#And I miss a lot of things and I hate a lot of things and I miss a lot of things that I hate

[bruhstories]

touch-starved

summary: dante is touch-starved, and he thinks the only way for him to feel something is to get punched by you

pairing: dante x afab!reader | based on the netflix version but definitely canon divergent

warnings: dry humping, unprotected p in v, creampie, degradation kink, very light choking, lots of swearing, kind of soft dom dante and light pain kink if you squint, idiots in love, friends to lovers, bit of praise, fem bodied reader

w/c: ~3.2k

a/n: this is definitely not my best work but it's a warm up ig. lol anyway i absolutely loved the dmc netflix version, and i'm considering getting the games

"Punch me."

Not a question, but an indisputable demand coming from the demon hunter, which made you do a double take, place the barrel of your M4 carbine on the table, and flat-out refuse.

"No."

He snarled, yes, snarled at you, slamming his pistol against the table with a loud bang. You looked up from your own weapon, taken aback by Dante's reaction, concern written all over your face. Was he high??

"Come on, Y/N, just do it. Just one punch, one tiny little punch. I know you want to." His cocky grin did numbers on your nerves, but you still refrained from giving him the satisfaction of hitting him. It’s been years since you met Dante, by this point you were used to his shenanigans.

"Why, though?" You decided to focus on cleaning your weapon, the sharp smell of isopropyl alcohol filling the room.

"Because," Dante groaned, snatching the bottle of liquid from you, causing you to glare daggers at him, "I'm touch starved."

You blinked once, twice, trying your hardest to process both his honesty, and the logistics of his request.

"Why not ask for a hug, then? Or, I don't know, go to therapy?"

"Hah! I'm sure my therapist is gonna have a field day with me! So, my dad, a demon, disappeared without a trace, then my mother and twin brother died, but actually my brother is alive somewhere. My therapist is gonna need a therapist."

"Okay, okay, you made your point. Still, you could just rephrase it. Maybe leave out the demon bit." You wiped the barrel clean before setting it aside.

"I'd rather get punched. Now, please."

"Dante, a punch isn’t gonna solve it. Are you sure you don’t want a hug? I could cook you something. Or we could grab a few beers and watch a movie, or talk about your feelings." You shrugged.

Both of you had done this before — went out for drinks, danced, cooked together, fell asleep together — it was so intimate, almost like you were a couple. But the reality was that you weren’t. Not by a long shot. Unfortunately for you, Dante was protective of you in the way an older brother was. You thought that, perhaps, he missed Vergil so much that you were the closest thing he had to a sibling in years.

"A punch would be less time consuming. Cooome on, babe, just hit me!"

You hated when he called you babe. He called other girls babe, girls that were hot, pretty, girls that were his type, and it was the nickname that made you clench your jaw and purse your lips.

"Ugh, fine!" You sat up, rotated your wrist and flexed your fingers. "Are you sure this is going to help in any way?"

"Positive. Right here." Dante pointed at his cheek.

"What, in your face?"

"You're stalling."

Without a single ounce of hesitation you swung your arm, hitting the demon hunter square in his face, but it caused you more pain than it did him, and you stumbled back, holding your fist in your other hand.

"Son of a fucking bitch!" You cried out in pain, knowing damn well that would happen. Still, you couldn't say no to him. Ever.

"Are you okay?" Dante was visibly concerned — a rare sight since he was always cool and edgy, even when his own life was in danger.

"Fuck no! Feels like I punched a brick wall!" You practically growled at him, gaze quickly softening when you saw the pure look of terror in his eyes. "But hey, nothing a little ice can't fix, right?"

"Right." He nodded and got up, making a beeline for the freezer.

There was no ice in it, but there was a pack of frozen peas somewhere at the bottom of a drawer, which Dante picked up and brought to you. When you reached for it, he, instead, took your sore hand in his, gently pressing the cold legumes onto your knuckles. You winced, instinctively trying to retract your hand, but he held it in place, his fingers wrapped around your wrist to stop you from backing away.

The pain wasn't gone, but it was becoming bearable, and a relieved murmur escaped past your lips, one that sounded closer to a moan than a sigh. Dante's cheeks burned, tinted red with embarrassment and arousal because you were yet another girl in his life who just didn't want to be involved romantically with him. Not that he tried anything with you, because he always thought you deserved better. Sure, he was cocky and flirtatious, but he wasn't a dick. If no one reciprocated the flirting, he didn't push his luck. It was simple. And he wasn’t the type who did one-night stands, despite the rumours. Dante enjoyed having a connection to the people he took to bed, he became sexually attracted to those he knew on a deeper emotional level. But sometimes, when he was really, truly desperate, he would download Tinder and hook up with random girls.

And he reeked of desperation.

"Dante, you can let go of my hand now."  You told him, part of you hoping he wouldn't.

Who could blame you? He was an objectively attractive man, with a charming smile and a body sculpted by the gods themselves. Why would he ever want to get involved with you? Dante was your opposite — he talked, he sang, he danced, he was obnoxious. You were quiet, most of the time, and shy. In fact, when he first met you, he thought you had some form of speech impediment, with your nose in Boccaccio’s The Decameron, a book you stole from the public library because you were much too young to read. That’s when knew you were trouble, just like him.

"Yeah, of course." Dante stepped back. "How's your hand?"

"Better. How are you feeling?"

"Me? Why are you asking?"

"Hello?" You scrunched your nose and frowned. "You wanted me to punch you because you were touch-starved. Did it help?"

"I'll be honest, it felt more like a tickle than anything." He shrugged. "Are you sure you didn't pull your punch?"

There it was, the one thing that turned you from an introvert to a bat-shit crazy bitch — his stupid little mouth that he opened without ever thinking.

"Are you fucking kidding me? You're telling me I risked breaking my bones so you could feel better, only for you to not feel anything? I swear to fucking God, Dante, this is the last time I'm doing anything nice for you."

"Nice? You punched me!" He threw his hands up in exasperation, while your blood boiled inside of you, sending you into a blind rage.

"You asked me to punch you, you maniac! You should've fucked me instead!"

Your eyes widened at the sentence that came out of your mouth without a single thought, mortified at your own stupidity.

"Hugged. I meant hugged. Shit."

"No, no, hold up, you didn't say hugged." Dante tilted his head, one hand rubbing his chin. "Isn't that called a Freudian slip?"

"I- well- how the fuck do you even know what a Freudian slip is?" You tried changing the subject but he didn't bite.

"Google." He closed the gap between the two of you, and for the first time you felt intimidated by him. "Do you want me to fuck you?"

The bluntness of his question, coupled with the sudden change in the pitch of his voice made you feel like a cornered prey. There was no possible way he was serious. But he wasn't wrong — the nature of your jobs made it impossible for either of you to have partners, and besides, you've known each other for years. It was only natural that some form of physical attraction would have developed between you two, right? But why you? Why now? And the worst of all your questions, why not?

You didn’t want to think about how this would ruin almost a decade of friendship. All you could think about was the look of pure lust in his eyes as he held your gaze, and how months upon months of sexual frustrations accumulated inside of you, bubbling and boiling and exploding when you dropped the pack of peas on the floor.

"Yes. I want you to fuck me."

Without a sliver of hesitation, you felt him pick you up with ease, hands roaming up and down his back as he slammed you down onto the table, desperately pushing away all the guns and knives. How thoughtful of him. Your hands slithered under his blood red coat while he tugged at your t-shirt, pulling it over your head to expose your bare breasts to him.

"No bra? Kinky." Dante stopped to take a better look at you.

"Stop talking." You firmly told him, but the chuckle that erupted from your throat betrayed you.

He was the one person you felt most comfortable around, so much so that you didn't feel weirded out by him pressing his lips onto your neck, or his fingertips bruising the plush of your hips, or his tongue flicking over your sensitive nipples. No, it felt natural, too natural, like your skin was made to be touched by him.

With his coat on the floor, you tackled his shirt, effectively tearing it off of him because you were just as desperate as he was, and Dante pulled your body closer to his, your clothed cunt accidentally rubbing against the bulge in his trousers. You were aching from the lack of sex, and you uncontrollably moaned at the tiny bit of friction before mumbling a weak 'sorry.'

"Fuck, don't be. That's actually kind of hot." He shamelessly admitted, and you rose a brow.

"Yeah? Then you wouldn't mind me doing it again?" You chewed on your lower lip, but he could see past the fake innocence when you rolled your hips, frantically and feverishly rubbing your clit through the layers of fabric. "Shit, I could come just from this."

For a split second, Dante wondered if this was all real. What happened to your shyness? How was it possible that his best friend, the quiet, nerdy girl he'd known for such a long time, was worse than any demon he'd ever encountered? Not that he was a saint. Far from it, because when you threw your head back, desperate to climax, his is eyes darkened, black seeping into his sclera. It should've made you afraid, but it had the opposite effect. The thought that he could activate his Devil Trigger and quite literally snap you like a twig turned you on.

"Do it, then." Dante's hand snaked behind the back of your neck, forcing you to look at him. "Show me just how needy you are."

Beads of sweat trickled down your forehead as you fucked yourself on the half-demon, fog settling in your brain with each breath, each movement, each beating of your heart. Faster. Harder. Faster. Harder. Faster.

"Oh-" Any sentence you tried to utter stopped in your throat, replaced by a string of whimpers and curses. Whatever you were trying to babble was reduced to incoherent words.

"Well shit, I didn't know you were such a filthy little slut."

"Just- oh- shut up-"

"Hmm, I don't think you really want me to shut up." Dante sneered when you picked up the pace. "I think you like it when I talk like this."

"N-not true!" You yelped as he pinched your nipple, barely doing anything and yet you were a mess already.

"So, you don't want me to call you a fucktoy, then? Bet you're dripping right now. Bet you want me balls deep inside of you."

"Fuck, I'm gonna come!" You proved his point when your entire body quivered under his, mind blank and vision blurry.

"There, there." Dante pressed his lips onto your forehead. "I got you."

The noise of his belt unbuckling made you snap your eyes open, filling you with newfound desire and guilt — poor Dante, his cock was probably aching by now while you had the time of your life. He stepped back, letting his trousers pool at his feet, and you lifted your skirt to peel your panties off. You caught him staring at you, taking the sight in, and what a sight it was — locks of hair fell out of your bun, sticking to your sweaty temples, your legs still shaking from the orgasm, and your cunt dripping wet.

"I'd love to eat you out, babe, but my balls are genuinely gonna explode." He confessed, earning a giggle from you. Even with his eyes pitch black and his Devil Trigger on the verge of activating, Dante was still Dante. And you loved that about him.

"Hurry up and fuck me, then."

"Are you that desperate that you forgot your manners?" He dug his fingertips into the plush of your hips, violently pulling you closer to him.

"Please hurry up and fuck me?" You pouted.

"Good girl, that's better." Dante pushed your leg to the side with his elbow, dragging his cock up and down your slit.

You didn't get the chance to take a look at it, but the tip felt huge, so much so that you gasped, propping yourself on your elbows to see better, and you were not disappointed. In fact, you were concerned. You could not take it.

"Dante, it's not gonna fit."

He shook his head with a half-smile, finding your concern quite cute.

"I'll make it fit."

It was both a promise and a threat, but you trusted him. God, you trusted him with your life. He slowly and gently pushed the tip, your slick more than enough to lubricate his cock, but he stopped every time you looked uncomfortable to make sure you were okay.

"Tell me if it's too much."

"No, you can- it's fine, keep going." You closed your eyes, the discomfort causing you to clench around him instead of relaxing, which made Dande forget how to breathe or think.

But the worst came to a halt when he was fully in, stopping briefly to allow you to accommodate to the size. Your breathing went back to normal soon enough, and the last ounce of pain in your body was swiftly replaced by a surge of electricity when Dante moved, slowly and softly rolling his hips, unable to abstain any longer. And you didn't want him to when his cock filled you up so good, reaching places you didn't even know existed inside of your body. Your fingernails dug into his back, clawing at his skin with desperation and impatience, like you needed more than what he was already giving you.

"See? I told you I’ll make it fit. And you take me so well." Dante said, dragging his mouth over your neck, your scent overloading his senses.

But it just wasn't enough. No matter how painful, you wanted it-

"Harder."

Assertive, demanding, you wrapped your legs around his waist, and he pulled back to look at you, as if not believing your request.

"A minute ago, you were wriggling in pain, now you want it harder?"

"Yes." There was no hesitation. "I want it harder, faster, please-"

You were shushed by two digits forcing open your mouth, and you instinctively wrapped your lips around them, sucking obediently.

"You talk too much." He gave you a taste of your own medicine. "Should've known you were just a dumb little cocksleeve."

The degrading words caused you to moan and drool around his fingers, tears welling up in your eyes. Each thrust had you clench tighter, the tip of his ridiculously large cock punishing your cervix. Pain and pleasure bubbled inside of you, sparking through your body as Dante practically ripped his fingers from your mouth, only to wrap them around your throat. He was a hungry man, and you were dinner — arching your back to get closer, deeper, you fucked yourself on his cock with his name spilling from your lips like a prayer, and he revelled in your worship.

"Shit, you like it when it hurts, don't you?" He whispered, squeezing harder while you nodded eagerly. "Of course you do."

Of course you did. How could you not when he fucked you so good that your dignity and modesty were long forgotten? When Dante stripped you of your decency to bring out the worst in you? You felt your second orgasm build up, causing you to twitch under him, eyes rolling back as you slipped your hands under his arms, holding on for dear life.

"Again- gonna come again, Dante! Fuck!"

"Atta girl." He held your quivering body, his own hips stuttering, brutally thrusting into you with raw, animalistic passion.

You came undone on his cock, fingers carding through his hair, pushing away white locks to look at his pretty eyes while his arm slithered under your lower back to both support you and bring you closer to him. Dante was close, his throbbing cock still stretching your sore cunt out. He bucked his hips, splitting you open while you latched your arms around his neck, tits pressed against his chest and your lips ghosting over his earlobe.

"Almost there, babe." Dante promised. "You're doing so well." He pulled back, nearly on edge, but you squeezed your legs tighter around his waist.

"Don't pull out." You demanded, and that was enough to help him reach enlightenment.

He filled you up, and when he did pull out, watching his cum slowly leak out of you, you could've sworn he whispered 'marry me' under his breath. Surely it was just the brain fog, or the post-orgasm high. Your whole body was numb, and you stumbled into Dante's arms when you tried to get down from the table, muscles sore and aching.

"You wanna get pizza?" He nonchalantly asked, as if he didn't just fuck his best friend.

"I- shouldn't we talk about this?" You avoided looking into his eyes, opting to stare at the floor instead.

"About what?"

God, he was either insufferably oblivious or remarkably good at pretending.

"Us." You sighed.

"What's there to talk about?" Dante's fingers found your chin, and he gently lifted it up, forcing you to look at him.

"Don't make this harder for me, please. You know things won’t be the same now. We’re not in a relationship and-"

"I don't follow." Confusion was written all over his face. "Do you not want to be my girlfriend?"

"Girl- I- hold up, what? Do you want me to be your girlfriend?" You tilted your head, baffled by his question, because of course you wanted to. You just never had the guts to admit that you like him. It was even more shocking that he liked you back. Wasn’t this all just a one-time thing?

"I mean, I thought it was pretty obvious when I fucked you. What, you thought I nut and dip? That I shoot a load and go back on the road? That I cum n go?"

"Wow, please never use those euphemisms ever again." You cringed at his words, trying your best to hide the smile that crept on your lips.

"Christ, babe, you know I don't do one-night stands unless I’m really desperate. And here I thought you were my best friend. Guess I was wrong." Dante gasped, dramatically feigning offence by placing a hand on his chest.

"I’m not your best friend anymore." You said, voice serious and cold, and his charade was quickly replaced by actual worry and offence. "I'm your girlfriend now. And your best friend."

"Okay, I was genuinely concerned. Fuck you." He flipped you off and you sneered.

"You already did."

"Wait, that's my line!"

"Skill issue."

[cherrynpink]

freak like me

pairing: nerdy!dino x f!reader

genre: project partners, mutual pining, lots of daydreaming, smut (with a bit of plot) MDNI!

warnings: shy cutesy dino who has my heart (he is a secret freak!), idk how american uni works so just go w it pls, dino and chan are both used interchangeably, oc has nerd kink (ahem), forward oc, cursing, a bit of manipulation?, too many thirsty thoughts, kissing, choking, spit kink, unprotected sex (do not do this!), oral sex (m. receiving), fingering, clit stimulation, brat!oc, brattamer!dino, mean dino, he calls oc slut/whore, dirty talk!!!, riding, missionary position, creampie, size kink?, crying, hair grabbing, ass slapping, orgasm denial, cum eating, it is honestly filthy, lmk if i missed anything!

w.c.: 5.4k

playlist: freak like me

note: thank you so much for liking the last fic so much :( didn't expect such a positive reception so i was super motivated to write this one! plus these pictures of him did something to me like y'all don't get it like i do bcs i went crazy and HAD to write.

also u can message me here or comment if u want to be part of my taglist! my requests are open if u have something u wanna read, or just talk. feedback is highly appreciated hope u like this one hehe :3

“Right, so the semester end project will be a group project.” Your professor says as the whole class sighs in disappointment and annoyance.

“I know you all don’t like these group projects, but it’s compulsory guys, it’s worth 30% of your final grade. If it’s any consolation, I requested the dean to let it be done in pairs, so be a little grateful, I don’t want anyone coming up to me after class asking to change partners.”

Great. The only thing you hated more than group projects were the ones done in pairs. In spite of all the arguments in groups, atleast you didn’t have to do any work if you didn’t feel like it. But now not only will there be conflicts with your partner, but you’ll have to do half the work too. Just great.

“Y/n? miss y/n?” your professor calls pulling you out of your zoned out state as you raise your hand in confusion.

“You’ll be partnered with Mr. Chan.”

Oh. This was going to be fun. Not only was Chan really REALLY good at studies, but also so cute. You first met him just on the second day of class, when you asked him for a pencil because being klutz you are, you had forgotten you had that class that day and had practically rolled off your bed as your roommate woke you up minutes before it started, reaching a bit late and resulting in your professor scolding you. Chan had coyly given you the pencil, later passing you a note in the middle of the class written “you can ask me later if you have any doubts about what was taught before you arrived as you were a bit late :)”. Oh, he was so cute.

That was how your friendship started, though you never talked much outside of class- other than the occasional times he replied to your story or liked it, you and him were mostly formal with each other, never crossing the boundary of “classmates.”

Sometimes you would ask him for his notes, and being the nice guy he is, he would send the snapshots in a second. You would later leave an iced americano on his usual seat, as a gesture of thankfulness; and a note along with it. Sometimes when the professor’s voice cracked in the middle of the lecture, your eyes would find his- giving each other a slight smile.

It was always quick glances, polite words, and soft smiles, because you both never seemed to take it further. But you were tired now, tired of pretending you didn’t picture his face squished under your thighs, glasses all fogged up and your slick dripping down his chin. Tired of acting like you didn’t violate your poor pillow every other night imagining how he would sound with him in your throat.

Was he a head pusher? Or someone that just begged you to let him come? Would he let you tie him up? Or would he want to tie YOU up? you were sick of acting like he didn’t get you so so wet when he answered a question in class and fixed his glasses, and you had a plan to change that.

As the class ends, you see him coming up to you.

“Should we work at the library at 6 today? I’ll get us some coffee and snacks to eat while we work!” he says with a small smile on his face.

You could agree to the library at 6, after all he has pitched it so sweetly, but there is a devil on your shoulder that is actually so evil, because you hear a voice in your head saying no way you’re meeting him in a public place for the things you want to do with him.

“I’m a bit busy at 6 Chan, I-”

“Dino! You can call me dino too. All my friends usually call me that.” He says shyly.

You smile sweetly. “I’m a bit busy at 6 dino, I have my shift at the café.” You say pouting at him. They are blatant lies. You do not have your shift at the café today because it is closed, something about the owner being at a wedding, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“You can come over to my place at 10 if it’s okay with you? I doubt the library will the open till the time I get off work.” You feel a bit bad, but you’re just inviting him over because it’s more comfortable at home, right? Yeah! Nothing needs to happen just because you’ll be alone with him. (You are lying to yourself at this point because there is no way you don’t lose your mind at the thought of being alone with him.)

“Oh, okay sure! text me the address, I’ll be there.” He says with a sweet smile and you might crush him because of how much you want to squish his cheeks right now.

Dino might go crazy. He’s not even sure if you could see he wasn’t paying attention to a thing you said, because he was too busy staring at your lips the entire time, and then your collarbones, until his eyes travelled to your tits trapped in your blouse which was just a little too tight. Tight enough to accentuate the curve of your breasts; but not letting them spill out- just tight enough.

On top of that, if he’s left alone with you, he has no idea how he’s going to prevent a tent from forming in his pants, so he opts for a oversized hoodie long enough to cover him and a pair of grey sweatpants because it is your house after all, he can dress casual, and he doesn’t want you to know he took 20 minutes to decide what he wore so that his outfit says-“hey, I’m casual and comfortable” and “I’m put together” at the same time.

He is sharp on time, you say to yourself as the bell rings. You’re a bit nervous approaching the door in your small plaid skirt and sweater, knowing how he always stares at you whenever you wear a skirt to class. Plus, you’re wearing a something a little special underneath it, just it case. You push the self-doubting thoughts to the back of your head as you open your door and he is a sight to see. He looks so delicious in those animal print framed glasses and messy hair, there is a glow on his face and oh, those stupid goddamn grey sweatpants. It is OVER for you.

