#I bolted up in a cold sweat thinking about this

[thefallenangelsgang]

Okay hold up Gale takes you to "The Outer Planes" in his Act 3 romance scene but that isn't a place that is a collection of places

HOLD ON just one fucking second

WHICH OUTER PLANE ARE WE IN?

[maskedbyghost]

Part 2 of fuck buddies with Simon (now with extra emotional damage)

You didn’t text him, you didn’t call, you didn’t chase.

But you did send one final message.

“This is the last time, Simon. I can’t keep doing this. I don’t want to be someone you only need when you’re lonely or angry or tired. I wanted you, not just your time or your hands or your body. You don’t have to say anything—I’m just letting you know I’m done. Please don’t come back. I won’t open the door.”

Then you blocked him.

Phone, socials, everything. And not in some dramatic, screaming, flinging-plates kind of way.

And for the first few days, nothing happened. No messages, no banging on the door, and no surprise visits in the middle of the night. Just silence.

But on Simon’s end?

Hell broke loose.

He didn’t even notice the message right away. He was halfway through watching a game when he opened his phone and saw it sitting there, timestamped four hours ago. He read it once, then again, and then stared at it like maybe if he glared hard enough, the words would disappear.

But they didn’t.

He tried to reply, of course. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard for longer than he’d admit. But when he hit send, the message didn’t go through.

His jaw clicked tight. Something cold and ugly twisted low in his chest. He tossed his phone onto the couch and paced. He thought about showing up at your place but didn’t. Not yet. Not when he didn’t even know what he was going to say.

It hit him, slowly. That you weren’t bluffing. That you meant it this time.

That he fucked it. Bad...

A month later

You’re sitting across from a guy who actually listens when you talk. He laughs at your jokes, asks you questions. He looks at you like he’s interested—not just in your body, but in your thoughts, opinions, and favorite takeout order.

It’s... weird. Not bad weird. Just different. Good, even.

You're at a quiet restaurant, corner booth, tucked into a little space with candlelight and soft jazz playing overhead. You’re just reaching for your drink when you hear it.

The click of a safety being flipped off, before your date goes still.

“Don’t move,” a voice says, low and dark behind him.

You know that voice.

Your blood runs cold before you even look at him.

Simon stands there, one hand is braced on the back of your date’s chair. The other? Holding a gun pointed directly at the side of the poor guy’s head.

“Simon—what the fuck are you doing?” you hiss, scrambling out of the booth.

“I just wanna talk,” he says, voice way too calm for someone with a loaded weapon in hand.

Your date is sweating, hands raised. “Hey, man, I don’t want any trouble—”

“Did I ask you what you wanted?” Simon snaps. Then he smiles. Smiles. “You’re gonna get up and leave. Right now. No questions. Go.”

The guy doesn’t argue. He bolts so fast he almost trips over a chair.

You stand there, staring at Simon like you’re seeing him for the first time. And in a way, you are.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you ask, shoving him back. “Are you insane?”

“I said I just wanted to talk,” he mutters, sliding into the booth like he didn’t just commit a felony in front of three tables.

“Jesus, Simon. You scared the hell out of him. You scared me. You don’t just pull a gun on someone because you’re feeling jealous!”

“I’m not jealous,” he says, lying through his teeth.

“Get out.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“You don’t get to show up here like this. You don’t get to throw a tantrum just because I moved on. You made it clear how you felt—or didn’t feel. Remember that?”

Simon’s hands are curled into fists on the table. He looks like he’s about to explode. But instead of yelling, he just leans forward, jaw clenched so hard.

“I fucked up,” he says. “I know I did.”

“Yeah,” you say coldly. “You really did.”

-

Aftar that, he doesn’t text you. After all, he is still blocked, so he can't.

So he writes notes. Slips them under your door, even though you never respond.

"I miss you." "I keep thinking about what you said. You're right. I treated you like shit. I don’t know how to fix it, but I want to try." "Still can’t sleep. I keep rolling over expecting you to be there. You're not."

You don’t write back.

Then the gifts start showing up. A bouquet of roses, your favorite. A playlist on a USB drive. A book you mentioned once, two years ago, that he somehow remembered.

He shows up to your building sometimes. Just sits on the steps, waiting, but not in a creepy way—he knows to keep his distance. But he’s there. Rain, cold, whatever. He waits.

One night, you come home late, and he stands when he sees you. “I’ll go if you want,” he says quietly. “Just... let me know you’re okay.”

You don’t say anything. Just unlock the door and go inside.

He doesn’t leave for another hour.

Two months in.

He catches you on your way to work.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he says, walking beside you like he belongs there. “Just... give me a chance to make it right. Let me earn it.”

You stop walking. Look at him.

He looks rough. The beard’s thicker, the eyes are darker, and the weight of regret sits heavy on his shoulders.

“You can’t fix this with flowers and sad eyes,” you say. “I needed you. And you made me feel like a mistake.”

“I know,” he says, voice cracking. “I know I don’t deserve another shot. But I’m still gonna try. Every day. Until you tell me to stop.”

“And what if I never change my mind?”

“Then I’ll still keep showing up.”

He means it.

You can see it in the way he looks at you now—not hungry, not possessive. Just wrecked. Like he lost something irreplaceable and knows it.

You don’t let him follow you to work.

But for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel as angry. Not because he’s forgiven. Not even close. But because he finally looks like he’s suffering the way you did.

Three months.

You’re out with friends when he shows up again. This time, unarmed thankfully.

You’re tipsy, laughing, leaning into someone else’s shoulder—some other guy’s—and Simon sees it before you do. You turn and there he is, standing just far enough to not make a scene, but close enough to make your heart drop.

You think he’s going to come over. Ruin the night. Scare the guy off again.

He doesn’t.

He just nods at you. One short, respectful tilt of his head. Then he walks away.

No words, nor begging, trying to guilt you into anything.

And that gets to you more than the thousand apologies he could’ve offered.

Four months.

It’s your birthday.

You don’t tell anyone. You keep it lowkey on purpose, like if no one says anything, you can just pretend it’s any other day. You don’t want the reminders. You don’t want the well-meaning texts from people who don’t know what you’ve been dealing with. You definitely don’t want to wonder whether or not Simon remembers.

But he does.

You find out when you get home and there’s a small package sitting at your door. No note. No name. Just your initials written on the wrapping in the handwriting you know better than your own.

You think about throwing it away. You almost do, but curiosity wins, and inside the plain brown paper is a little black box.

You open it and your breath catches.

It’s that necklace you once pointed at in a store window downtown—months ago, maybe even a year. A tiny silver ghost on a chain. You made some stupid joke about how it looked like him: “emotionally unavailable, disappears without warning, weirdly endearing.”

He didn’t laugh at the time. Just rolled his eyes and muttered something like “you’re annoying” under his breath.

You never mentioned it again, but he remembered.

You stare at it for a long time. You don’t cry, don’t smile either. You just sit there on your hallway floor, turning the necklace over in your hands until your legs go numb.

Then you put it back in the box and tuck it in the drawer by your bed.

You don’t wear it, but you decided to keep it.

And the next day, for the first time in months, you catch yourself wondering how he’s doing. Like maybe he’s not just doing this to win, maybe he means it.

Still, you don’t reach out.

Not yet...

Five months.

He finally knocks.

It’s late. Not obscenely so, but enough that you’re in sweats and no bra, and part of you is tempted to pretend you’re not home.

But something in you says open the door.

So you do.

Simon looks like hell. Wet from rain, hair flat to his skull, hands shoved into his jacket like he’s trying to keep himself from reaching for you.

“I wrote it down,” he says, holding out a thick envelope. “Everything I wanted to say. Everything I should’ve said before.”

You stare at it like it might burn you. “Why now?”

His throat bobs. “Because I thought giving you space would be enough. But space doesn’t mean silence. It doesn’t mean I stop showing you I care. I just... I didn’t know how to love you the way you deserved.”

“And now you do?” you ask, arching a brow.

“No,” he says. “But I’m learning. And I’ll keep learning, with or without a second chance.”

You take the envelope. You don’t invite him in. But you do say, “Good night, Simon,” soft and tired.

And he smiles, just barely.

You read the letter that night. You weren’t going to, but you do.

It’s messy. Honest. Full of crossed-out lines and little notes scribbled in the margins. He writes like he talks—short sentences, straight to the point—but you can feel how badly he wants you to understand.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel disposable. That’s not what you are. That’s not what you ever were.”

“I never knew how to show you I gave a fuck. That’s on me.”

“I kept thinking if I didn’t say anything, you wouldn’t expect anything. But you did. And I should’ve met you there.”

“I think about your laugh. I hear it sometimes when I’m dead tired. It makes me hate myself.”

“I’m not asking you to come back. But if you ever do, I swear I’ll never leave you wondering again.”

You fall asleep with the letter in your hands, crumpled a little at the edges.

You don’t message him the next day.

But the next week?

You text one word.

“Coffee?”

PART 3

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

do we still hate him guys??

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay

[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - EIGHT

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mentions of pregnancy; abortion.

MASTERLIST

Topper prided himself in keeping out of people’s business.

He hadn’t noticed anything was off with you on his own, he wouldn’t have; he didn’t do the whole “emotional radar” thing.

But Rafe had practically cornered him, demanding he figure out what was going on with you.

You were his cousin, after all. 

That didn’t stop the way his stomach twisted from thinking about lying to you, or how every part of him had always silently rooted for you and Rafe. He’d loved seeing you two together. You were a mess most days, for years, sure, but it was the kind of mess that made sense in a way, and Topper couldn’t help but admire it.

You were like fire and gasoline.

But that was before the break-up, before everything got fucked.

Now, you were just… distant. He never knew how to approach you without feeling like he was crossing a line, but the way you’d passed out on Rafe at the beach had him worrying in a way that was more personal than he wanted to admit.

He wasn’t a thinker, not really, he liked simple things: good waves, cold beer, and not getting roped into drama.

But there he was, standing outside your door with Korean fried chicken. He didn’t do feelings, and he didn’t do heavy conversations. Rafe owed him big for this. The conversation had been good, even when you started talking about Sarah and Ruthie. 

Topper was all in—laughing along, throwing in a dumb joke here and there, the usual. It felt nice, like when you were kids, sneaking your dad’s beers and pretending you weren’t gonna get caught.

But then he had to go and ruin it by asking if you were okay.

You went all stiff, then weirdly far away, laughing it off like he’d just asked you to explain calculus or something. You mumbled something about being fine and then bolted to the bathroom before he could even follow up with his usual Topper-brand wisdom.

He sat there, feeling uncomfortable, which wasn’t a thing he usually did. You were acting off, and it was messing with him more than he wanted to admit.

Finally, he decided he needed to move, so he got up to grab some water. Except, as he walked past the counter, his hip caught a pile of your mail, and an envelope went sliding to the floor.

“Crap,” he muttered, crouching to grab it. It was just some random envelope, but there was a phone number written on the front in messy blue ink.

Topper didn’t think about it—because thinking wasn’t really his strong suit—he just whipped out his phone and typed it in. Curiosity, man. It got him every time.

He hit call. He wasn’t trying to snoop or anything. It was just one of those things you do on autopilot, right? Call a number just to see who answers? Except this time, someone did answer.

The phone rang. Once. Twice. Then:

“Women’s Health Center, how can I help you?”

His brain short-circuited, full-on panic mode. He stared at the phone like it had grown a second screen, then frantically hit the hang-up button just as the bathroom door creaked open.

You were back.

Topper, sweating for no reason, slapped the envelope back on the counter like it was about to explode and turned to you with a smile that definitely didn’t match his pounding heart.

He got out of there as soon as possible, as he drove to meet Rafe, the whole thing was still playing on a loop in his head. That phone number, the voice on the other end of the line, the way you’d acted when he’d asked if you were okay—he couldn’t stop trying to force the pieces into place.

Something was going on, he wasn't sure what, and he wasn’t exactly the guy you went to for deep insights, but he felt something was up.

When he pulled into Tanyhill, he spotted Rafe leaning against his truck, scrolling through his phone with that permanent scowl he seemed to have these days. He barely had the car in park before Rafe was pushing off the truck and heading his way.

He climbed out, doing his best to act normal—which, for him, meant cracking the same goofy grin he always did. His mind was still spinning with a dozen half-formed thoughts about that phone call, that clinic, and how the the fuck he might fit into all of it. 

The only thing he knew for sure was that Rafe knowing could be catastrophic. Like, meteor-hits-earth catastrophic.

“You gotta chill,” Topper said, slamming his car door shut and giving Rafe a once-over. “Why do you look like you’re about to punch somebody?”

Rafe just glared, shoving his phone in his pocket. “What’d you find out?”

He blinked, thrown by how fast he cut to the point. “Nice to see you, too. Second, what makes you think I found out anything?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Top. Did you figure it out or not?”

“Yeah, I figured it out,” Topper shot back, crossing his arms. “But why the hell did you make me go through all this work if you already know what’s going on?”

Rafe shrugged, leaning back against the truck like this was all just some casual conversation. “Didn’t think you’d actually get it, to be honest.”

“Bro, I’m not that stupid. How did you get to the bottom of this shit? I’m still confused as fuck over here.”

Rafe’s mouth twitched like he was deciding whether to smirk or yell, hesettled on neither. “She passed out on me, remember?”

“So?” Topper shot back, frowning. “I’ve seen you pass out for, like, way less.”

“It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t a hangover or heat stroke, it was different. And she’s been weird lately, avoiding everyone.” Rafe leaned back against his truck, arms crossed, talking fast. “The hospital did blood work.”

Topper, who’d been zoning out halfway through his little doctor act, suddenly perked up.

“Wow,” he mused, dragging the word out. “Okay. So, how’d you take the news? I mean, shit, you look pretty calm for once. Didn’t think that was in your wheelhouse."

Rafe frowned, his sharp blue eyes narrowing, the crease between his brows deepening like it always did when he thought someone was wasting his time. 

"The fuck are you talking about?”

Topper shrugged like this was totally normal. “I just expected you to, like…freak out or somethin'. Throw a punch, maybe.”

“Throw a punch about what?” Rafe snapped.

“About—” Topper paused, squinting at Rafe like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “Wait. What are you supposed to do?”

Rafe’s hand twitched toward his jaw, fingers brushing over the stubble there, a telltale sign that he was gearing up to lose patience. He didn’t wait for Topper to answer before shaking his head, the movement quick and irritated. 

“Don’t do that, man,” he added, pointing a finger “I’ll help her figure it out. What else can I do?���

Topper tilted his head, genuinely impressed. “Damn. You really matured, huh? I mean, good for you.”

“Top, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Rafe demanded, his tone sharp now like he was finally catching on to the fact that they weren’t on the same page.

Topper blinked, “I’m just saying you’re handling it better than I thought. Especially since she’s not—uh, showing yet.”

“Not showing what?”

“…The bump?”

He immediately realized he’d said the wrong thing, or maybe the right thing, but in the wrong tone, with the wrong level of context, and—okay, maybe he should just stop talking. 

Abort mission, abort mission. Topper immediately wanted to crawl into a hole. Dude, shut up, shut up, shut up.

“What the fuck?” Rafe’s voice cracked; his eyes blazing as he stepped closer. “What bump?!”

His laugh fizzled out under Rafe’s glare, it was starting to feel less like “concerned ex-boyfriend” and more like “interrogating cop.” He felt a bead of sweat slide down the back of his neck. 

Cool. Stay cool.

“Wait,” Topper held his hands up, trying to physically stop the situation from spiraling. “What do you think is wrong with her?”

His brain was spinning in a way it wasn’t built for. He was a simple guy—he liked clear problems and easy fixes. But this? This was a category-five disaster, and he was stuck right in the middle of it.

Rafe let out a sharp breath through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair, the small strands sticking up in every direction.

“I think she’s got a fucking infection! Why the hell would I think she’s pregnant?”

Topper hesitated, glancing toward the house like maybe Sarah or Wheezie might miraculously appear to save him. No such luck.

“Well fucking shit,” Topper blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush. His heart was pounding, and he was pretty sure he’d just signed his death warrant. “I—I didn’t say she’s pregnant, okay? I found this number, and it was for a women’s health center, and—fuck, man, I’m dead. I’m so dead.”

Rafe grabbed him by the collar, yanking him close. “Start talking. Now.”

“I wasn’t snooping, okay? It just—happened. I wasn’t trying to get in her business, but—”

“But what?” Rafe barked. His other hand twitched at his side, curling into a fist before flexing out again, a warning of how close Topper was to eating pavement, but Rafe wasn’t the one he feared right now.

You were going to kill him.

He could already picture the look on your face when you found out—those cold, furious eyes, the way your voice would drop, he was officially dead meat. He gulped, his mouth dry as his brain scrambled for something—anything—that wouldn’t get him killed or disowned.

“You better explain what the fuck you mean by ‘happened,’” Rafe growled, his grip tightening, giving Topper’s collar a shake, just enough to make his point clear.

Topper was done, leaving nothing but pure panic and the faint, distant sound of his voice saying things he definitely shouldn’t. 

“I called the number!” Topper yelped. “I didn’t even mean to, it was—dude, she’s gonna kill me, and I mean that literally. She will.”

“Not if I kill you first,” Rafe shoved him back, his grip finally loosening, his face unreadable now, which was somehow worse than when he’d looked ready to punch him. “You’re telling me you think she’s pregnant? And you didn’t remember to tell me sooner?”

“I didn’t!” Topper said quickly, panic bubbling over. “It’s not like she’s gonna tell me this kind of stuff.”

“Did she say anything to you? Anything about seeing a doctor or being sick?”

Topper shook his head so fast it made him dizzy. “I asked if she was okay, but she just brushed it off and changed the subject.”

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating, both of them staring each other down.

“No, no way. She’s probably… I don’t fucking know, changing her pill or something.”

Topper raised an eyebrow. “Changing her pill?”

“Yeah,” Rafe said quickly, “Or—what else do they do there? Those check-up things. Maybe she’s getting one of those.”

“Uh-huh,” Topper replied, not convinced but also not dumb enough to call him out on it outright. “Sure. Just a… routine check-up?”

“Exactly,” Rafe agreed a little too loud, his tone almost defensive as he started circling again, his hands gesturing wildly. “They don’t just deal with… y'know. They do all kinds of shit. Tests, prescriptions, all that stuff. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Topper scratched the back of his neck, his expression caught between agreement and unease. “I mean, yeah, they do other stuff… but don’t you think—”

“I don’t think anything, there’s nothing to think about. She’s fine. She’s—she’s fine.” He stopped pacing, standing rigid with his hands on his hips, glaring at the ground like it had personally offended him.

“Okay,” Topper started, his tone cautious. “I get that you don’t want to jump to conclusions, but—”

“I’m not jumping to conclusions!” Rafe barked, spinning around “You’re the one making it into something it’s not! She’s not—she wouldn’t—she hasn’t told me anything,” He muttered finally, “And if she’s hiding this… from me…”

He’d never seen Rafe like this—angry, yeah, but there was something else there, either way, it wasn’t good. His glare burned into him, but for the first time, there was hesitation behind it. He wasn’t just mad—he was scared. Topper couldn’t decide if that made him feel better or worse. 

“Holy shit,” Rafe muttered, gripping the side of his truck for balance. His vision going fuzzy as his heart raced like he’d just sprinted a mile. “Holy shit, what if—what if she is?”

“Dude, breathe,” Topper said, stepping closer cautiously like Rafe was a live grenade. “You don’t even—”

“Even if—if—she was, how the hell would that even—” He cut himself off, his face twisting like he couldn’t decide whether to finish the thought or abandon it entirely.

Topper didn’t need him to finish, he understood exactly what Rafe was thinking. The timeline, the breakup, the way everything had gone down between you.

Rafe’s breath hitched as he let go of the truck and paced a few steps, his hands on his hips, muttering under his breath. “No. No way. It’s not—she’d tell me, right? She’d fucking tell me.”

