehead as your hand reached out to click 'save' on your file and snap your laptop shut. You melted into his touch, leaning in like a flower to sunlight. You felt like one in his presence, like you'd bloom through the hardest concrete solely because of his light. You wrapped your arms around him, resting your head on his stomach. The sweater now had a mix of your scents—his white floral perfume he's been obsessing over lately, and the woodsy fragrance he got you for your birthday. "I'm so tired, Lix," you mumbled into the soft fabric.

"Who would've thought?" he joked, pulling back and cupping your face again, chuckling when he saw your pout. "What? Don't tell me I'm wrong." You wanted to flick that stupidly adorable nose, but his smile and those stars dusted across his cheeks disguised as freckles were enough to make your heart swell, worry seeping out.

"You know I have a lot to get done. And then there's the exams and—" you groaned, pulling him into your lap and burying your face in the crook of his neck. He wrapped his arms around your neck, legs on yours as he carded his fingers through your messy hair, smoothing them out. He was warm, even when the AC made the room frigid enough to hang meat.

"You can do it tomorrow. Or you can ask for an extension," he said firmly, burying his nose in your hair. It was all you needed at the moment. Him. Even when the books and papers lay on your cluttered desk as a reminder of your deadline, your sun shone bright enough to block out words. "When was the last time you ate, hm?" His question made you burrow into his chest as if you could hide from it. Your shoulders were pressed against the back of your chair by his hands as he forced you to meet his gaze. "You look like shit."

"Am I still handsome though, love?" you teased, a weak attempt to change the subject. He tsked affectionately and kissed your forehead again, thumbs kneading your knotted muscles. You sighed, and his lips found your nose next, travelling down and meeting your smiley lips. He kissed your cheeks next, making you giggle and pinch his side. "Yah—"

"Hm? Don't like my kisses?" he questioned with a pout, a fake one but cute as always. You feigned a glare, although your lips failed to cooperate as you leaning in and kissed him—soft, sweet, thankful, and so in love. Your hands slid under his shirt, his warm skin a stark contrast to your cold hands. He gasped at the sudden chill, kicking your calf under the table. You hummed, and he could feel your smirk against his collarbone, pressing a kiss so soft to his skin as if he were sugar that would melt from the warmth of your breath.

"You're bossy," you complained, your face still buried in the crook of his neck.

"I made grilled cheese." You looked up at him, smiling softly. Your arms squeezed his body, earning a giggle from him that made your chest warm and soft. You had each of his little laughs memorised—his sleepy giggles, his loud cackles, his soft little chuckles, the huff he'd let out when he doesn't want to admit your joke was good, and these soft giggles you got when you were affectionate.

You couldn't catch yourself be whipped, of course, so you quirked a brow, teasing, "I didn't smell fire, though?" The bite to your shoulder was worth it, in your very humble and correct opinion. He stood from your lap, grabbing your hands to haul you up with surprising strength. You grumbled, trying to be all annoyed even when the smile on your face was as traitorous as your dancing heart. You let him drag you to the kitchen, you let him sit you down on one of the chairs and you let him feed you the slightly burnt grilled cheese that was gourmet to you who hadn't eaten in hours.

Later, laying in bed with him wrapped around you like an octopus, you were already drifting off. Your eyelids drooped, and you pulled him closer, holding him tight in your arms. "You didn't answer my question, you know?"

He looked up from your chest, face puzzled adorably. "What question?"

"When I asked you if I was still handsome?" He blinked. Once again. A disbelieving chuckle left his lips.

"Really?"

"Mhm." What followed was a kiss, a beautiful smile against your lips, and a tighter hug.

"The most handsome."

"Why thank you, darling." You reached out and turned off the lamp.

"Night, sweetheart. Don't let the bed bugs bite."

"Yeah, you already do enough biting."

divider: @enchanthings