“You’re very punctual, it’s exactly 10.” You giggle. “Your hair looks a bit of a mess dino, coming from another girl’s place?” you say as you smirk, leaning against the door.

“No! No, I just came from the gym, my hair is still a bit wet from the shower.” He says as he ruffles his hair and comes in, setting his bag on the table in your living room. Oh? Pretty boy goes to the gym as well, is there anything he doesn’t do. He usually only wore oversized hoodies and t-shirts to class, never really revealing his true figure; nor did you ever see him much in parties despite his friends being a part of the frat, so this was a new side of him you were seeing right now.

“My roommate is gonna be home in a bit, so we can work in my room, mhm?” you ask, acting intentionally doe eyed and innocent. Lies. They are all lies. Your roommate isn’t going to be home in a bit, she’s at her girlfriend’s dorm. And she is not going to be home until tomorrow after class. And maybe if Chan was thinking clearly, he would’ve asked why your roommate would mind you working in the living room with him. But he’s not thinking clearly, too busy staring at your legs and imagining his face between your thighs; so, forgive him if he isn’t at his highest functioning brain activity right now.

He murmurs a quiet okay as he follows you to your room as you lead him. And your room is so you. He doesn’t know how to explain it, because he doesn’t know you so well yet, but as soon as he enters through the door, he sees plushies laid out neatly on your bed, and your scent all around him. He can see posters of bands and movies dressing up your walls and random Sanrio figurines all around the room. He lays his bag on your bed, taking out his laptop as you sit next to him on your chair, and your skirt rides up, revealing your soft thighs further. And maybe his eyes are playing tricks on him, but he can almost see pink lace fabric peaking from underneath your skirt. And maybe you’re just a bit cold, but he swears he can see your nipples peeking through your sweater.

Every passing minute, he is making it so hard for you to keep your composure. He keeps sharing his ideas about the project and telling you what you should work on. Why is hearing him talk about physics so sexy? You don’t know what it is, but you can’t help but think how hot he looks when he talks so passionately. Your panties are literally getting soaked as the time goes on. It’s been an hour, and he hasn’t even taken a second to look at you yet! You’re quite literally whoring yourself out for him and all he cares about is inductive motor or whatever the hell the project is about.

“Channie, can we move to the bed? I’m feeling a bit tired from my shift.” You say, fake yawning.

“Mmm? Oh sure.” It is over for him, he thinks to himself.

As you sit up on your bed, your skirt FULLY rides up, revealing your baby pink lace panties. You push it down gently, saying “oops” as you giggle. And something inside him snaps. All control he had, he’s lost it now and he physically cannot hold back anymore. His gaze darkens, as he pushes you down, his grip on your throat as he gets on top of you. You gasp as he takes you by surprise, but the shock lasts barely 5 seconds before you smirk.

You reach up as your lips find his, pulling him deeper into your mouth as you grab his hair. From the get go, it is passionate, and rough and messy, because both of you are left gasping for your breath- your cheeks rosy and your chest heaving. Deciding to tease him further, you bite his lip. He moans into your mouth, mumbling “brat.” Taking the opportunity, you slip your tongue into his mouth deepening the kiss, and it is so sloppy; neither of you willing to give up control. The heat between your legs grows because of the way his tongue fights with yours to take over, which has your head spinning.

“Channie” you moan, as you feel the hard press of his body against yours, the sound of your lips smacking together and your heavy gasping filling the room.

His hand reaches to lift your sweater slightly, fingers making contact with your bare skin as they keep moving upwards until they your lacy bra, delicately toying with the material.

“You wore this for me baby? Knew this was going to happen?”

All you do is giggle as you continue to kiss down his jaw, alternating between sucking and biting. But that doesn’t sit right with him, as his other hand wraps around your neck, squeezing just the right amount so that his grip is tight enough, but still allowing you to breathe, and suddenly you’re flooding your panties.

“This okay?” he asks, his eyes filled with concern and genuine worry, looking for any discomfort in your eyes, desperate for your approval to continue.

You nod, because it’s actually all you can do. He loosens the grip on your throat and begins to pull his hand away as he says “Fuck, if you want me to go on, you’re gonna have to answer me baby.”

You’re quick to bring his hand back on your neck, your head turning left and right in panic, “No! No, please I want it!” you say as he smirks at your desperate state.

“Yeah? Then answer me when I ask you a question baby. You wore this set for me pretty?”

“Just wanted you to notice me, pay attention to me.” You say between kisses.

“And you thought whoring yourself out would be the way to get my attention” he chuckles. “Thought it was a mistake when you flashed me, turns out baby’s just an attention whore.”

He gets off of you and the bed and a whine leaves your throat as he pulls you down by your ankles as your hips reach the foot of your bed in an instant as he begins taking off his glasses.

“No!” you protest. “don’t- don’t take them off, I like them.” You say timidly. He picks you up, flipping your previous position as he seats you on his lap, taking off his hoodie, and you cannot help but stare. You did not know he was SO built and buff, your eyes are practically eating him up as you feel drool building up in your mouth. Oh, you NEED to suck him off right now. And that’s pretty much all it takes for you as you get on your knees for him.

When you look up to him, there is hunger in his eyes, something you’ve never seen before, his gaze full of lust. He can’t remember how many times he’s pictured you like this, on your knees, so innocent, a pathetic expression on your face, waiting for him to give you your next instruction.

Those stupid man whore grey sweatpants, you need them off now.

You fumble with it’s band as you impatiently pull it down, revealing his Calvin Klein boxers, and you clearly have no time for this nonsense, rushing to pull his boxers down as well, all while he looks down on you, leaning back on the bed- hands on either side of him with a big cocky smirk on his face, because he cannot wait to see the next look on your face.

Your face: it’s so transparent, so revealing. It’s literally like you wear your heart on your sleeve. Everything you feel, you think, you want, it’s clear- plain as day on your face. And as soon as you pull his boxers off, there it is- pure amusement and shock, as his dick twitches at the sight of your wide doe eyes. You knew he was big, atleast that’s what you pictured in your nightly scenarios. But you did not know he was this big both in length and in girth as well, his angry tip staring at you, begging for your attention.

“Take your sweater off.” He demands. No pleas, no hesitance. An order. And who would you be to defy him? you teasingly take it off, all while a small smile adorns your lips as you throw the sweater somewhere on the floor alongside his hoodie.

You take his length in your hand, rubbing your thumb over his tip- spreading his pre-cum around it as your eyes go from doe like to those of a siren as they stare straight into his, spitting right on it seductively and oh, he thinks he’s in love. You pump it up and down and fuck- you can’t even completely wrap your hand around it, giving it a little squeeze as you go along, building the tension. But he doesn’t seem too happy about it as he sighs in annoyance. He’s sick of your teasing, because even after his multiple attempts to discipline you, you’ve decided to continue being a brat.

In the blink of an eye, he takes your hand off of him, grabs you by your jaw and squeezes your cheeks between his thumb and fore finger- the rest of the them lying on your jaw, forcing to you part your lips slightly.

“Do you trust me y/n?” he says softly, yet his voice dripping with dominance as you nod.

“Open your mouth, tongue out baby.”

And what he does next takes you by surprise, as he leans down, collecting a glob of spit in his mouth as it drips down from his mouth to yours, making you moan as you close your eyes, feeling the warm liquid on your tongue.

“Swallow.” he says as he caresses your jaw. And his wish is your command; you let out a loud moan as you feel it travel down your throat.

“Good girl. You’ll listen to me now, yeah? No more teasing. I’ve been holding back until now but if you don’t behave, I’ll have to fuck you like the whore you are. Better yet, I’ll eat you out, and get you so so close. I’ll be at it for hours baby, I have no place to be, but I won’t let you cum. So, tell me, you’re gonna be a good girl for me now?”

And all you can do is nod as he smirks, because now, he holds the power over you, and you want him to take over you. Don’t want to think about anything, just do whatever he says. And he can see that, see you fully slipping into subspace.

He holds his dick in his hand, and as your mouth chases his tip, he slaps it against your cheek. All he does is laugh, because you just look so pathetic under him. Tits spilling out of your see through pink lace bra, eyes on the brink of tears, fists balled up in your lap because he won’t let you touch him.

He grabs your hair in a makeshift ponytail and slaps his dick against your other cheek as he says “tap my thigh twice in you wanna stop, okay?” and finally rubs his tip against your lips, parting them immediately as you engulf it in your mouth, sucking on it as if it’s a popsicle, swirling your tongue all around it, making him groan.

Slowly, he pushes his dick in inch by inch until it hits the back of your throat, and its laughable, because half of it still can’t be wrapped around your tiny mouth even though your jaw is doing gymnastics to accommodate half of him and he lets out a loud moan due to the insane pleasure it gives him. Since he won’t let you move yet, enjoying the feeling of cockwarming your mouth too much, you drag your tongue up and down, making him hiss.

Finally, he decides to fuck your throat, sliding your mouth up and down his dick as if your mouth is just a fleshlight for him to use, making your eyes roll back. He starts slow, as to ease you in; but is quick to fasten his pace to meet his needs. But you want to do more, so your hands reach up to play with his balls, and oh does it take him by surprise. All he can do while fucking your mouth is mumble sweet nothings, praising you, telling you how good you’re being letting him use you like this. And his words are working, because at this point your slick is running down your thighs and your cunt is in a desperate need of attention, as you grind it against the heel of your foot and when you look up to him, you don’t think you’ve ever seen anything more beautiful. His glasses lay low on his nose as his head is thrown back in pleasure and his hair is messy, sticking to his forehead due to the sweat; yet his hand is precise is controlling your mouth by your hair. His buff chest heaving desperate for air as his ears and cheek are a pretty shade of pink for you.

Suddenly he looks down to meet your eyes staring at him in lust, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything hotter as he sees you grind against your foot pathetically all whilst he fucks your warm mouth. He can feel the vibration of your mouth as you moan around him, and he thinks he’s in heaven. You look so dirty, spit dribbling down your chin, pupils dilated and red with desire, tears streaming down your cheeks because of how deep he’s hitting it right now. He is just so close, but no way he doesn’t cum in your pussy today, so he pulls you off his dick as you welp, a string of spit connecting your lips to his tip.

“I’ll come in your mouth some other day baby, need to be in you right now.” He says responding to your cute pout as he pulls you up to sit on his lap, your legs on either side of his thigh once again.

His hands travel to your back to undo your bra in an instant as it’s thrown somewhere on the bed behind him. Immediately his mouth is attached to your hardened nipple as you let out a loud moaning, feeling his warm tongue on your cold skin.

“I’m so fucking sick of you parading around in this stupid excuse of a skirt that barely covers your ass y/n.” He says as his hands travel down and under your skirt, making contact with your dripping lace, running his fingers up and down. He can feel your slick on his own thighs.

“Oh? You’re already soaked, baby. But I haven’t even touched you yet, wanna tell me what got you so wet?” he says as he mocks you, still not taking his attention off your breasts, sucking them and marking them up with hickeys all around and all you can do is moan as you dig your nails into his back overwhelmed by the pleasure.

“You’re so sensitive, so responsive. I love it baby, so easy for me. Need you to answer me- what’s got you dripping?” he says as he finds your clothed clit, pressing hard against it over the lace.

He’s being so mean right you. The remnants of tears on your cheeks have barely dried up before you can feel yourself getting teary eyed already.

“You! Want you so bad channie! Been wet for you since you walked in the door.” You cry out desperately.

Finally, he stops teasing your covered pussy and pulls it to the side, inserting two of fingers with no warning making you scream out loud. He’s quick to press his thumb to your clit, flicking it as he pumps his fingers into you, all whilst he’s sucking on your tits. His pace is monstrous from the start, and he shows no signs of stopping as he continues to drive them in you, opening you up preparing you to take his big dick. All you can do is drop your head on his shoulder helplessly, taking what he gives you.

“Ah! So good Chan, so- so- fuck! Right there! Need you!” you say as he repeatedly hits your g-spot all while rubbing your clit.

You’ve lost all track of time. You’ve been so close to cumming ever since you saw him walk through your front door that even the slightest touch could get you to your high, and here Chan was, touching you right where you needed, enlightening all your senses.

“I’m about- gonna- gonna cum dino! Please, let me, oh- please let me cum!” you cry out loud, begging him as he pulls out his fingers in an instant and just like that you’re crying again, dropping your head in the crook of his neck.

“What, don’t cry baby.” He says, voice dripping with fake sympathy, because inside him he knows your tears turn him on even more. His hand reaches the small of your back as he caresses it, attempting to calm you down. “Want you to cum on my cock princess. Think you can do that, yeah? You promised you’d be a good girl for me.”

“I was- I was just so close.” You say timidly between your sniffles.

“It’s okay princess, I’ll make you cum real good on my cock.” He whispers, kissing you tenderly for the first time in the evening, and it makes your heart full, reminding you that in spite of everything, this is the same dino that you see in class every day, polite and sweet and beautiful; but you’re brought back to the present as he pulls away from you, shattering your illusion.

“You wanted my attention so bad y/n, you started it. So, you’re gonna take what you wanted- gonna have to ride me.” He says with a shit eating grin that just makes you so mad right now, but eager to give him what he asks for you get off your lap and begin to take off your skirt.

“Did I ask you to take it off? Still not behaving baby. Keep the skirt on; after all you made such a show of wearing them, wanna fuck you in it. Take off your panties.”

Once the pink garment is off, you sit on his lap again, as he slaps his dick against your poor swollen cunt, running his tip against your entrance.

“You know what to do right? It isn’t your first rodeo after all.” He says as he smiles.

God, he is so cocky. If you didn’t desperately need him in you, you would not put up with it for a second. (you would probably put up with it anyway)

You take his dick in your hand as you hover over it, your pussy clenching over nothing, begging to be filled by him as you insert the tip in him; and that alone is such a stretch for you, your legs might give up then and there. But you are anything but determined. Stubborn. Firm on proving yourself. So, you accept the stretch, stabilising yourself by placing one hand on his wide shoulder while you bottom out completely, burying himself into you in one go making him throw his head back and groan in pleasure as his hands reach out to hold your waist, not letting you escape his grasp.

Slowly but surely, you begin by grinding your hips against them, building up the tension as you try to maintain a steady pace; but dino doesn’t look amused, so you begin to move up and down on him, burying your freshly done nails into his shoulders. His hand moves down as you bounce on him, giving your ass a quick slap before finding it going under your skirt and rubbing your clit, making you gasp out.

“Fuck, lift up your skirt baby.” He says, and you comply- lifting up your skirt with one hand, whilst he continues to toy with your clit and you bounce up and down his dick, showing him the mess you both are making; and he loves it.

You’re so eager to please him, prove yourself to him as you continue to alternate between grinding and moving up and down; but the pleasure is SO overwhelming with his hand on your nub and you don’t think you can last. On top of that, you’ve been working so hard to maintain a steady pace for him, that your thighs are about to give out. And he sees that- sees your movement becoming sloppy and messy, your thighs shaking and your grip tightening on his shoulder.

“Tired, baby?”

Why is he such a tease. And why is he being so mean to you when he knows you’re totally spent. You think you’re going to cry for the third time in the night.

“You know, all you have to do is admit it. And I’ll take over. You know you want me to. I can make you feel so good baby, hit all the right spots and you don’t have to lift a finger.” He whispers in your ear before slapping your ass again as he lifts his hips to meet yours in a sharp thrust, showing you how much better he can make you feel.

“I- I- tired. I’m tired channie! Thighs hurt. P- please!” you say between hiccups as he keeps thrusting into you from beneath.

That’s all he needs to hear, before he’s flipping you on your back without taking himself out of you, pressing a kiss to your lips as he begins to actually fuck you. His hands roam all over you as if he’s trying to memorise every curve and dip. He’s thrusting into you with such a force your tits bounce back and forth with every drive of his hips into you while he mumbles pretty words in your ears.

“Pussy so good baby, absolutely squeezing me. Can’t believe you were letting those stupid guys have this while I was right there. Could’ve made you feel this good all this time. Fuck! Always wanted to bend you over the desk whenever you wore those stupid skirts to class. You know, everyone could see you baby. See how much needy you were. You’re probably just too much a slut to care, no?”

His mouth reaches down to bite your nipple, where you’re already so sensitive that you can’t help but cry out. You look so dumb for his cock right now, your nails are absolutely obliterating his back as your legs wrap around him not letting him go, a chant of his name leaving your lips with each of his movement. All you can hear is the sound of his balls slapping against you and your screams. You’re pretty sure you’ll get complaints from your neighbour tomorrow but who cares; he’s just too good. His thrusts get deeper yet sloppier as you feel him reach between your sweaty bodies and rub your clit in an attempt to get you closer.

“Fuck! Gonna cum baby. Are you close?”

“Yes! Channie fuck, love- love your dick so much! So big, need- I’m almost there!”

And that’s all the motivation he needs before he picks up his pace again, angling himself to hit you exactly at the spot that makes you scream, and before you know it, you feel tears streaming down your face again because of the overstimulation.

“Chan! Gonna cum! Please, please- fuck right there, please wanna cum!”

“Where do you want me princess?”

“In! In me, wanna feel you in me, fill me up! Please, need it in me!” you babble.

And that is all it takes for you to let go. Your eyes roll to the back of your head with a loud whine as your nails dig into him deeper, your back arching- the pleasure taking over you as you see stars in front of your eyes, screaming his name over and over again. It’s like you’re floating- because your body feels numb and completely spent. He feels you clenching so much around his cock as you cum, it’s like you’re milking him, before he’s filling you up full of him too, reaching his high, and he cannot stop. Even after you’re done, you’re still rhythmically squeezing him as he doesn’t stop coming in you. You feel him warm in you, and you honestly never want him to pull out, but unfortunately, he does- leaving you empty as his essence begins to spill out of you.

He gets between your legs, watching a mixture of your cum dripping out of you, admiring his work before he’s collecting it in his fingers, tracing your swollen sensitive centre as he comes up to you, and inserting his fingers in your mouth, while he kisses your tears. You can taste him and yourself on your tongue as you close your eyes, swirling your tongue around his fingers. The sight is so hot to him, his dick twitches against you once again before he’s pulling his fingers out and gently kissing you, as he leaves your bed to bring you a towel.

He lies besides you after he cleans you up as you turn you face each other.

“Sorry if I was too rough, got carried away a bit.” He says as you lay your head on his arm and run your hand through his hair.

“You were so good, I think I need to be a little bitchy again for you to put me in my place.” You say as you kiss him, smiling against his lips.

[radaverse]

Reminded me of a recent convo at an english class about art, ai and ai art.

"Ok but what's it with all the AI hate?" The mini essay answer lol

I personally don't 100% hate it since if used well, it could be a good tool for research. It can answer specific questions while giving you quotes and links from articles to look at by yourself (Not too reliable though), and could save you some trouble (Eg: You want to do medical research for writing but also avoid graphic imagery, could work for that)

B u t

People are using it to completely replace their creativity and that's lazy. And unreliable. Wasn't the point of AI just being a research tool?

Here's why I think it's wrong:

AI does nothing but quote, so that means it takes human-made writing to make its own. And that usually doesn't bring quotes like it does with info, so that's theft don't you think?

Unreliable. Often makes up things and doesn't understand characters in such depth as a human would.

It's fake. The AI doesn't write, it mimics. Whatever it makes, it's not real, deep, emotion or effort-filled.

The class video brought a question. Would you like a robot as parent or teacher?

The robot could act like one. Teach you useful things, cook for you, give you advice, comfort you. But deep down you'd know it's not real. It's just a result of data mimicking. The robot is not feeling, it's pretending to feel.

Same thing is about art. It can and often does look good and sound good, but it's still thoughtless parroting. No effort, no thought, no feeling. Not real.

--

Gonna be honest, when I first found out about AI it astonished me. (I live somewhere where tech isn't so techy so techy things bewilder me) But soon I started to find out why it's so discouraged, and rightly so it is.

Look, if you can't write well and feel like you have to rely on AI, maybe do lots of research and dm to make mistakes, that's what makes writers writers.

You'd feel proud of your work and improvement later. You'd miss that out if everything was made by a machine. You'd not be a writer but a prompt maker. A faker. Sounds bad, cuz it is.

I hope this can be helpful to people who genuinely don't understand why using AI as creativity replacement is wrong, but lol this is just my view of it

NOTICE: As more and more fanfic writers are using generative AI for their works (you uncreative dweebs), I hereby swear on everything I hold dear that I have not and will NEVER use generative AI in ANY of my written work. Everything I post will be organically and creatively my own.

[neeeooon]

Today, I saw a bug and genuinely got scared. I asked my friend to kill it but my first thought was, “How would the top blue lock characters react if I asked them to kill a bug for me?” So could I request that for Blue Lock’s top 6? (Rin, Shidou, Karasu, Otoya, Yukimiya, and Nagi). Thank you!!

i need a so who won’t hesitate to save me from bugs (you won’t find them in all these hcs 😭)

“can you kill that bug for me?”

bf bllk x gn!reader. crack, cussing, bug death in rin’s, otoya’s, and nagi’s

itoshi rin

-> you didn’t see the spider until it was too late

-> a scream tore through you as the creature crawled across your foot, and you jumped away while yelling for your boyfriend

-> rin turned the corner so fast he slid, eyes wide and frantic as he approached you. “what happened? what is it?”

-> you’re a blabbering mess as you point at the daddy long leg. it managed to run from your foot to the wall, and you gripped onto rin. “it, it, spider!”