Images started flashing through his mind in rapid succession, each one more ridiculous and unhinged than the last. You, standing in some clinic, staring at a test with a blank expression. You, trying to figure out how to tell Rafe.

You, holding a baby—Rafe’s baby—in your arms.

“This doesn’t make any sense. We were careful. She’s just stressed, girls go through shit. Hormones or whatever. Right?”

“You’re asking me? I barely passed bio. I’m not exactly a walking textbook on—” He stopped himself, seeing the look on Rafe’s face. “I don’t know what’s going on with her, okay? But if this is what I think it is, you gotta handle it right. Don’t screw it up more than it already is.”

“And if I don’t handle it right?”

Topper forced a shaky grin, even as his stomach twisted in knots.

“Then I guess I’ll see you in hell, man. Because she’s gonna kill us both.”

Rafe’s hands went to his hips, his thumb brushing the edge of his pocket as he stared past Topper, he was trying to work out an equation that wasn’t adding up.

“She hasn’t said a word to me,” Rafe muttered, “Not at the hospital, not since. And you think…” He trailed off, dragging a hand over his face. 

Topper shifted on his feet, resisting the urge to bolt to the other side of the world.

“I guess, but I swear, it wasn’t on purpose.”

Rafe shot him a look, his brows knitting together, and Topper felt like he was under a microscope. “You called a random number. How does that ‘just happen’?”

He huffed, throwing his hands up. “I was grabbing some water, and her mail fell, and there was this number—I didn’t think! I just… acted.” He groaned, his head falling back as he stared at the sky. “I didn’t mean to put two and two together, but what was I supposed to do? You’re the one who made me go digging in the first place!”

“You really think that’s what’s going on?” Rafe asked finally, his voice quieter.

“You said she’s acting weird, and then there was that number, and…” He trailed off, scratching the back of his neck. 

“Do you even understand what this means? If she’s—if there’s a—” He broke off, “I’d have to—Jesus Christ, what would I even do? I’m not—God.”

His hands gripped the edge of the truck bed so hard his knuckles turned white, the veins in his arms standing out as he glared at the ground like it had personally offended him.

“If she didn’t tell me—” His voice was low, quiet in a way that made Topper wince because he knew what came next.

“Maybe just... ask her?”

 “Ask her?” he repeated, his voice disbelieving.

“Yeah, you know,” Topper said, gesturing vaguely. “Talk to her? Maybe find out what’s going on instead of losing your shit over worst-case scenarios?”

Rafe shook his head, “No. If she wanted me to know, she’d tell me. She’s... she’s dealing with her own stuff. It’s not my place to push.”

 “Since when do you not push?”

“Since now,” Rafe snapped, though even he didn’t sound convinced.

“Rafe—”

“No, seriously,” Rafe interrupted, his voice rising now, the tight restraint unraveling with every word. “If she’s—if she’s going through this, if she’s pregnant, and she didn’t tell me?” He let out a bitter chuckle, “What the fuck does that say? About me.”

Topper opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again. This felt like a minefield, and if anyone was good at stepping on the wrong spot, it was him.

Rafe pushed off the truck, he couldn’t physically stay still. His eyes were burning as he raked a hand through his buzzed hair.

“I was—fuck. She thinks what? That I wouldn’t show up for this. She didn’t tell me because she doesn’t think I deserve to know.”

“That’s not true,” Topper said quickly, stepping closer, but Rafe’s empty laugh stopped him.

“Isn’t it?” Rafe’s voice was hollow now, all the fire drained out of him, turning his head slightly, just enough for Topper to see his throat working as he swallowed hard. “What the hell have I ever done to make her think I’d be there? That I’d—” He broke off. “Shit. I wouldn’t blame her. I can't even fucking blame her.”

“You still care about her, right?” Topper pressed, knowing he didn’t have to ask to know the answer.

Rafe’s head snapped up, “She’s the only thing I’ve ever cared about.”

He nodded slowly, “Then prove it.”

The envelope sat exactly where you’d left it, the faintest corner of folded. You froze for a second, your pulse quickening.

No. No way.

It was fine. Fine.

The number wasn’t even labeled—just digits scrawled hastily, you hadn’t touched it in days. Still, you couldn’t stop the tiny seed of panic attaching itself to your chest. There was absolutely no way Topper could’ve seen it, let alone put two and two together.

You exhaled slowly, placing it back on the counter.

He didn’t see it. He couldn’t have seen it.

Then why had he acted so… off? The pale face, the sudden excuse, the jittery energy—it was all so unlike him.

You shook your head, trying to push the thought away, a million things could’ve set him off. 

Maybe Ruthie had texted him something awful, or maybe he’d remembered he had to pick up his dry cleaning before the shop closed. Knowing Topper, it was probably something stupid and unrelated to you entirely.

Still, the nagging lingered as you cleaned up the counter and threw away the napkins. You glanced at the envelope one last time, then slid it into a drawer and shut it firmly. Whatever was going on with your cousin, it couldn’t have anything to do with that. It was impossible. And yet…

You sighed, rubbing your temples. 

“Pregnancy brain,” you muttered to yourself. “Making me paranoid over nothing.”

Of course that didn’t stop your heart from jumping every time the drawer creaked, or when you saw anything even remotely similar to that envelope’s color lying around the house for the entire night. Not that he’d ask, of course—Topper wasn’t the confrontational type, especially not with you. But he noticed things. And when he noticed, he worried.

The next morning you sank onto the couch, hugging a pillow to your chest. Topper was close, but he wasn’t like Sarah. She had been able to look you in the eye and say, You know I’m here, right? and mean it without any strings attached. Topper, though…

Your fingers itched toward your phone, even though it was stupid to call her so early over this. Still, you needed someone to remind you that you weren’t losing it, that Topper’s weirdness had nothing to do with anything serious.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you found Sarah’s number, pressing the call button. She picked up on the second ring, “Hey, what’s wrong?”

You could picture her, sitting in her car or probably stretched out somewhere in Poguelandia with her feet propped up on a table, looking concerned.

“Nothing’s wrong. I just…” You trailed off, fiddling with the edge of a pillow. 

“Topper’s been acting strange. And I think I’m just overthinking it, but it’s making me crazy.”

She made a sound between a hum and a laugh. “So the Topper panic spiral. That’s what we’re dealing with?”

“Basically,” you muttered, trying to keep your tone light. “But this time… He was here last night, and I thought he saw this random piece of paper I had with, you know. A number on it.” You took a shaky breath, embarrassed for how paranoid you sounded. “But he couldn’t have, right? I mean, it was buried under five other things.”

“Okay,” Sarah said slowly, clearly choosing her words. “First, let’s just say that if he did see anything, which he probably didn’t, he wouldn’t assume the worst. He’s your cousin; he knows you don’t tell him everything, and he respects that. Right?”

“Yeah… I guess.” You chewed your lip, feeling a little stupid for even calling her.  “But what if he does put it together, Sarah? I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

“He won’t,” she reassured, like she could see right through your anxiety. “And you don’t need to feel bad for wanting to keep this private. You’re allowed to handle it however you need to. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

You exhaled, the knot in your chest loosening a little. She always knew how to talk you down, "Okay,” you murmured, and a shaky laugh slipped out. “Maybe I'm being paranoid.”

“Pregnancy brain,” she teased, and you couldn’t help but smile.

You hung up feeling marginally better.

Sarah had a way of calming you down, but the uneasiness stayed with you, the way it always did when you couldn’t fully explain something.

But the relief was fleeting, by lunchtime, the nagging voice in your head was back. Topper wasn’t malicious, but he did have a habit of talking without thinking, and the last thing you needed was for this to get out before you were ready. Not only was this a huge scandal, but it was your business.

You busied yourself with small tasks—folding laundry, wiping down the counters, pretending that everything was fine. It wasn’t until almost noon that your phone rang. The hospital’s number flashed on the screen, and your stomach dropped.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Miss Thornton?” the voice on the other end asked politely, too polite for comfort.

“This is she."

“This is Linda from the hospital. I’m calling about your recent bloodwork. We had a bit of an issue with our system, and unfortunately, there was a delay in getting back to you. We also lost some patient information temporarily—”

“Wait, what?” you interrupted, not liking where this was going, “What do you mean you lost information?”

“Oh, nothing to worry about,” Linda said quickly, as if that would make you feel better. “We managed to recover most of it, but in the meantime, we had to rely on emergency contact information to reach out. Dr. Harris called yours last night.”

Your breath caught. “Called... my emergency contact?”

“Yes.”

“Sarah Cameron? She didn’t tell me someone called.”

“She’s not listed as your emergency contact in our system, Rafe Cameron is. It might be an older record?”

Fuck.

Your heart was in your throat. “What... what did he tell him?”

“He only left a generic message asking for you to follow up about your bloodwork. Nothing specific.”

“Nothing specific,” you repeated, more to yourself than to her. Relief and panic warred within you. If Rafe knew, he’d already be there, the night before, demanding answers. Right?

“We need you to come back in. It’s possible you may have an infection, and we need to run a few more tests.”

You didn’t even hear the rest of her explanation.

Your fingers felt numb as you mumbled something that vaguely resembled agreement and hung up.

Infection, that was what she’d said. That was all it was. Not… not anything else. If it were anything else, they wouldn’t have just called—they’d have told Rafe.

“Stop,” you muttered aloud, shaking your head. “Stop spiraling.”

But your brain wouldn’t listen.

“Generic message,” Linda had said, but did it sound generic? What did he think when he got it? Had he laughed it off, or was he running his stupid pristine bedroom, piecing together clues you hadn’t even realized you’d left?

You didn’t want to text Sarah again.

You could imagine her smirking, “I told you, he’s not going to magically grow psychic overnight.” Yeah, sure, but this was Rafe.

He didn’t need magic. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to focus on Sarah’s voice in your head. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

Except it didn’t feel like that. You hadn’t thought about Rafe as your emergency contact in months, hadn’t needed to. 

You sank into the couch, hugging your knees to your chest.

“This is so stupid,” you muttered, but your voice didn’t make it feel any less real. You weren’t even sure what you were spiraling over anymore. The envelope? The hospital? The baby?

“Okay,” you said out loud. “Okay, it’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

The sound of your voice didn’t even convince you. Your brain wouldn’t stop jumping from one thing to the next, spinning every scenario you didn’t want to think about. 

What if he did know? If that was enough to set him off, to make him call someone, pull some strings...Shit, what if he did show up, and you had to explain why you were dodging everyone and keeping things from him and—stop. 

Stop. 

You were doing it again. The spiraling. The pregnancy brain Sarah teased you about like it was some sort of cute quirk, but wasn’t cute.

You sat up straight, squeezing the couch pillow so hard you thought it might burst. Breathe. Just breathe, you’d made it this far without imploding.

You glanced toward the drawer again, the one with the envelope. You should’ve burned it, shredded it first. No, you had to keep it—just in case. But just in case of what? Just in case you needed more reasons to feel like a lunatic.

Oh my god. What if Topper saw the stupid number, and then Rafe got the hospital call, and then—bam—suddenly, they had the whole damn thing figured out?

You could feel it already—the panic. You liked to think they were both too stupid for their own good, but they were also observant. Rafe, that bastard always knew how to put things together faster than anyone. 

What if—what if it’s that simple for them? What if they both saw it, and then they were just sitting there, having some stupid-ass conversation, connecting dots you didn’t even realize were dots?

No. Stop. Stop thinking like that.

You were getting carried away, jumping to conclusions like some manic soap opera character. You weren’t that girl. Not really. But the thought of them talking—Topper with his concern and Rafe with his overbearing intensity.

Your fingers tapped a frantic rhythm against the pillow. The idea of him figuring it out? Oh, that made your skin crawl. Not because he’d be cruel—no, that wasn’t his style. He’d just be so… himself.

Overwhelming, determined to “fix” things for you, even when you didn’t ask for it. 

You groaned, dropping the pillow and standing abruptly, like the movement might kill the growing dread. No, you told yourself firmly.

You weren’t spiraling over things that hadn’t even happened yet.

But the voice in your head, the one that always sounded a little too much like Rafe, had other plans: What if it’s already too late?

You paced the living room, arms crossed tightly over your chest. This was ridiculous, you were ridiculous. Nothing had happened, nothing was going to happen. The number wasn’t even that suspicious, it could’ve been anything.

You groaned again, flopping onto the couch like the dramatic mess you were currently embodying. Rafe had probably gotten the hospital call, rolled his eyes without a second thought, too busy with his new precious life.

Your stomach churned, and you pressed your hands against it instinctively. It wasn’t showing yet—thank god—but you couldn’t help the way your mind spiraled back to it, to all the ways this could go wrong.

You grabbed your car keys without thinking, maybe it would clear your head. A drive—that’s what you needed. Get out of the house, and put some distance between you and the stupid envelope, the phone calls, all of it. You turned the knob, yanked the door open—

—and froze.

Rafe’s hand was raised mid-air, clearly about to knock. You didn’t even try to hide the way your breath hitched. 

Oh, no. No, no, no.

Standing there on the porch like he hadn’t just derailed your entire plan. As if it was still perfectly normal for him to show up unannounced, one hand shoved into his pocket and the other gripping his phone, his head tilted in a maddeningly familiar way.

His hand hovered uncertainly on the doorframe as you stepped back, your arms folding protectively over your chest. He didn’t push past you, didn’t move his weight forward—just stood there.

He glanced down at the spare key still in his hand, turning it over like he was considering whether he even had the right to use it. “They called me last night.”

Okay, he was just here because of the hospital, a coincidence, that’s all it was.

“And? You could’ve ignored it.”

His hand flexed at his side like he didn’t know what to do with it. “I thought something might be wrong.”

“It’s not.” Your voice was clipped, cold. “They called the wrong number. End of story.”

He didn’t rise to the bait.

“I thought—” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply. “I thought you were sick.”

“Like I said, it was a mix-up.”

His jaw ticked. That tiny muscle in his cheek twitched, the one that always flared when he was suspicious.

“Funny, they didn’t sound mixed up when they said your name,” he drawled, his tone probing. “Wanna try again?”

“Mind your fucking business,” Your voice was defensive, and you hated the crackle of guilt in your chest when he flinched. “I don’t need you to pretend to care. Why are you even here?” you snapped, taking a step back. The space between you felt vulnerable. “Don’t you have someone else to worry about?"

You felt cornered with every second he stood there.

“We need to talk.”

Maybe if you acted calm, like nothing was wrong, he’d stop looking at you like that. Vulnerability wasn’t something you were good at, he’d already taken too much. He always took too much.

“I don’t owe you shit. Not explanations, not answers, nothing. Leave.”

He didn’t. Of course, he didn’t.

Rafe didn’t know how to let shit go, not when it came to you, he didn’t back away.

“You’re right,” he said, surprising you. “You don’t, but I’m not leaving until we talk.”

The way he said, it wasn’t even a threat. It was worse than that. It was calm, resolute, like he’d already decided, and nothing you said or did could change it. 

That scared you more than anything.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you hissed, “Whatever you think you know, you don’t.”

He arched an eyebrow, his eyes flicking to the edge of the couch where your phone still sat, “You sure about that?”

“God, you’re always like this. Always overstepping, always assuming—”

“I know."

All the noise in your head—your spiraling thoughts, your excuses, your endless denials—went silent, except for the way your heart thudded in your chest, so fast, it hurt. He hadn’t raised his voice, but those two words hit you like a kick to your chest.

No, he couldn’t—he didn’t, he was bluffing, he had to be. Air caught in your throat, and for a moment, you thought you might choke on it. He didn’t move, didn’t repeat himself. He couldn’t know.

Your tongue went dry. 

“What are you talking about?” You couldn’t breathe. It felt like someone was squeezing your chest. You shook your head again, more violently this time, stepping back, “You don’t know shit.”

“I think I do.” His voice was quiet, and that made it worse, it wasn’t cold or angry; it wasn’t even accusing. He didn’t sound like he wanted to be right, he just sounded tired.

You prayed to come up with something—anything—to deflect, to deny, to keep the truth buried where it belonged. 

“You’re delusional,” you took another step back, putting more space between you and the man who had always known you too well.

He just shook his head, “You don’t have to lie to me, you’re scared, you’re not even trying to hide it.”

It was the way he stared with those stupid blue eyes, he was peeling back your layers. He always did that, made you feel like he could see something in you that you weren’t ready to acknowledge.

“Oh, fuck off.” You threw your hands up. “You don’t know shit about what I’m feeling. You’ve got no right to—I’m not lying.”

It still hurt how much you missed him, hurt to even look at him.

“Don’t pull this cryptic bullshit with me, if you’ve got something to say, say it.”

“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

The thing you’d been running from, denying, hiding, you simply stared at him, trying to decide if there was any way to lie your way out of this.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” You tried to laugh, but it came out strangled, desperate. “T-That’s insane. You’ve lost your mind.”

Rafe wasn’t gloating or triumphant—he just looked… resigned, he’d pieced it together before he showed up.

“Don’t do that. Don’t lie to me, not about this.”

You wanted to scream, to shove him, to do anything that would make him stop looking at you like he cared. Like he knew you. Because if you stopped long enough to think about it, you knew it was over.

He’d already seen it.

“I mean it, Rafe.” Your hand tightened on the door, nails digging into the wood. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

God, this was so fucked. You wanted him gone, but wanted him here, needed him to leave you alone, but at the same time, you hated that he could just leave.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

You thought about what he’d do if he knew—really knew. Not just the vague sense he had now, but the details. Would he try to stop you? 

Your lip quivered, and you hated yourself for it. “You’re wrong.”

You stared at him, at the way his shoulders hunched slightly, his usual confidence worn down. You hated him for being calm for once in his fucking life, for being here, for not letting this slide when it was none of his fucking business.

“Am I?”

Your hands clenched tighter, nails biting into your palms. “Why? Why do you even care? It’s not like you—”

“Because it’s mine.”

Your breath hitched again, and this time, you couldn’t hide it. You wanted to deny it, to throw something—hell, anything—back at him to make him shut the fuck up. But your throat felt like it had shut off entirely, and your mind had gone blank.

“I—” you stammered, shaking your head violently, “No. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re—”

“Hey, hey, just—just stop,” he said, his voice careful, as if he was trying not to spook you. “I’m not—Jesus, I’m not here to fight with you, okay? I’m not here to make this harder.”

Your chest heaved, a bitter laugh escaping before you could stop it. He was too late—late to care, late to help, late to fix anything. Five days, that’s all you had to get through.

Five days until you didn’t have to think about it anymore. 

This is the right choice, you told yourself for the hundredth time. You couldn’t bring a baby into this mess.

“You’re doing a hell of a job at that.”

“I just want to help. If you let me—”

“No,” you interrupted, grabbing the edge of the door. “I’m fixing it.”

“Fixing—?” Rafe’s brow furrowed, his confusion almost comical He started to step forward, but you stopped him with a resentful glare that made him stop. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you can take your fake concern and shove it up your ass.”

His brow furrowed. “It’s not fake—” His face twisted in confusion, mouth opening like he was about to argue, but you didn’t give him the chance, slamming the door in his face, so hard the frame rattled.

“Of course. Of course, it’s mine,” you muttered to yourself, mocking his stupid, self-righteous tone.

You leaned back against the door, sliding to the floor, arms crossed over your knees as your brain whirred like it was trying to kill you.

It wasn’t like you had a choice.

Technically, you did, but what were you supposed to do? Keep it and become a tragic sob story? The words almost felt like you’d ripped them out of someone else’s mouth, right or wrong didn’t even matter anymore. There wasn’t space in your life for this—for him, for a baby, for any of it.

A muffled knock sounded from the front door—tentative, like he was giving you a moment.

“Go away,” you yelled, your voice hoarse.

“Open the door.”

Your thoughts taunted you with memories and possibilities you didn’t want to entertain. The way Rafe had looked at you—like he knew—it was unbearable.