-> sighing, rin picks a book off the table and smacks the wall in one lazy swoop. you collapse onto the floor and he offers you a hand. “so extra.” “that thing could have killed me!” “you’re welcome, then.”

shidou ryusei

-> he’s right there screaming with you

-> “do something!” you yell from the countertop as you continue throwing miscellaneous items at the cockroach scampering across your tile. shidou, from the kitchen table, screams back, “what am i supposed to do?! those things crunch, babe. i will literally throw up and die!”

-> the two of you continued throwing things at the bug, which hadn’t moved, until you eventually ran out

-> “babe?” you questioned sweetly. shidou narrowed his eyes at you. “yes?” “can you kill that bug for me?” “absolutely not. no way. no.”

-> your head fell back against your shoulders as you groaned. “i hate my life.”

karasu tabito

-> the buzzing beside your ear was enough to set you off, but when you noticed it was a wasp?

-> “tabito!!” you screeched, sprinting around the house like it was on fire as you tried to find your boyfriend. “there’s a wasp in the house!”

-> he appeared immediately. “how the fuck did a white anglo-saxon protestant get in the house?!”

-> you look at him. he looks at you. the wasp buzzes. finally, he blinks. “oh. you mean the one with wings.” “yes, the one with wings.” “… i’ll get rid of it for you.” “thank you.”

otoya eita

-> you don’t even know what kind of big it is, just that it’s big and staring you down from your ceiling

-> “otoya..?” you voice crept higher and higher as the beast inched closer and closer, and soon you were afraid it would drop onto your head. “otoya!”

-> he lazily poked his head into the room and followed your gaze up to the bug sitting menacingly above you. “help me.”

-> “fear not,” he dramatically pulled a rubber hand from his pocket and wrapped it around his fingers before aiming at the bug. “i’ll use my ninja skills to protect you.”

-> and to your surprise, he actually hit it. you jumped out of the way before the bug can fall on you and otoya disposed of it while you thanked him with hugs and kisses

yukimiya kenyu

-> ladybug or not, it was in your house, on your skin, and you needed it gone. and when it whips its wings out??? ohhh boy

-> “KENYU!!” he slams into the wall, glasses missing and clearly frazzled after hearing you scream. “what’s wrong? are you okay?!”

-> you point a trembling finger at the ladybug crawling on your arm, wings still out. you were too scared to swat at it and risk it flying at your face or in your hair. “save me.”

-> yukimiya tried not to laugh after seeing ow truly panicked you were. “okay, okay, i’m coming. don’t move, let me get my glasses—“ “OH GOD ITS MOVING.”

-> he walked over and laid a finger on your arm for the bug to crawl on, then casually walked outside and let it crawl onto a leaf. “there! saved you.” you throw yourself into his arms, blabbering nonsense he thinks sounds a lot like, “thank you, i love you, marry me please.”

nagi seishiro

-> the last time you stepped on a bug, it was carrying its baby sack and hundreds of baby bugs broke free, infesting your house and permanently traumatizing you

-> so even though it’s an ant (singular) you are not taking any chances

-> you stuck your head into the room nagi was in and tossed a sock at him to get his attention. “hm?” “there is an ant in the kitchen and i need you to kill it.” “‘k.”

-> you follow close behind nagi, fingers tangled in his hoodie as he waddles into the kitchen. “where?” you point and he walks over and steps in it with his bare foot

-> “y.. bare footed?” “you asked me to kill it.” you hand him a damp paper towel before he can even think about walking around with a dead ant on the bottom of his foot. “thanks.. weirdo.” “mhm. love you.” “aww love you, too.”

[pnutbutter-n-j-elyy]

hii, can I request a ninth member fic where the reader is on live and gets comment saying that she should kill herself or leave the group? maybe she’s like oh yeah haha maybe I should and acts fine but likes it’s obvious she’s not. and like the boys are watching the live and are like frick no. (can she be aged between Felix and seungmin js so that it’s like she’s younger than most)

Sorry for such the late response!!!

You started the live like any other night - too tired to think straight, too loyal to Stay to skip it.

The camera lit up in your bedroom, the soft fairy lights casting a golden blur behind your head.

You were still in your dance hoodie, bangs a little damp with sweat, sleeves pulled over your fingers. You offered the lens a soft smile and waved.

“Hi, loves,” you whispered, voice hoarse from practice. “I missed you all.”

Comments rushed in instantly - fast, excited, familiar. You leaned closer to read them, smile softening as usernames you recognized flew past.

“she’s glowing even in low light 😭” “queen of killing me with one look” “what did you eat today 🥺 tell usss” "how does she look so majestic even when shes tired" "ONE CHANCE PLEASE ONE CHANCE" "she makes me question my sexuality" "did you eat anything yummy today?"

You laughed a little. “Does electrolyte water count? I forgot to eat until, like, fifteen minutes ago, but my water was lemon flavored.”

You leaned closer to the camera as you placed both your hands around your warm mug, answering comments softly.

"A lot of you are talking about exam season. I hope you guys are studying well."

Heart emojis exploded in response. You settled back against your pillows, sipping tea, doing your best to focus on the warmth in the chat - not the emptiness in your chest.

It had been going on for a few weeks now. After a Princes and Princess themed photoshoot, where you took swoon worthy romantic pictures with not just one, but all the boys, hate had started to become very obvious.

It wasn't like there was anything of the sort going on. The people at the magazine just wanted something to stir up publicity.

But it also stirred up an already wavering fanbase.

Your last-minute addition to Stray Kids debut lineup a long while ago had taken some getting used to for a lot of Stay who had followed them pre-debut. Years later and some people still viewed your position in the group as odd. And one silly photoshoot seemed to backtrack any progress you had made with the fans.

You had been used to seeing hate when you had stalked the web with your fake account.

But it had never been as bad as it had been now.

You tried to shake that feeling, take another sip of tea-

Then it hit.

A comment so sharp, so immediate, it felt like your stomach dropped through the floor.

“you should just kill yourself and stop embarrassing the rest of skz. no one wants you here anyway.”

You froze mid-sip. The mug clinked too hard when you set it down.

You stared at the screen - not even blinking - until your face started to go numb, you could tell your cheeks were painted pink.

“Oh,” you said, too softly. “Wow.” You swallowed. "Chat is getting a little spicy, no?"

You laughed. A little. Just once. But couldn't help see the other comments that agreed with it.

Then you tilted your head and smiled, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Well…maybe they’ve got a point,” you said lightly. “Maybe I should leave. It's not like I haven't thought about it before. Just a matter of whether or not its permanent.” You gave another laugh, not even sure why you felt the need to add that on.

The comments hadn't been affecting you that harshly...had they?

As you zoned out and ran through what you said once more you realized that-

Yeah. Maybe they had been. For too long too. Like some sort of erosion. Slowly chipping away at me, but unnoticeably until a strong gust of wind showed me just how deep these things had dug down to...

The chat stalled for a second - long enough for some fans to panic, for others to laugh, for a few to flood the screen with

NO NO NO STOP what did she just say?? wait what happened?? someone translate is she okay?

But you waved it off.

“I’m kidding,” you said, voice too high, too smooth, too practiced. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

You kept going - talked about music, a new movie you wanted to see, made a joke about Lee Know being the your food police- but something in you had already curled up and gone quiet.

You ended the live with a heart and a too-bright smile.

“Love you,” you said. “Be safe, okay?”

And the moment the screen went black, your smile cracked clean in half.

Somewhere away from you they were already watching.

The boys had gathered all together in Chan's dorm to watch your live. They saw you as family, and like the 8 supportive brothers they were, they had to see what you talked about. Joking and placing bets on who you'd throw under the bus this week, what embarrassing little secret you'd laugh about, what had been your favorite memory you had created since last speaking with Stay.

The second you said those words - soft and sarcastic and deadly - Chan’s heart had dropped.

“Go back, can you go back?” he said, standing up.

"It's a live Hyung, of course we can't." Jisung murmured, itching his hand in nervousness.

Seungmin was already reaching for his phone on the other side of the room, planning to call you. Hyunjin sat up slowly, blinking at the TV screen like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

“She didn’t mean that,” Jeongin said, quiet. “Right?”

“She's not the type to say it to be funny,” Felix whispered. “She meant it.”

“She’s still alone at the company, right?” Changbin was already on his feet, grabbing a hoodie. “I’m calling the manager.”

“No,” Chan said. “No calls. We’re going. Now.”

The studio was quiet.

You hadn’t moved since the live ended. The laptop sat closed on your desk. A mahogany one Hyunjin said fit the aesthetic of your mini studio. Paired with a futon you sometimes crashed on. Also, courtesy if Hyunjin. Your mug of tea was still half-full, forgotten. You sat on your swivel chair, your knees to your chest, hoodie sleeves bunched around your fists, staring at the dark screen like it might answer the question you couldn’t voice:

Why does it hurt this much?

You didn’t cry. You didn’t even breathe too hard. You just sat there, hollowed out by the weight of something you couldn’t name.

You didn’t hear the frantic knocking. Or the bang of Changbin and Chris' shoulders into the door, more or less breaking the lock.

You didn’t hear the footsteps, the whispered voices, the way someone dropped keys on the floor in their rush to get to you.

You only looked up when someone wrapped their arms around you, the familiar smell of vanilla extract and laundry detergent jumpstarting you.

You peeked out from over Felix's embrace, Chan the first one you noticed, face pale, shoulders tense, still in the doorway. Behind him were the rest of your members. Your family.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Can we come in?”

You opened your mouth to say yes, but nothing came out.

So he stepped in anyway.

And they followed.

They moved you over to the futon, Hyunjin sitting at the edge, Seungmin dropped onto the floor, Han and Jeongin hovering near your desk, the first one's chin quivering, the latter's eyes watery. Minho and Changbin joining Seungmin on the ground and Chan embracing you along with Felix.

Felix sat next to you, his hand brushing yours.

“Why didn’t you call one of us?” he asked, voice so gentle it nearly broke you.

You looked away. “It wasn’t that serious.”

“Y/N,” Chan said, soft but firm. “You said you should leave. On live. With thousands of people watching.”

“I was kidding.”

“No, you weren’t,” Seungmin said. “We know your voice better than that.”

Silence.

"I'm fine-"

"Noona, you won't hurt yourself will you." The heaviness that followed Jeongin's watery voice told you all you needed to know about how to answer that heavy question. You looked up and saw his fox like guys looking at you expectantly, a heartbroken pout on his lips.

And then it cracked.

“I’m just so tired,” you cried. “Of pretending. Of acting like all the hate doesn’t get to me.” You shook in Felix and Chan's embrace, Felix crying along with you.

Which then propelled Han into water works as well.

“You could have told us,” Han said through his sobs launching himself haphazardly at you somehow managing to knee Minho in the chin. "You're our baby." He said petting your head. "We're horrible fathers." He cried. "Horrible."

You knew you were hurting when you couldn't even manage a laugh at Seungmin's response to Han's dramatics.

“I don’t want to be the reason we get hate. I don’t want fans to leave because I’m in the group. I already get told every day that I’m just here to ruin it and it seems like it's just getting worse-”

“Then they’re not fans,” Hyunjin snapped, placing his hand on your knee, or doing his best to as Jisung was still laid over you. “They don’t get to call themselves Stay if they treat you like that.”

You blinked, startled at his sharp tone.

“He's right.” Seungmin said, softer than you'd ever heard him speak. “You’re not some extra. You’re my noona. You taught me how to harmonize. And held my hand during our first concert even if I told you not too. You- you...you were the first person who made me realize my smile was beautiful because even if people hated it, it was born from countless memories with you."

Jeongin spoke next. "You're my noona too. You were the first person to call me talented when I thought I wasn’t. The first one who told the world I was more then just a cute face or a spoiled maknae. You made me realize what it truly meant to believe in myself.”

You opened your mouth - and then closed it, because what do you say to that? You tried blinking away your tears and then Minho spoke.

"You’ve always been the one holding all of us together," he said, his voice low, almost reverent. "You cheer for us when no one else does. You see the things we don’t even notice about ourselves. It’s about time someone saw you, too."

Changbin’s hand reached for yours.

“You make this group better,” he said. “More complete. I don’t even want to imagine Stray Kids without you. And I won’t.. None of us will.”

Felix sighed. “Do you know how many times I’ve wanted to quit? How many times I thought I was dragging everyone down?”

You looked at him. He nodded.

“I may seem happy. We all may seem happy but we struggle to. And then you come around. And you smile. And we stay.”

You choked on a breath.

“We’re a team,” Chan said with finality. “We rise together. We fall together. And if you ever - ever - feel like disappearing again…”

He paused. Voice thick.

“Take me with you.”

You stared.

“All of us,” Minho added. “If you go, we go. That’s how this works.”

Something cracked inside your chest.

And then, finally- finally - you broke completely and utterly.

Tears welled in your eyes, hot and fast, and your face crumpled as you tried to bite it back. But all the guys were already jumping into the embrace, 8 strong arms keeping you steady, 8 sets of tears being added to your own.

They didn’t say anything else.

They didn’t need to.

They just held you - as if their touch alone could glue the pieces of you that you hadn't even noticed were breaking back together.

And maybe it could.

The night was long. None of them left your studio.

When you finally slept - curled under three blankets Seungmin had finessed from a storage room and two members - your last thought was that maybe, just maybe, you’d be okay.

But the next morning, when you woke to bright fluorescents and shuffling of productive activities, you realized the dull ache behind your eyes still lingered, the pit in your stomach remained.

Until Chan quietly placed a warm mug in your hand and sat beside you.

“We’re going live,” he said, brushing your hair back with a gentle hand. “As a group. We’re going to talk about it. All of it."

You didn’t ask what "it" was. You knew.

You hesitated. “Should I be there?”

He smiled - not the leader-smile, the brotherly one. The one that showed up when you were hurting.

“No,” he said gently, still messing with your hair. “Not if it’ll hurt more. We’ve got this. You just rest okay? We'll get you something to eat and change into.”

You nodded, blinking too fast.

But deep down, you already knew you’d watch it live.

Later that afternoon, after you somehow found your way back to the dorms, you got the notification.

📢 [Stray Kids (9)] LIVE: A Message to Stay 💬

The chat exploded before the stream even began.

You watched from your bed, phone glowing in your palm, heart pounding.

When the screen lit up, the boys were seated tightly on the couch - all eight of them.

You found yourself chuckling.

Typical of them to not know what personal space is.

Although their usual chaos was gone.

This was serious.

And the chat seemed to pick up on it quickly.

Well, the majority of it at least.

A few familiar users seemed to be completley oblivious to the tone of the meeting.

Chan looked straight into the camera.

“Hi, Stay. We’re going to be really honest with you. You all know we joke a lot. We play around. But this isn’t that kind of live.”

He took a breath. "As most of you know, something happened during Y/N’s solo live yesterday. You probably saw it - or at least heard about it., as things tend to escalate rather quickly.”

"For those who don't know there was a comment. A really bad one. And it hurt her. Deeply. Ther have been multiple comments, and much hate going around.”

“And we’re here to make sure you understand that that is never okay.”

"Stray Kids debuted planned to debut as eight. Then became nine. That wasn’t a marketing move. That was a decision - one we made together.”

"We. Are. Nine."

The sharpness in his voice seemed to cease the majority of the comments in the chat. Some people scolding others, others saying they felt as if they were in trouble even if they didn't post any hate.

Felix spoke next.

“She didn’t audition to be loved by everyone. Not one of us did. But we are a family. And she is part of us. She makes us stronger. She works harder than anyone I know. And the idea that someone would tell her to-”

His voice cracked. He looked away for a second.

Chan took over once more. “There are thousands of comments. Most are positive. But sometimes it only takes one to destroy someone’s day. Or their outlook on things. Or..."

He swallowed. "Or worse."

He waited a moment before speaking again.

“If you're a Stay, you protect, not harm because that’s what fandom is supposed to be. A place to love each other and uplift."

“To everyone who reached out with kindness, to those who reported that comment, who showed love - thank you. You continue to remind us why we do this, and we love you for that."

"But more need to be done to make sure this never happens again. Not just to her. To anyone. If you don’t like one of us, that’s your opinion. But if you wish harm on someone, you’re not Stay. And that goes for any fandom you belong to. You are not a fan if you can't love and appreciate what everyone contributes. If you can't set aside you opinions for that. This isn’t about canceling anyone. This is about protecting each other.”

All the boys nodded.

"She's our family. A sister. And we do everything to protect family." Changbin said.

"She is special to each and every one of us, and if you can't respect that you can leave." Minho said sharply.

"Because of yesterday's incidents, we've come to the agreement to cancel our upcoming schedules." Chan said suddenly.

The chat became frantic, and your eyes were wide as you leaned in closer to your phone.

"If you want one of us to leave then we all leave. Simple." Chan said firmly. "Until that lesson can be learned this is what is right to do. Any more hate spread will have legal action followed. We stand firm in these decisions."

The chat was still frantic, but the boys didn't care.

"Y/N-ah. We know you're watching." Chan said.

"You’re our little sister." Jisung, Hyunjin, Changbin, Chan, Minho and Felix said.

"Our Noona." Jeongin and Seungmin parroted.

"Our teammate."

"Our light."

"We wouldn’t be here without you.”

“We love you. Not just when you’re strong. Not just when you smile. All the time.”

“You’re enough. Always were.”

“Stay needs to hear us say it, and maybe… you do too.”

“You’re stuck with us forever.”

“Stray Kids is nine.” All the boys said.

“And that will never change.” Chan said, getting up to end the live. "Thank you, Stay. Let’s be better - together.”

[Live Ended]

You shut off your phone with trembling fingers.

You didn’t cry this time.

You smiled. Not a fake one. A small one, real and quiet.

You didn't realize how long you sat there until you heard a soft knock.

"Noona! Can we come in?”

Jeongin's voice. Happy and bright.

You wiped your face, not realizing you had in fact shed tears.

Of relief. Appreciation,

“Of course.”

Because you weren’t scared anymore. You knew where you stood. Who you were to both yourself and the boys you had grown with.

You were no longer scared.

Not today.

Not with them.

Not with Stay.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

@abovenyx @wolfs-archive @oddracha @iyeeeverydee @parisanmorovati @seungmincenteric @panbish-1209 @fxiry-vtt @sseawavee @shuporanporang @amarecerasus @softkisshyunjin @whoa-jo @meanergreener @rikibun @ayyonoona @shinywombatcrusade @y4yayael @skzstan12345 @mariteez @allys-reads @jazziwritesthings @skzstannie @yongbokkiesworld @kkkeopi @neverendingstay @moony-9 @minsungsthirdwheel @everlastingspring143 @joyofbebbanburg @leezanetheofficial @tr-mha-fan @bubbly-moon @night-storm7 @missmajdastark @axel-skz @rockstarkkami @emilyywhyy

[vamptizm]

SNOOZE — p.bueckers iii.

pairing: paige bueckers x soraya mensima (oc)

synopsis: rookie paige bueckers enters the league with confidence, charm, and a bad habit of gravitating toward things she shouldn’t want— like soraya mensima, the wings’ respected star and reluctant heartbreaker. soraya’s been here longer, knows better, and refuses to let lines blur... even as paige keeps rewriting them with every smile.

warnings: fluff. brief sexism. sexual tension.

word count: 6877

ana speaks ᝰ.ᐟ ── this chapter and the previous ones are basically the calm before the storm so after this i promise u won’t have to read anything too boring anymore.

♯┆taglist (open) .ᐟ ★ @brenwritesss @bueckersbitch @ekisokay @paige05bby @sierrale8ne @ohmybueckers @pboogerswbb @yailtsv @lilpaigeyherbo @prettygirl-gabi @mariahthealchemist @avvwritesstufff @vintagebueckers @naeswrrldd

Practice had been brutal. Chris had them running sets over and over again, the kind that made your lungs burn and legs feel like lead, all in the name of preseason prep. There were only a few days left until the first game, and though the team was beginning to find its rhythm, it wasn't clicking the way it needed to—especially not for Soraya. 

She and Paige had shown flashes of potential, working off each other better than expected given how new they still were to each other's tendencies. But it wasn't enough. Not to Soraya. Not to Chris. There were still missed cuts, mistimed screens, glances that should've turned into passes. 

By the end of it, Soraya was drenched in sweat and silently seething. Not at Paige, not even at herself, really—just at the whole frustrating knowledge that this could work if she just... let it. If she softened. And she hated that. 

All she wanted now was to go home. 

She could already picture it: the icy blast of her apartment AC, the soft flick of her cat's tail against her leg as she slumped on the couch, some dumb comfort movie playing in the background while she scrolled through food delivery options with half-lidded eyes. Nothing cooked. Nothing planned. Just stillness. Quiet. 

But as she stepped out of the facility's back entrance and into the parking lot, she was smacked in the face by the kind of sticky, oppressive heat that made her swear under her breath. 

It was past six, yet the Texan sun still clung to the air like it had something to prove. The pavement shimmered, every breath heavy and cloying with humidity. It was easily in the high 80s, maybe just shy of ninety. 

"Are you fucking serious?" she muttered, wiping at her freshly washed face with the back of her hand. 

She'd just showered. She could still smell the faint trace of eucalyptus body wash lingering on her skin. And now this? This sauna? 

She half-jogged to her car, a white four-door with fading tint and character that didn't quite match her demeanor, and flung the door open. Sliding inside, she tossed her bag into the passenger seat and jammed the keys into the ignition, already reaching for the AC dial in anticipation. 

The engine sputtered. Coughed. Then died. 

She blinked. Waited. Tried again. 

More coughing. A hollow rattling noise. A low, mechanical wheeze—like the car was sick of the heat too. 

"You gotta be fucking kidding me." 

Panic didn't hit immediately. Just annoyance. A steady, creeping dread began to settle in her gut as she shoved the door open and stepped back out into the frying pan of a parking lot. 

By the time she popped the hood, the smoke came in a thick, almost theatrical burst—white and suffocating, curling up in her face and sending her coughing, stumbling back a step as she waved her hand uselessly at it. 

"Jesus," she gasped, eyes watering. 

She waited a beat for the worst of it to pass, then moved in again. Her hands braced against the frame, hips angled, upper body bending into the open hood. A few strands of hair clung to her damp temples, her tank top shifting up her back with the motion, exposing just a sliver of skin to the unforgiving air. 

The denim skirt she'd changed into post-shower—a casual, worn-in piece she liked for its comfort more than its appearance—rode higher as she leaned in, resting her weight into the effort. The sight was almost too perfectly framed. 

There she was: a woman alone in a parking lot, the Texas sun casting her in gold, the lines of her body etched in sweat and defiance. Bent over the engine of her own car, swearing under her breath and fuming with the kind of heat that had nothing to do with the temperature. 

Soraya wasn't some helpless girl in need of rescue. She knew just enough about cars to not get swindled, enough to handle the basics. But right now, she didn't need knowledge—she needed a miracle. Or a mechanic. Or a cold beer. Maybe all three. 

She muttered something unintelligible and leaned in closer, squinting through the residual haze, wishing she hadn't deleted the number of the guy who used to do her tune-ups for free in exchange for game tickets. 

And somewhere in the background—quiet at first—came the slow, steady sound of approaching footsteps. 

When Paige stepped out into the parking lot, she was met with a scene that made her slow to a stop, one brow raised, a smirk already curling on her lips. There was Soraya, bent over the hood of her car like a cursed pin-up, her skirt threatening to ride just a little higher, her tank top hugging the sharp lines of her back. The engine was hissing softly, still exhaling the last remnants of smoke like it had something to say for itself.

It was chaos. Beautiful chaos.

"Who you tryna give a lil show to?" Paige called out, voice lazy with amusement as she strolled toward her. "Is it me? I hope it's me."

If Soraya hadn't been so simmering with rage, so done with this day and this heat and this damn car, she might've cracked a smile. Might've offered an eye roll with a begrudging laugh. But instead, she kept her eyes narrowed on the mess under the hood, flashlight from her phone slicing through shadows, scanning wires and belts with a practiced impatience.

"I'd run you over with my car if it was working," she muttered, flatly. Her tone had a dry bite, but there was a whisper of humor buried beneath it—just enough to let Paige know she wasn't totally serious.

Paige let out a soft chuckle, stepping in beside her. "Lucky me."

She peered into the hood, pretending like she might have something to contribute, but it was clear even to her that things were bad. Worse than bad. She could smell burnt oil, maybe coolant. Nothing good.

Just as she was about to offer to call someone, Soraya snapped.

The frustration poured out in one motion. Soraya straightened abruptly, lips pressed into a thin line, the tension in her jaw making her look almost serene—for a second. Then her foot connected with the tire. And again. And again. She kicked the side of the car like it had personally betrayed her, cursing in a flurry of languages, half of which Paige couldn't even hope to translate.

"Woah, woah, okay—hey!" Paige moved quickly, wrapping her arms gently around Soraya's waist and pulling her back before she broke her foot or dented the door. Her touch wasn't rough, just enough pressure to ground her. "Let's relax, alright?"

"Stupid fucking piece of shit, Scheiß Hurensohn Auto," Soraya growled, breath hot and fast as Paige eased her away from the curb. (shitty son of a bitch car)

"Hey, hey." Paige's voice was quieter now, a gentle anchor. She waited until Soraya looked at her, their eyes locking in a tense, charged second. "Breathe, okay? In and out. Just like that. Come on."

Miraculously, Soraya listened. She drew in a deep breath, held it, then let it go. And again. The tension in her shoulders slowly loosened with each breath, her hands unclenching from fists to flat palms.

"There you go. Good job," Paige murmured, the corner of her mouth lifting. It wasn't condescending—it was warm, real, and just soft enough to make Soraya's throat tighten.

But then the awareness returned.

Soraya blinked and suddenly remembered Paige's hands were still on her. Her skin prickled—not from discomfort, but from the sheer fact of being touched without warning. She peeled Paige's arms off, not harshly, just firm. Boundaried.

"Hard to fucking breathe when it feels like you're inside an oven," she muttered, rolling her eyes toward the sun like it had personally offended her.

Paige couldn't help the amused huff that left her. Yeah, it was hot. Stupid hot. And yet somehow Soraya looked even hotter—glistening in the golden hour light, cheeks flushed with frustration, her hair beginning to curl at the ends from the heat. How was it fair for someone to look so good while actively crashing out?

Still, Paige didn't push back when her hands were brushed off. She respected it. Not everyone liked being touched. Especially not when they were angry and vulnerable. 

"Alright," Paige said, adjusting the strap of her bag as casually as she could. "Let's go back inside. I'll help you call a tow truck or something. Get it towed, figure it out later."

She half expected resistance. A snippy comment. Soraya was stubborn, after all. But instead, the other girl just sighed—deep and heavy—before turning on her heel and stomping back toward the facility with her arms crossed tight over her chest.

Paige followed, a beat behind, hands shoved in her pockets. She couldn't wipe the grin off her face if she tried. Watching Soraya walk in that denim skirt, hips swaying with each indignant step, her soft thighs—it was criminal, really.

Paige let her eyes drift for a second longer than she should have.

God help her, she was so fucked.

Inside the building, the blessed kiss of air conditioning hit Soraya's skin like a miracle. Her shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch, but the tension in her posture remained like static clinging to fabric. She stood near the tall windows, arms crossed, fingers fidgeting as she cracked her knuckles in turn. Outside, the sun still blazed like it had something to prove, reflecting off her car's hood—mocking her.

Twenty minutes had passed. Still no tow truck.

"Y'know you can go home, right?" Soraya said without turning, eyes fixed on the parking lot. "Don't gotta stay here, Bueckers."

From behind her, Paige's voice was relaxed, soaked in that same teasing confidence Soraya had come to associate with her. "I know. Can't leave a pretty girl on her own, though."

Soraya's jaw twitched, the corner of her mouth nearly threatening a smile. Instead, she rolled her eyes lightly, keeping her voice even. "It's not the wilderness. I'll be just fine."

She looked back briefly, catching a glimpse of Paige manspreading in the nearby chair, scrolling through her phone like she owned the damn place, one leg bouncing in lazy rhythm. It was annoying how good she looked doing absolutely nothing.

Before Paige could volley back another quip, Soraya's eyes flicked back to the window just in time to catch the arrival of the tow truck.

Without a word, she pushed off the wall and headed back outside, her phone still in her hand. She met the driver halfway, offering him the keys with a neutral expression.

"The shop's already been informed," she explained. "Just gotta drop the keys off too."

The man looked her over with an unsubtle scan that lingered a second too long. "You sure they ain't gonna rip you off, lil lady?"

Her gaze sharpened instantly. Lil lady?

The words sat wrong in her stomach—like vinegar on an open wound. Already exhausted and pissed off, she was not in the mood.

"I'm not clueless and helpless," she said, voice flat and cutting. "Thank you very much."

The man chuckled, holding up his hands in faux innocence. "Just makin' sure. Girls don't usually know much about cars."

Paige was by her side a second later, slipping between them like a wall made of fire and steel. "We appreciate the concern," she said coolly, towering over the guy with just enough proximity to make him uneasy, "but if we could wrap this up a bit quicker, that'd be great."

Her tone wasn't rude. It was simply firm. Soraya said nothing, watching as the man suddenly seemed to realize he might be outmatched. He muttered something vague and went about his work.

Once everything was squared away, and the tow truck disappeared down the road with Soraya's car in tow, there was a strange silence between them. Soraya didn't say thank you. Didn't offer Paige a look or even a nod. It wasn't because she wasn't grateful—it was because she hadn't needed saving, and she didn't want to feed the narrative that she had.

She pulled out her phone again with a sigh and began walking toward the door.

"Where y'going?" Paige asked from behind, her tone casual but curious.

"Inside?" Soraya called back, one brow raised. "I'm not waiting for an Uber out here."

Paige let out a soft laugh under her breath. "Nah, c'mon. Lemme give you a ride."

Soraya slowed slightly but didn't stop. She turned halfway, still walking. "That's not necessary."

"It is to me," Paige insisted, standing her ground. "I'm not taking no for an answer. Just lemme do something nice for you, 'kay?"

The sincerity in her voice was unexpected. Not cocky. Not performative. Just... real.

Soraya hesitated. She hated being the person who said yes to things she didn't ask for. Hated being the passenger in someone else's kindness. But also—she was tired. It had been a long day, and her feet ached, and the idea of sitting in a stuffy Uber with a stranger felt like the final straw.

"Fine," she said, sharp and short, like she was doing Paige a favor.

Paige didn't seem to mind. She just grinned, turning on her heel like she'd just won something, and led the way to her car.

Soraya followed, keeping a few steps behind—not because she didn't want to walk beside her, but because she needed the space. Space to process the weird warmth in her chest. Space to ignore the way Paige's shoulders looked under that sleeveless tee. Space to remind herself that this wasn't anything.

Ever the gentleman, Paige rounded the car with a lazy confidence, hands in her pockets like she'd done it a million times before. She opened the passenger door for Soraya without saying a word, the gesture effortless, not showy. Just instinctive.

Soraya raised a brow, lips twitching with the beginnings of a smirk she quickly shut down. She slipped into the seat, muttering a soft, "Thanks," under her breath. As soon as Paige turned away to walk around to her side, a brief smile cracked across Soraya's face—quick and amused, gone by the time Paige slid into the driver's seat beside her.

The inside of Paige's car smelled faintly like citrus and something crisp and clean—maybe her cologne or her laundry detergent. The engine hummed to life with a soft rumble, and her music started playing—some mellow R&B track with deep bass and smooth vocals that filled the space without overwhelming it. Soraya didn't say anything about the song. She just let it wash over her, content in the stillness.

She wasn't someone who felt the need to fill silence. Silence was easy. Familiar and safe. She sat back in her seat, letting it settle between them like a quiet agreement. Paige didn't fight it either. She just drove.

And Soraya watched her—quietly, against her better judgment.

It started with the way Paige gripped the steering wheel. There was something almost annoyingly attractive about it. The way the veins on the back of her hand flexed when she turned, the strong tendons that shifted under her skin. The way her forearms looked—lean and cut, casual but controlled.

Paige leaned into her seat like she belonged there, one hand resting at the top of the wheel, the other occasionally shifting gears with a smooth flick of her wrist. It wasn't just how she moved—it was how sure she looked doing it. Relaxed. Unbothered. Confident in a way Soraya hated to find so damn appealing.

She forced herself to look away, eyes snapping back to the window before her thoughts wandered somewhere she didn't want them to go. This was stupid. Paige was her rookie, not some girl she should be admiring like this.

"Nice neighborhood," Paige commented offhandedly, just to break the quiet, eyes still on the road. She didn't seem to expect a response.

Soraya gave her a short nod. "It's quiet. I like that."

More silence. The music continued. Then, out of nowhere, Soraya said, "You have good taste."

Paige turned her head just slightly, a smirk tugging at her mouth. "In music or women?"

That made Soraya chuckle. Actually chuckle. Quiet and reluctant, but real. She rolled her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat. "Both, I guess," she murmured with a casual shrug.

Paige didn't respond to that—just let it hang there, satisfied with the answer.

The car ride continued like that. Comfortable. Occasionally interrupted by Soraya's soft-spoken directions. Paige didn't question them, didn't try to make small talk just to fill the air. She just drove and listened and made every smooth turn feel somehow cinematic.

By the time they pulled up to Soraya's building, the sun had dipped fully below the skyline, casting everything in that deep twilight blue. The dashboard light painted Paige's face in a soft glow, and Soraya found herself lingering in her seat a moment too long, not quite ready to open the door.

Paige shifted into park, her fingers resting on the gear like they belonged there.

Soraya glanced at her, hesitant. "You can come up for a bit... if you want."

Paige's brows lifted slightly. "Is that your poor attempt at an invite?"

Soraya narrowed her eyes, though the almost invisible smile tugging at her lips gave her away. She wasn't really mad. "Alright, keep it cute. So you coming up or you got somewhere to be?"

Paige tilted her head like she was considering it, then asked, "Like where?"

The question threw Soraya for a second. "I don't know. Home? A date?"

Paige let out a quiet laugh, brushing her hand over her knee. "You think I'd flirt with you, drive you across town, open your car door... just to be late to a date?"

Soraya blinked at her, then looked away, trying not to let the warmth in her chest show. She didn't know how to react to the verbal confirmation that the rookie was indeed flirting with her. "I dunno," she muttered.

"Yeah, I'll come up," Paige replied, glancing at her for a moment that lasted a beat too long.

Soraya reached for the door, her voice cool again. "Cool."

She stepped out, not bothering to look back to see if Paige followed.

But she knew she would.

h The lobby of Soraya's apartment building was clean and modern, all cool tones and sleek lines, the air tinged with the faint scent of eucalyptus from some hidden diffuser. Soraya led the way across the glossy floors, her pace easy, unhurried, while Paige trailed a few steps behind, her hands shoved into the pockets of her loose-fitting pants, taking everything in with a quiet kind of curiosity. 

They reached the elevators just as the doors slid open with a soft chime, and out stepped an older woman—small, spry, with silver hair pulled neatly into a low bun. She wore a colorful scarf draped over her shoulders and carried a well-worn handbag tucked into the crook of her elbow. 

The woman's face immediately lit up at the sight of Soraya. 

"Soraya, mi cielito!" she exclaimed, her voice warm and affectionate as she reached out to gently rub Soraya's arm in that familiar, grandmotherly way. 

Paige blinked, a little caught off guard by the sudden shift in atmosphere. 

To her further surprise, Soraya's entire demeanor softened. A smile—genuine, bright, and completely different from the wry, guarded expressions Paige was used to—bloomed across her face. 

"Hi, Carmen," Soraya said warmly, her voice carrying an easy affection. "I'm good, thank you. How've you been?" 

Carmen let out a small, dramatic sigh as she patted Soraya's arm. "Ay, you know... same old back issues. But what can you do, mija?" 

Soraya's brows knit together in a small, concerned frown. "You should get that checked out again," she said, her tone laced with genuine worry. 

But Carmen just waved her hand dismissively, smiling like she didn't have a care in the world. "Bah! Doctors only tell me what I already know." 

Paige shifted awkwardly on her feet, feeling a little like an intruder in a moment that wasn't meant for her. She glanced at the elevator button, pretending to study it, but her eyes kept flicking back to Soraya—this different version of her that she hadn't seen before. 

It wasn't just the smile. It was how relaxed she was, how her voice lost that sharp edge she usually carried like armor. 

Carmen's gaze eventually turned toward Paige, her dark eyes twinkling with curiosity, before darting back to Soraya in a way that made it obvious she expected an introduction. 

Soraya glanced over her shoulder, as if suddenly remembering she wasn't alone. "Oh—uh, this is Paige," she said, the ease in her voice giving way to a slight, sheepish note. "She's a new teammate. Just moved here recently." 

Carmen's face lit up again as she offered Paige a kind, understanding smile. "Ah, bienvenida, hija. I hope you get used to our Dallas heat. It's not for the faint of heart." 

Paige chuckled softly, nodding. "Working on it, ma’am." 

Carmen laughed, clearly charmed, and patted Soraya's arm one last time. "I'm meeting a friend for coffee," she said with a wink. "Don't stay away too long, Soraya. The building feels quieter without you." 

"I won't," Soraya promised, her smile lingering even after Carmen gave a little wave and disappeared out the sliding doors. 

The elevator doors closed again with a soft ding, forcing them to wait for the next one. 

Paige slid a glance toward Soraya, who was staring ahead at the closed doors like nothing had just happened. But Paige had caught it—the rare tenderness, the open affection. It stuck with her, clinging to the edges of her mind even as the elevator finally returned and the doors swept open again. 

She stepped in behind Soraya, hands still buried in her pockets, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

It was, without a doubt, the kindest she'd ever seen Soraya be to anyone. And it made her wonder, more than she probably should have, who else got to see that side of her.

Soraya pulled her keys from her purse with a small clink, the metal catching the light. A tiny shark plushie keychain dangled from the ring, the soft fabric worn slightly at the edges, clearly something she'd had for a while. Paige's sharp eyes caught it immediately. 

A comment hovered at the tip of her tongue—something teasing, something that would've made Soraya roll her eyes again—but she let it sit, filing it away for later. 

Without a word, Soraya unlocked the door and stepped inside, flicking on the lights with a casual flick of her wrist. 

She moved a few steps in before pausing, glancing back over her shoulder when she noticed Paige still standing just outside the threshold, hands sunk into her pockets like she wasn't sure she was allowed. 

"Are you a vampire?" Soraya asked dryly, arching an eyebrow. "Do I need to verbally invite you in?" 

The words were spoken so flatly that it might've been mistaken for a serious question if Paige hadn't spent the last hour learning how to read the subtle humor tucked into Soraya's voice. 

A soft chuckle rumbled from Paige's chest as she stepped inside, letting the door swing closed behind her. "God forbid a girl appreciates an invite," she muttered, amusement clear in her tone. 

Soraya only rolled her eyes in response, but the corner of her mouth tugged upward—barely, like she was fighting the smile. 

As Soraya disappeared further into the apartment, Paige's eyes roamed curiously, taking in the space like she was trying to piece together a side of Soraya she hadn't seen before. 

The apartment was warm and vibrant in a way Paige hadn't anticipated. She had expected something neat, minimalist, sharp—something that matched Soraya's quick-footed, ruthless style on the court. Instead, the space was full of life and color. 

Pale pinks and lush greens layered over a backdrop of clean cream walls, woven together with thoughtful details. Potted plants hung from ceiling hooks and crowded the windowsills, their leaves spilling over in messy, thriving bursts of green. A tree-like shelf built into one corner of the room stretched from floor to ceiling, wooden ‘branches’ cradling rows of books and an assortment of small, charming decorations—vintage cameras, tiny sculptures, a framed photo of a beach at sunset. 

A gorgeous record player, sleek and vintage, sat atop a carefully curated stand made from what looked like old repurposed record players, stacked and painted in soft pastels. 

At the center of the living room, a deep green velvet couch anchored the space, rich against the lighter tones. It was adorned with mismatched pink and cream pillows that somehow looked perfectly thrown together. A glass coffee table with delicate gold legs rested in front of it, the top scattered with a few books, a small ceramic bowl, and a gold lighter, probably for candles. 

The far wall boasted a sliding glass door leading to a balcony, the right panel of glass covered in a mosaic of a large flower design that caught and fractured the light like stained glass. 

Everything about the place felt lived-in and carefully loved—cozy without being cluttered, elegant without being cold. 

Paige shifted on her feet, feeling almost out of place, like she'd wandered into a part of Soraya that most people weren't supposed to see. 

It didn't feel like an apartment designed to impress anyone. 

It felt like a home.

And somehow, that was more disarming than anything else Soraya could've done. 

Soraya set her keys down into a lily-shaped ceramic key bowl perched neatly by the entrance, the soft clink echoing in the cozy space. Without a word, she bent down, slipping out of her sneakers and into a pair of fuzzy pink slides waiting by the door.

Before anything else, she turned, her gaze falling to Paige's shoes, then flickering back up at her expectantly. 

"Shoes off. Those on," Soraya instructed flatly, pointing to a second pair of white fuzzy slides. "This is not an American household." 

Paige let out a low snort of amusement, shaking her head but obediently toeing off her sneakers and lining them up neatly by Soraya's. She slipped into the slides, wiggling her toes a little against the unfamiliar softness. 

"Cute," she muttered under her breath, just loud enough for Soraya to catch if she was listening. 

Without responding, Soraya moved further into her space, her voice softening as she called out, "Jiggy!" 

It didn't take long before a tabby cat, all sleepy stretches and lazy steps, emerged from one of the rooms. She yawned audibly, arching her back before trotting over with a slow, confident air. 

Soraya knelt slightly, expecting the usual routine—Jiggy would sniff her fingers, demand a few pats, then go sulk somewhere high up. But to her mild shock, Jiggy bypassed her entirely. 

Instead, the cat beelined straight for Paige, tail flicking once with casual curiosity as she circled the new visitor. 

Soraya straightened, her brows pulling together in mild disbelief. "What the hell," she mumbled under her breath. 

Paige stood still, watching the little tabby with a crooked smile tugging at her lips. She crouched slowly, arms draping over her knees as she held a hand out, palm up and relaxed. 

"Hey, lil cutie," she murmured, voice low and nonchalant. 

Jiggy didn't hesitate. She sniffed once, twice, then leaned in, brushing the top of her head against Paige's fingers with the familiarity of an old friend. 

Paige chuckled softly, scratching behind the cat's ears in a lazy rhythm. Jiggy responded by purring faintly, nudging her head harder into Paige's hand like she was already claiming her. 

Soraya could only stare, arms folded tight over her chest. Her cat, the same cat that took weeks to even tolerate Lou's presence, was actively cuddling up to Paige without a second thought. 