How had he put it together? Maybe you'd slip up in tiny ways, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for him to follow. You hated yourself for being so careless, despised him even more for being so fucking relentless.

You wiped your cheeks roughly, not realizing you’d started crying until your sleeve came back damp.

“Please, just open the door. We can talk—just talk, okay?

“No,” you muttered to the empty room. “No, I’m not doing this.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, leaning your head back against the door and pressing your hands over your ears to block him out. 

“Don’t shut me out like this,” he begged. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t stand it when you do this. Just open the door. Five minutes, that’s all I’m asking.”

He had a key. If he wanted to, he could let himself in at any moment, but he didn’t, that wasn’t the Rafe you were used to.

Before, he'd have barged right in, shouted until your ears bled, and demanded answers. He would’ve tried to fix it or destroy it, maybe both. 

You hated that he still acted like he cared, that he was trying to be so fucking reasonable now, when just a few months ago, he would’ve lost it, broken through any barrier to get what he wanted.

This was worse, this Rafe was wearing you down.

Another hushed plea made it through the door, but all you could think was how thin the wood felt, how it barely drowned the sound of his voice. A new door might be better, something heavier, more solid, that could drown out everything—the desperation, the crack in his voice.

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, and you bit hard on the inside of your cheek to keep them from falling. 

“I know you’re scared,” he continued, “And I know you think I’ll screw this up—God knows I probably will. But please don’t keep me in the dark. Just tell me what’s going on.”

You pictured flipping through hardware store catalogs, weighing your options: oak? steel? soundproofing foam?

“Please,” Rafe whispered, and the rawness in his voice scraped against you like nails on a chalkboard. You tilted your head back against the door, willing yourself not to cry again. 

Steel doors don’t warp as easily as wood.

You swallowed hard, your body aching as you fought the sob threatening to escape. He didn’t deserve this—didn’t deserve to sound so wrecked over you. He'd done this to himself.

Your fingers twitched against the door handle, the temptation to open it curling around you, but instead, you thought about bolts.

Deadbolts, a second lock could work, something he couldn’t get through even if he had the key.

His voice wavered again, you thought he might start crying, too, yet all you did was glance at the base of the door. A better seal would muffle the noise more. Maybe weatherstripping? That could help.

You pressed your hands tighter over your ears, as though it would help. It didn’t. Nothing would—not until you replaced the lock, the door, the memory of him standing there and breaking himself open for you.

God, you really needed a new door—and a new heart.

One that didn’t twist at the sound of his voice, that didn’t flinch every time he called your name like it was a prayer. A heart that didn’t feel for him, you told yourself, over and over, like a mantra. If you could just stop the way your chest tightened at his pleas, stop the ache in your ribs when he said he couldn’t let this go.

You wanted steel walls, that could keep everything out—his voice, his touch, the memories of all the good parts of him that had kept you hanging on for so long. Because of this heart? It was useless, too soft, too easily swayed, still willing to believe him, even when you knew better.

“Please, just talk to me,” Rafe begged. You bit your lip hard enough to taste blood.

You couldn’t help but wonder if this calmness came from Sofia.

Perhaps she was the reason he’d changed, maybe she had somehow made him different, had softened the sharp edges of the guy you used to know. She was calm, collected—nothing like you. It hurt like a bitch, the thought that someone else could make him this patient. You wondered if she’d taught him how to handle his emotions, how to be this way—he’d learned some secret he never bothered to share with you.

You couldn't let yourself go there, couldn't let the bitterness of that thought settle in your mind for too long.

“Talk to me.”

No. Not this time.

TAGLIST: @maybankslover @october-baby25 @haruvalentine4321 @hopelesslydevoted2paige

@rafebb @rafesbby @whytheylosttheirminds

@zyafics @astarlights @bruher @nosebeers @carrerascameron

@serrendiipty @sunny1616 @yootvi @ditzyzombiesblog

@psychocitylights @maibelitaaura @kiiyomei

@stoned-writer @justafangirls-blog-deactivated2

@starkeygirlposts @enjoymyloves @ijustwanttoreadlols @icaqttt

[reiding-writing]

could I request cold!reader waking up from a nightmare whilst she’s with Spencer?? maybe when she wakes up she’s unusually clingy to him and he just holds her?? ☹️☹️💗

WHAT A NIGHT. /spencer reid/

bringing up your past issues doesn’t just affect your waking hours. your dreams are just as bad.

CW | nightmares caused by sexual trauma, brief description of at-home abortion, reader has a panic attack, reader briefly views spencer as a physical threat

s11!cold!reader hurt/comfort 2.0k series masterlist. main masterlist.

AN | hi, i’m allergic to happiness

You’re dreaming, and you know it.

That’s the worst part, isn’t it? Not the dream itself—though it’s wretched in every way—but the knowing. The awareness. You’re aware of the room that doesn’t look like any room you've lived in, but it’s his. You're aware that the weight in your chest isn't real, and yet it crushes you just the same. And you know you’re older now, not nineteen anymore, but your limbs are small, powerless again. Your voice doesn’t come out when you try to scream. The carpet’s the same colour it always is in these dreams—off-white, like bone turned to dust. The smell of sweat and whisky seeps into your skin.

He’s not speaking in this one. Just watching. Sitting across the room with that same sick patience. But he’s already dead, isn’t he? Hasn’t he already bled out in front of you, with your name on his lips? So why the hell is he watching you like this?

You scream, finally. Not with your voice, but in your mind—wake up, wake up, wake up—

But you don’t. You don’t.

The dream shifts.

And you’re pregnant again. Barely twenty, alone in a bathtub with shaking hands and something sharp in them. You’re sobbing. You tell yourself it’s the right thing. It’s the only thing. And you know it’s a dream, you remember the aftermath, the silence, the blood, the ache that never really left. And yet, you relive it. The helplessness. The guilt. The wrongness.

Wake up.

You gasp—no, yell—yourself awake.

You bolt upright in bed, chest heaving like you’ve run a marathon. The room’s dark, faint streetlight pouring in through half-closed blinds. Spencer’s apartment. You’ve spent more nights here than at your own place this month. But your body doesn’t catch up to the reality fast enough. You’re still back there, back then, in pain, in panic, in the unbearable after.

The sheets are tangled around your legs. Your mouth tastes like metal. There’s sweat dripping down your neck. And when Spencer stirs beside you, murmuring your name half-asleep—

“Hey-? What’s—”

You flinch away from him violently. He doesn’t even touch you—just reaches a hand out—and still you recoil as though he’s just tried to drag you under.

“Don’t.” Your voice comes out brittle and small. “Don’t touch me—”

He stops immediately, hand suspended in the air like he’s just frozen mid-breath.

“Alright,” he says gently. “I won’t. I won’t, it’s okay.”

But it’s not okay.

You’re shaking. Everything inside you feels like it’s been turned inside out. Your lungs are caught in a pattern of shallow, ragged breaths. Your fingers are clenched so tightly around the blanket that they’re numb. You think you might be crying, but you don’t feel it.

He sits up beside you, hands where you can see them, voice low and even. “You had a nightmare, you’re okay,”

Of course you did. Of course you did. That’s what therapy is doing to you lately—tearing up things you’d sealed beneath ten years of practiced indifference. You never wanted to talk about him. About what he did. What he made you do. But you agreed, for Spencer. Because Spencer’s eyes look so worried every time you freak out. Because you don’t want to hurt him the way you’ve hurt yourself.

And now—this. This spiral of nightmares and broken sleep and memories you can’t scrub clean.

You want to run. You want to fight. You want to press your forehead into his chest and disappear, but your skin still itches with phantom fear and shame.

“I can’t—” You curl in on yourself, dragging your knees to your chest. “I can’t, Spence, please don’t—”

Spencer doesn’t move. He waits, watches you struggle to breathe, doesn’t rush in with comfort you’ve already refused. You hate him for that. You love him for it more.

Your head’s between your knees now, your breath too shallow to be useful. Everything’s closing in. You feel light-headed, faint.

“I think you’re having a panic attack,” he says softly. “I’m going to talk to you through it. Just my voice. Nothing else, okay?”

You nod, even though you’re not sure he can see it.

“Count with me,” he says. “In for four… one, two, three, four. Hold. One, two… out for six. One, two, three, four, five, six.”

You try. You really try. The numbers warp, slide sideways in your brain. But his voice—low, calm, unrelenting—grounds you, bit by bit. Like the sea grinding away at stone. It hurts. But it helps.

He repeats the breathing exercise, over and over, until your hands stop shaking enough that you can uncurl your fingers from your thighs. You feel raw. Like someone’s taken sandpaper to your nerves.

Eventually, you lift your head. His silhouette’s clear now, outlined by the dim light from the hallway. He’s still sitting where he was, arms braced on his knees, watching you like you’re something fragile.

And you suppose, right now, you are.

“It’s over,” he says, soft as breath. “You’re safe. I swear,”

And maybe it’s those words that start to steady something inside you. You’re safe. Here, in his apartment, in his bed. Not there. Not then.

But the fear doesn’t drain out so much as it crawls back slowly, like a tide pulling away with reluctance.

You hate it.

You hate the fact it still messes you up like this. Because it makes you feel soft, and soft is weak, and weakness is how this all started.

You don’t cry. You never do. That part of you is locked away, welded shut. But your breath hitches like a sob, and you wonder if this is the closest you’ll ever get.

But he’s just sitting there, still not touching you, waiting. Present.

“I couldn’t wake up,” you manage. “I knew it was a dream. I kept telling myself it was. But I couldn’t get out. It felt like—I was going to be stuck there forever

“You’re not,” he says. “You’re back now. With me,”

You take him in for the first time since waking. His curls are sleep-mussed. His glasses are on the nightstand, and his eyes look glassy in the dark. There’s a softness to his expression, yes—but it’s not pity. It’s worry. And care. Real, bone-deep care.

“I want to…” You trail off, ashamed. “I don’t want to be alone,”

“You’re not,” he promises again. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere,”

Your body starts moving before your mind can catch up. Slowly, hesitantly, you shift toward him, and this time when he raises an arm—carefully, like he’s holding a butterfly—he waits for you to come to him.

And you do.

You fold yourself against his chest, and his arm closes around you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, and finally—finally—you start to feel the real world anchor you.

He smells like lavender and warmth and something else—something you can’t name but recognise all the same. Safety. Not perfection. Not healing. But safety, in a way you never believed you'd feel again.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, though your lips barely move.

“Don’t apologise,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to apologise for being in pain,”

“I’m supposed to be getting better,”

“You are,” he says simply. “It’s a process, you know that,”

You wish you could believe it.

Some part of you does.

But the rest—the deeper, darker part—still feels like you’re standing on the edge of a very long, very steep fall.

His hand rubs gently up and down your back. Not lingering. Not possessive. Just a quiet reassurance.

“Did I wake you?” you ask.

“I was already halfway up. You were… thrashing. I thought you were having a seizure at first,”

You stiffen. “Oh,”

“Hey,” he says quickly. “It’s alright. Don’t worry about me. I’m glad you’re here,”

“I’m not going back to sleep,” you say, voice thick.

“I know.” He presses a kiss to your hair. “I won’t either,”

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his T-shirt like you want to disappear into him. And in a way, you do. You want to crawl inside his chest and never come out. Not because you want to use him as a shield, but because being with him is the only time you ever feel like a whole person instead of a patchwork of bruises and stitched-up trauma.

“I hate how much it still affects me,” you whisper.

“You’re allowed to be affected,”

“I’m thirty now, Spence. It was ten years ago,”

“You could be sixty and it would still matter. Time doesn’t undo what he did to you,”

He doesn’t say what you did to yourself. But he doesn’t need to. He knows. And you know he knows.

Your grip tightens. His heartbeat under your ear is steady, grounding.

“I was so afraid,” you say quietly. “Back then. And tonight. But this time, when I woke up—I was terrified, I thought you—”

His breath catches, but he doesn’t pull away.

“I know,” he says, voice rougher now. “I saw it in your eyes. And I swear to you, if I could take that fear away, I would. I never, ever want you to be scared of me,”

You press your face harder against his chest.

“I wasn’t. Not really. It wasn’t you. It was just… my brain,”

He nods, chin brushing your hair. “I know. Trauma lies. But I’ll remind you of the truth, as many times as it takes,”

Silence settles over you both. Not the suffocating kind—just quiet. Peaceful. Honest.

[wonderjanga]

Pettiness

Everyone who dons the lightning bolt is petty. I don’t make the rules, they just are.

An easy example of this was when Marvel was forced to go to a party full of diplomats in Paris as protection for said diplomats. Adam only showed up because he knew Marvel would be there.

Marvel: “Wait, so you only came to this because I would be here? Dude that’s… really petty.

Black Adam: “It is not.”

Marvel: “Yes, it is.”

The entire party was basically the two deathglaring each other. Their behavior was that of two teenage girls trying to sabotage each other over a boy at prom. Only, there wasn’t a boy and they just flat out hate each other.

Marvel: *pours wine on Adam* “Oops, my bad. Butterfingers, am I right?” *fake smiling*

Black Adam: *grabs a champagne glass off a nearby try and splashes it in Marvel’s face* “Of course, butterfingers.” *also fake smiling though it’s coming off as more of a grimace*

Other Diplomats: *sweating because they can practically feel the hatred oozing off of the two*

Yeah, they did stupid stuff like this for the rest of the night. Also this behavior was solely reserved for Adam too, because Marvel was chatting it up with foreign diplomats in their own languages and all around being just a friendly guy. When the party was over they duked it out in the venue’s gardens. They made headlines in Paris and the rest of the world after they nearly toppled the Eiffel Tower. Marvel isn’t allowed in France anymore. Neither is Adam.

But hey, don’t worry, this isn’t exclusive to Billy and Adam.

Billy and Mary: *chilling on the curb, eating ice cream*

Old Lady: *nearly trips on them* “Little gremlins. Don’t you have anywhere else to be?”

Billy: *drops his ice cream from her nearly tripping on them* “No miss-”

Old Lady : “Be quiet when your elders are talking to you. I can’t believe your parents raised you like this.” *storms off*

Mary: *squints at the Old Lady* “Billy, hold my ice cream. *gives him her ice cream and stands up and sticks her foot in some mud. Then walks up behind the Old Lady and plants a nice muddy footprint on the back of her dress*

Old Lady: *gasp* “How dare you!”

Mary: “I’m sorry, miss. It was an accident.” *fake smile (just like the one Marvel gave Adam) and skips back over to Billy*

Old Lady: “You cretin! get back here!”

Billy and Mary: *run off*

Mary let her younger (by only a couple seconds) brother have the rest of the ice cream. Sibling power for the win. Oh, and we can’t forget about Freddy. Freddy has tripped multiple people with his crutch and also given people little shocks whenever they try to take said crutch. He is just as petty as the others.

Billy and Freddy: *got thrown out of a store into the cold due to the fact they looked too homeless*

Billy: “Do you think we could try some heating spells when we get home?”

Freddy: “Yeah, uh huh.” *nods along, not really paying attention and points a finger to the neon sign of the store. He shorts out a few letters so the sign says something less than appropriate*

Billy: *little laugh*

Freddy: “So what about those heating spells you mentioned?” *is smug*

[https-tim]

closer i get, can you resist?

tim drake x male!reader

# SUMMARY: you and tim drake — the guy who drives you absolutely crazy in every possible way — get picked to play seven minutes in heaven at a party.

⁺ MDNI

⁺ WC: 2000+

# TAGS: mature content／male!reader ／AMAB!reader ／power bottom!tim ( implicit )／making out／reader has a slight praise kink ／dry humping .ᐟ

Please, anyone but me, anyone but me, anyone but me…

The thought — or rather, the desperate plea — hammered in your head so hard, so relentlessly, that you could barely hear the loud laughter or the sounds of the lively party around you. The colorful lights flashed frantically, conversations overlapped, and in the middle of it all, that damn translucent green bottle spun on the wooden floor, deciding who the lucky — or unfortunate — pair would be to get locked in a closet for seven minutes.

You didn’t even realize you'd squeezed your eyes shut before the bottle finally stopped, too nervous to keep watching. When the loud gasps and cheers exploded across the room, you opened them hesitantly, staring first at the base of the bottle where it pointed for just a few seconds... then followed it to the person sitting directly across from you.

Tim Drake.

The brightest guy in the entire circle. The sharpest, most sarcastic, annoyingly handsome, and dangerously charming person you've ever had the misfortune—or luck—to meet. The one guy you’ve been trying, so damn hard, to pretend doesn’t make your knees weak just by looking at you.

If it had been anyone else, you probably would've ripped your own hair out, made up some excuse about not feeling well, and bolted like the absolute coward you are.

But…

Tim, huh?

Your palms started sweating, your throat drying the instant his eyes met yours. Those piercing, crystal-blue eyes scanning you up and down, studying you, making your stomach flip.

Someone — clearly drunk — yelled above the noise, "Well, well, look at that! Seven Minutes In Heaven! You two!"

Your heart was about to break free from your chest. Your whole body was trembling in pure anticipation.

And Tim...

Tim just... raised an eyebrow. Smirked — that smirk that looked like both an invitation and a threat. He stood from the cold floor with infuriating calm, straightening the hem of his red jacket.

"Come." He said. Simple. Casual. Direct. Not even pretending to protest about where you both were headed.

Maybe there was the slightest hint of a blush on his cheeks — something you might have noticed at another time — but right now, you were far too focused on not tripping over your own feet as you followed him like a pathetic, awkward duckling.

You avoided every pair of eyes burning into your back, ignored the loud, teasing cheers from the others as you both walked away, pretending it was all fine — when in reality, you were seconds away from passing out from sheer nerves.

The closet door creaked open. You noticed it wasn’t exactly tiny... but not comfortable enough for the both of you. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with random boxes.

You would’ve been in complete darkness if not for the gaps in the door hinges, letting in the flickering, colorful lights from outside.

You inhaled sharply, stepped inside, and as soon as Tim followed, the door shut behind him with a loud click that echoed far too loudly for your liking.

You were officially locked in.

All you could hear was the muffled beat of music bleeding through the house...

And your own heart. Pounding like crazy inside your chest.

“...D-Dude...” Your voice cracked, trembling. You wanted to smack yourself. “This... this is really happening.”

You couldn’t even look properly in front of you. At Tim. Your face was burning. Your hands were clenched tight into fists. Your soul? Probably floating somewhere out of your body by now.

Across from you, Tim let out a soft chuckle. Low. Subtle. That goddamn laugh that somehow made everything even worse — you could already tell you'd never stop thinking about it on a loop.

"You’re so nervous... just ‘cause you’re stuck in here with me?" His voice was calm. Too calm. But you caught the teasing edge laced in it.

You tried, somehow, to look like you were in control. Leaned against one of the shelves, crossed your arms, bent one leg, propped it against the wall...

But you were so tense, the pose just made you look awkward.

“I... I’m not,” you lied. A terrible, pathetic lie. “Not even... a little.”

Tim took a step forward. You didn’t so much see it—you felt it. The warmth of his body invaded your space, along with his scent: expensive cologne mixed with... something else. Something distinctly him. Addictive.

A smell you'd recognize anywhere. Even blindfolded.

“Really?” His voice dropped a notch. “'Cause... you’re breathing kinda fast.”

You swallowed thickly, throat threatening to close up, eyes darting anywhere but at him. Anywhere but at the boy who looked like he was made specifically to ruin your sanity.

“I just... I just think this is, uhm... really... embarrassing...” you mumbled, unsure.

“Hmm...” He pretended to think. “Is it more embarrassing for you... or for me? Stuck here with someone who can’t even look me in the face?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, breathing deeply. “Tim...” You barely whispered his name, voice a fragile murmur in the dim space.

Another step. His sneaker brushed against yours. The closet was small enough that his knee — covered in tight denim — nudged against your leg. You jerked back instinctively, spine slamming against the wall behind you.