Paige glanced up, catching the baffled look on Soraya's face. 

"What?" she asked, an innocent glint flickering in her eyes. "I'm just vibing." 

"You don't understand," Soraya said, her voice caught somewhere between irritation and disbelief, "she doesn't vibe with anyone." 

Jiggy, completely unbothered by Soraya's growing existential crisis, began weaving between Paige's legs, her purrs growing louder as she rubbed against her calves. 

Paige shrugged, straightening back up and smirking slightly. "Guess she's got good taste too." 

Soraya opened her mouth, ready to argue—but nothing came out. She just exhaled sharply through her nose, shaking her head like she could somehow reset what she was seeing. 

Paige didn't press further.

The older moved quickly, brushing past Paige to head into the open kitchen. 

"You want water or something?" she called over her shoulder, trying to sound casual. 

Paige's lips twitched into a knowing smile. "Yeah, sure. Water's good."  Behind her, Jiggy remained loyally at Paige's feet, still purring. 

Soraya emerged from the kitchen with two glasses of water balanced carefully in her hands, only to pause at the sight in front of her. 

Paige was crouched low again, gently stroking Jiggy's exposed belly with a kind of reverence Soraya wasn't used to seeing from anyone. The cat lay sprawled out, blissfully purring, her paws stretching every so often with content. 

For a moment, Soraya just watched, feeling a strange, stubborn pang rise in her chest. Jiggy was supposed to be her cat—loyal only to her, attached only to her. Now she was practically in love with Paige after less than half an hour? 

Soraya almost scoffed under her breath, resisting the urge to roll her eyes at how absurdly cute the scene was. Annoying. Endearing. Unfair. 

With a clink, she set the glasses down onto the glass coffee table, the sound pulling Paige's attention back to her. Paige straightened slowly, brushing off her hands, before glancing at Soraya with that same easy, disarming smile that made her stomach twist. 

Soraya didn't say anything, just motioned lazily to the couch with a tilt of her chin before sinking into the deep green cushions herself. The velvet was cool against her skin, but she was already feeling a little too warm, a little too aware of the situation she had created for herself. 

What the hell were they even supposed to do now? Make small talk? Watch TV? Sit here in awkward silence until one of them made an excuse to leave? 

"You just gonna stand there?" Soraya finally spoke up, keeping her tone dry but not unkind. 

Paige huffed a quiet laugh and lowered herself beside Soraya, sitting with a casual sort of sprawl that still somehow made her seem confident, in control. 

"Nice place. It's cute," Paige offered, her voice easy, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. 

Soraya nodded once, lifting her glass for a long, deliberate sip. "Thanks." 

For a second, that was it—just the soft hum of the AC, the faint purr of Jiggy now nestled by Paige's foot. 

But Soraya exhaled through her nose and decided to push herself, just a little. What's the worst that could happen? 

"You already set your new place up?" she asked, glancing sideways at Paige over the rim of her glass. 

Paige shook her head, lips puckering for a brief second in a way Soraya shouldn't have found so distracting. "Nah, barely. Just the necessities like a bed, couch, fridge, and TV." 

Soraya let out a short chuckle, the sound a little looser than she meant for it to be. "Wow. Very homely." 

Paige laughed, the sound genuine and warm, and Soraya could feel the pride radiating off her even without looking directly at her. 

"Yeah, whatever. I've been here four days, chill on me," Paige grinned. 

The tension thinned a little, replaced with something lighter—but it was still there, humming underneath. A subtle, undeniable current neither of them knew how to address. 

Soraya leaned back against the couch, resting her elbow lazily against the armrest, but her eyes kept flicking back to Paige when she thought she wasn't looking. The way Paige's mouth curved when she laughed. The way her thigh pressed into the couch cushion a little too close to Soraya's own leg. 

Paige wasn't oblivious either. She noticed the way Soraya's gaze lingered a little too long, the way her posture was loose but not entirely relaxed, as if part of her was hyperaware of their proximity. 

Neither of them spoke for a beat too long. The silence between them was no longer awkward—it was thick, heavy, loaded with something neither wanted to name yet. 

Jiggy's tail flicked lazily against the carpet, and the sound somehow made the charged quiet even more obvious. 

Paige leaned back too, stretching an arm across the back of the couch, almost but not quite brushing Soraya's shoulder. The move was casual. Innocent. But it made Soraya's pulse quicken embarrassingly in her throat. 

"You always bring new teammates over like this?" Paige asked after a moment, her voice low, slightly teasing, as she turned her head to look at Soraya directly. 

Soraya met her gaze steadily, refusing to be the first to look away even though it made her insides coil tight. Would it really be that wrong?

"No," she said simply. 

There was a beat where neither of them moved, both aware of just how close they were sitting, of how Paige's fingers were barely an inch from brushing Soraya's shoulder, of how their knees nearly touched if one of them so much as shifted. 

The air between them crackled. 

Paige smiled slowly, something almost wolfish flickering in her eyes. "Good to know," she murmured, her tone a little too loaded to be casual. 

Soraya rolled her eyes, but there was no real heat in it.  "Don't get a big head about it," she muttered, but her voice was softer now, almost playful. 

Underneath it all, the tension simmered, unspoken but palpable—an invisible thread stretched tight between them, fragile and electric and ready to snap at the slightest wrong move.

Small, accidental touches had been happening—the graze of a knee, the brush of fingers when they reached for one of the close together water cups. Each time, neither girl acknowledged it, but the tension between them thickened, humming just below the surface. 

And just when it seemed like something might happen—not exactly, not yet, but something leaning into almost—Jiggy launched herself into Paige's lap, startling them both. 

Soraya inhaled sharply, her body stiffening for a moment before she exhaled deeply, trying to steady herself. Partly because of being startled. Mostly because she needed to calm the hell down. 

She rolled her eyes at the sight of Jiggy now happily curled up on Paige's thighs, the picture of betrayal. 

"Traitor," Soraya muttered under her breath, crossing her arms loosely over her chest. 

Paige looked at her with amused disbelief, her hand moving almost automatically to stroke Jiggy's soft fur. "Bit dramatic," she said, her voice warm with suppressed laughter. 

Soraya shot her a pointed glare—sharp, but not serious enough to cut. It was just enough to make Paige fall silent, though the smile lingered on her face. Soraya couldn't help it; she always looked like she wanted to pick a fight unless she was smiling. 

"Nah," Soraya said finally, her voice lazy, "you don't get it. I rescued this little hoe." 

Paige let out a snort she barely managed to cover, pressing her knuckles against her mouth to hide the grin threatening to break free. "Oh yeah? Tell me more," she prompted, a glint of curiosity lighting up her eyes. 

Soraya hesitated—not because she didn't want to tell the story, but because she wasn't used to people asking. Not like this. Not looking at her like this.

But eventually, she gave in. 

She shifted on the couch, getting more comfortable as she twisted her body to fully face Paige. One arm folded across the backrest, her head lazily resting on her hand. The movement was casual, easy—but intimate, somehow. 

"Basically, I was new to town," she began, her tone softening, "and I found her on the streets. No collar. No chip. Looked like her previous owners just dumped her." 

Paige's hand stilled on Jiggy's back, her attention sharpening, hanging on to every word. 

"Two days after I took her in," Soraya continued, her voice light but tinged with faint exasperation, "I left the window open. Didn't even realize it. She fell out. Gone." 

She huffed a soft, self-deprecating laugh and shook her head slightly. 

"Couldn't find her anywhere. Almost started crying during therapy the next day," she added, glancing at Paige like she dared her to laugh—but Paige didn't. She just listened, her expression serious but open. 

"What happened then?" Paige asked quietly, her voice low, coaxing. 

Soraya tucked her legs up behind her on the couch, staying twisted toward Paige, the proximity between them shrinking without either of them seeming to notice. 

"I decided to walk the neighborhood," she said, "jiggling my keys like a dumbass, hoping she'd hear them. I hadn't even named her yet. Looked up and down every block for hours." 

She paused, as if hearing the faint meows again. 

"Eventually, I heard her. Tiny little cries, scared out of her mind. Found her hiding under my neighbor's motorcycle cover." 

Soraya swallowed, her throat tightening slightly at the memory. 

"Poor baby had dried snot on her nose from the cold. Scooped her up and took her straight home. Straight to the vet after that. She was fine, though." 

The tension in her shoulders loosened, the memory ending in a tiny breath of relief. She reached for her water, taking a sip before setting the cup back down with a small clink against the table. 

"And after that, I named her Jiggy," Soraya finished, her mouth tugging into a faint, crooked smile, "because 'Jiggles' sounds like a fuckass clown." 

The corner of Paige's mouth twitched—not quite a laugh, but dangerously close. 

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the low rumble of Jiggy purring and the muted noises from the city outside the window. 

Paige leaned forward a little, resting her elbows on her knees, her hand pausing in Jiggy's fur. She looked at Soraya—really looked at her. 

"You're..." she started, then trailed off, clearing her throat. "You're a good person, you know that?" 

Soraya snorted, tilting her head back against the couch cushion, pretending she didn't hear the sudden, quiet sincerity threading through Paige's voice. 

"Don't get all sappy n' shit," she muttered, but there was no heat behind it. 

Paige just smiled, unbothered by the brush-off, and they lapsed into an almost dangerous silence—the kind that buzzed with something unspoken and new. 

It might've lasted longer, it might've turned into something they weren't ready for if Paige hadn't glanced up and caught sight of the clock hanging above the TV. 

"Shit," she cursed under her breath, straightening. "It's almost ten." 

Soraya followed her gaze, clicking her tongue. 

"Y’gonna turn into a pumpkin or something?" she asked dryly, masking the flicker of disappointment tightening her chest. 

Paige chuckled, rising from the couch and gently setting Jiggy beside Soraya. 

"Nah. Early workouts tomorrow, remember? If we're late, Coach isn't gonna be all smiles like usual." She grabbed her sneakers from the floor, holding them loosely in one hand.

She lingered by the door, rocking back on her heels, visibly debating something. Then, casually—too casually—she spoke again. "You mind if I get your number? Y'know, just in case. Since we're teammates now and all." 

Soraya gave her a look so flat it should've knocked Paige through the door. She didn't buy the excuse for a second. But still, without a word, she leaned over, grabbed her phone from the side table, and tossed it lightly in Paige's direction. Paige caught it, grinning like she'd just won something. 

She quickly punched her number in, shooting herself a text so she had Soraya's saved, before tossing the phone back onto the couch. 

Paige bent down, giving Jiggy one last scratch behind the ears. 

"Later, little traitor," she said under her breath with a fond smile. Then, straightening, she turned to Soraya, her hand awkwardly hovering near a wave before she thought better of it. 

"Later, pretty girl," Paige said, her voice a little softer than before. 

Soraya leaned back against the couch, her arms lazily crossed, an unreadable expression on her face. 

"Later, Bueckers," she replied, voice low and almost—almost—fond. 

Paige slipped out the door with a final grin, sneakers dangling from her fingers, her heart hammering a little harder than she cared to admit. 

With one glance at her unlocked phone, a genuine smile crept onto her face and a real laugh escaped her at the name Paige had saved herself as. ‘BDB Paige💜’. “What the fuck.”

Soraya stared at the door for a long moment, feeling Jiggy curl up against her hip again like nothing had changed. 

Except, somehow, everything had.

[prodkwh]

WAIT FOR YOUR LOVE ᯓ★

where in ── you completely remove him from your memory after a bad breakup.

⤷ pairing :: boyfriend-turned-ex!felix x f!reader

⤷ trope / genre :: lovers to exes... some fluff, but mostly angst oops

⤷ content warnings :: lots of emotional distress, brief mentions of food / beverages (matcha latte, cake, froyo), small mentions of medical procedures, crying & a mini breakdown, mentions of therapy, strained romantic relationship

⤷ word count :: 4.2k words

⤷ playlist :: intro (end of the world) - extended, warm, Hampstead, we can't be friends (wait for your love), i wish i hated you & twilight zone (all by ariana grande!)

⤷ note :: first actual post how we doin ....... hope yall enjoy <3

Three things you saw: a counter, the woman behind the counter and a painting of the solar system hung on the wall. 

Three things you heard: the woman behind the counter making an appointment with someone on the other line of her call, the muffled weeping of the elderly lady sitting opposite you and the sound of your own breath.

Three things you felt: anxiety, sadness, numbness and more anxiety. Wait, that’s not three.

It was a grounding technique you’d learnt during therapy to keep yourself calm and sane while facing something that made you nervous. By now, it had already been 5 months since you started going to therapy. This also meant that it had already been 5 months since your breakup with Lee Felix. 

Five months after you broke up with the person you once called your first love, you’d arranged a very expensive procedure to completely remove him from your memory. A procedure that your therapist was heavily against – “Why erase him from your memory when you can just come to terms with everything that happened?” – but you knew it was for the best. After all, it would be easier for things to go back to how they were before you met him. 

Wouldn’t it? 

“Y/n L/n?” The woman behind the counter called, getting up and walking over to you after seeing your raised hand. 

“Please fill in this consent form before you go in to get your procedure done.” She handed you a clipboard with the consent form and a pen. You took it and skimmed over the printed text until your eyes landed on the last line. 

‘For this procedure, I officially give Sunshine Inc. the full consent to entirely remove this person from my memory.’ 

Below that line were two check boxes, marked with ‘Yes’ and ‘No’. The pen you held hovered over the one marked with ‘No’. You were hesitating. 

This one procedure meant that all your memories of Lee Felix, good and bad, would be gone. 

You ticked the check box marked with ‘Yes’ and signed the form. Then, you picked up the big box of things that reminded you of him and walked into the operating room. No hesitation. 

This was it. Lee Felix would be gone from your memory in approximately 3 hours.

Three things you saw: your box of things, Dr Bang – the one who would be doing the erasing in your brain – and his assistant Dr Myoui. 

“So, Miss Y/n? We’ll be removing Mr Lee Felix from your memory for today’s procedure, are you ready? Mentally? Physically?” Dr Bang asked. You gave him a small nod, then started to space out while he listed the rough sequence of how the procedure would go. 

“... No after-effects or brain damage apart from the procedure itself. We’ll be using the items you’ve brought today to get a rough gauge of the role Mr Lee has played in your memory, then erasing him from it based on the mapping we’ve done. You’ll be good to go afterwards, okay?” Dr Bang continued while connecting you to the heart monitor. You gave him another small nod. 

He places a dome-shaped apparatus over your head. 

Three things you heard: the sound of your own breath, your heartbeat (faintly) and the slight whirring of the appliance over your head. 

“Dr Myoui will now be showing you different items from your box, okay? All you have to do is react to them. No words needed, just react to them silently. All good?” You gave Dr Bang another small nod. 

The first item Dr Myoui showed you was a teddy bear. You smiled.

Your first date with Felix happened 3 years ago, at the arcade near the froyo store where you worked. 

“You think claw machines are, like, legit?” You’d asked while munching on cotton candy. 

“You think they aren’t? The prizes they give you aren’t figments of your imagination, you know. They’re real.” Felix said, chuckling while taking a bite from your stick of cotton candy. 

“That’s not what I meant, idiot. It’s always so hard to catch a prize from a claw machine. My dad always said they were some sort of scam; you put in money and hope to win a prize, but most of the time you get nothing.” You retorted, side-eyeing the claw machine. 

“Just because it’s hard doesn’t mean it’s completely unattainable, dumbass. Look, I’ll show you.” He walked over to the claw machine. “You got any 20-cent coins?” 

“If you win nothing after 3 tries, you owe me dinner.” You drop one in his palm.

“You’re on, gremlin.” 

The first two tries were disastrous. He was close to owing you dinner. 

“Trust me, I can come back from this. Third time’s the charm, remember?” He said, inserting another coin into the machine while furrowing his eyebrows in concentration. 

“Yeah, say that again when you’re the one buying me dinner.” 

Famous last words. The teddy bear descended from the claw’s grip into the collection funnel. 

He looked at you with a mischievous grin. “I guess you owe me dinner now.” You groan. 

He bent down to take the teddy bear out, then held it out to you. “Yours. Dinner’s on me too.” 

You smile, blushing slightly. Taking the teddy bear, you tiptoe to hug him. “Thank you, Lix,” you say before planting a small kiss on his cheek. He pulls away and ruffles your hair, his grin widening. 

“Anything for you, gremlin.”

“Okay… Positive reactions indicate positive memories associated with the respective items. Thank you for reacting well, Miss Y/n. Everything alright so far? Show me a thumbs-up if yes.” Dr Bang asked, looking away from the monitor on the table to face you. 

You show him a thumbs-up while flashing him a slight smile. 

“Good, thank you. Dr Myoui, please show her the next item.” 

The next item Dr Myoui shows you is a crocheted snow duck. You smile again, but this one doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

6 months into your relationship, you and Felix had your first real argument. 

It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal; it was just one of those days when nothing was going your way. You overslept, missed your bus, was late to work and got yelled at by a customer. One of those days when the smallest thing irritated you, and all you wanted to do was go back home and rot. 

The moment you stepped foot into your shared apartment with him, it hit you. 

Your original schedule for today wasn’t packed, so you thought you’d come home early in the evening and bake brownies with Felix since the both of you had been craving it recently. What you forgot to tell him was that one of your coworkers called in sick at the last minute so you had to cover for her shift, which caused you to come home 4 hours after you promised you would. 

“You’re home late,” he said, standing up from where he was sitting on the couch to greet you. 

“You started without me.” You bitterly shot back when you caught sight of the 2 batches of brownies sitting on the counter. 

“What was I supposed to do then? You said you’d be home at 5 and it’s already 9.” He protested, eyes narrowing as his tone became sharper. 

“I didn’t have a day off today like you did, Felix. Work dragged on late, okay?” You sighed, taking off your shoes and hanging your cardigan on a rack near the door. 

“You could’ve told me. I was looking forward to spending time with you.” 

You turn to look at him and instantly feel a small sense of guilt wash over you. His expression was unreadable, but you could tell from his gaze that he was hurt. Upset. It seemed like all you did these days only made the people around you upset. 

You clicked your tongue. “I don’t want to fight.”

“Me neither.” He stated, voice flat before moving to wipe non-existent dust off a spot on the counter. “Just tell me beforehand next time, if there even will be one.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You snap. 

“Nothing, forget it. I’m going to bed.” He stormed off while brushing his hair back, something he always did when he was stressed or frustrated – a habit he’d picked up from you. 

You stare after him and roll your eyes, any ounce of guilt you’d felt immediately vanishing after hearing his words. You open one of the boxes on the counter and steal a brownie. They were good, but they didn’t taste the same. 

Felix wasn’t there to enjoy them with you, and you weren’t there to make them with him. 

A few days later, Felix had visited you at work, a cup of matcha latte in one hand and the crocheted snow duck in the other. He couldn’t stand the silent treatment you both gave each other, apologised for saying words he didn’t mean and said he followed a YouTube tutorial to crochet the snow duck as a peace offering because the first snow came while you were simmering on opposite sides of the bed. 

You couldn’t stand being mad at him for long, so you forgave him. Relatively speaking, things went back to normal after that. 

For weeks after the argument, the both of you could tell that your relationship dynamic had shifted. Your movements around him became more calculated, and he grew more analytical of what he said when you were near. 

Yet, none of you had said anything about it. The shift kept building, but ignoring it helped until you couldn’t ignore it anymore and neither could he. 

The first crack in the glass was a brownie baking date that you’d flaked on without meaning to.

“Not so much of a good reaction this time… Bittersweet memories then,” Dr Bang let out a loud exhale. “Everything good, Miss Y/n?” 

You nod. 

“Awesome. Dr Myoui, next item, please.” 

A polaroid. Dr Myoui shows you a polaroid. Your smile falters.

Your birthday was 5 months ago, the day before your relationship with Felix ended. 3 weeks prior, you and him had argued again. 

This was the worst argument you’ve had since the brownie incident, and the longest you’d gone giving him the cold shoulder. 

When you first got to know him, you didn’t think you could handle not talking to him for 3 weeks. 

Now, you weren’t sure if this silence was temporary anymore. For God’s sake, you didn’t even remember what the argument was about. The only thing you knew was that all of your emotions and all of his had been festering for a very, very long time. 

The final crack in the glass. 

The night before your birthday, you’d gotten home late after covering another one of your coworkers’ shifts. You were fully prepared to sleep with your back facing Felix again, but he had been awake and his gaze was now on you as if he’d been inwardly manifesting your presence for the past few hours. 

“I texted you this time. Told you 2 hours ago that I’d be back late,” you snicker, but your words were void of any humour. 

So were his. “Funny. We need to talk, Y/n.” 

“Didn’t think we needed to talk about anything, but sure. Go ahead.” You gesture for him to start saying his piece, and he looks at you like you’d just grown another nose. 

“Seriously? You think there’s absolutely nothing wrong with this relationship?” He asks incredulously, and you scoff while removing your makeup. He brushes his hair back again, clearly annoyed. 

“Whatever, I just think that this isn’t working anymore.” 

You turn away from the mirror to look at him. To really look at him. 

It weighs down on you that he’s right. You’d stopped telling him things immediately after they happened, and he no longer reached out or looked at you like you were his entire world. 

Maybe you weren’t anymore. 

“I’m sorry for everything, Lix… For – for being a bitch, and for every single moment I’ve made you feel like I didn’t care as much as you did,” you say hesitantly after a few moments. You weren’t reluctant to apologise; you just didn’t know how to phrase it, or whether an apology would fix everything that’d gone wrong until now. 

He lets out a breath he probably had no clue he was holding. 

“You remember that voice message you sent me 2 months into our relationship, when you’d gotten your valedictorian award at graduation?” He asked, his voice starting to shake. You nod – there was no way in hell you would forget that. 

The feeling of him being the first person to share every emotion with you. 

“I remember how proud I was of you, and how sorry I felt about missing the whole thing because I was overseas. When your sister sent me that video of you walking up to the stage and receiving the award, I was so happy I actually burst into tears. Seungmin looked at me like I was crazy.” You let out a small chuckle, moving to sit on the bed and lean your head against his shoulder. 

“I don’t want to forget that. I don’t want to forget how happy you made me; how much I loved you, but… I feel like we’ve let this thing snowball for so long that it made me forget.” 

You pull back to see his eyes brimming with unshed tears, and immediately move to wipe them away before they fell. Even now, you still couldn’t bear to see him cry. 

“I’m sorry, sunshine… I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help you preserve those feelings, I’m sorry for letting this bother us for so long; I’m probably apologising too much right now for it to sound sincere, but I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.” You utter, wrapping your arms around him tightly like you never wanted to remove yourself from his embrace. 

The both of you stayed like that for a long time, just crying until you were too tired to continue. 

After a while, you broke the silence between you. “Do you think we can try again, Lix?” 

He hesitated. You take his silence as a no. 

“Is this it? For us; is this it, Felix?” You look up at him, desperate for him to say something. 

“I think so… I don’t know if we can try again, Y/n. I’m sorry.” You almost crumble at his words, but you stop yourself. You didn’t think you deserved the right to feel sad when you had allowed the inevitable to finally happen. 

“Celebrate my birthday with me tomorrow? One last time, then I’ll be out of your life for good.” 

He nods, a sad smile on his face.

The next day, you sit on the counter and watch while Felix lights the candles on your birthday cake. 

“You’re a year older now, grandma.” He says fondly, hopping onto the counter before holding the cake out to you. “Happy birthday.” 

You playfully roll your eyes before closing them, clasping your palms together to make a wish. 

I hope that Lee Felix finds happiness in someone who will treat him right – better than I ever did – and that we will get our own happy ending in another life.  

You open your eyes and blow the candles out. 

He beckons for you to hold the cake for a while, reaching for his polaroid camera to snap a picture of you and the cake. “What’d you wish for?” 

You looked at him like you used to, before all the arguments happened and the dynamics shifted. It was as if everything had rewinded itself to when your relationship first began. Your grin widens. 

Click. 

“World peace,” you shrug. 

From the furthest corner of your mind, you could hear Dr Bang saying, “That’s pretty much it for the mapping. I think we can proceed with the erasing now.” You ignore it, willing your mind to focus on submerging yourself in the last few memories you had of Felix before you no longer could. 

The polaroid is left on the counter to develop. You smear icing on his face. He smears icing on yours. You fall asleep in each other’s arms on the couch, but he’s gone when you wake up. 

It’s weird, because you didn’t feel like anything was missing when you woke up. It was as if he was never a part of your life. 

Your memory of Lee Felix was getting erased.

Your eyes fly open. The heart monitor was beeping like crazy. Dr Bang and Dr Myoui rush to stabilize your condition, but all you could think of was Felix. 

The world looked blurry. You were crying. 

“Miss Y/n? Can you hear me?” Dr Bang frantically asks, eyebrows furrowed with worry. 

You grip the pendant hanging from your neck; a matching half-heart you’d gotten with Felix at the fair 2 years ago, the one thing you forgot to put with all the other items in the box. 

“I… I know I – I wanted to get my memory erased… I know I had to gather everything that reminded me of him for this to work, but… Can’t I just keep this one? Please? Dr Myoui, Dr Bang… Just let me keep this one. Change the way I got it in my memory; I don’t care. Just let me keep it.” You let out in between sobs and sharp breaths. 

“Noted. I’ll change it for you, Miss Y/n. I’ll change it, okay?” Dr Bang rushed over to the monitor, typing furiously on the keyboard while Dr Myoui tried to anchor you back to reality. 

Three things you saw: Dr Myoui’s concerned gaze, Dr Bang at the monitor and your trembling hand gripping the necklace without a single intent to let it go. 

“You’ll remember it as something else, Miss Y/n. Stay with me, okay? Breathe – in, out… in, out…” Dr Myoui held onto your free hand in consolation until you calmed down, your features relaxing.

You could’ve sworn the necklace you were wearing was given to you by another person. 

It definitely wasn’t given to you by your best friend Ryujin; it had to be someone else who gave it to you. The only problem was that you’d forgotten who. 

Maybe you were thinking too much. Maybe it was really just Ryujin who gave you the necklace. 

One thing was for sure: your memory of Lee Felix was now completely erased.

You’d woken up 30 minutes later with both Dr Bang and Dr Myoui telling you that the procedure was a success. 

You’d shaken Dr Bang’s hand and hugged Dr Myoui, thanking them for their hard work. 

Once you’d exited the room, Dr Myoui closed the mini door to the incinerator and ignited the flames for your box of items to burn. 

The only recollection you had of the procedure was that you did it to get over someone who used to be in your life. You couldn’t remember who, but you silently wished them well.

A year after you’d gotten the procedure, you and Felix crossed paths again. 

Some things stayed the same: you still worked at the froyo store, still wore your matching necklace with “Ryujin”, still loved baking brownies even though a part of you always felt missing whenever you taste-tested them. 

Yet, things were different. Felix was now in a far better headspace than he was a year ago, but you still occupied a portion of his mind. The ‘what-if’s that could’ve taken place if you’d tried again plagued him, but the procedure erased him from your memory so intensely that even the sound of his name was now foreign to your heart. It was as if he’d never stopped being just a stranger to you. 

When Felix stepped foot into the froyo store for the first time in ages, his heart stuttered after seeing you. He still thought you were beautiful; he always did, but you also looked… Lighter, as if you no longer had the burdensome weight of him to carry. 

You were sitting at one of the tables near the window after your shift, a cup of vanilla froyo in your hands while you read a book. He always used to joke that your go-to froyo order was far too boring for someone who worked at a froyo store, but that was something you didn’t remember anymore. 

Just then, his breath hitched. 

Your necklace. You were still wearing it, and so was he. 

His body moved before his mind could, approaching your table without a second thought. His inner conscience screamed at him to stop, to turn away, to follow Dr Bang’s instructions and not do anything that could trigger a lapse in the procedure, but he didn’t. 

He almost ditched his entire plan and bolted out the door when you looked up at him, your eyes now carrying only a hint of curiosity. No more trace of the love that used to be his. 

“Can I help you?” You asked politely, your tone slightly distant. 

“No, um, would you mind if I sat here? All the other seats are taken,” he said, immediately wishing he never opened his mouth when you looked around to see every other seat unoccupied. 

You chuckled. “Nah, of course I don’t mind. Do you need me to help you order anything?”

“It’s okay,” he managed to get out, almost choking on his own words. “What are you reading?” 

“Oh, this? It’s ‘Kim Jiyoung, Born 1982’ by Cho Namjoo. My favourite book.” You said, slightly sheepish. Everyone always told you people would never guess that a feminist book was your favourite based on first impressions, assuming you’d rather read other books with fluffier plots. 

Then again, Felix wasn’t just anyone. He knew your favourite book by heart. He knew your favourite everything, even after a year. 

That familiar ache in his chest surfaced again, Dr Bang’s instructions replaying in his head. “She’s gotten the procedure. She’s not going to remember you anymore, so just… Don’t do anything that could reawaken that destroyed part of her memory. Let her move on, she’s hurt enough; it was obvious from how the procedure went.” 

He ignored it and stayed put, because he knew he would rather have multiple first-meetings with you than never get to see you again. Even if the first option eats him alive more than the second one does. 

He nods, holding out his hand for you to shake. “I’m Felix.” 

“I’m Y/n. It’s nice to meet you, Felix,” you grin while shaking his hand, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to refrain himself from telling you that you’ve not just met, but also loved each other before. 

“Nice necklace. I’ve got a similar one.” He comments before showing you the pendant on his. The matching half-heart, though he knew that part of your memory had already been erased. 

“Wait, that’s a crazy coincidence!” You laugh. “Mine’s a matching one with my best friend, yours?” 

“I’m… matching with my younger sister, yeah.” He says with a smile that he doesn’t mean. 

“Cool.” 

The both of you remain in silence for a while after that, the atmosphere between you bordering between comfortable and awkward before a notification sounds from your phone. 

He catches a small glimpse of your lockscreen before you pick your phone up to check it, and a sinking feeling dawns over him when he sees an unfamiliar man’s picture there. 

“Who’s that on your lockscreen?” He asks before he could stop the words from tumbling out, and wishes for the ground to swallow him whole when you look at him with an eyebrow raised. 

“Pretty personal for a first meeting, don’t you think?” You squint your eyes, your suspicious facade breaking as you cackle while he stutters his way through an answer. 

“I’m kidding, that’s just my boyfriend. He comes here almost everyday, but he’s on an overseas exchange trip right now.” You clarify. 

Boyfriend. This time, Felix wishes for the ground to really swallow him whole. 

It’s not like it was unexpected for you to move on, but a selfish part of him had still hoped that maybe you were waiting to meet and fall in love with him again. 

“Cool.” He mentally slaps himself for giving such an awkward answer. 

You walk out of the froyo store a few minutes later, saying you had somewhere to be and telling him that you’d love to see him again. He returns the smile and wave you gave him as you left, before plopping his head down on the table once you were out of sight. 

Maybe he was being stupid, but he didn’t want to move on from you yet. He still wanted to cling onto the memory of you for a while longer, before it no longer hurt to remember the things you forgot. 

Even after everything that happened, he still loved you with every fiber of his being. 

He didn’t need you to remember, and he most definitely did not need you to love him again after seeing how much happier you looked after moving on. 

The only thing he knew was that if forgetting everything was what you needed to feel okay again, he would cherish all the memories you’ve shared for the both of you. Always, without a doubt.

@prodkwh 🧸

⤷ reblogs are appreciated ! thank you for reading (づ> v <)づ♡

⤷ tag list :: @coriihanniee @lvlyhiyyih @kjwluvr @8makes1atom

[all-for-the-game-confessions]

A lot of people don’t actually like Andriel. Which isn’t to say that they hate it, but I see so many people upset that Nora said they wouldn’t get married or say ‘I love you’ and it’s like, did.. did we read the same books? Andrew’s whole character is ‘love’ (said like that because it sounds wrong. I mean it like ‘care’) behind a stone wall of silence. Like, he does care. Obviously. But he can’t stand the word ‘family’, you think he’s out here saying ‘I love you’? He’s not gentle or sappy. He can show restraint and be merciful, but he’s not going to coddle Neil. Neil has never been coddled, and he doesn’t need to be. They still care about each other and show affection. He doesn’t HAVE TO SAY IT. Neil KNOWS. He’s not insecure and friending for Andrew’s attention and affection. In Baltimore, he literally knows Andrew won’t leave without at least talking to him. They have ‘I hate you’, and keys, and a home, and ‘stay’. Neil gets that. He makes dumb decisions in accordance to survival, but Neil is incredibly smart, especially when it comes to understanding Andrew. Marriage has never meant anything to either of them— it didn’t matter to any of Andrew’s abusers if they were married, and he probably saw so many fights and divorces that marriage is as fake to him as everything. Neil’s mother, assumedly married to his father, was KILLED BY HER HUSBAND. MARRIAGE MEANS NOTHING TO THEM. “I LOVE YOU” HAS NEVER MEANT ANYTHING TO THEM BC ANYONE WHO HAS EVER SAID THAT TO THEM, IF IT WAS EVER SAID, HAS CAUSED THEM SOME FORM OF PAIN. ‘B-but if they say that, it means they healed!’ ACTING ACCORDING TO THE NORMAL STANDARDS OF A CONVENTIONAL RELATIONSHIP IS NOT THE BAR FOR HEALING. Which brings me to another thing,’w-what do you mean Andrew doesn’t heal?!’ It means he doesn’t act ‘normal’. He’s fundamentally not normal. Neither is Neil. Neither of them ‘heal’. They are not half as low as some people think, and they don’t have to smile or act like a sitcom couple for them to love each other. Andrew choked someone out with A BROKEN CLAVICLE BC THEY HURT NEIL, EVEN WITHOUT A PROMISE, BECAUSE HE CARES. Andrew still cares, Nora said he eventually finds himself being okay and even maybe having fun with Exy (of course taken with a grain of salt bc it’s not in the book it’s a post she made but still), Andrew goes to therapy and HUGS HIS BROTHER BEFORE THEY PART WAYS at the end of college. THEY ARE NOT AS LOW AS YOU THINK. If you are upset they do not meet a convention, you have completely missed the point. They are supposed to be UNCONVENTIONAL. They are NOT ‘NORMAL’ HUMAN BEINGS. One of the reasons I love them so much is because they’re not just your average couple. They feel like actual love, or at least magnetism/attraction, because they’re not in it trying to hit every milestone everyone else thinks they should have because they’re together.

Rant over. To each their own, but I love Andriel as the unglorious assholes they are.

.

[dreamersparacosm]

I have a feeling OC and Yoongi would get along really well but like in a quiet way...and annoying(whispering) that's it that's the idea

they sooo would! i mean, think about it: oc keeps to herself very much, doesn’t speak in social settings unless she feels she needs to insert herself (obviously not true at work), and when she does finally speak, it’s some one-liner no one forgets. who does that remind you of, you may ask? yoongi. and jungkook fucking hates it (but also loves it)

the price of desire — epilogue blurb 2!

prompt ; in which you’ve met your match, and jungkook’s annoyed it’s not him.

warnings ; none!

You don’t have a lot of friends.

It’s not on purpose, really — you’re not a total psychopath — it’s just that between the corporate ladder you were busy free-climbing with your bare hands and the general soul-crushing speed of your career, there wasn’t a lot of time to seek people out, or maintain them or text them back or remember birthdays.

Or… socialize like a normal human being in any capacity, honestly.

You were always polite. Charming, when you needed to be. Professional to the point of intimidation.

But friendship? That required vulnerability. Time you didn’t have. You’ve spent your whole adult life hoarding those two things like a miser, rationing them out only when absolutely necessary.

So when you first met Jungkook’s circle, the boys he’s built an entire lifetime with, you were cautious and quieter than normal (which was wild, considering you have so much to say it sometimes physically pains you to keep it in.)

You smiled at the right moments. Nodded. Even laughed twice when someone said something genuinely funny. But mostly, you lurked in your corner like a fashion-forward gargoyle, judging people.

Jungkook noticed, because of course he did. The man tracks your movements like you're his favorite Netflix series.

What caught his attention and made his head tilt like a confused puppy was the bizarre wavelength you and Yoongi seemed to share. You were two perfectionists silently communicating through raised eyebrows and microscopic sighs. So professional you make accountants look like chaos demons, constantly eyeing everyone in the room with a level of judgment, and with wit so dry it should come with a dehumidifier warning.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Jungkook wasn’t jealous. Just… intrigued, he said, when you called him out on the weird little pout he tried to hide the first time he caught you and Yoongi side-eyeing Jimin’s questionable outfit choice from opposite ends of the room (and by “intrigued,” he meant he was building elaborate friends-to-lovers fanfiction plots about it in his brain, but whatever. Semantics.)

Which is how you find yourself here today — sitting cross-legged on the pristine floors of a HYBE rehearsal studio, laptop closed at your side, watching Jungkook run through choreography with the rest of the guys while you not-so-subtly whisper to Yoongi during breaks.

It's nice watching Jungkook in his element. The transformation is almost comical, like watching your playful puppy boyfriend suddenly morph into a sleek panther. He's all laser focus and sharp edges, completely locked in with a concentration so intense it could burn holes through concrete.

You rarely get this front-row seat to witness the version of him that's equal parts discipline, raw talent, and charisma. This is the Jungkook who built his name into a global phenomenon, the one who makes teenagers faint.

You should probably be paying more attention. You should be clapping enthusiastically after each run-through, smiling proudly like a good supportive girlfriend.

Instead, you’re currently elbow-deep in a whispered conversation with Yoongi about the fact that someone (you’re not naming names but it rhymes with Schmin) is absolutely not hitting the counts on the bridge section.

“Left foot,” you murmur out of the corner of your mouth, gaze locked on the mirror.

Yoongi, without missing a beat, “Always the left.”

You purse your lips, nodding solemnly, like two battle-worn generals surveying the frontlines.

Across the studio, Jungkook, who’s supposed to be focused on perfecting a complicated turn sequence, catches the whole thing in the mirror.

He sees you lean in closer to Yoongi. Sees Yoongi nodding sagely, the two of you in your own little private world of silent judgment.

He messes up the next turn with a stumble, nearly crashing into Jin before muttering something about "slippery floors" that nobody believes for a second.

When the music cuts and the studio fills with the buzz of professional dancers pretending they're not exhausted, Jungkook makes his way toward you with the desperation of someone trying very hard to look like they aren't rushing. The man has many talents, but subtle he is not.

You don't immediately notice his approach, too busy trying not to choke on suppressed laughter as Yoongi whispers something accurate about the choreographer's hand gestures.

It's only when Jungkook's sneakers announce his arrival with a passive-aggressive squeak on the polished floor that you finally look up. He's standing there, brows furrowed into a perfect v, arms crossed over his chest in what he clearly thinks is an intimidating pose.

You blink up at him innocently, unleashing your sweetest smile. "Hi, baby."

His eyes narrow to suspicious slits, not buying your act for a millisecond. "What's so funny?" he demands, gaze bouncing between you and Yoongi.

You glance at Yoongi. Yoongi glances at you. An entire conversation happens in absolute silence.

The lack of response hits Jungkook harder than any explanation could have.

You shrug with feigned innocence. “Nothing’s funny.”

From beside you, Yoongi deadpans, “Why do you look like someone just stole your lunch money?”

A loud unflattering snort escapes before you can clamp it down and Jungkook's face immediatel flattens.

You make a valiant attempt to contain your amusement, but it's a losing battle against the twitching corners of your mouth and the tremor in your shoulders. Especially when confronted with Jungkook looking like that.

Because — and this is just an objective assessment — Jungkook looks absolutely edible today. His tan and blue Nike tracksuit clings in all the right places, particularly around his waist and thighs. His hair has reached that perfect stage of dishevelment, curling slightly at the ends, falling dark and heavy across his forehead. Cheeks glow with a pink flush, lips parted, eyes sharp and focused.

He looks, quite frankly, delicious. The kind of criminal, offensive, painfully appetizing presence that makes you understand why certain animals bite their mates.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

He glares at you a second longer, like he’s debating whether or not to drag you away by the collar of your shirt, and then dramatically plops down next to you and Yoongi with a grunt.

You and Yoongi immediately adopt a synchronized silence. The transition from animated conversation to complete innocence happens faster than Jungkook can change outfits between performances.

Jungkook's eyes ping-pong between you two with suspicion. "No, no," he says sarcastically "Please. Continue."

You raise a single eyebrow at him while Yoongi doesn't even bother looking up, just leans back on his palms radiating indifference that only comes from a decade of surviving Jungkook's antics.

Another silent communication passes between you and Yoongi, one of those telepathic exchanges that require no actual words but convey entire paragraphs of shared amusement. The silence stretches between the three of you, growing thicker by the second.

That's when Jungkook — survivor of world tours, global media frenzies, and dating you — finally explodes.

"OH MY GOD.” he groans, arms flailing outward. "You’re doing it again."

You release a shameless giggle that does nothing to help the situation, and Jungkook whips toward you with betrayal painted across his unfairly gorgeous face.

"You guys are literally speaking a whole other language!" he accuses, hands gesturing wildly "You didn't even say anything and you still had a whole conversation! How is that fair?!"​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

You laugh harder, reaching for him instinctively. Clutching the fabric of his tracksuit, you pull him close and start planting obnoxiously loud, smacking kisses all over his face — his cheeks, nose, forehead — anywhere you can reach.

He squirms at first, trying to dodge you but he’s laughing by the third kiss, the kind that makes you wonder how you ever survived denying yourself this particular man.

“You’re just mad because Yoongi understands me,” You murmur against his temple, grinning.

Yoongi, maintaining his position as the group's resident unbothered zen master, merely lifts his chin in lazy agreement, a silent validation that encapsulates the quiet solidarity that drew you to him in the first place.

A few feet away, the rest of the guys are watching, half-amused, half-horrified at what’s unfolding before them. But Jungkook appears completely unconcerned with his audience.

He leans into you, arms winding around your waist and pulling you onto his lap, holding you there.

The boys adore you.

He can see it, feel it in the way they welcome you into their lives without hesitation. Jungkook, for all his ridiculous jealousy over silent glances and whispered jokes, can only be so grateful.

Somewhere along the way, without you even noticing, you became theirs too.

And he thinks, with utmost clarity, that this unexpected belonging might be the greatest gift you've ever given him.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

masterlist + request

[boopiemadz]

Love your writing <3 Would you consider writing post-rescue? Like, fem!reader and Travis (and the others) are finally rescued, but they end up breaking up once they’re home cause of everything that happened until they get back together?

AHHH thank you so much!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This is loosly based on what I envision going down between Trav and my OC. So giddy that u like my stuff :)

[Ghosts of who we used to be]

WARNINGS!

Swearing, Trauma, Basic Yellowjackets stuff...

---

When they found you, you thought it was the end of the nightmare.

You thought you and Travis would survive not just the crash, not just the hunger and the cold and the blood, but everything.