He noticed. Of course he did.

"Look at you... all cornered...” His voice slowed, dripping with something heavy. “Kinda cute...”

The way he said it made your legs buckle.

Cute...?

You opened your mouth to answer, but nothing came out. Just a broken little sound.

Tim chuckled again, clearly entertained. As if he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“Funny...” He leaned a hand against the wall, right next to your head, his arm brushing close enough that his fingers nearly tangled in your hair. “I always thought you were... a little braver than this.”

The way he said it... like a challenge. Like bait. Like he was reeling you in just to see how far you'd go.

“It’s just... I-I didn’t expect... this...” You stammered, dignity leaking straight out of your body.

Tim tilted his head, blue eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh... were you hoping for someone else instead of me?”

The tip of his fingers grazed your shoulder. Light. Barely a touch. But it sent a full-body shiver right through you.

“That’s not it..!” You blurted way too quickly —vand hated how desperate it sounded.

Tim smiled like he’d just won something. “Hmm... so that’s how it is.” He stepped even closer, his hips nearly brushing against yours. “You wanted this... but now that you’ve got it, you don’t know what to do, huh?”

He was too close. Too warm.

One of his hands found yours, gripping your wrist and guiding it to his waist. It was almost automatic — the way your fingers clenched, sinking into his warm skin beneath the hem of his shirt. You felt Tim suck in a sharp breath at the contact.

Before you could even think, his other hand slid up, cradling your jaw, pulling your face toward his until you had no choice but to look at him.

“Look at me.” He whispered.

And you did. You had no choice.

His eyes... darker now. Hungry. So hungry it knocked the air right out of your lungs.

It was almost impossible to believe this was for you.

Tim’s fingers stayed steady on your face — not rough, but firm. Firm enough to make sure you knew... looking away wasn’t an option.

And before your brain could even catch up — Tim closed the distance.

The kiss landed hard. Hot. Immediate. No warning. No hesitation.

His lips were everything you’d imagined—and maybe worse. Or better. They molded perfectly against yours, desperate, urgent, like he’d been waiting for this far too long.

He kissed you like he knew exactly how to dismantle you. Tongue slipping between your lips without asking, exploring, teasing, pushing.

You could already taste yourself getting addicted to him — the faint trace of the drink he’d had earlier mixed with a bitter note of coffee buried somewhere in the background.

And the way he grabbed your shirt collar with one hand, the other still holding your jaw, fully in control... made it all even worse.

Or better.

You weren’t sure anymore.

You kissed him back the best you could. Clumsy. Nervous. But just as hungry. Your free hand — once trembling — found his waist, slipping beneath his shirt to stroke warm, soft skin. You wanted more. More contact. More time. More Tim.

And Tim matched everything. Every squeeze, every pull. A needy whimper escaped him when he felt both your hands gripping him tight.

As your fingers drew slow, shaky circles over his waist, sliding up his back to drag him closer — Tim let out a muffled moan right into your mouth.

That’s when you realized, without even meaning to...

Your hips had started moving.

Instinctive. Slow, at first—almost shy. But then... steady. Deliberate.

You were... grinding against him.

Really grinding. Almost humping.

The moment you realized — you froze. Shame hit like a punch to the gut.

But before you could pull away, apologize, or do anything at all — Tim chuckled against your lips.

A low, gravelly sound, playful. Cocky.

His mouth brushed against yours. “Well, well... what do we have here...”

He rolled his hips. Slowly. On purpose. Pressing right back against you.

“Not bad for someone who was dying of embarrassment two seconds ago...”

His voice was pure honey. Sweet. Sticky. Decorated with a grin you could literally feel against your skin.

“S-Sorry..! I didn’t mean to—” You stammered, mortified.

His hips rolled again. Harder this time. Slotting against yours with filthy, obscene precision — pulling a loud moan from you that you couldn’t swallow fast enough.

“I liked it...” Tim purred. “Keep going. I wanna feel exactly how much you want me...”

He bit your bottom lip, pulling it gently before letting go, eyes locked onto yours. “C’mon... don’t stop...”

And you didn’t. You couldn’t — not when Tim was asking like that.

He kept grinding against you, slow, cruel, shameless, like you had all the time in the world. His enjoyment was written all over him—the way you gasped, whimpered, trembled under every roll of his hips... it was driving him crazy.

“You’re so easy...” He whispered right into your ear, hot breath making you shiver head to toe. “Didn’t even have to try that hard and you’re already rubbing all over me...”

You wanted to snap back — You’re doing it too! — but the words died in your throat.

He slid his hand to the back of your neck, tangling in your hair, holding you still — making it clear you weren’t going anywhere.

Not that you wanted to. And he knew it. Oh, he knew it.

“So needy...” His tongue traced your bottom lip, agonizingly slow, before biting it again.

His hips rolled forward once more — harder this time, grinding right where it made your brain short-circuit. The denim friction against both your cocks was brutal. Perfect. 

You moaned, gripping his tiny waist like a lifeline, and Tim smiled against your skin. “You like being controlled, don’t you?”

Another thrust — slow, but deep, right where you needed. The perfect angle.

You almost collapsed.

Tim saw it. Oh, he saw it — and he looked at you like you were pathetic. Like you were a joke.

And for some awful, incredible reason — your dick twitched painfully in your jeans at the sight.

“Good boy.” He whispered, pushing your stupid shirt aside and sinking his teeth into your collarbone.

Your body didn’t even know how to react anymore. You clung to him, pressed against him, gasping, moaning, whimpering into him, and Tim just... let you. He guided it. He fueled it — the grip on your hips, the way his own rolled against yours, his mouth hot, filthy, hungry.

And then — right in the middle of that suffocating heat, the muffled sounds of moans and your bodies grinding together — 

A loud, obnoxious noise shattered everything.

“TIME’S UP!! YOUR SEVEN MINUTES ARE OVER!!”

The closet door rattled as someone banged hard on it from the outside. A loud click echoed — the second one that night — followed by clapping and bursts of laughter from the party crowd.

You froze. Completely. Heart racing. Face burning with embarrassment. Your hands were still clutching Tim’s sides.

Tim... just... laughed.

That cocky, shameless laugh. Completely satisfied with the absolute mess he’d just made out of you.

He didn’t move. Didn’t loosen his grip. Just rested his forehead against yours, panting, with that victorious smile still stretched across his lips.

“Hmm...” He bit his lower lip, running his finger slowly under your chin. “It was just starting to get fun...”

From outside, someone yelled again, pounding on the old wooden door. “HEY! LET’S GO! THERE’S ANOTHER COUPLE WAITING, LOVE BIRDS!!”

Tim sighed dramatically, and only then did he pull his body away—but kept a fistful of your shirt, tugging you close one last time to steal a soft kiss. He bit your bottom lip gently before letting go.

“See ya around...” he winked, opened the door, and stepped out — fingers running through his messy dark hair.

And God — the party lights hit his face just right. Cheeks flushed as much as yours, lips swollen and abused, and those blue eyes glinting with nothing but bad intentions.

You stood there for a few seconds, breathless, trying to figure out if you had just dreamed all of that — or if it had actually happened.

But the way your body was trembling — completely electrified — reminded you that. Yeah. 

It happened.

And judging by the smug, satisfied smile on Drake’s face as he disappeared into the crowd...

He was definitely not done playing with you.

⋆ please do not repost or translate my stuff. if you enjoyed, please reblog or leave a like ⋆

[abigailovesz]

thinking about... when laughing turns to something else (feat. a water hose)

(fluff to heavy smut mdni!)

the summer heat was thick, curling against your skin like a blanket you couldn’t quite shake. You were barefoot in the backyard, humming under your breath as you picked through the garden, tugging at weeds and pretending you weren’t sweating like crazy.

And then you heard the telltale click of the hose turning on.

you looked up slowly.

JJ stood across the yard with that stupid, mischievous, too perfect for his own good grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. The hose was already snaking through his fingers like a weapon. His sun-bleached hair was a mess, his tank top slightly damp from where he’d wiped sweat off earlier. He raised the hose like a sword and pointed it directly at you.

“don’t even think about it,” you warned, holding up a muddy glove like a peace offering.

he raised an eyebrow. “too late.”

The cold blast of water hit you before you could run.

You screamed - loud, surprised, delighted - and dropped the glove, bolting across the grass with your laughter trailing behind you. He chased you like a madman, laughing, taunting, blasting your back and legs until you were soaked through and shrieking.

“jj!” you yelled, breathless, “you’re dead! Dead!”

“Oh, yeah?” he called after you, water flying. “Come catch me then!”

You tried to dodge him, but he was too fast.

you sprinted around the side of the house, skidding to a stop when you met a wall - literally. Before you could spin around, JJ was on you. Not with the hose this time, but with his whole body, pinning you gently between him and the warm siding. His hand braced above your head, the other still holding the dripping hose, now useless at his side.

His chest rose and fell rapidly, breaths warm against your face. His smile was trouble, and it made your heart flutter in your soaked shirt.

But still, you laughed.

You laughed even with your back to the wall, cheeks flushed and clothes clinging. You laughed because he was JJ, and this was what he did.

His nose bumped yours, his voice low and teasing.

“Still mad at me?”

You blinked water from your lashes and grinned. “You’re so lucky I like you.”

He leaned in closer. “yeah,” he murmured, “I know.”

And then just to prove a point he gave you one last spray, straight to the stomach.

then lower.

lower.

jj brought the hose lower, the icy stream now streaming directly between your legs, soaking through your thin shorts and panties. The sudden shock of the cold water against your most intimate area made you gasp, your body jerking reflexively.

Your thighs clenched together instinctively as a jolt of something seemed to course through you at the unexpected action.

"JJ!" you yelped, face flushed a deep scarlet as you tried to push his hand away, struggling to keep calm even as the water continued on your sensitive flesh. Your heart raced, pounding against your ribs like a drum, as a confusing mix of embarrassment and something else, something hotter and needier, flooded your veins.

His eyes flicked down to where the water was now darkening the fabric between your legs, and a slow grin spread across his face. He leaned in closer, his voice a low rasp in your ear.

"What's the matter, baby? Too much for you?"

Despite the chill of the water, you could feel a different kind of heat beginning to pool low in your belly, your pussy clenching and fluttering over n over again. You bit your lip, trying to stifle the breathless moan that threatened to spill out, your face burning hotter.

"Stop it," you hissed, even as your hips made the barest, most involuntary little twitch forward, seeking more of that forbidden sensation.

Your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, torn between pushing him away and pulling him close.

JJ just chuckled, the sound sending shivers down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold. "you don't want me to stop," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. "Do you?"

His thumb brushed maddeningly against the inseam of your shorts, right where the water was soaking through, and you had to bite back a whimper, your eyes fluttering closed as your head fell back against the wall with a soft thunk.

his thumb pressed harder, rubbing against the damp fabric, and you couldn't hold back the whimper any longer, your voice breaking on a gasp as your hips rolled forward, seeking more pressure.

"jj.." you panted, hands fisting tighter in his shirt, your nails digging into the damp cotton. "Please..."

You didn't even know what you were begging for anymore. For him to stop? To never stop?

He chuckled again. "Please what, baby?" he murmured, his voice a rumble against your skin. "Tell me what you want."

His other hand slid up your side, his fingers splaying across your ribcage, your breast, until his palm was cupping the soft swell, your hardened nipple pressing into his skin. He rolled it between his fingers, pinching just hard enough to make you gasp, to arch into his touch.

"JJ..." you whimpered again, your head falling back, your eyes squeezing shut as sensation after sensation crashed through you, building and building until you thought you might literally burst.

suddenly, the relentless stream of water ceased, the hose going slack in JJ's hand. The power had blinked out, leaving you both shrouded in the heat of the summer afternoon.

but JJ didn't miss a beat. He swung the hose away, letting it drop to the ground with a clatter before his hands were on you, gripping your hips, lifting you effortlessly. Before you could protest, before you could even think to protest, he had hoisted you up and over his shoulder, your stomach pressed against the curve of his shoulder blade, your legs dangling down his back.

"hey!" you yelped, instinctively grabbing onto his waist to steady yourself. "what are you doing?"

He just laughed, a carefree, reckless sound, and started walking towards the doors that led into the chateau. "power's out, remember? can't let a little thing like that stop us now."

You pounded a fist against his back, but there was no real anger behind it, only a giddy, breathless excitement at the insanity of the situation. "jj, stop! we can't just go in there like this! I'm soaked!"

He just shrugged, not slowing his stride in the slightest as he kicked open the door and stepped inside. "It's not like the AC's working anyway. Might as well air dry."

[writeriguess]

Stolen Jacket // Sylus x fem!reader

author's note: I’ve written quite a few fics while I was away, and I’ll be publishing them before diving into any new requests. They’re currently written with an OC that’s essentially a self-insert, so I’ll need to convert them into reader inserts first. Honestly, I never thought I’d share them because of the whole plagiarism mess, but I’ve decided to let them see the light of day after all.

Sylus grumbled under his breath as he tightened the final bolt on the engine panel, his red eyes narrowing in concentration. The ship’s maintenance had taken longer than expected, and his nerves were starting to fray. He ran a gloved hand through his messy silver hair, which always seemed to defy gravity no matter how many times he tried to smooth it down. With a sigh, he leaned back on his heels, satisfied that the systems were finally stable.

“Done,” he muttered to no one in particular, shutting the panel with a solid thud.

The ship was unusually quiet. Normally, he could hear you somewhere nearby—talking to the AI, humming softly to yourself, or just bustling about. But now, the silence felt strange. It made his instincts prick, though not out of fear. No, this was something else entirely—curiosity, maybe. Or anticipation.

Standing up and dusting his hands off, Sylus decided to look for you. It wasn’t a big ship; you couldn’t have gone far. He stalked through the corridors with easy strides, his boots echoing faintly against the metal floors. He checked the kitchen first, then the cockpit, but you were nowhere to be found.

When he finally reached the crew quarters, Sylus stopped in his tracks, his red eyes narrowing slightly at the sight before him.

You were standing near his bunk, your back turned to him as you fidgeted with the hem of his jacket—the one he usually wore for missions. It was unmistakably his, the black leather adorned with silver accents and scuffed edges from countless scrapes and close calls. The jacket was too big on you, the sleeves hanging past your hands, the material loose enough to make it look like you were drowning in it.

It wasn’t just the jacket, either. You’d clearly raided his stash, pulling on one of his shirts beneath it. The sight struck him like a punch to the chest, and for a moment, Sylus just stood there, staring.

Something about it felt intimate. His clothes, which had always been a part of his identity, now looked completely different on you. And the fact that you were wearing them so casually, completely unaware of how much it affected him…

Sylus leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest with an almost lazy smirk. “Well, well,” he drawled, his deep voice slicing through the quiet like a blade. “Is this what you’ve been up to?”

You turned around quickly, startled by his voice, though you tried to recover by flashing him a sheepish smile. “Oh. Uh, I didn’t think you’d be done so soon.”

“Clearly,” he said, his smirk widening as he straightened and walked toward you. His boots thudded softly against the floor, and his crimson eyes glinted with a mischievous light. “And here I thought you hated how this jacket smelled like engine grease and sweat.”

“I never said that!” you protested, clutching the front of the jacket as if to defend yourself.

“No?” He stopped a few feet away from you, tilting his head. His silver hair was as messy as ever, strands falling across his forehead in a way that should’ve looked unkempt but somehow made him even more infuriatingly attractive.

“I just thought…” You hesitated, suddenly self-conscious under his intense gaze. “It was cold, and your jacket was right there, so…”

“Cold, huh?” Sylus’s voice dipped lower, the smirk on his lips softening into something more dangerous. “And the shirt? That part of your ‘cold’ excuse too?”

You opened your mouth to respond but quickly snapped it shut, unsure how to explain yourself without making it worse.

Sylus chuckled, stepping closer until there was barely any space left between you. His gloved fingers reached out to brush against the sleeve of the jacket, his touch light but deliberate. “You don’t have to explain,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I get it.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his sudden shift in tone. “You… do?”

“Mm.” His crimson gaze swept over you again, lingering on the way the jacket hung on your frame. “Seeing you like this… it’s sexy as hell.”

Your breath hitched, heat rushing to your face at his bluntness. “It’s just a jacket,” you muttered, looking anywhere but at him.

“Not just a jacket,” Sylus countered, his smirk returning as he leaned closer, his voice low and teasing. “It’s my jacket. My clothes. And you’re wearing them like you own the place.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, his proximity making it impossible to think straight. “If it bothers you, I can take it off—”

“Don’t,” Sylus interrupted, his voice firm as his hand moved to the front of the jacket. His fingers brushed against yours, and his touch sent a shiver down your spine. “I like it.”

The admission was quiet but heavy, his crimson eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your knees weak. He tugged lightly on the collar of the jacket, his smirk softening into something warmer, almost tender.

“You’re full of surprises, you know that?” he murmured, his thumb brushing against the fabric. “Just when I think I’ve got you figured out, you go and do something like this.”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” you said, though your voice lacked conviction.

Sylus chuckled, the sound low and warm as he shook his head. “It is to me.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of his words hanging between you. Then, with a smirk that was equal parts playful and possessive, Sylus leaned in closer, his breath ghosting against your ear.

“You might want to get used to this,” he said, his voice a low rumble that sent a thrill down your spine. “Because I’m not letting you give that jacket back anytime soon.”

[big-poppa23]

Something Like Her

synapse: in a game built to kill, y/n didn’t expect to feel anything—until she meets hyun-ju, a former soldier with steady hands and a guarded smile. she’s only ever dated men. but there’s something about hyun-ju—something like safety, like defiance…like possibly love.

pairing: cho hyun-ju x female!reader

contains: objectification, transphobia, awakening of sexuality, death

a/n: i can’t believe I haven’t written for my queen until now. im so in love with her and dae-ho. btw i just found out the doll in red light green light is actually saying “the mugunghwa flower has bloomed”

PART TWO

. . .

The air is too still.

Hundreds of players stand frozen on a faded, oversized playground while the mechanical doll at the far end slowly turns her plastic head. Her pigtails sway unnaturally. Eyes scan with robotic calculation.

“무궁화 꽃이 피었습니다,” the doll’s robotic slowly hums. (Mugunghwa Kkoci Pieot Seumnida)

Everyone bolts forward in scattered chaos — some with desperation, others with deadly focus. Y/N sprints across the dirt like her life depends on it, because it does. Her heart slams in her chest like a hammer against rusted metal.

She’s halfway to the finish line when it happens.

Her shoe catches a ridge in the ground — a root, maybe. She stumbles, just slightly — a breath, a blink.

She’s going to fall as the doll’s phrase slowly comes to an end.

Time slows. There’s a flicker of acceptance in her chest — the quiet knowing that she’s about to die. Then—

A hand wraps around her wrist, firm and unshaking.

Player 120.

“I’ve got you,” a soft voice whispered urgently, barely audible over the gasps and screams around them.

She moves with the precision of someone who’s been forced to live carefully. In one graceful motion, the arm now around her waist as she yanks Y/N upright, steadying her just as the doll’s head turns and the eyes flicker over them, she looks up at her savior just in time.

They freeze.

The woman holding her was tall, with dark hair that framed her face like curtains. Her expression was sharp — serious — but there was something warm in her eyes. A quiet strength. Her painted fingernails were digging into Y/N’s jacket from where she held on, unmoving, as still as a statue.

They don’t move.

The doll scans. Pauses. Moves on.

Gunshots crack in the distance. Someone screams.

But the two of them are alive.

And then the doll is humming again.

Hyun-ju lets go. Y/N’s knees tremble, but she runs towards the finish line. They both do.

. . .

The cold hum of the fluorescent lights overhead buzzes like a warning. The vote is over. The decision made.

They’re staying.

Despite everything — the blood, the screams, the slaughter masked as a children’s game — the majority chose to keep playing. Desperation outweighs fear.