But survival was messy. Healing was even messier.

At first, you clung to each other like drowning people. Late nights spent tangled up in his sheets, breathing in his warmth just to remind yourself you were still alive. Clutching each other during nightmares. Talking in broken whispers about everything you didn’t say out there.

But the world outside didn’t understand. You weren’t the kids you used to be. You weren’t even the people they pulled from the woods. You were ghosts wearing their old faces.

And slowly, piece by piece, you started to fall apart. It wasn’t one fight. It wasn’t even fighting at all.

It was Travis pulling away, shutting down, numbing himself so he didn’t have to remember. It was you breaking under the weight of pretending you were fine, when you still woke up tasting dirt and blood. It was long silences. Missed calls. Apologies that didn’t fix anything.

It was a Tuesday afternoon, sitting in his truck with the windows rolled down, the sky too blue, the air too heavy. "I can’t do this anymore," he said, voice cracking. He couldn’t even look at you.

Your heart broke, like a bone snapping in half. "But we survived," you whispered, desperate. "We survived, Travis."

He shook his head, jaw tight, hands clenched on the steering wheel like he wanted to crush it. "I dont know if I did."

You reached for him anyway, fingers brushing his wrist, and for a second, he let you. For a second, you felt the old gravity pulling you together.

But then he pulled away.

And just like that, you let him go.

You cried yourself dry that night, curled up under your old quilt, breathing through the ache in your ribs where you still felt his heartbeat against yours.

You didn’t hate him. You couldn’t. You just hated the way the world cracked you both open and left you bleeding where no one could see.

---

-Months Later-

You didn’t expect to see him at the bonfire.

Someone’s stupid idea, a "reunion" for the survivors. Cheap beer. Bonfire smoke. Everyone pretending they were okay. Which was ironic seeing as most of the trauma filled events that took place had to do with or involved fire.

You almost didn’t go. You almost turned around when you saw his truck in the parking lot. But you didn’t.

You stood at the edge of the firelight, arms crossed tight against the autumn chill, feeling the ghosts shifting under your skin.

And then, Travis.

Rougher. Sadder. God, you could read it all his eyes, the weight of them. You didn’t realize you were staring until his eyes shifted to look at you.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The world went still except for the crackle of the fire and the distant echo of a song you used to know by heart.

Slowly, like gravity was stronger than pride, he crossed the distance between you.

"Hey," he said, voice low,.

You swallowed hard. "Hey."

He shifted, hands stuffed deep in his jacket pockets. He looked like he wanted to say a thousand things and didn't know where to start.

"I didn’t know you’d be here," he said. His voice cracked a little on the 'you.'

"I almost didn’t come."

Silence stretched. The firelight danced across his face, carving out all the pieces you still knew by heart, the curve of his mouth, the scar on his neck from when you stitched him up with trembling hands in the woods.

"I miss you," Travis blurted out, so raw it hurt. "I miss you so much it’s fucking killing me."

Your breath caught. All the anger, all the grief, it crumbled under the weight of his voice.

"I’m still broken," he said, stepping closer. "I don’t know if I’ll ever not be. But..." His hand hovered near yours, not quite touching. "You’re the only thing that ever made it feel okay."

Tears burned hot in your eyes. You hated him a little for making you fall all over again. You loved him more for being brave enough to say it.

You reached out, threading your fingers through his, slow, deliberate. His hand trembled in yours.

"I’m broken too," you whispered. "But I’d rather be broken with you than pretend to be fine without you."

A rough breath tore out of him, half a laugh, half a sob. He cupped your face in both hands, forehead pressing against yours, shaking.

And this time, finally, you let yourself fall into him.

The kiss wasn’t perfect. It was messy. Wet. Salted with tears. It tasted like pain and hope and the ashes you both crawled out of.

But it was real.

You clung to each other, hands desperate, hearts pounding like drums.

Not whole.

Not healed.

But together.

[bluebanistrs]

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪vicious .

franco was the kind of situationship that never had made her sad, just angry and more obsessed.

franco × journalist ! reader

im thinking abt a part 2 for this one (cause its kinda short)

Moving from a small town to study journalism was my biggest dream. In 2023, it finally happened. I moved to an apartment in Monaco with my best friend and started the college I always dreamed of doing.

2024 started with me having a really good time with my friends and family, and after the journalist who did the pre and post race interviews randomly decided that he would retire in the middle of the season, my internship manager decided that I would be the best option to replace him, even though I was only in the second year of college.

Unfortunately, I wasn't the only one to get promoted. Franco Colapinto was the newest Williams Racing F1 driver.

Franco was someone I've kissed in a lot of parties. I thought that he wasn't like the other guys, but that was before I really knew him. He is the type of guy that texts you the whole day, pretends to care about you, asks how you're feeling, sends you roses, tells you he spoke about you to his mother in a space of time, and completely ignores you for the next whole month.

If someone asks me about him, I would just say that he's a dickhead and I absolutely hate him. But if he sent me a message saying he feels so sorry for ghosting me, I would forgive and not fight. Why does he gotta be so vicious? I could never be mad at him, even if he was destroying my heart. All my friends just told me that I'm being stupid and should stop talking with him, but they didn't understand me.

✸

Franco was ghosting me for a few days, but he couldn't escape from the pre free-practice interview, specifically in his first time driving an F1 car. He couldn't escape from talking with me, even if it was for professional reasons.

He finished FP1 in 17th place. I've already interviewed his teammate, Alex Albon, and Kimi Antonelli, who sadly crashed George's car.

The Argentinian was in his flirting mood, responding to all my questions with phrases that could be interpreted in another way. I was already angry at him, and the way he was acting was really annoying me.

I was leaving the paddock when I felt someone touching my left shoulder. Of course, it was him.

“You can't just ignore me for weeks and then pretend that you didn't do anything. I can't play your little game anymore.” I almost screamed at him.

“Hermosa, you can't just pretend that you don't like me. Stop being selfish and let me talk to you. Let me explain myself.” He said with that accent that I couldn't hear without getting crazy.

“So you are calling me selfish? Oh, please, Franco. Act like an adult for a second. I don't wanna talk to you."

He just laughed.

“And stop fucking laughing.” said while I started walking faster.

✸

When I got to my hotel room, the first thing I did was block him everywhere. No more Franco, no more stress.

But only an hour later the room phone started to ring.

“Miss y/n, someone left a thing in your name at the reception.”

“I'm going there.” I put my shoes on and left my room.

“It can't be Franco.” I said to myself while waiting for the elevator.

The ‘thing’ someone left to me was an example of my favorite book, My Year of Rest and Relaxation. I told Franco it was my favorite book when we had our only date that wasn't in a club. On this day, we went to a coffee shop and talked there for hours. I think it is my favorite memory with him.

I unblocked and called him.

“You can't just buy me with presents. I said it before, and I'm saying it again. I can't play your little game anymore.”

“This was the only way I found to grab your attention. I tried to talk to you in the paddock, but you just ran away from me. I would call you, but you blocked me. I really feel that I have to explain myself, but I want to do it face to face. Can I go to your room? No second intentions, I just want to talk.”

I stopped for a moment and considered whether I should let him come and talk.

“My room is number 1043. But you better have a good excuse.”

15 minutes later, I heard someone knocking on my door.

“Come in.” I said to him.

We sat on a sofa. He had his elbows on his thighs, his hands under his face.

“I've had a lot of failed relationships, and it was all my fault. I think I just get scared. I'm scared about things just getting wrong again, and I lose you. I don't know why I kept doing it. Treating you like the whole world and then after, completely ignoring you. Y/n, I really like you, and I can't keep treating you like you're nothing. I'm really sorry for everything I've done to you, and it would mean the world to me if I could only get a second chance.”

I knew he wasn't lying. I saw the truth in his eyes.

“I can't give you a second chance because I've already done that. I really like you, Franco, and I wish things weren't that complicated.” I looked him directly in the eyes.

“I know I kept making you more and more upset with me, and I'm really sorry for everything. I would do anything for you to forgive me. Te lo ruego hermosa.”

“Actually, you've never made me really sad. You just made me really angry, but that always went away when we started talking again.”

“I'm so sorry about everything.”

I grabbed his hands.

“You'll have to prove that you really have changed.”

“Anything for you, mi amor." He gave me a soft kiss after saying that

I told him to go back to his room and just went to bed.

That night, I couldn't sleep well. Was he really being honest? How could I be so sure he wasn't lying? What will happen with us? all these thoughts kept me awake for a few hours. But something inside of me said that everything would be fine.

✸

It was the race day. Lando Norris was on pole and Franco placed 18th.

He had never been so sweet to me and I was really happy cheering for him.

After a long race, he finished 12th place, which was a pretty good result considering that it was his first time racing in an F1 car.

He was the third driver I would interview. After I congratulated Leclerc on his win, the Argentinian driver came in.

“Franco, it was your first time racing in F1, and you had such a great result. How are you feeling right now?”

“I'm feeling like a brand new man.” He said with a big smile.

“The car is really good as far as possible, and I'm really excited for the next race. It's all so different from F2, but me and the team are doing a great job.”

“Congrats, Franco.”

“Thank you, Y/n.” He looked at me with shiny eyes and a sweet smile.

[rafesbimbo]

Exclusive Access pt.3

Warnings: 18+, 4.3k words, oral (f), mutual masturbation, dirty talk, Dark themes ??, RAFE IS A STALKER, innocent!reader, strip-tease, lots of kissing, use of pet names, intense yearning ۶ৎ NOT PROOF READ !!!, lmk if im missing anything!!

pairing: Jealous!Rafe Cameron x Camgirl!Reader

part one , part two

It got worse after that night.

For both of you.

You tried to pretend he wasn’t there.

You tried to pretend you didn’t feel his eyes in every shadow.

Didn’t feel his touch in every brush of cold air against your skin.

But Rafe...

Rafe couldn’t pretend anymore.

Every night without you was agony.

Every sunrise felt like another blade twisting in his gut.

He couldn’t sleep.

Couldn’t eat.

Couldn’t breathe without you clogging up his fucking lungs.

You were everywhere.

He’d drive past the diner at midnight, headlights off, just to see if you were still there.

He'd sit in the parking lot, smoking cigarettes down to the filter, staring at your window like a man waiting for salvation.

He didn’t touch anyone else.

Not even to get the ache out of his system.

No one would do.

No one but you.

The flowers started two days later.

Small at first.

White lilies tucked into the booth you always used at work.

Then pink roses — shy, almost sweet — left at your apartment door with no signature.

Then bigger arrangements.

Orchids, peonies, gardenias — expensive, excessive, like he was trying to drown you in pretty things.

Each bouquet came with a note.

Short.

Intimate.

Painful in their tenderness.

"You’re the only thing that makes this world bearable. I don’t want anyone else. I never will. Every day without you is worse than the last."

You told yourself you weren’t keeping the notes.

You told yourself you were throwing them away.

But they piled up anyway — tucked into a shoebox under your bed, hidden like a secret shame.

And Rafe?

He knew.

He knew

Sometimes, when you opened your mailbox, there’d be a letter.

Old-fashioned. Handwritten.

Pages of messy scrawl, like he couldn’t get the words out fast enough.

In one, he confessed:

I think about you more than I think about breathing.

I want to be good for you. I want to be better. I’d kill for you, sugar.

In another, darker:

I see the way men look at you. It makes my hands itch. It makes my heart bleed.

You belong to me. Even if you don’t want to admit it yet.

You should have been terrified.

You were.

But you were something else too.

Something worse.

Curious.

Drawn.

Like a moth beating itself bloody against a flame it couldn’t resist.

And Rafe?

Rafe was losing himself inch by inch.

Some nights he sat outside your building for hours, just... watching.

Making sure you were safe.

Making sure no one else got too close.

Convincing himself he could wait.

Convincing himself he could be patient.

But every second without you clawed at him.

Every laugh you gave to someone else shredded him inside out.

Every accidental glimpse of your smile made him want to tear the world apart, just to tuck you somewhere no one else could ever see.

He whispered your name into the darkness like a prayer.

One day you’d understand.

That you were already his.

Had been from the moment he first saw you behind that cheap little webcam, blushing and shy and perfect.

You were his sugar.

His salvation.

His curse.

And Rafe?

Rafe would wait forever if he had to.

Because loving you — needing you — was the only thing keeping him alive at all.

=========================

The notes kept coming.

Every day.

Every night.a

You stopped pretending you didn’t read them.

Stopped pretending they didn’t matter.

Each one carved deeper under your skin.

Each one left you raw and trembling in ways you couldn’t explain.

He wasn’t asking for anything.

He wasn’t begging.

He was waiting.

Loving you from a distance with a patience so violent it made your chest hurt.

And you hated yourself for it —

for the way you craved him back.

For the way you curled up in bed at night, clutching his letters to your chest, whispering his name into your pillow like a dirty secret.

You fought it.

You fought him.

But the more you pushed, the tighter the cord wrapped around your throat.

Around your heart

====================

The night you broke was a Tuesday.

Cold and mean and wet, the kind of night where the world felt hollow and cruel.

You found another bouquet waiting on your doorstep —

wildflowers this time, messy and beautiful, tied together with a rough piece of twine.

No card.

No note.

Just a single slip of paper tucked between the stems, smudged with rain:

Still waiting, sugar.

Still yours.

You stared at it.

Heart pounding.

Throat closing.

You stood there for what felt like hours, soaked to the bone, shaking with something too big to name.

And then — without thinking, without breathing —

you grabbed your coat.

Grabbed your keys.

And went looking for him.

You found him exactly where you knew he’d be.

Sitting in his truck, parked two blocks down from your building, engine off, window cracked just enough to let the smoke from his cigarette curl into the cold night air.

He didn’t see you at first.

Didn’t move.

Just sat there —

head back against the seat, eyes closed, mouth moving in silent prayers you couldn’t hear.

You stood on the sidewalk, heart rattling in your ribs.

Watching him.

Feeling the full, brutal weight of what you were about to do.

And still —

you moved.

One step.

Then another.

Until you were right outside his door, shivering, dripping rain onto the pavement.

He must’ve felt you.

Some instinct deeper than thought.

Because his eyes snapped open —

and when he saw you, he froze.

Like a man staring down a miracle.

Or a ghost.

Or the last breath he ever expected to take.

"Rafe," you whispered.

Voice thin.

Breaking.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t breathe.

Just stared.

Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Like you’d vanish if he reached for you too fast.

You lifted a trembling hand —

and knocked once against the glass.

That tiny sound shattered him.

The door flew open.

He was on you in a second —

but he didn’t touch.

Didn’t grab.

Didn’t even move closer.

He just stood there, dripping wet too now, fists clenched at his sides like he was holding himself back with every scrap of willpower he had left.

You stared up at him —

the boy who’d spent months haunting you.

Loving you.

Waiting for you.

And you realized:

He’d never really wanted to steal you.

He just wanted you to choose him.

Slowly — so slowly — you reached out.

Curled your fingers into the front of his jacket.

Tugged.

His whole body jolted.

A shudder ran through him so deep it made you ache.

Still, he didn’t move until you whispered it:

"Rafe... please."

That single sentence broke him.

Undid him.

He cupped your face with trembling hands, like you were made of glass.

Pressed his forehead to yours, breath shaking against your lips.

"You’re mine," he rasped.

A confession.

A prayer.

A promise.

You nodded.

Tears mixing with the rain.

"Yours," you whispered back.

And for the first time in months —

Rafe Cameron smiled.

Soft and wild and starved —

like a man who'd finally found his way home.

===================

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Just breathing.

Just feeling.

The rain dripped from your lashes.

Your fingers clutched tighter into his jacket.

You could feel the way Rafe was trembling — this big, dangerous boy who could ruin you without even trying, shaking like you were the only thing holding him together.

And then —

slow as the tide pulling out to sea —

he leaned in.

His mouth brushed yours so lightly it barely counted as a kiss.

A whisper.

A plea.

He pulled back almost immediately, searching your face, waiting for a sign —

Begging without saying a word.

You whimpered.

Soft.

Needy.

You crushed your mouth back to his.

That was all he needed.

Rafe groaned — a low, guttural sound that made your knees buckle — and caught your face in both hands, kissing you like he was drowning and you were the only air left.

Not rough.

Not violent.

But desperate.

His lips moved over yours again and again, slow and deep and aching, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

Like he’d been dreaming of this for so long he couldn’t believe it was real.

You whimpered into his mouth, and his whole body shuddered against you, a helpless noise tearing from his throat.

"Sugar," he breathed.

"God, you’re so soft... so sweet... been waitin’ so fuckin' long—"

You clutched at him harder, soaking wet and shivering and starved for him in ways you didn’t know how to name.

He kissed you through it — patient, tender, worshipful — like he could feel how scared you were, how much you wanted him but didn’t know how to ask.

He was shaking just as bad.

Not from cold — from restraint.

From the agonizing, brutal need he was barely keeping caged.

Still, he didn’t push.

Didn’t try to take more than you gave.

Just held you — kissed you — poured every filthy, aching, adoring thing he felt into the way his mouth moved over yours.

Eventually, the cold got too sharp.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, voice cracking:

"Come inside?"

Rafe stared at you like you’d just handed him the stars.

Like you’d saved him.

He nodded once — a tiny, broken movement — and let you take his hand, leading him up the stairs, into your tiny apartment that smelled like vanilla candles and soft laundry.

The door clicked shut behind you.

The world outside disappeared.

Inside, everything slowed even more.

You stood there in the soft glow of the living room lamp, dripping rainwater onto the carpet, breathing hard, heart hammering in your ears.

Rafe didn’t move.

Didn’t rush.

Just stared at you —

— and the look in his eyes made your breath catch.

Like you were something sacred.

Like he was standing in front of an altar.

"You’re so beautiful," he whispered, voice raw and wrecked.

"You don’t even fuckin' know, do you?"

You shook your head, overwhelmed.

He smiled — a soft, broken thing — and stepped closer, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted.

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

When he reached out, his fingers skimmed your cheek — featherlight, reverent.

Tracing the line of your jaw, your throat, the hollow where your pulse fluttered wildly.

You whimpered again, and Rafe cursed under his breath, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

"Let me take care of you," he rasped.

"Please, sugar... let me show you how good I can be."

You nodded.

Tiny.

Breathless.

And that was it.

That was all Rafe needed.

He let out a shaky breath — like he was barely holding himself together — and stepped even closer.

His hands, still trembling, moved to your jacket first.

Fumbling the zipper like he’d never undressed someone before.

Like the idea of peeling away your layers had short-circuited his whole brain.

You laughed — soft and sweet and nervous — and Rafe groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder like he was about to fall apart right there.

"Fuck," he whispered.

"You’re killin' me, baby. You don't even know..."

You reached up, shy, and pushed the jacket off your shoulders yourself.

Rafe watched it fall to the floor like it was something sacred.

Like every inch of skin you revealed was another piece of heaven he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch.

He took his time.

His hands slid up your arms, slow and reverent, tracing every curve like he was memorizing you by feel.

The pads of his fingers skimming over your elbows, your shoulders, the dip of your waist.

Leaving goosebumps in their wake.

When he finally cupped your face again, you leaned into him without thinking.

Like you belonged there.

Like you wanted to.

He kissed you again — deeper this time, but still slow —

and you whimpered when his tongue brushed yours, tentative and gentle, like he was asking permission.

You gave it to him.

You gave him everything.

Your hands fisted in his damp shirt.

Tugging.

Begging.

Needing him closer, closer, closer —

He groaned into your mouth, the sound filthy and broken.

And for the first time, you felt the heavy, aching proof of how much he wanted you.

Hard against your stomach.

Throbbing.

Desperate.

Still — he didn’t push.

Didn’t grind against you.

Didn’t take.

Just shuddered and kissed you harder, like he could pour all of it into your mouth instead.

When you whimpered again — a high, needy sound you couldn’t have swallowed if you tried —

Rafe pulled back, gasping, forehead pressed to yours.

"Tell me what you need, baby," he rasped.

"Tell me — I'll do anything. Anything you want."

You stared up at him, trembling, heart breaking under the weight of how much he loved you.

How badly he was trying to be good.

You swallowed.

Opened your mouth.

Nothing came out at first.

Then, barely a whisper:

"Touch me... please."

Rafe made a sound you didn’t even recognize —

half-growl, half-whimper —

and dropped to his knees in front of you.

He kissed the bare skin just above your hip, hands sliding under your soaked shirt to push it higher, higher —

tugging it up and over your head with slow, reverent hands.

When you stood there in just your damp little bra, shivering and wide-eyed, Rafe leaned back on his heels, eyes dragging over you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

"Fuck," he whispered again, almost broken.

"You’re a fuckin’ angel, sugar. My sweet girl. My perfect fuckin’ girl."

His hands were on your hips now, gentle but firm, smoothing up to your waist and back down again like he couldn’t help himself.

Like he needed to touch every inch of you just to make sure you were real.

He nuzzled into your stomach, breathing you in, scattering kisses so soft they barely registered except for the way they made your whole body shiver.

You whimpered again, and Rafe's hands tightened — just for a second — before he caught himself, pulling back like he was terrified of hurting you.

"Tell me if it’s too much," he whispered.

"Tell me if you want me to stop."

You shook your head so fast it made him smile —

that soft, broken smile like you were the only thing tethering him to the earth.

"Need you," you whispered.

"need you so bad.."

He kissed the inside of your thigh through your jeans —

a desperate, reverent little kiss that made you gasp —

before reaching for your waistband.

Still slow.

Still giving you every chance to pull away.

When you didn’t — when you whined and arched into his touch —

he groaned again and started to peel the soaked denim down your legs, inch by slow, agonizing inch.

Every bit of skin he uncovered, he kissed.

The sharp point of your hip.

The soft curve of your thigh.

The delicate skin behind your knee.

By the time you stood there in just your panties, shivering and bare and aching, you were crying.

Silent, shaking tears sliding down your cheeks.

Rafe noticed immediately.

Shot up to his feet so fast you barely saw him move, cupping your face again, wiping the tears with his thumbs.

"Hey," he whispered.

"Hey, no, shh, sugar, don’t cry.."

You nodded, choking on a sob you didn’t even understand.

"Just— feels good," you whispered.

"Feels too good."

Rafe’s whole face crumpled.

He kissed you again, soft and slow and filthy, mouths wet and trembling, like he needed to taste your tears just to prove to himself you were real.

"I got you," he whispered between kisses.

"I got you, baby... gonna make you feel so good... so fuckin' good..."

Rafe kissed you until you stopped shaking.

Until your sobs melted into gasps.

Into tiny, desperate sounds that made his hands clench where they cradled your face.

He pulled back just enough to look at you —

really look at you —

and the way his eyes darkened made your whole body throb.

"Gonna make you feel good now, sugar," he rasped, voice low and wrecked.

"Gonna taste you... been dreaming about this — about you — for so fuckin' long."

You whimpered, thighs clenching together, but Rafe was already moving —

sinking back to his knees at your feet, hands skimming reverently down your body.

He kissed your belly again, slow and messy, leaving a slick trail of heat.

Then lower —

the dip of your hip, the soft curve of your inner thigh —

so close to where you needed him, but never rushing, never taking.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and paused —

looking up at you through wet lashes, pleading:

"Let me see you, baby. Please."

You nodded, dizzy, and lifted your hips just enough to let him pull them down.

Rafe’s breath caught.

Hard.

He dragged your panties down your legs with shaking hands, baring you inch by inch like he was unwrapping the most precious thing he’d ever been given.

When you stepped out of them, shy and trembling, he groaned low in his chest.

The sound of a man breaking.

He tossed the scrap of lace aside without looking.

Didn’t care about anything but you.

His hands slid up your calves, your knees, your thighs —

spreading you gently, reverently, just enough to see.

You flushed hot all over.

Tried to turn your face away, overwhelmed.

But Rafe caught your chin, made you look at him.

Made you see the devotion in his eyes.

"Goddamn," he breathed.

"You’re so fuckin’ pretty, sugar... so wet already... all for me?

You'd whimper.

His eyes fluttered shut for a second like he was in pain.

Like he was trying to memorize this moment forever.

"I’m gonna take my time," he said, voice rough with need.

"Gonna make you come on my tongue... over and over."

Then he kissed you there —

a slow, open-mouthed kiss right over your soaked, swollen clit —

and you sobbed.

He moaned into you like he was tasting something holy.

Something he’d been starving for.

His hands slid under your ass, holding you still, tilting you just right.

His tongue moved slow at first —

broad, heavy licks up your slit, savoring every inch.

Dragging across your clit with torturous, aching pressure that made your knees buckle.

You gasped, clutching at his hair, tugging without even meaning to —

and Rafe groaned, like your need made him harder, made him hungrier.

He mouthed at your clit, slow and messy, letting spit and slick coat his chin.

Suckling softly, then lapping at you like a man possessed.

No rhythm at first — just desperate worship.

"Taste so good, sugar," he mumbled against you.

"So fuckin’ sweet... fuck, can’t get enough..."

His tongue slid lower, teasing your entrance —

flicking, pressing, dipping inside —

and you cried out, hips jerking helplessly.

He held you down, moaning when you squirmed, like your writhing was the best thing he’d ever felt.

"That’s it," he panted.

"That’s my good girl... give it to me... wanna feel you come on my mouth, baby, c'mon..."

You were already so close it scared you.

The way your body tightened, pulling taut like a bowstring.

The way your thighs clamped around his head, trying to push him away and pull him closer all at once.

Rafe didn’t let go.

Didn’t stop.

He just wrapped his arms tighter around your thighs, grinding his mouth into you with filthy, desperate sounds, his nose bumping your clit in time with the frantic flicks of his tongue.

Your hands fisted in his hair, tugging hard, and he growled —

low and guttural —

sending vibrations through your core that made your vision blur.

You sobbed his name.

Over and over.

A broken, wrecked little chant.

"Rafe — Rafe — Rafe —"

That did it.

He groaned again, louder, sucking your clit into his mouth with devastating pressure —

and you shattered.

Your whole body went taut —

then broke apart, spasming against him as you came with a high, keening cry.

Rafe held you through it, moaning against your pulsing cunt, drinking down every tremor, every sob, every desperate, wrecked gasp.

He didn’t stop.

Even when you started to twitch, to push at his shoulders, too sensitive —

he just kept licking, softer now, coaxing you through every last aftershock until you were nothing but a boneless, sobbing mess in his hands.

When he finally pulled back, his face was wrecked —

chin slick with your arousal, lips swollen, eyes wild and reverent.

"You’re mine now," he whispered, voice thick and shaking.

"You hear me, sugar? Always fuckin’ mine."

You couldn’t even speak.

Just nodded, whimpering, reaching for him.

Needing him back against you.

Inside you.

Everywhere.

And Rafe — sweet, obsessed, broken Rafe —

crawled up your body, kissed your wrecked mouth, and whispered:

"Not done yet, baby... gonna make you feel even better..

=============

Later that night, after you’d both caught your breath —

after he’d kissed every inch of your body, whispered every filthy, worshipful thing he’d ever dreamed of saying —

you found yourself perched on the edge of your bed.

Still trembling.

Still wide-eyed.

Rafe sat back against your headboard, legs spread, shirt half-open, eyes wild and hungry on you.

His hand rested lazily on his cock —

thick, flushed, heavy in his palm —

but he wasn’t stroking yet.

Not really.

Just teasing himself, like he was trying to savor it.

Watching you with a hunger so sharp it almost hurt.

"Show me, sugar," he rasped, voice low and ruined.

"Give me a fuckin' show."

You blinked at him, cheeks burning.

"W-what?"

Rafe’s lips curled into a slow, wrecked smile.

He fisted himself once — a slow, filthy drag of his palm — and groaned under his breath.

"Strip for me, baby. Real slow."

"Like you do on that fuckin' cam."

"But this time... it’s just for me."

Your heart hammered against your ribs.

You could barely breathe.

But the way he looked at you —

like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted, ever needed —

made your thighs clench with desperate, aching heat.

You swallowed.

Nodded.

And rose shakily to your feet.

Rafe’s eyes never left you.

Not once.

Tracking every single movement like a predator locked on prey.

You started slow.

Just swaying your hips a little, hands sliding up your own sides, across your breasts, down your waist.

You bit your lip — shy and unsure —

but the way Rafe groaned when you tugged your ruined little panties back up your thighs gave you a rush of wicked confidence.

You hooked your thumbs into the waistband —

dragging them down, inch by slow, teasing inch.

Rafe’s breath hitched.

His hand started moving —

slow, steady strokes along his cock, squeezing the head just enough to make his whole body twitch.

"That’s it, sugar," he panted.

"God, you’re so fuckin’ perfect... show me what’s mine."

You stepped out of the panties, letting them fall to the floor.

Ran your hands up your thighs again, swaying a little more now.

Arching your back just enough to make your tits press tight against the too-small bra you still wore.

Rafe’s eyes darkened.

His hand moved faster.

His thighs tensed under his jeans, a vein popping along his neck.

"Take it off, baby," he rasped.

"Wanna see all of you."

You reached behind your back — fumbled for the clasp —

and Rafe’s hand squeezed almost painfully tight around his cock as the bra loosened.

You slid it off your shoulders slow, teasing, letting the straps fall one at a time.

Barer and barer with every heartbeat.

When you finally let it drop, standing there naked, flushed, trembling —

Rafe broke.

He let out a rough, shuddering groan —

stroking his cock hard now, frantic, messy, leaking precum down his fist.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck—"

"You’re a fuckin' angel... my angel... gonna come just from lookin’ at you, sugar, fuck—"

You whimpered, thighs pressing together at the filthy, desperate sound of him.

At the way he stared at you like you were some vision he’d conjured out of a fever dream.

He fisted himself harder, faster.

Head thrown back against the wall, jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his neck stood out sharp and aching.

"Touch yourself, baby," he gasped.

"Please— wanna see you fall apart for me."

You whimpered again but obeyed —

hand sliding between your thighs, fingers brushing your slick folds.

The moment your fingers touched your clit, Rafe growled.

A savage, broken sound that made your knees shake.

"That’s it," he snarled.

"Rub that pretty little clit for me... show me how you get off, sugar... show me how sweet you sound when you come."

You couldn’t hold back anymore.

You circled your clit with trembling fingers, hips rocking helplessly, gasping his name over and over.

Rafe jerked himself harder, breathing ragged, cock twitching in his hand.

Watching you fall apart pushed him over the edge.

You saw it happen —

the way his whole body stiffened, the way his hips jerked up off the bed —

the way he roared your name as hot ropes of cum spilled over his knuckles, dripping down his fist, messy and feral.

"Sugar — fuck — fuuuck—"

He kept stroking himself through it, chasing every last drop, moaning low and wrecked.

His eyes locked on you the whole time —

wild, fevered, possessive.

Like he’d burn the whole world down just to keep you right there.

All his.

Forever.

tags: @xoxobellamy , @hanneh69 , @marinrscomplex , @love-4-rafey-lando

[yourfavvvintj]

how to cope?

good question. good

riddance, five stages of grief

to grieve

five days of

philosophical bullshit,

your shitty reading comprehension,

the way words aren't enough to

get the pain out of our systems,

the way it's so hard to find love nowadays;

(i say: "you're not trying hard enough."

you say: "it's not that easy.")

please don't try so hard now.

for once, maybe,

could you stop being so intellectual

and succumbing to the fact of adultness--

please?

responsibility and morals don't befit you;

(they do, they make me miss you more, but)

shouldn't you be good at lying

by now?

if hedonism really does define you,

is it that i've failed at my

meager attempts at entertaining you?

my sad girl music

really does the trick right about now.

i don't blame you, really, (really),

but--just a thought--

you shouldn't have told me your name

if you didn't want me to call you by it.

(okay, i'd say subtlety comes with age but,

then again, not in your case, certainly;

i suppose we were both born

with no shortage of bluntness).

i hate that i'm

a petulant kid, (and that

sometimes i enjoy it), and that

it's understandable and reasonable

and logical and the right thing to do--

which is why it hurts the way it does.

it hurts a lot, but

this isn't your third wish

yet.

---

@ravensncrowsx @regardingrowan @salmonsushi13 @inkandteaxx @somemismatchedsocks @frenchfryturtle @yourlocalbadgerscales @rainystarssx @raysofpoetry222 @nyxmahogany @girl-rudely-interrupted

[inkstainsonmyfingertips]

missed you. (missed calls pt. 2)

ꨄ︎ -keeping secrets comes with a cost, the price being distance. grayson hawthorne x reader.

word count: 944.

warnings: mentions of panic attacks. not really a warning but no use of y/n.

grayson davenport hawthorne hates secrets.

he experienced too many of them from a young age. he had been lied to so many times that it made him angry. angry enough that he always let it out by pushing himself to his limits. whether it was work, swimming, protecting his family, to anything and everything he did. he always pushed himself, he just kept going and going and going.

but when he had met you. things changed. it was slow at first, opening up to you and getting used to the idea of letting go. but then, he fell in love all at once. he knew he shouldn't have been surprised when he did, he always felt this pull to you, when he told you about it, you called the pull, "kindred spirits and a little bit more," winking.

the two of you were open and honest, and everything in between. he felt as though they were the overcast, grey sky that met the the deep, everchanging ocean crowned in a beautiful halo of the setting sun.

grayson knows that this love you have together is priceless. grayson knows that you did as well. or at least he though. but you’ve been acting off lately. like you’re hiding something. at first he thought that you were angry with him, so he did what any man in their right mind would do: ask for forgiveness...with a lot of kisses.

the day after.

the sunlight peeked through the barely open curtains, when grayson had woken up. you were snuggled right next to him, face partially hidden in his arms.

oh, what wouldn’t he do to make this moment last forever?

your face was slightly puffy from sleep, your hair spread out on the white sheets, you looked angelic, hair lightened in the morning sun, breathing softly.

grayson smiled, he wasn't one to rest, you had a habit of telling him, many, many times. but now, he wanted to stay here forever, just you and him, wrapped in a cocoon of warmth he'd never thought he'd have.

grayson pressed his lips softly to your collarbone, you moved slightly at the touch. he kissed the middle of your throat, under your jaw, and up to your lips.

by the time you had woken up his lips were still pressed softly against yours, "grayson," you pulled back, scolding, a ghost of a smile on your face.

"what are you doing?"

grayson smiled, and in a true hawthorne fashion, he answered your question without an actual answer. he chased your lips once again, holding the small of your back, so you wouldn't pull away this time.

he grinned, as he let go, as if telling you that he had done nothing at all.

you shook your head, before letting it fall onto his arm, "you're gross, i literally just woke up."

you looked up at him, waiting for an answer trying to look mad but failing. when a man like him was looking at you like that and smiling so lovingly, it was hard not to smile back.

but then your smile faltered just for a second but grayson noticed it, like he always did. he frowned slightly, something was wrong, he assumed at the time that you were upset with him for coming home late last night. his brain turned on and sped to a million miles an hour.

he studied your face before he pulled you impossibly closer, and rested his head in the crook of your neck. he wasn't sure what to do…but he could apologize, a million times over if he had to.

his voice was muffled when he spoke, "i really am sorry about last night, sweetheart. i genuinely did forget."

you laughed softly. how he loved it when you laughed, grayson was certainly convinced that he would be perfectly happy for the rest of his life as long as he could make you laugh and be right next to you.

people usually thought that he was much too serious from the way he acted, and while that was probably true, he was glad that you didn’t think so as well. not when you told him that his armor was just as charming as his true self.

"it's alright gray, i understand. you got tired," you assured him quietly. but there was something slightly off about your voice. he couldn’t quite place it, but from months of experience, he learned it was better not to push, until you could tell him yourself.

after all if he could wait an entire lifetime for you, he could wait until you were comfortable enough to talk about what had been bothering you, or at least that’s what he thought.

"well... i don't i have any work today, and neither do you," he kissed your neck again, slower this time as his hands slip down, resting on your hips.

"grayson..." your voice trailed off, neither a rejection nor an approval.

it had been two weeks since the incident. two weeks of trying everything he could think of to get you to open up, but it seemed that the more he tried, the more closed off you would get. after all this time, after all the both of you had gone through, he couldn't believe that it was you who wouldn't tell him anything. he was confused and worried and frustrated and angry. not at you, but at the world for always forcing things like this on him. just when he thought he could be happy.

he didn't want to feel angry, but he did. so, he let it out in the only way he could think of at the moment: swimming.

pictures from pinterest, dividers by me.

a/n: part 3 will be out sooner or later! this one is a bit shorter, but ya know...!

main masterlist. more of grayson & part 1.

[konigsm]

Simon riley as not-terrible-but-struggling dad hcs :

Simon really thought he could do kids. For you. After all, you managed him, didn’t you? You loved him gently, without breaking him. You softened the edges of his sharp, jagged past, made him feel like maybe he wasn’t the monster his father had always painted him to be.

But when it came to his own children? It wasn’t that simple. He couldn’t just flip a switch. He couldn’t be gentle like you were. With them, there was no softness in his hands, no warmth in his words.

He was too afraid, always second-guessing, always wondering if the anger he fought so hard to bury would surface. He promised himself he’d never turn out like his father, but the fear never left. And now, standing there, unable to reach his kids the way you reached him.

"He’s Your Dad, There Will Always Be Some of him in you" His mother’s words would haunt him. Some nights, while deployed, he would stare at pictures of his kids and wonder if the parts of himself he hates are already in them — if he’s ruined them without even meaning to. (He'd never say this aloud, not even to you.)

When he’s home, he would stand in doorways a lot, just watching. He doesn’t really know how to join in. If the kids are playing, he’ll awkwardly clear his throat and maybe say, "Crack on," before walking away.

If he tries to play with them, it's stiff, military-like "Right, team, operation clean up toys" and the kids just kind of stare at him like he's grown a second head.

His eldest looks up to him desperately, but Simon is so afraid of 'messing him up' that he keeps him at arm’s length. It kills him, because deep down, he wants to throw the football around, teach him how to build things, even just sit on the floor and play video games — but he doesn't know how to be there without feeling like a fraud.

He’s even worse with the girls. He thinks he's too rough, too cold for little girls who deserve someone softer. Once, his youngest proudly handed him a card, the words "Velcom back dady" scribbled on it in crooked letters. It made Simon’s heart swell, but the warmth in his chest but he didn’t know what to say beyond a simple "Thank you" and an awkward hug, followed by a quick kiss on the cheek.

He felt like he should do more, like he should say something meaningful, but all that came out was a stiff smile and a quick retreat into his own discomfort.

He kept every card, every messy scribble, locked safely in his drawer, a secret place where he could look at them when the weight of being a father became too much. But no matter how much he treasured those little moments, he couldn’t shake the feeling that his kids, especially his daughter, thought he didn’t appreciate them. That maybe, in their eyes, he wasn’t doing enough.

He watched how natural you are with them. How you can make them laugh until they’re red faced, how you know exactly what to say when they cry. And somewhere deep inside, he resents himself becausw he thought he'd be better for you.

But he is the dad who checks the locks three times before going to bed. Who makes sure the first aid kit is fully stocked. Who taught his son how to throw a proper punch "just in case" but can’t tell him he’s proud out loud. His love comes out in safety, in protection but not words, not warmth.

He genuinely believes his kids prefer you. And it's true. He tells himself he’s just the "boring parent," the "strict one," the one they tolerate until he goes away again. (The reality is, they miss him constantly. They just don’t know how to bridge the gap either.)

His son once left a drawing on Simon’s desk, a picture of the whole family holding hands, and Simon stared at it for an hour, too scared to pick it up.

And when all three of them in their teenage years, they've entered that "I hate everyone" phase, and if things weren't strained before, it's worse now. The snide remarks, the cold stares, the refusal to engage, it all hurts more than he admits. And he tries not to take it personally but damn.

One evening, Simon catches his eldest daughter sneaking out of the house, heading toward a car that's waiting outside. It's late, and she's dressed up, clearly for a date. He watches from the shadows, unsure of what to do. He doesn't want to be the overbearing father who controls every move she makes.

He doesn't know how to approach it without making her feel trapped, especially when he's barely ever around to set any kind of example. Instead, he stays back, watching as she disappears into the night.

Whenever you try to talk to him about it, Simon nods and says, "Yeah, you're right. It's just a phase," but he never admits that part of him feels useless. He feels like an outsider, like his kids would rather be anywhere but with him.

He doesn't voice it because he knows it's irrational, they're growing up, they're becoming independent, but the guilt lingers. He doesn't know how to connect with them when all they seem to want is space, and that makes him feel like he's failing them.

(honestly cried a little thinking too much about it bcs most of this just me projecting my own relationship with my father) (I'm sorry)

[juniorsailmakermattcruse]

I’m glad you agree that Doof works better in Phineas and Ferb when he’s evil. I have thought it for so long, and I know a lot of others in the fandom think it’s regressive of him to go back to being evil but the show really does work better that way. Also, the times we’ve seen him not be evil are in the OWCA files and in Milo Murphy’s Law, and those definitely aren’t his best moments.

yeah that’s what I was thinking, it just doesn’t work in those instances at all. his character suffers a lot and he goes from being pretty much the most popular character in the fandom (or at least one of them) to being super polarizing. like I love him and all but he pisses me off in mml and owca files is a lot of the same. he just works better when he’s being evil and when it’s just him ranting at perry instead of just existing to bug other characters. I know people have said “oh but it’s because he’s audhd and has bad social skills” which I completely relate to but it’s still annoying to watch on tv y’know. especially because without him building shit he’s just reduced to being a fucking idiot and that bugs me because he deserves a bit more credit than that. I think he’s more competent than the writers seem to think he is but when he’s not shown doing anything… like anything at all (what exactly does he do in mml? sit on the couch and cry about missing perry?) he just kind of sucks and it sucks to watch. but that’s another topic I could rant about forever

anyway it’s the same thing with candace returning to busting, like this show has had 4 seasons of going back to the status quo every episode and changing the formula so drastically in season 5 just doesn’t make sense. sure in other tv shows having big character arcs and growth is good but this show is so much of the same stuff over and over that having such big character changes be permanent would feel weird. sure I would’ve loved having doof be a science teacher but that would work for a spinoff, not for the main show. and if the new seasons take place in summer that wouldn’t even work anyway because he wouldn’t be teaching then. so if not that then we’re left with him being in owca or being prof time and I don’t like either of those (especially prof time I really hate everything about that). so pretty much the only option is for him to go back to evil. it makes it a lot easier to come up with episode plots too I’m sure

I’m fine with the idea of him giving up evil in the future, like when season 6 eventually has a finale we’ll see what happens then. but in the meantime I feel like this just makes way more sense for the show. it also helps solve the plot holes of why he’s evil in the winter episodes which have been topics of conversation for over a decade

ALSO he has adhd and he’s very fickle. so that also makes sense for him to change his mind and go back into old habits