Y/N sits stiffly on the edge of a steel bunk, staring down at her hands. They still tremble a little. Not from the game — but from how close it came. One misstep. One second slower. She would’ve been—

“Dead,” she mutters under her breath.

She looks around the room. Players avoid eye contact. Some cry quietly. Some already lie down, curling into themselves like children. The air smells of sweat and despair.

Then her eyes find Player 120.

She’s sitting by herself, legs folded. Calm on the outside, but her fingers pick absently at the corner of her sleeve. A mask of composure, but Y/N knows that kind of loneliness. The kind that keeps you apart even in a crowd.

Without thinking, Y/N gets up and walks forward in the line. She grabs a fresh dosirak box, still faintly warm, and an extra water bottle.

Then she crosses the room — quiet, unsure. “Hey.”

Hyun-ju glances up. Her eyes soften just a little.

Y/N holds out the food. “I figured you probably didn’t feel like getting in line.”

A pause. Hyun-ju looks from the box to Y/N’s face, then takes it gently. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

“But you did.”

Y/N shrugs, trying to mask the awkward warmth building in her chest. “You, uh… saved my life earlier. Felt wrong not to say thank you properly…Well, as much as I can in here.”

Hyun-ju smiles — not wide, but real. “You’re welcome. Just don’t die in the second round, alright?”

“That’s the plan.”

They sit there for a moment — not talking, not eating, just existing side by side in the strange quiet after violence. Somehow, this tiny act of kindness feels like rebellion in a place designed to strip away humanity.

Y/N finally exhales. “You always look out for strangers?”

Hyun-ju opens her water bottle, thinks for a beat. “No,” she finally says softly. “But you didn’t feel like a stranger.”

And for the first time that day, Y/N smiles too.

The tin of the dosirak clicks softly as Y/N peels it open, the scent of lukewarm rice and kimchi filling the air between them. It’s far from appetizing, but it’s something. They eat in silence for a few minutes, the tension slowly bleeding out of their shoulders like a muscle finally relaxing.

Hyun-ju glances sideways at her. “You eat like someone who grew up fighting for the last bite.”

Y/N huffs a faint laugh. “You’re not wrong.”

A pause.

“What’s your name?” Hyun-ju asks.

Y/N looks up, a little surprised. “Y/N.”

“Y/N,” Hyun-ju repeats, as if tasting it. “It suits you.”

Y/N tilts her head, eyes narrowing curiously. “You say that like you’ve known me longer than a few hours.”

Hyun-ju smiles softly. “Some people don’t need long.”

Y/N looks down, hiding the ghost of a smile. Then— “You?”

“Hyun-ju,” she says. Her voice lowers slightly, like she’s weighing whether to give more.

Y/N nods, then decides to take the chance. “I… didn’t know what to expect when you pulled me up earlier. I thought maybe you were just one of the quiet types.”

“I used to be a sergeant,” Hyun-ju says, the words spilling out without ceremony. “Special Forces. Never really had the luxury of being loud.”

Y/N’s eyes widen slightly. “Wait, really? You—were military?”

“Was.” Hyun-ju sets her spoon down. “I got discharged a while ago.”

“What happened?”

A beat. Hyun-ju’s eyes flick to the floor. She’s quiet for a moment. When she speaks again, her voice is steady, but heavy. “…I told them I wanted to transition. Live openly. As myself.”

“And?”

“And that was enough for them to throw me out.”

Y/N doesn’t respond right away. She just watches her. Takes her in. Finally, she says, “Well… for what it’s worth and from what I saw, they lost a damn good soldier.”

Hyun-ju lifts her eyes to meet hers. There’s something unspoken in her gaze — surprise, gratitude, maybe even a flicker of hope “Thanks,” she murmurs. “Most people just stare or whisper.”

“Screw ‘most people.’” Y/N says. “You pulled me off the ground today like it was nothing. Like you’d done it a hundred times before. Everyone here would’ve let me fall and die. But not you. You’ve got more courage in your little finger than half the people in this room.”

Hyun-ju chuckles. “Don’t make me like you too fast.”

Y/N grins, leaning back on her hands. “Too late.”

The fluorescent lights buzz above them, but for a moment, they feel a little warmer.

Not friends. Not allies. Not yet.

But something’s beginning. And in this place — this hell — beginnings are rare.

. . .

It was a new day which meant it would be time for the second game. As the remaining stepped into a new room, it was announced they all had five minutes to get into groups of five.

Y/N blinked, heart already racing. Five. It wasn’t enough time. Not for strangers. Not for trust.

People scattered like frightened rats, some sprinting toward familiar faces, others grabbing whoever was closest.

She looked across the sea of bodies and saw Hyun-ju standing alone.

Their eyes met.

And then the crowd surged.

Y/N moved fast, weaving between players, reaching out—but a shoulder slammed into hers before she could get to Hyun-ju.

“Hey! Group of four!” a man barked nearby. “We need one more!”

Y/N turned hopefully, but his expression changed as he looked her up and down — not with camaraderie, but with something that made her skin crawl.

Like she was for sale.

Another man beside him grinned, elbowing his friend. “She’s cute. Bet she’ll keep us warm at lights out.”

Y/N’s stomach twisted. She stepped back without a word.

“Suit yourself, sweetheart,” the first one called after her. “You’ll be begging to join us when the clock runs out.”

She ignored him and turned to the next group.

Three women. One man.

All eyes shifted as she approached.

“Already full,” one woman said coolly, before she could even speak.

Another offered a sympathetic shrug, but didn’t fight it.

Y/N moved on. Fast.

Around her, people were forming up in uneven circles, huddling in tight, wary clusters. She spotted someone waving others over — until Hyun-ju approached.

The shift was immediate.

One of the men in the group looked her over judgement in his gaze and sneered. “No, we’re good.”

Hyun-ju’s jaw clenched. She said nothing. Just nodded once, stiffly, and walked away.

Y/N’s chest burned. She turned sharply and forced her way through the throng, her voice rising. “Hyun-ju!”

Hyun-ju looked up — and this time, didn’t hide the relief in her eyes.

Y/N reached her, breath short. “Guess we’re the leftovers.”

Hyun-ju smiled faintly. “Maybe we’re just the ones who haven’t forgotten how to see people.”

Y/N didn’t reply. Instead, she grabbed Hyun-ju’s hand and held it tight. “Then let’s survive together.”

They stood shoulder to shoulder, the crowd moving around them like a tide. Cold glares and cruel whispers bounced around the room, but neither flinched.

1:04… 1:03…

Y/N and Hyun-ju stood firm in the corner of the room, back-to-back against a tide of rejection, judgement, and half-formed alliances. The chaos was beginning to quiet — not because people had settled, but because options were running out.

Then they saw them.

A woman in her late 70’s or 80’s — slight, trembling but proud — moved through the thinning crowd with a young man beside her, maybe mid-fourties’. He gripped her hand tightly, knuckles white, his face a mask of worry as he scanned the room.

Player 149 and Player 007. Mother and son.

Their steps hesitated as they neared Y/N and Hyun-ju’s duo.

Y/N felt it too — the uncertainty, the desperation. She took a half-step forward, voice almost shy.

“Would you…?”

At the same time, the older woman spoke.

“Can we…?”

Their mirrored hesitation said everything — four outcasts finding one another at the final hour.

Hyun-ju glanced at the mother’s hands — worn, calloused, trembling not with fear but with determination. The son, silent, nodded in solidarity.

Y/N opened her mouth to respond—

“You insolent fools!” The voice sliced through the air like a blade. Player 044 marched toward them, her eyes gleaming with something unhinged. “You made me come to you when you should’ve come to me.” Her lip curled. “I should just slay you with my knife.”

Silence fell between them like a dropped stone.

Y/N looked at Hyun-ju. Hyun-ju looked back — deadpan, blinking once in disbelief.

Is this really happening?

But the clock was still ticking.

00:12… 00:11…

“We need five,” Hyun-ju said under her breath, gaze not leaving 044. “We don’t have the luxury to be picky.”

“Can we survive her?” Y/N murmured.

“We’ve survived worse.”

Ten seconds.

Without another word, 044 joined them, uninvited but technically valid.

The group of five now stood complete — a mismatched portrait of the rejected, the forgotten, and the unhinged.

And as the countdown hit 00:00, the doors slammed shut behind them.

There was no turning back. Not from each other. Not from the game.

. . .

They made it.

Somehow — through near falls, and the frantic clatter of childhood games turned deadly — they made it.

The Six-Legged Pentathlon had pushed them to the edge: five games in rapid succession — Ddakji, Flying Stone, Gonggi, Spinning Top, Jegi — all tethered together by cuffs on their ankles and coordination. Every misstep pulled someone else down. Every second counted. There was no room for ego, no time for hesitation.

But they worked as one.

Clumsy. Fast. Breathless. Alive.

Y/N hadn’t realized just how tightly she’d been clenching her jaw until they crossed the finish line and she felt her teeth ache from the pressure. They were one of the first groups back to the dormitory — bruised, limping, and victorious.

Now, the room hummed with exhaustion and leftover adrenaline. Murmurs. Shallow breathing. The occasional dry cough.

Y/N sat on the cold steel steps of their bunk, her back against the frame. Beside her, Hyun-ju sat close, their knees nearly touching. Neither of them spoke at first. They just breathed. Together.

It wasn’t peace — not in the real sense. But it was a moment without panic, and that was rare enough to feel holy.

Then, finally, Y/N broke the silence with a small, raspy voice: “You know…” Hyun-ju turned her head, a slow tilt of curiosity. Y/N smiled — crooked and tired — as she looked down at her own scuffed shoes. “I’d pay every last won I have to see you slap Player 044 again.”

That caught Hyun-ju off guard. A pause. Then the faintest smirk tugged at her lips. “She was panicking.”

“She was being a maniac,” Y/N countered, letting out a breathy laugh. “I mean, yeah, we were all freaking out, but she could’ve gotten us killed.”

“So I slapped her.”

“So you slapped her,” Y/N echoed, grinning now. “And it was beautiful. Like, poetry. Especially after all the shit-talking she did during each of our games.”

Hyun-ju chuckled under her breath — short and quiet, but real. “Next time, I’ll let you do it.”

“Oh no,” Y/N said, nudging her knee against Hyun-ju’s playfully. “That was your moment. I’d only ruin the art of it.”

They both fell into silence again, but this time it was warmer. The air between them carried something unspoken — not quite flirting, but not far from it either.

Y/N glanced at Hyun-ju from the corner of her eye. The soft curve of her lips. The way her hands rested calmly in her lap, even after everything. That quiet strength again. That stillness.

Y/N didn’t mean to stare. But she was. Again.

Hyun-ju was sitting there, the dull overhead lights casting soft shadows over her features — strong, serene, undeniably beautiful.

Y/N’s eyes traced the curve of her jaw, the slope of her neck, the calm set of her mouth.

She felt the flutter again. That weird flutter in her chest. Like excitement dressed in nerves.

It wasn’t the first time.

She pulled her knees up to her chest, burying her face against them briefly as if to block out the heat rising in her cheeks. Get it together.

She’d had boyfriends before. Some serious. Most forgettable. Some good in bed. Most…selfish.

But none of them ever made her feel this aware.

Aware of every glance Hyun-ju gave her.

Every silence they shared. Every time their fingers brushed just a little too long when passing a bottle of water.

It wasn’t like falling for a guy. It didn’t hit with testosterone and friction and predictability.

No — this was quieter. Deeper. It crept in slowly like warm water in a cold tub — and now she was in too deep to tell when it started.

And maybe what shook her most was the way it felt so natural. Not like a mistake. Not like confusion.

It just…was.

She found herself listening for Hyun-ju’s voice when others were talking. Watching her mouth when she wasn’t speaking. Feeling something twist — something good — when Hyun-ju smiled at her, like she was letting Y/N into some secret world no one else was allowed in.

Is this a crush?

Y/N let her head fall back against the cold metal of the bunk frame, staring at the ceiling like it held answers.

God, what even is this?

But the thought didn’t bring panic.

It brought the ghost of a grin. A thrill that buzzed beneath the exhaustion of survival.

Y/N looked at her again.

Hyun-ju was watching her now — calm, soft-eyed, curious.

Y/N looked away quickly, heart thudding.

Too fast. Too loud. Too hopeful.

She didn’t know what this was becoming.

But it made her feel alive. And in a place built to kill everything human, that felt like a kind of rebellion.

Hyun-ju glanced toward Y/N with the beginnings of a smile — small, quiet, but warm enough to thaw ice. She looked like she was about to say something.

But the moment was interrupted.

“Listen,” said Player 149, settling across from her on the bunk like they were old friends in a public park instead of prisoners in a death game. “Can I ask you something?”

Hyun-ju nodded politely. “Yes.”

“When you were playing Jegi… why didn’t you want us to look? Are you shy?” There was no mockery in her tone, only curiosity — the kind older women sometimes carried, blunt but not malicious.

Hyun-ju didn’t flinch. “It’s not that,” she said calmly. “I’m just… not completely done.”

Y/N’s eyes flicked up at that.

“What do you mean?” Player 149 asked, genuinely puzzled.

Before Hyun-ju could answer, her son — Player 007 — shifted uncomfortably. “Mom, stop asking questions. You’re being nosy.”

But Hyun-ju only chuckled, her fingers folded in her lap. “It’s alright,” she said. “I still have some procedures left. I just didn’t want people to stare at me.”

The air stilled slightly.

“What procedures?” Then Player 149 blinked and, after a beat, gestured vaguely toward Hyun-ju’s chest, speaking without judgment — more like someone puzzling out a riddle. “Oh… so that’s how you got those too? I knew they were too big to be natural—”

“Mom, please,” 007 groaned, gently tugging at his mother’s arm.

Y/N’s gaze drifted, unbidden, to where the older woman had pointed.

She hadn’t really looked before. Not closely. Not in that way.

But now, her eyes found the soft curve of Hyun-ju’s chest, how it rose and fell slowly with her breath. And for one suspended second, her thoughts blurred.

Then realization slammed into her.

She was staring.

Her cheeks flushed instantly, blood rushing to the surface like a guilty alarm. She yanked her gaze away, jaw tightening in shame. The last thing she wanted was to make Hyun-ju feel watched, like a spectacle — especially after what she’d just confessed.

Stupid. Don’t do that.

Y/N’s heart thudded unevenly. She hugged her knees closer to her chest, face half-buried, trying to will the heat from her skin to vanish.

It wasn’t about curiosity. It wasn’t about shock. It was something else. Something complicated. Something real.

The truth was… she found Hyun-ju beautiful.

Not despite her being trans.

Not because of it.

But alongside it.

Hyun-ju was beautiful in ways that couldn’t be boxed in or labeled — not by surgery, not by old habits, or what she thought she understood about herself.

And if her body was still in transition… that didn’t matter.

Because what Y/N felt — this pull, this gentle ache in her ribs every time Hyun-ju smiled — wasn’t about biology. It wasn’t theoretical.

It was personal.

God, Y/N thought, pressing her fingers to her burning cheeks. This is really happening, isn’t it?

And yet, despite her embarrassment, a flicker of something stayed alive inside her: Warmth. A kind of wonder.

[wvyik]

click, play, stay. d.w. °˖➴

dean winchester x fem! reader

ᰔ summary: you walk in on dean watching porn, and the girl? looks just like you. one thing leads to another, and it gets way too real.

⤿ warnings: mdni!! explicit content, best friends to lovers?, oral sex, p in v, breeding kink, swearing, porn watching, dub-consent (you did walk in on him), spoiler alert: dean is NOT your average best friend, accidental discovery, intentional fucking, you wanted slowburn? lol, no. welcome to chaos.

⤿ notes: new format?? mhm! also, i’m pretty sure this is the exact moment i crossed all boundaries. but hey, it’s dean. enjoy… or don’t. but you will. you’ll definitely enjoy.

You were supposed to be asleep.

The bunker was dead quiet, the only sounds the soft hum of overhead lights and the occasional creak of ancient pipes. You tiptoed out of your room in nothing but your usual sleep fit— those stupid little pink shorts and that baggy tee with a faded band logo, barely awake, just craving something cold to drink.

What you didn’t expect to find was him.

Dean. Lying on his bed, legs sprawled out like he owned the place — which, to be fair, he kinda did; laptop propped open on his thighs, the soft slap of skin echoing off the walls, low moans slipping from his lips like sin.

Your brain didn’t catch up right away. You blinked, thinking maybe it was just some dumb movie. Something graphic on late-night cable. But then he shifted. Jaw tight, chest heaving, one hand moving under the thin gray waistband of his sweats, and the sound from his laptop speakers made your stomach drop straight to hell.

Wet. Rhythmic. Desperate.

You froze in the doorway.

It was porn.

Very, very intense porn.

You were about to turn and bolt when you actually looked at the screen— and saw her.

Saw you.

Or, okay, not you exactly. But enough like you that your breath caught in your throat. Same hair. Same curves. Same little whimpering gasp when the guy in the video; who had messy hair, broad shoulders, and a voice that sounded suspiciously like Dean’s, gripped her thighs and pushed in deeper.

Your eyes went wide.

And that’s when Dean looked up.

He didn’t panic. Didn’t scramble to close the laptop or hide what he was doing.

Instead, he smirked.

“Well, well,” he drawled, voice gravelly from arousal. “Didn’t think you were the sneaky type.”

Your whole body went numb. Your knees locked in place and your voice came out squeaky and stunned:

“I—I didn’t mean to— Dean, I didn’t know you were— what the fuck!”

“Mhm,” he said, not even flinching. So casual. One hand finally moving away from his waistband, resting on his stomach like he wasn’t still hard as hell beneath the fabric. “Didn’t know I had an audience tonight. You like what you saw?”

“That girl looked like me,” you whispered.

He arched a brow.

“Did she?”

“Dean.” Your voice trembled, shame twisting in your chest. “Why would you… why would you watch that?”

He clicked the laptop shut like it was nothing.

“Why d’you think?” he said, standing up slow, that cocky saunter in his step, towering over you before you could even think of moving. “I’ve had to sit around for months watchin’ you prance around here in those tiny fuckin’ shorts, crawlin’ into my bed when you get nightmares, sleepin’ next to me like you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me.”

Your mouth opened. Closed. Your brain had shut down.

“You ever think about me like that?” he asked, voice dropping an octave. “You ever get curious what I sound like when I’m inside you?”

You choked on your own breath.

“Jesus, Dean—”

He stepped even closer. Barely a foot between your bodies now.

“Don’t get all shy now, sweetheart. You walked in. You stayed. You looked at that screen and kept watching.” His eyes dragged over your body, slow and hot and possessive. “So if you’re gonna act like a good girl, tell me the truth.”

You blinked up at him, wide-eyed, heart racing.

“…Was it really about me?”

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear, voice dark and full of sin,

“Every fuckin’ time.”

You swallow.

His breath brushes your skin.

You hate the part of you that wants more.

“So what happens now?” you whisper, voice barely there.

He grins, but it’s not playful anymore. It’s dark. Focused. Hungry.

“Now,” he murmurs, “you tell me if you want this. ‘Cause once we start, baby, I’m not gonna pretend I don’t wanna know how you sound when you moan anymore.”

Your whole body lights up like a goddamn fire alarm.

You nod— slow, shy, unsure, and Dean’s hands find your hips, big and hot and grounding you before you can float away from the sheer weight of this moment.

“Fuck,” he mutters, like it’s physically painful. “You’re actually sayin’ yes to this.”

You look up at him, wide-eyed. “You thought I wouldn’t?”

He lets out a sharp laugh— shocked. His grip tightens, and his mouth brushes your cheek before he growls into your ear,

“You’re my best fuckin’ friend, sweetheart. The girl I’ve been tryin’ not to fuck for years. But now? You’re standing here all pretty and wet for me after catching me jerk off to a video of someone who looks just like you.”

He steps back just long enough to grab the laptop. “So we’re gonna watch it again. Together.”

You blink.

“Dean—what?”

“No no,” he says, pulling you into his room, sitting down on the bed and tugging you into his lap like it’s the most normal thing in the world. His hard length presses up against your ass as you straddle him. “You’re gonna watch what I was watching. And you’re gonna feel exactly what I felt.”

The video starts again.

The moans fill the room.

Your cheeks burn.

His hands start roaming, slow at first. Just resting on your thighs. Then sliding up under your shirt, thumbs grazing over your hips. “See that?” he murmurs, mouth brushing your neck. “How he’s got her pinned down? How deep he’s fucking her?”

You nod, breath stuttering.

“That’s what I was thinkin’ about,” he says, pressing a kiss to your pulse. “Pushing you back on this bed, spreading those pretty legs, and just ruining you.”

You let out a shaky little gasp.

“You always get this wet just from watchin’?” he teases, fingers sliding under the waistband of your shorts. “Or is it me?”

You can’t speak. He doesn’t need you to.

One thick finger dips into your panties and he groans— low and deep, like he’s just tasted something addictive.

“Ohh, fuck, sweetheart…” He nips at your jaw. “This pussy was made for me.”

You whimper.

“You want me to fill you up like that?” he asks, gaze flicking from the screen to you. “You want me to make you so full of me, you’ll be feelin’ it for days?”

You nod helplessly.

And then he’s flipping you beneath him, pushing your shirt up, yanking your shorts down— his mouth hot and hungry as he kisses down your belly, his voice ragged,

“You better be fuckin’ sure, baby. ‘Cause once I start… I’m not stopping ‘til I’m all the way in and you’re begging me to put a baby in you.”

You don’t even get a chance to breathe before Dean’s dragging your panties down your thighs, slow but greedy, like he wants to savor it, wants to remember what you look like like this forever. Laying on his bed, flushed and wide-eyed, already soaked for him.

And he hasn’t even touched you properly yet.

The video’s still playing on the laptop beside you. Your own soft moans mixing with hers, the sound of skin against skin driving Dean insane.

“Fuck, baby, look at you,” he mutters, dragging his mouth across your inner thigh, leaving open-mouthed kisses. “Shakin’ like a virgin on prom night.”

You let out a breathy little whimper, thighs twitching.

“I’m not—”

“No, but this pussy’s mine,” he cuts you off, voice all grit and possession. “And I’m gonna treat her like she’s never been touched before.”

And then his tongue’s on you.

Oh. My. God.

No teasing. No slow warmup. Dean dives in like he’s starved— like he’s been dreaming about this for years and now that he has you, he’s gonna take his fucking time.

His tongue licks a long, slow stripe up your slit, then circles your clit until your hips buck against his mouth. “Dean—Dean, holy shit—”

He groans into you like he can’t help it. Like you taste like heaven and he wants to drown in it.

One thick finger slides into you, curling just right, his mouth never stopping. You’re shaking. Moaning. Whimpering his name like a prayer.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he growls, pulling back just enough to speak, his chin slick with you. “You’re squeezin’ me so good, baby. So fuckin’ tight for me.”

He slides a second finger in. Pumps slow. Deep. Crooks them just enough to hit that spot that makes your eyes roll back.

You gasp, fisting the sheets.

And then he leans up, hovering over you, eyes dark as sin.

“Wanna know somethin’ sick?” he rasps, rubbing slow circles on your clit. “When I came earlier? I imagined this pussy. You— on your back, beggin’ me to put a baby in you.”

You let out a choked moan.

“Dean—”

“You gonna let me, sweetheart?” He kisses your neck, your collarbone, your lips—hot, messy kisses between every filthy word. “Gonna let me fuck you raw? Fill you up so deep it sticks?”

You nod like you’re drunk on him.

“Please.”

He groans—feral now; like that one word snapped the leash clean off.

He yanks his sweats down, and his cock springs free. Thick, flushed, leaking. You’ve never seen anything so hot. He lines himself up with your entrance, and pauses, just for a breath.

“You sure?” he asks, voice tight.

You reach up, grab his face, and whisper, “Dean, if you don’t fuck me right now, I’m gonna lose my goddamn mind.”

That’s all it takes.

He slams into you— slow but deep, dragging it out, like he wants you to feel every inch.

You cry out, nails digging into his back. He groans like he’s dying.

“Fuuuck,” he hisses, burying himself to the hilt. “So fuckin’ tight, baby. You were made for me.”

His hips start to move. Slow at first, grinding into you, heavy and rough and intentional. He kisses you like he owns you. He fucks you like he’s claiming you.

And the whole time?

He doesn’t stop talking.

“You feel that?” he pants. “That’s my cock stretchin’ you open, fillin’ you where no one else ever will again.”

“I’m gonna fuck you full, sweetheart. Breed you so good you’ll feel me for days.”

Your body’s writhing under him— shaking, trembling, your orgasm building like a tidal wave.

“You close?” he growls, thrusting harder, snapping his hips against yours. “C’mon, baby. Cream on my cock. Show me how bad you want it.”

And when you fall apart?

It’s a wreck.

You clench around him like a vice, crying out his name, and he loses it— slamming into you once, twice more before burying himself deep and groaning, “Fuck—take it—take all of it, baby—fuckin’ take my cum—”

He holds you tight, grinding into you as he empties himself inside, thick and hot and endless. You’re both panting, covered in sweat, trembling from the aftershocks.

He doesn’t pull out.

Just collapses on top of you, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“Told you we’d make a better video,” he mumbles against your skin.

You laugh, breathless. “Holy shit.”

He grins.

“Round two?”

taglist; @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @mostlymarvelgirl @freeluigihesbae @brutuuallove @impala67rollingthroughtown @multiversefanfics @littlesoulshine @starzify @ladykitana90 @idontwannabehere78 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @pieandflannel @twelveyearsofit @tinas111 @riteofpassage77 ⊹ ࣪ ˖

⤿ wanna be tagged in my fics?.. don't be shy! @ taglist.

tysm for reading! more works incoming @ library. ⊹₊⟡

[girliemattitude]

— - The stomach flu - — Dad! Matt & Mom!reader - —

The house had that heavy, hushed feeling that came in waves of sickness.My three year old Cody was curled up in my lap in our bed, his little body burning with fever, sweat dampening his hairline. He was pale, except for his cheeks which were flushed a deep pink, and his tiny lips were dry from throwing up earlier, twice. He hadn’t said much since this morning, just the occasional soft whimper or whine, and the heartbreaking way he’d whispered “Mommy…” right before falling back asleep on my chest.

I held him tight, one arm around him and the other brushing slowly up and down his back, trying to soothe him even as my own body ached from a complete lack of rest. We’d barely slept the past two nights.

On the floor of our bedroom, Emerie sat cross legged, a blanket beneath her and her favorite collection of dolls, crayons, and tiny animal figurines scattered all around her like a personal kingdom. She was humming softly to herself, one hand busy making a little giraffe talk to a bear about a tea party.

Three days ago, she’d been the one in this bed,feverish, miserable, clinging to me through the worst of the stomach flu. It had started one night out of nowhere. One minute she was fine, the next, she was crying because her tummy hurt and then she threw up all over her bunny pajamas. The flu had knocked her out cold for two full days, and she missed school all week.

She was finally better today. Her color had come back, her appetite returned, and her energy was, quite honestly, suspiciously back to normal. But she liked playing up the drama. She loved staying home, being near us. And she knew if she said she still didn’t feel great, there was a good chance we’d cave and let her skip one more day.

And now… Cody had it.

Matt hadn’t wanted to leave me alone today. I could still hear his voice this morning before he left, low and full of guilt as he buttoned his shirt at the foot of our bed.

“I don’t feel right going,” he’d said, glancing between me and Cody, already sick and sweaty on my chest. “You’re running on fumes, babe. Let me cancel. They’ll understand.”

“You can’t miss this meeting, Matt,” I had told him, gently. “You’ve pushed it twice already. Go, just… come back as soon as you can.”

He’d looked torn. “Promise me you’ll text if you need anything. Anything.”

“I promise.”

He’d kissed my forehead, then leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Cody’s hair. “Feel better, little man.”

Now, hours later, I heard the front door creak open downstairs. I didn’t have the energy to call out, but Emerie didn’t need prompting she heard it and bolted from her spot on the floor like a firecracker.

“Daddy!” she squealed, the thud of her feet racing down the hallway.

I smiled a little despite the exhaustion. Moments later, I heard Matt’s soft grunt as he caught her in his arms, followed by his warm laugh.

“Well, hey! Someone’s feeling better,” he teased as he lifted her.

“I mean…” she sighed dramatically, arms around his neck. “I’m not that okay. I think I probably need one more day at home.”

Matt laughed, his voice still tinged with that weary fondness he always had when she pulled her little tricks. “You’re full of it,” he said, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “But we’ll see what your mom says.”

When they entered the bedroom, his eyes immediately went to me and to Cody, who was still curled up tightly against my chest, sweaty and pale. Matt’s entire face shifted. The smile faded, and concern took over.

“Hey, baby,” he said softly, coming to my side. “How’s our little guy?”

Cody stirred at the sound of Matt’s voice, eyelids fluttering. He turned just enough to glance up at his dad, his expression small and tired and a little sad but he didn’t move. He just sighed and pressed closer into me.

I kept my hand gently stroking his back. “He’s not doing great,” I said quietly, my voice scratchy from hours of not talking. “Fever’s been holding steady. He hasn’t kept much down. Just wants to be held.”

Matt frowned, moving to sit on the edge of the bed beside me. He reached out and brushed the back of his fingers across Cody’s cheek. “Poor little guy,” he whispered. Then he looked at me, eyes full of concern. “And you? You look dead on your feet. Have you even eaten today?”

I shook my head, gently. “He hasn’t let me put him down for more than a few minutes. I was going to grab something after his nap, but… it’s been a long nap.”

Matt sighed, rubbing his hand over his jaw. “God, I shouldn’t have gone in today. I hated leaving you like that.”

“You had to,” I said softly. “It’s okay. You’re here now.”

Emerie plopped herself back down on the floor and resumed playing like nothing had happened. Matt glanced at her, then leaned in closer to me, his thigh brushing against mine, his voice dropping.

“Let me take him. Just for a little while. You need to eat. Shower. Breathe.”

But as soon as he reached to take Cody from my arms, Cody whimpered a tired, sad little cry and clung tighter to me, pressing his flushed cheek into my shoulder.

“Okay, okay,” Matt murmured, hands up in surrender, eyes soft. “He wants his mama. I get it.”

I gave a small, tired smile. “He’ll let you hold him later, once the meds kicks in again.”

Matt sighed, settling back beside me, close enough that I could lean into his shoulder. His warmth, the weight of him beside me, grounded me in a way nothing else could right now.

“He’s going to be okay,” he said gently, wrapping an arm around my back. “You both are. But I swear, the second he’s asleep, I’m making you food. Real food. Something hot.”

“And what if I just pass out the second he does?”

“Then I’ll feed you in your sleep,” he said with a tired grin. “Don’t test me.”

I leaned into him, Cody snug between us, his soft breaths slowing again as he drifted back to sleep.

Matt’s hand now resting gently on Cody’s back, fingers tracing slow circles. Cody didn’t even stir just nestled closer like he was absorbing the warmth of both of us. His skin was still too hot, but his breathing was even, and for now, he was resting. That’s all I could ask for.

From the floor, we heard a small sigh.

I looked down and saw Emerie sitting still, her toys forgotten, her fingers twisting the hem of her pajama top in her lap. Her bottom lip stuck out just a little, and her eyes were glued to her brother. She looked thoughtful… and guilty. Matt noticed too.

“What’s up, sweetheart?” he asked, voice soft.

She didn’t answer right away. Her mouth opened, then closed again. Finally, in a small voice, so quiet I barely caught it she whispered, “It’s my fault Cody’s sick.”

I sat up a little, surprised. “What?”

“I made him sick,” she said again, louder this time, eyes glassy now. “Because I was sick first. And I didn’t mean to, but I kissed him goodnight when I had the throw-ups and now he has the throw-ups and he looks really sick and it’s my fault.”

She suddenly burst into tears, covering her face with both hands.

Matt was off the bed in a second, kneeling in front of her, his hands gently cupping her little arms.

“Hey, hey, sweetheart,look at me,” he said softly, wiping a tear from her cheek. “It’s not your fault, okay?” “But I-”

“No. Listen.” He looked her right in the eyes, his voice so gentle but firm. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Being sick isn’t anyone’s fault, okay? Germs are sneaky. They hide on everything, doorknobs, cups, toys. You could’ve washed your hands a hundred times and still shared them by accident. It just happens.”

I reached a hand toward her and she crawled up into my lap, careful not to disturb Cody. She buried her face in my side and wrapped her little arms around my waist.

“Baby,” I murmured, stroking her soft curls, “you didn’t hurt him. You love your brother. That’s why you kissed him goodnight, right?” She nodded silently, still sniffling into my shirt.

“That love is a good thing. He knows you didn’t mean to get him sick. You didn’t do anything bad. And when he feels better, he’s gonna want a million more goodnight kisses from you.” Matt smiled softly, brushing her hair back from her face. “And he’s gonna be okay, Em. You got through it, and he will too. He’s just as tough as his big sister.”

Emerie sniffled again, then peeked up at him. “Are you sure?”

“I promise.” She looked at Cody again, his face calm now, his mouth slightly open as he breathed, lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks.

“Can I draw him a picture?” she asked, voice trembling but hopeful.

I smiled. “I think that’s a beautiful idea.”

Matt stood and ruffled her hair gently. “Why don’t you bring your crayons in here, and we’ll make him a whole get-well card.”

She scrambled off the bed with new purpose, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand as she gathered her markers and paper. I could still see the sadness lingering in her, but the guilt was slowly fading now replaced with a little bit of that proud big sister energy she wore so well.

I turned my head just enough to kiss Matt’s jaw, Cody breathing steadily between us, Emerie drawing at the foot of the bed. And even in the haze of fevers and fatigue, of crayons and sickness and soft apologies, I felt a little piece of peace settle in my chest.

[Dividers by the lovely @bernardsbendystraws 💗]

[starsinthesky5]

ok ok so i’ve had this in my head FOR A WHILE and just kept forgetting to send it to you

but since songbird is based off of taylor, what was Joe’s reaction to the Brazil (I think it was Brazil) show? like it got so hot that she’s struggling to breathe, maybe panicking a little.

lowkey hope this makes sense lmao

a/n: HI MY LOVE <3 ty for sending this in

also, the fic series is not up to the tour storyline yet, but take this as another peek into it like i did a few months ago with this ask!

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

oh god. if joe had been watching that brazil show live, there’s no way he stayed calm. especially if he wasn’t there in person.

he was in pittsburgh, holed up in a quiet corner suite the team booked for away games. it was late—past 11—room lit only by the muted glow of the bathroom light and the flickering of his ipad screen, propped up on the pillows beside him. he was supposed to be asleep by now. that’s what he told her he’d do. but he couldn't help it. he never missed a show if he didn’t have to. especially not when she was overseas, out of reach, singing her heart out in a place where the heat was breaking records and even fans were fainting.

he watched with one earbud in, hoodie up, covers kicked off his legs because his body ran hot at night. his forearm was slung over his eyes like maybe that would help him ignore the adrenaline that always bubbled up when he watched her perform. every night it happened like clockwork, the same soft awe that curled through his chest when she hit her high notes, when the crowd screamed her name, when her smile spread so wide he could feel it in his bones.

and then it happened.

at first, he thought the audio glitched. she paused between songs, longer than usual. too long. and when the camera angle shifted, his gut twisted.

she stepped back a little too slow, like her balance wasn’t quite right. her hand rose to her chest. he saw the way her shoulders hitched—fast, shallow breaths. her lips moved like she was trying to say something, but no sound came through.

and then her hand went to her neck.

joe’s stomach plummeted.

he sat bolt upright, yanking the earbud out and turning the ipad volume all the way up. his heart pounded against his ribs, cold sweat slicking his palms. he leaned in, scanning the screen like he could read her mind, like maybe he could will her body to breathe for her. the lights kept flashing. the crowd was still screaming. but all he could see was her. the way her eyes blinked fast, searching the stage for someone. the way her other hand braced on her thigh. the faint, shaky wobble in her knees.

panic. real, raw panic.

he knew that look. he’s had that look.

and suddenly, he was moving.

already dialing her manager. already flipping open his laptop, opening the group text thread with her team, fingers flying across the keyboard.

“what’s happening.”

“is she okay??”

“SOMEONE GET HER WATER.”

his thumbs could barely keep up with his racing mind. he refreshed the thread twice. his heart thundered like it was trying to punch through his chest. every second that ticked by without an update made him feel physically sick.

he knew how hot that show was. he’d seen the photos—sweat-soaked fans, security handing out bottles like lifelines. he’d heard the warnings about the heat index, how people were being treated for heat exhaustion before she even stepped onstage.

but he hadn’t expected this.

hadn’t expected to watch the love of his life nearly collapse on stage in real time, her body trying to push through something it physically couldn’t take. he didn’t breathe again until he saw her crouch down near the edge of the stage and someone—god bless whoever it was—rushed over with a water bottle and a towel. she took both with shaky hands. stayed down for a beat too long. and then slowly, so slowly, held her mic again raised it to her mouth.

“i just need a second, okay?” she told the crowd, her voice small, rough around the edges. “just…just give me a minute,”.

he could hear how unsteady she was, how hard she was working to keep it together. and still, even then the crowd screamed her name, chanting it like a prayer.

joe stood up, pacing now. one hand fisted in his hair. the other pressed to his chest. he didn’t know what else to do. he wanted to be on that stage. wanted to lift her off her feet and carry her straight into the nearest air-conditioned room. wrap her in a cold towel. rub her back. hold her hand until her breathing slowed.

he came so close to calling her. hovered over her name in his favorites list. but he knew she was still mid-show. he knew she wouldn’t answer. so instead, he left a voicemail. just to feel like he was doing something.

“baby. please. call me. i just need to hear your voice, okay? i need to know you're alright,”.

when she finally called hours later—hair damp, skin pink from the shower, voice still hoarse—he couldn’t speak at first. he just stared at the screen, jaw clenched, blinking too fast.

she gave him a tired smile. “hi, joey,”.

his throat tightened. “baby. jesus. don’t ever scare me like that again,”.

she laughed, but it cracked down the middle. her eyes welled. “i didn’t know if i was gonna pass out or throw up or both,” she admitted, voice whisper-soft. “i couldn’t breathe. my lungs felt like they were cooking,”.

he let out a long breath, running a hand over his mouth, his face. “i almost flew down there,”.

her lips parted. “joey—,”.

“i’m serious. i didn’t even care that i had game tomorrow. i had my bag halfway packed,”.

“you’re in the middle of a season, quarterback,” she whispered.

“don’t care.”

and god, he meant it. she was everything. if she needed him—even for something as simple as sitting cross-legged on a hotel carpet with a cold gatorade pressed to her forehead—he’d do it. no g questions asked.

“next time,” he murmured, soft and deliberate, “we’re getting you one of those backstage AC packs. like, the ones they use in NASCAR. or one of those cool astronaut-suits. i’ll build it myself if i have to,”.

she giggled, all sleepy and tender. “you’d make a cute little roadie, joey,”.

he smiled, gaze warm and unwavering. “anything for my girl,”.

and he meant that, too.

[haikyu-mp4]

Other plans

“Did ya hear about Hinata? Heard he got a girlfriend in Brazil, but I ain't judging or anything!” – @simpingdeadcharacters for my Gossip Event.

word count; 836 – gn!reader

“Shoyooo!” you yelled as you ran onto the sand, the heat of it under your feet barely affecting you as you took such quick steps until you reached Hinata. He opened his arms for you, spinning you around until finally putting you back down, quickly pressing a kiss to your temple. Most of his body was already covered in sand, so you absentmindedly started brushing some off his upper arm. For a second, you salivated at the sight of his tanned biceps, but you were quickly pulled back into the moment when he spoke.

“Took you long enough, slow poke. Ready for a round?” he asked, gesturing to the woman and her son who had taken the other side of the net. Hinata really would play against anyone who wanted to, and it was one of many things that made you fall for the man you now proudly called your boyfriend.

You squinted at the challenge and his teasing remark on you being five minutes late to the match, also making sure to politely greet today’s opponents. “I’m ready when you are.”

And so you spent another perfect day in the sun, playing until your sunscreen ran out. As you sat by the ocean this particular evening, you let your hands slowly rub across Hinata’s shoulders with the aftersun as the actual sun kissed the horizon, leaving the sky in a plethora of colours that you swore only Brazil could emit.

Hinata let out a small moan as you put pressure between his neck and shoulder blades, and you took the hint to keep pressing and help his muscles release the lactic acid. “You played really well today, you’re getting so good at setting,” you praised him, finishing the massage and leaning onto his back, arms hanging loose from over his shoulders. Hinata turned his head to kiss your cheek, nose brushing against your cheekbone.

“Thanks! Your spikes got better as well, but you still beat me on receives.” You chuckled proudly, poking his cheek in a teasing manner.

“I think we make a pretty good team.” Getting up off the sand, you offered him a hand and pulled him up, letting him take you under his arms as you two strolled to the small showers where the sand met asphalt. “You first, hot shot,” you encouraged, pressing the knob that made the water start, only for Hinata to push you straight under it. This water was always so cold, startling you as you squealed and ran back out of reach from the stream.

Hinata laughed, slapping his knee as if someone said the funniest joke ever. “You always fall for that!”

You huffed and smiled, swiftly taking the bag with his clean clothes, bolting onto the sand and towards the ocean. Your boyfriend ran after you on instinct but only realised what you were threatening him with when he saw you holding out his bag towards the water.

Luckily for you, you had lived there much longer and were much more used to running on sand, meaning you left Hinata in the dust for a while. The only problem was that your laughter made it more difficult to breathe, making you more tired, unfortunately slowing you down enough for him to tackle you to the ground.

The two of you tumbled onto the sand, aftersun sticking even more than your sweat had before, but neither of you seemed to care. Hinata smiled when he heard your laugh, tucking his face into your neck and blowing raspberries that always made you laugh even more at the ticklish feeling. Eventually, the raspberries turned into hot, open-mouthed kisses, making you move your head to give him more access.

“Let’s sleep at yours tonight, yeah?” Hinata suggested, and you adored the boyish look on his face when he lifted his face from your neck, pupils blown wide.

“But I miss Pedro,” you complained, giggling when Hinata rolled his eyes.

“I wasn’t planning on movie night with Pedro today,” he said, lips making their way down your neck and across your collarbone to the exposed part of your chest, then pulling your shirt down a little to explore further.

“Ahaa,” you hummed in understanding. “You had other plans?”

Hinata groaned as he finally detached himself from you, getting up off the sand and picking his bag back up where you left it beside you. “I plan on practising some spiking, if you know what I mean.”

The cheeky grin on his face made you slap his arm after getting up, knowing the suggestive meaning behind his words, but not making any attempt at rejecting it.

“Fine, I’ll come see Pedro another day.”

“Stop talking about Pedro when we’re discussing sexy time,” Hinata complained as you moved towards your bikes again, skipping the showers altogether in favour of bringing some beach home.

“Stop comparing my ass to a volleyball,” you countered, making him grin again.

“I can’t help it. That’s all I see.”

“Maybe I’ll just stay with Pedro.”

“Shut up.”

masterlist

[3amfanfiction]

Escaping the Cult ch 4

You’ve spent years hiding from the cult you escaped from. It’s a nasty surprise when your past comes for you and pins you to the wall. Simon x reader

cw: 4.3k, angst, reveals, we see how Johnny comes into play, (hinted at) and there was one bed.

First || Previous

Things settled into a tentative rhythm over the following week. You saw Simon off to work each morning before you left as well, still searching for something to help ease the financial burden. The only new addition was Johnny. With the exchange of numbers, you had a new texting buddy.

And you were texting frequently.

It was a no brainer to invite him around to the next laundry day. Having a friend to sit with while the machines worked sounded amazing compared to awkwardly sitting there by yourself for hours.

"You know, I forgot to ask. I know you just got to town, but are you all by yourself?" asked Johnny as he was tossing a load into one of the washers. Paying and pressing start, he turned to you as the machine began to hum. He was wearing a t-shirt that had gone thin with age. When he crossed his arms it stretched across his chest and shoulders leaving you fighting to you keep your eyes on his face.

"No, not alone. My,"—you paused for a moment. How would you describe Simon? The person you wanted so much more with. Deciding to play it safe, you settled on—"friend is with me. But it's just us two."

"Must be lonely," he responded.

You shrugged your shoulders as you started your own machine, the whir and sound of rushing water bouncing off the concrete walls, surrounding you in stereo, "It's not too bad. Plus now I have you. Seems like I'm moving up in the world."

He laughed, "That's right, you've got me." His smile was disarming as he turned it on you. "So what made you pick up and move? And to here of all places," he gestured around to the lackluster facilities.

"Just needed a change of scenery," you hedged before quickly changing the subject, uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken. "Do you want to come over for dinner?" you asked, realizing this would be the perfect time to introduce the two people in your life. You hoped Simon liked him just as much as you did. You'd be heartbroken if they didn't get along.

You knew how Simon came across. His size and the deadpanned stare a difficult barrier for some people to get across. It intimidated them. You could only hope that Johnny saw him like you did. The antisocial man with a propensity for bad jokes who tended to loom subconsciously.

"I wouldn't want to intrude—"

"It's not an intrusion, I insist. Please come for dinner tonight, Johnny."

"All right, then." And that was it settled.

—

The sky was beginning to turn dark despite the decent hour when you made it home, the lights peeking around the heavy curtains showing Simon was already home, today being a short day for him. He was working too much but there wasn't a whole lot either of you could do about that. It was just something to be weathered.

Johnny was walking next to you, carrying a grocery bag. You'd stopped by the store on the way home to pick up a few items for the night. You were giddy as you opened the door and invited him in already envisioning how the friendship would change between the three of you, how you hoped everyone got along.

"Simon, this is my friend—"

"Johnny," Simon cut in standing quickly, his face draining of color. You watched as his eyes widened then shuttered, closing himself behind a wall.

Johnny looked nearly gleeful at the sudden revelation. "Simon," he crooned, "I was beginning to think I wouldn't see you again."

Your back felt like a steel rod had been inserted as you broke out into a cold sweat at this unexpected situation. "You two know each other?"

"Aye, and I know you too," he said, slinging an arm around your shoulders to keep you tucked against his side when you shifted a half inch to the left, as if you were going to bolt. "I didn't realize it at first—you changed your hair, it looks good by the way—but as soon as the door opened and I saw Simon, I realized."

You looked at Simon, eyes begging for his help even as he stood there, cool expression showing fissures where his panic was slowly creeping through. His gaze darted back and forth between you and Johnny in horrified realization. You tried to pull away but Johnny pulled you tighter to him, squeezing firmly.

"Price is pretty angry with you two," he continued like you were having a regular discussion. Friends standing around chitchatting. "He about destroyed his office when you slipped out, Simon. Decided the two of you would be a bad influence if you were allowed out and about and you were to be brought back. No exceptions."

You didn't want to see Price angry. Just the thought of it was enough to send shivers down your spine and give you nightmare fuel for the week.

"We're not going back," you worked up the courage to spit. You wouldn't. You'd rather die than go back. Back to Price's control. The way you couldn't move without his say so, the constant breathing down your neck. No. You wouldn't be going back.

"Didn't figure you would. Not after you worked so hard to get out and to keep hidden." He allowed you to shift away just far enough to make eye contact.

"Then why are you here?"

You couldn't name the expression that crossed his face as he pinned you in place. "See, Simon and I had something special. Something that he felt wasn't worth anything when he decided to go on a rabbit chase and hunt you down. And that didn't sit right with me."

"I ended things, Johnny," Simon stepped in, voice steady despite the panic you could see brewing in his eyes as his gaze darted from Johnny, to you, back to Johnny. "I told you it was over."

I ended things. I told you it was over.

You felt like you'd been sucker punched twice over, lungs struggling to inflate as you attempted to make sense out of what you'd heard, nausea swirling in your gut at this new admission.

It'd always been you and Simon. Always. You thought that wouldn't have changed, even if you left. Not even the courtesy of telling him it was over, unlike his own relationship. Your chest lurched at the thought. But you still expected it to be the two of you. You didn't expect him to move on. To find someone else.

Your stomach churned and you worried that you might be sick all over Johnny's shoes. Would serve him right. He'd deserve it for thinking he could take Simon away from you.

Wait. Did he pursue Simon or was it the other way around?

Would it matter either way?

"No, you jotted down a note on a scrap piece of paper and left it for me to find. Not even the common decency to tell me in person." His voice started to raise, going tight in his anger.

"It felt best."

"Best?" Johnny practically shouted before reining his voice in once more. "Nae, ye did what was easiest. Easiest for you, ye big bastard." His accent slipping through more sharply as his anger heated. You tried once more to shift out of his grasp but all he did was grip you tighter, keeping you locked into place beside himself. "Was I something that ye jus' filled time with? Something to keep yer bed warm until ye left?"

You couldn't be here. You couldn't hear this.

Simon's face was stoic but you could tell he was stricken, each word a missile aimed straight at him. He wasn't looking at you anymore, keeping his eyes firmly locked on Johnny, the coward.

"It wasn't like that." Simon tried, voice infuriatingly steady in the wake of Johnny's accusations.

"Well then explain it to me because clearly I'm too dumb to understand."

You felt torn. You were so mad at Simon for moving on that you wanted to rage just like Johnny was doing. Curse and yell and maybe throw a few things. But the longer you listened to the heartbreak slipping into his voice as he begged Simon for a sliver of understanding the more your feelings shifted.

Was Simon playing with you? Playing with the both of you? You never would have thought him capable of it but he clearly destroyed Johnny. Got him all twisted up in his own head. Did Simon do that on purpose?

"You can't tell Price."

"You don't get to tell me to do anything, don't you understand that?" Johnny shouted, finally letting you go to gesture wildly, arms swinging around in his anger. "You left me like I was trash, left me to pick up the pieces and you're not even sorry about it."

Heartbroken and hyperventilating, you took the opportunity to dart out the door directly behind you, letting it slam shut in the wind as you bolted. Picking a random direction you ran, arms pumping, chest heaving as you tried to get away. Away to find someplace to think.

A rundown convenience store sat right around the corner, offering the perfect place to hide. Darting in, you took shelter down one of the aisles and peeked through the storefront windows. You watched Simon stalk past, Johnny following shortly behind him as they passed your hiding spot.

You watched them, tucked away in the store, a shuddery breath of relief your only comment once they were gone. You needed time. Time to think, to get your head on straight. Time to figure out what you were feeling and you couldn't do that with them here.

Why were you so hurt that Simon found another partner? Why did it feel like your world was ending? Caving in around you until the rubble compressed your chest, leaving no room to draw breath. And Johnny knew Price? How? He must've shown up after you left. Stepped in to take your place, one could say.

No, it wasn't that Simon found another partner, you didn't think. You twisted the thought around and around, examining it from every angle but it didn't fit. It didn't feel right. Almost but not quite the right flavor.

You thought back to when you and Simon were younger. How you two were attached at the hip, never one without the other. The days when there were no secrets between the two of you, thoughts shared almost as soon as they were had. You trusted him, you could tell him anything.

That was the right chord. It was that he did it without you knowing. You were aware of how ridiculous that sounded—you had left him. Ran away. He had no means to contact you to ask. And maybe it was naive to think he should have waited for you, but you felt betrayed.

You felt like he hid it from you.

As if he was afraid of how you would react when you found out. Admittedly you weren't handling it the greatest right now but that was because of how you found out—the way the secret was broken. It would've been different coming from Simon.

Having spent long enough inside for the men to be long gone you crept out, avoiding eye contact with the cashier who stared at you through bloodshot eyes and a sour disposition, your hands empty and his till count remaining the same.

It was the work of minutes to make it back inside the motel room, blessedly empty of anyone else. Collapsing down corner-to-corner on your bed in exhaustion, you stared at the water-stained ceiling and let your mind wander—thinking about the events of the night and what led up to them.

What were you going to do? What were Simon and Johnny going to do? Were they going to pick back up, right where they left off? Would Johnny tell Price?

Had he already?

You were so tired of running. Of always looking over your shoulder. You were running along the tracks with a train barreling down behind you, gaining ground with each step you took. Was this the day it would finally catch you?

The door slammed open a short while later, Simon the first one back. The lack of Johnny directly behind him told you they had split up in the time they'd been out. You wondered where the other man was. Simon looked harried, his jaw was clenched and his eyes hard. It had been a while since you'd seen him like this.

"Stop. Fucking. Doing that shit." He snapped, brows drawing lower as he frowned down at you. "You always run. It's fucking annoying." He swiped at your feet until you straightened out with a huff, laying in the bed correctly before he moved to lay beside you.

"I wasn't running. I just needed a bit of space. I wasn't expecting to find out you had a long-lost lover," you couldn't help but say bitterly. You were salty. You knew you probably shouldn't be but you were and he was going to have to deal with it. "One you never bothered telling me about."

"I wasn't aware we were sharing those kinds of details," he retorted stiffly, going rigid beside you. He had to have known this conversation was coming and still it was like pulling teeth to get him to talk.

You didn't bother responding for a moment, letting him sit in the silence that built, not eager to be the one to break it. As the minutes ticked on though, you realized you were going to have to be the one to take the first step, Simon always the one for self-flagellation.

"I wasn't running from you," you began hesitantly, words pried out from behind your teeth, "so much as I was running from the situation."

You kept your gaze firmly pointed towards the ceiling. "I wasn't expecting for you to have found a whole boyfriend while I was gone. And one you didn't tell me about at that. I thought we told each other everything," You finally turned to look at him but he kept his face pointed up, "It feels like you hid him from me for some reason and I can't figure out why. Were you ashamed of him or of me?"

"Neither," he responded quietly but firmly. "Not ashamed of either of you. It was just—"

"Just what?" you asked when he trailed off.

"I had no clue if I was ever going to see you again," he continued. "I came home one night and noticed your lights were off. The next day you were nowhere to be found and I was left to pick up the pieces."

He swallowed dryly, "I didn't go looking for a relationship. I was scrambling trying to keep Price from taking off someone's head while toeing the line of the lockdown he instituted, just trying to keep my own head above water. I was drowning and then here Johnny came swanning in like he couldn't sink. He pulled me up. Talking to him felt like I could breathe for the first time since you left."

His eyes traced the whorls and stains of the ceiling, finding patterns in the abstract. "He was like you. Able to set my head on straight, able to see past all my bullshit. Somehow understood me. So when he kissed me the first time, I kissed back. It wasn't fair to Johnny but I wasn't trying to hurt you."

"Well you did," you say as your eyes flood with tears. You reach up to angrily wipe them away. "Where is he anyways? I'd figure he wouldn't let you out of his sight," you were eager to change to the subject to something less fraught.

"I convinced him we wouldn't leave. That we'd see him tomorrow and we could talk it all over with clear heads," he sighed into the darkness, sounding exhausted. "It felt best."

A hum in response was all you could offer him as you lapsed into silence.

It was a long time before either of you found sleep.

—

Morning came far too quickly, the light peeking around the heavy curtains to throw sunbeams across whatever it could. You hadn't even had a chance to brush your teeth before there was a knock at the door.

Simon answered, letting Johnny in who had his hands full with food and coffee. He didn't bother to smile at Simon as he made his way inside but he spared a small, weak one for you. "I brought breakfast."

The dark circles underlining his eyes and the slight shake of his hands made it clear he'd been up all night. "Did you get any sleep?" you couldn't help but ask, worried despite yourself. He'd become a good friend in the time you'd known him and it hurt you to see him hurting.

He set the bags down at the little table and began unloading, "I figured you two might bolt in the middle of the night," he said without looking at either of you, voice dull, "Seems to be your modus operandi." Pulling out a sandwich for himself, he sat back and unwrapped it, taking a bite before making eye contact again.

You couldn't say anything to that because he was right. It was. Silence fell as the sounds of chewing filled the air. Johnny didn't bother to look at Simon, keeping his gaze on you or his sandwich, the silence stifling. Simon didn't bother saying anything, content to sit in the heavy silence looking unbothered, a mask having dropped over his face, locking all his feelings inside.

Your heart broke a little more when you saw how torn up Johnny was. How distraught this had him—his blue eyes dull, lacking the shimmer you thought was inherent. He looked worn down and it broke something inside you when you realized you were a part of it. That your choices helped lead you all here.

The food was nearly gone when the silence was broken once more, Johnny saying out of the blue, "I didn't tell Price."

Simon finished chewing before he responded, taking his time in answering. "That gonna change?"

"I don't intend for it to."

And just like that a weight seemed to have lifted off both men's shoulders, some truce having been reached you could only see the surface layer of.

—

You'd been looking at houses to rent, something that could hold the three of you comfortably but it had been slim pickings. You had two incomes now with Johnny included, something that should've given you a bit of breathing room but it didn't seem to help your situation. But you knew you had to do something soon. Johnny was looking worse by the day.

He was consumed by thoughts of you leaving. Of Simon and you packing up in the middle of the night when he wasn't aware, of him coming to the motel the next day to find an empty room, no sign of either of you. It ate at him. His dark circles had their own postal code by this point. Something you hoped moving in together would alleviate.

He had actually been the first one to bring up the idea of cohabiting. He'd been subletting a room over a business, a small cramped thing that barely had enough room for him to unpack. And the motel was out of the question, the price eating away at all of Simon's paycheck every week, an expensive and also tight option. The only viable solution was renting a house together.

"I've been looking for houses for us. Nothing's come up yet."

You choked on your food, coughing before taking a drink of water—washing it down with a pat to your chest. "Houses?" Simon questioned while you gathered yourself, shooting you a worried look until you waved him off.

Johnny turned to look at you while he answered, still not speaking to Simon unless he had to, offering a cold shoulder whenever possible. "It doesn't make sense for us to pay for two places. We need to find something that works for all of us, so we can start putting money back."

You nodded in acknowledgment, eager for something to break the status quo. Looking between the two men, you offered, "That makes sense to me."

Simon hummed a neutral agreement and that was that.

And you were still jobless. You were beginning to think the locals were doing it on purpose. Pulling any jobs as soon as they saw you walk up. You must've walked the town at least 5 times over in the weeks you'd been here. But still nothing.

You walked into the bar closest to the motel only for the bartender to yell at you as soon as you crossed the threshold. "Still don't have a job for you," she called out over the noise of the television behind her head playing a local game. You sigh in disappointment before nodding your head, spinning on your heel to head back out to continue your search.

You'd reached the door when you thought to ask, "Do you know of any cheap places to rent?" with no expectations as to the answer. You wondered if you were going to live out the rest of your life in the motel, forever confined to one room, sharing space so completely you were always bumping elbows. You had hopes of finding a small house for the three of you but that was looking more and more like a pipe-dream with every day that passed.

You were barely listening when the bartender said, "Yeah, actually. I have a place that's looking for renters," but your attention was quickly returned. "It's on the outskirts of the town," she continued, "the last tenants moved out a few months ago but it's sturdy. I've been looking for someone for it."

It seemed things were finally looking up. It was with an eager, thankful grin that you discussed price and set up a meeting time to go and see the house. You were exuberant as you thanked her, eager to tell the other two of your unexpected windfall.

You wondered if this might ease the tension between the two men. Johnny had yet to warm up to Simon, maintaining a cold exterior any time they had to interact. You'd be worried about it if Simon wasn't so unconcerned. You'd caught him doing the equivalent of rolling his eyes enough to know he wasn't particularly worried about Johnny's ire. That he saw it as something to weathered, as if it was likely soon to change. It was enough to keep you from rocking the boat.

It was a few nights later that saw the three of you greeting the bartender out in front of a little bungalow sitting on the outskirts of town. It was clearly weathered but the roof was whole and there were panes in every window.

"Go on in, take a look around," she said, crossing her arms and leaning against the side of her car, feet crossed at the ankles. "It's fully furnished, let me know what you think."

Johnny was the first one through the door, letting it swing closed behind him, not bothering to hold it for Simon.

Standing directly behind him on the porch, you heard the huff of a sigh he let out at Johnny's actions before he opened the door and gestured you through it. You smiled up at him in thanks and commiseration as you passed.

Johnny called for you from the back of the house, asking you to come look at something. Making your way over, you walked down the short hallway at the back of the living room to see three doors. One opened to a bathroom and the other two held small bedrooms, each barely able to accommodate the queen beds shoved in them.

"Only two rooms," he said neutrally, letting you make your own assumptions.

You looked up at him wide-eyed, "Who's rooming with who?"

You jumped with a shriek at Simon's voice directly behind you, not having heard him follow you. "Johnny and I'll take the primary, you can take the other," he said, leaving no room for arguments. Decision made.

"What do you mean we'll be rooming together?" Johnny frowned, speaking to Simon for the first time all day. "We will nae. We'll be looking for a place with another bedroom." His voice was irate, high and sharp as he flung the words at Simon.

Simon didn't react beyond responding in an even tone, "This is what we can afford and this is what we have. We don't have a choice in the matter. It's this or we stay where we are," he looked Johnny up and down, taking in the wan cast to his skin and the way he was slouched in the door frame, as if he was too exhausted to stand up straight. "And that's not tenable."

Johnny looked like he was going to argue, blue eyes glinting before he bit his tongue, a war being fought behind his eyes before seemingly coming to a resolution. You heard him mutter under his breath as he turned away—Why is God always testing me?

You pretended not to hear as you looked up at Simon. "So this is the one?" At his nod you continued, "Then I'll go let her know we'll be taking it."

[casualhedonists]

✩ it don’t need your loving, it just needs attention ✩ (chapter two)

pairing: Coriolanus Snow x reader

chapter: 2/?

MASTERLIST

warnings: NSFW (18+), snow being snow, themes of sex work (not the reader), cuckolding, eventual smut, fake relationship, unprotected sex, themes of voyeurism & mild exhibitionism, murder mention (but no actual murder) (not yet at least?), MAJOR manipulation/gross power dynamics + generally darkish themes, some power play, oral sex, thigh riding, eventual piv, i’m new to full on smut bear with me here (and pls tell me if i forgot anything!)

i do not give permission for my work to be reposted/translated anywhere, under any circumstances.

a/n: first off, THANK YOU for the love on chapter 1. wasn’t sure how I’d fare since I’ve done a lot of writing in my life but little to no smut. with that said! longer chapter incoming. also I just know he’d give insane head okay i just do,the guy looks like he fucks and he definitely does

You weren't sure exactly how you slipped away from Snow’s room that night, but you could somewhat piece it together in flashes. First a head rush, then the fire in the pit of your stomach practically having gasoline thrown on it.

You remembered a quiet gasp escaping your lips, then panic, a flash of white, and suddenly you were stumbling away, head spinning as you tried to catch your breath, pacing unevenly down the hallway, any chance of a stealthy escape long thrown out the window.

Back in your room, once the door was bolted and your back was against it, making sure nobody could get in if they tried, you had your first shot at clear-headedness since you’d heard heels scuffing the hardwood.

You’d soaked your panties through and were dripping down your thighs, but you’d be damned if you could get into the headspace to take care of it. Panic flooded your veins, ice-hot as you tried to catch your breath. you slid down the door and sat there, legs numb against the cold wooden planks.

Who was she? A million questions filled your head all at once. Was she from the Capitol? Could she be one of Snow’s friends, one of your friends? The thought made you sick. What if you’d dined with her before? Talked to her? How long had this been happening? Who knew about it? Were you being played?

Had he seen you watching him?

Unable to help yourself, your one-track mind took you back to the way he’d groaned your name, though you were half sure that had been a fever dream of some kind. Still, you kept replaying it. Over and over, like a broken record.

It didn’t make any sense, you were so fucking confused. All this time you’d been hoping he would make a move, you’d practically begged him to. Why hadn’t he? When you were clearly on his mind, and yet he made you believe he didn’t think of you that way at all. Was he just respecting your agreement?

You fiddled with the lace on the hem of your slip as you mulled it over. You stayed sat like this for almost an hour, trying unsuccessfully to wrap your head around it. When you ended up right back where you started, and you were sure enough time had passed that if someone was coming to get you, they would’ve already, you finally stood up. Your caution led you to drag a chair from across the room, propping it up by the door to jam the handle. That left you with the sliver of peace of mind you required to shower off this cold sweat you’d formed.

The next morning, you dreaded breakfast. But you knew you had to face him, as well as the fact that this could very well be your last meal. You should at least try to eat well.

You made your way downstairs, a few minutes later than usual, enough for Coriolanus to already be sipping coffee, a few pages through his newspaper. You’d not got fully dressed yet, not wanting the contrast to be too obvious, but you’d wrapped a silk dressing gown around you so you were a little more covered up. You knew one thing for certain, you wouldn’t be trying any more of your tricks until you knew just what you were dealing with.

He didn’t look over at you, which you took as a good sign. The urge to hide from him, from what you’d seen and what you now knew, overwhelmed you. You didn’t say a word, and picked silently at your breakfast, but despite your best efforts, not managing to keep more than a few bites down.

“You’re quiet today.” He muttered, and you started.

“Um.”

He lowered his paper.

“Something wrong?”

How about everything?

“Oh, no, I’m okay. Just uh…” you glanced up at him, and met his sharp gaze. Fuck. You’d hoped you’d go unnoticed. You felt like a deer in headlights, like he could read your mind.

“Well?” He prompted, gaze unwavering. You blinked.

“Headache.” You managed to breathe, faking a small, pitiful smile.

He brought his paper back up in front of him, crisply turning the page. You both thanked the new barrier between you for cutting off his stare, and resented it as you looked at the tiny printed words you couldn’t make out from where you were sitting.

“I’ll have Lucille bring you up something.”

“Thank you.” you said quickly, almost too quickly, and you feared he might lower his paper again to watch you as you stumbled over another excuse. But you fell lucky this time.

The week seemed to pass in a blur, Monday’s gala being one of the only times you really left your room when Snow was around, other than meal times, which you spent in a similar state as that first breakfast. You cursed yourself for throwing out your longer dresses, and settled for the least suggestive of them, the white one you’d been thinking of pitching to Snow as a backup plan in your panicked state outside his bedroom. That all felt worlds away now. What you’d seen had shifted the tides, marking a solid, definitive line in your head between the before and after.

The gala went as well as it could given the circumstances. You danced, Snow was charming to you in front of the guests, but held your gaze no longer than usual. It was simultaneously terrifying and thrilling to feel his hands on your waist, knowing what you knew. It felt like you’d been tapped with a cattle prod and had to hide it every time his hand brushed yours on top of the dinner table, as unsuspecting guests smiled at you, the happy couple.

If only they knew that in the same breath, you were scanning the crowd, wondering who the blonde could’ve been, how close she was to Snow, if at all, and hating the way every touch he placed on your hands and waist served as a reminder that he’d been touching her instead of you.

Your stupid brain had formed a highlight reel of what you’d witnessed behind Snow’s door, and it tortured you with every passing moment. To know he was thinking of you. To think that maybe, he wanted you there instead. It put a strange sense of possessive pride into you, that weaved between your jealousy. Because yes, you’d seen another girl on her knees with her mouth around him, but you hadn’t heard any name other than your own while it happened.

You carried this strange hope, dwindling to start off, and then building each day that you were left un-hanged and very much alive, slowly chipping away at your fear of the worst. And yet, you knew the game, unbeknownst to Snow, had been fundamentally changed. You’d stopped your antics altogether, now barely meeting his eye as you passed each other in the hallway, covering up more at breakfast, and only talking just enough to avoid another interrogation. Avoiding touch, and conversation, and all-around keeping yourself away from him.

You were quieter still at night in your room. After a few days, you’d finally felt safe enough to move the chair away and sleep with the door locked as you normally would. But while your games had stopped, your want for him had only been amplified. Fuelled by jealousy and frustration, you had to bite down on your hand so that not even the slightest noise made its way out as you pictured him, not as you used to in your fantasies, but as you’d seen him that night, undone with your name on his lips. It was much easier, in your head, to picture yourself as the one on your knees. Any other fantasy just failed to make the cut now you’d seen the real thing.

Thursday rolled around and you’d made a new habit of pacing the downstairs library when Coriolanus was out of the house. That way, if he got home and stepped inside, you could pretend to be lost in a book. But the hours seemed to stretch out and you became bored, and with no Snow in sight, you decided to head down to the servants’ quarters.

This wasn’t a common occurrence, but it wasn’t unheard of. You were known for your gentleness among the house staff, less harsh than Snow, but firm nonetheless. It had led you to a respectful friendliness with the maids and servants, and once every so often you’d check in on them.

Today’s objectives, however, were purely self-motivated. You found Lucille, who dressed you, at the kitchen table, chopping vegetables.

She stood upon seeing you, and curtseyed (Snow was rather old fashioned that way). You nodded, then took a seat at the foot of the table.

“Do you need any help with that?” You glanced at the cutting board.

Lucille’s eyes widened. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Ma’am.”

You laughed. Lucille chopped and diced, and you asked questions. At first, they were after her family, her brother was sick and despite your offers, she wouldn’t accept help. So instead you listened, and slowly but surely, your questions got a little more directed toward the object of your interest.

You were good at playing the long game, so you started by asking about the company he kept. What she thought of them, with the promise that it would stay between the two of you, cross your heart.

She wouldn’t say much but she knew a little more than you; Snow kept very similar company as you did, and rarely went out for social visits. Any trips were strictly work-related, and when you eased into the topic of his past, Lucille mentioned, in very polite terms, that he had left a small trail of women heartbroken after a short period of time. That not all of them had been pleasant, and that she was pleased you seemed to have a positive effect on him.

She knew about your arrangement, practically the whole staff did, but they were kept on a very tight leash and were thoroughly reminded to not say a word acknowledging it, not even to you. It was with a knowing glance that Lucille told you she was happy you’d stayed around.

You smiled. Knowing that was likely all you were going to get for now, you let her be. By then, it was late enough to have gone dark, and you headed up to bed.

You awoke to creaking outside your door, and the shadow of footsteps from underneath it. You’d been tossing and turning for the last - you checked your watch - two hours. Excellent. You rolled onto your back wondering who it was, and then you heard it again. At first you wondered if it was just a sleep-deprived hallucination, or a sense of deja-vu, but then you focused, and there it was. The sound of heels. Again.

You sat up in bed, pushing your hair out of your face. You were enraged the first time, but if this was becoming a Thursday night tradition, it would be a serious problem. You were tired, you reasoned, you could just try to go back to sleep. Ignore it. Not let him have this power over you, a power that he didn’t even know he had. All the more reason to ignore it, and make it tomorrow’s problem.

But you just couldn’t let sleeping dogs lie, no matter how hard you tried. Your mother used to say it was a problem, always sticking your nose in places it didn’t belong. But it had got you this far, hadn't it?

You knew you were going to follow her to Snow’s room again, it was just a matter of time. You had to at least pretend you had an ounce of self-control, whereas really your head was thrumming and you knew it would take getting hit by a high-speed train to send you back to sleep now.

So you held off. Five minutes passed. Then ten. You had to know, at least, what they were doing. Maybe you could get a look at her face, see who it was, and answer some of the questions you had.

So you went. With a purpose this time, knowing full well what and who you’d end up seeing, trying to take steady breaths and focus on your plan. Check who it was, then leave.

You’d never been that great at execution. Call it hedonism, call it a morbid fascination, or living vicariously, but when you walked up to the door - which was ajar again, strangely even more than last time, by at least an inch or two - you looked inside, and your feet planted. The last shred of your self-control allowed you to take in the room first, the desk and chair that was right within your sight, and as you tucked yourself into the room, half hidden behind the door, you finally looked back at the bed where you’d seen Snow with his blonde girl last time.

Neither of them were sitting now.

Thirty seconds ago, you would’ve believed the hottest thing you’d ever seen was what played out in this room last week. But that was before you saw Snow turned away from you, still fully dressed with his sleeves rolled up, stomach on the bed and face between the blonde’s thighs, eating her out like he was on death row and she was his last meal.

You’d gotten head before. You knew it felt good, but the boys you’d slept with before your arrangement with Snow were selfish and inattentive. They would try, but they were far more interested in getting their dicks wet than showing you a good time. But Snow - you’d never seen anything like it. You didn’t know it could feel that good, or at least, not as good as the blonde girl - who you noted in the back of your mind, wasn’t anyone you recognised - was making it look. Her hips were bucking so hard he was having to pin her down with both hands around her waist.

She was just moving so much, wriggling and crying out and gasping and - you didn’t think you’d ever truly known jealousy until that moment. You couldn’t look away, knees weak and hands shaking, letting yourself get sucked into this headspace again, losing all trace of rationality. You’d think she was playing it up for him, but you knew what that sounded like. You’d faked enough orgasms to know if she was, but this? This was real. As she got close, grinding into him, writhing, running a shaky hand through his hair then getting louder, you managed to snap out of your trance.

In a flash, you ran back down the hallway.

If you thought you were avoiding Snow before, this week was about to give you a run for your money. You took breakfast in your room, and kept only to the parts of the house you knew he never entered. You only touched yourself in the shower, silent cries washed away by the water and steam, paranoia backing you into a corner.

You feigned illness the one time Snow sent a maid to inquire after you. Nothing too major, but enough to put him off. When he left the house, you snuck into the library to smuggle books back to your room, a pile forming as you tried ceaselessly to distract yourself.

You wrote home, you studied art and history. You attempted a few terrible sketches. You tore apart your room, then put it back together.

Before you knew it, Thursday rolled around again. On longer days like this, when Snow had been away working for hours at a time, you’d doubled down on your efforts to get information, and after chipping away for just long enough, you finally managed to squeeze some tidbits out of Lucille. Namely that there was a certain gentleman’s club in the city that he used to frequent before his election as President. Snow’s old driver might know its name, she said.

“But that was long before he met you, ma’am, rest assured.” She added hurriedly.

“Of course. Thank you, Lucille. I think I’ve kept you for long enough. Goodnight.”

Snow had been gone for the whole day, and you weren’t sure if he’d come home yet, so as you headed up to your room, you quietly wandered a little further down the hallway, to check if there was any light beneath his door. There wasn’t. Good. You were glad he wouldn’t be continuing this routine of his. Maybe this Thursday night, you could sleep peacefully.

With a sigh, and mulling over what you’d learned today, you returned to your room, poured a drink, then collapsed into bed.

This night was as sleepless as the rest, and you’d been drifting - not uncomfortably - in and out. A storm was brewing outside, and the sounds of howling wind began to keep you alert. You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling, then glanced towards your door. Snow must’ve come home at some point, and very late at that, because dim lights had been turned on in the hallway. Paranoia crept into your mind, slowly poisoning your thoughts and turning you inside out.

It didn’t take long before the feeling pushed you to roll out of bed, slide on a dressing gown, and crack open your door. This time, you couldn’t hear footsteps, or anything that might arise suspicion. You closed the door again. Waited. Then looked around your room, at the messy sheets and the half finished glass of liquor on the nightstand. You rarely drank alone, but these past few weeks had been getting to you, fucking with your head. Coriolanus Snow had driven you to this.

The wind got louder, and you knew you were too wired to sleep, so you stood by your window and finished the glass.

You’d never been good with mysteries. You wanted to know everything, all the time. Know who had power over you, know precisely how to take it away. Know exactly what was happening around you at any given moment. But most of all, you didn’t like being played for a fool.

And sure, the ethics of it had never been discussed between the two of you. Your business was strictly professional, but when you weren’t allowed to sleep around, why could he?

In fact, how dare he?

You poured another glass, straight whiskey. Downed it, pacing your room, back and forth between the door and the window, running your fingers along the ridges of the crystal glass. You thought about him, comfortably in his room, not a care in the world.

How dare he.

You weren’t sure if it was the drink or the buildup of your situation that had your blood boiling, but it didn’t matter. You were incensed. His behaviour was an insult to your name, to your family’s name. Sure, this relationship was a sham, but all the more reason for him to act with basic fucking respect. Sleeping with - and very obviously, at that - a whore, who had a bad habit of leaving the door cracked open, was unacceptable.

You were running hot, and if you knew one thing for certain, it was that when Snow met with fire, he was going to melt. You’d make sure of it.

Your feet took you into the hallway, with the decidedness that this would be the last time.

You rushed down the corridor with a tightly bottled rage that was about to burst, words hot on your tongue and demanding to be spoken, until you turned the corner and saw Snow’s door half open. You stopped in your tracks. Reassessed, then stepped closer, slowly, steadily. Remembering what you were there for.

Then, as you got close enough to see inside - right there, without you even having to step past the threshold, were the two of them, lit by a table lamp, Snow sat on the desk chair as the girl rode him to high heaven, obscene noises getting louder. As you approached you saw Snow’s face again, eyes shut, breath laboured, and you couldn’t believe that anyone just walking by would be able to see this. They were fucking like animals, out in the open. You didn’t know how or why you drew closer still, closing in on them. The girl’s head was dropped down to his shoulder, back facing you, and couldn’t see you unless she turned, but Snow? He was practically facing the door, almost as if he’d been…

No. It couldn’t be. Could it?

But you didn’t have time to think it through, because Snow’s eyes blinked open, and you knew. He was looking right at you, blue eyes piercing into yours, sharp and dangerous like he was going in for the kill. You stood there, jaw dropped, unable to look away. In what world could you walk in on someone like this, and feel like they held all the cards, and you none? That was how he looked at you; like you’d been there watching the whole time, and this was all a show, playing out exactly as he’d planned it. Like somehow, despite all your best efforts, he’d landed on top.

It was like he read your mind, because he wet his lips, unblinking as the blonde writhed on his lap, and fucking smirked.

a/n: can’t wait for them to hate fuck after this (oh sorry forgot i’m the author for a sec) thanks for reading &lt;3

taglist: @superchatnoir07 @itsrainingreid @nycweb-slinger @lookclosernow @etfrin @resibunn @serving-targaryen-realness @harmfulb1tch @demonsnangels @superb-icarus @julesandro @gracieroxzy @slyhersophia @shadowsepiphany @ben-has-arrived @unclecrunkle @zerotwo-sciencequeen @itsleniiilosers @thesiriusmap @ooooglymoooogly @darkqweenn @going-through-shit @loverw1tch @stinkii-boii

if you’d like to be tagged, please leave a comment on the masterlist!! 💌

[gohyemi]

Birthday wishes 3

Mingyu paced back and forth, biting his nails anxiously.

"How the hell am I supposed to go back to the way things were?"

His mind raced with questions. Did I do something wrong? Was this some kind of twisted joke?

A sudden knock on his door made him freeze. He turned to see Jeonghan leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed.

"Let’s go. We’re dead if we’re late."

Mingyu let out a deep sigh. Late? Late for what? He barely remembered what his schedule was back in university. But he had no choice. He grabbed his bag and followed Jeonghan out. ---------------------------

Throughout class, he couldn’t focus. The professor’s words blurred together, fading into the background as his thoughts spiraled.

How do I get back?

Everything felt so real. The familiar desks, the smell of old textbooks, the chatter of students who had no idea how out of place he felt.

What about my job? The career I worked so hard for? The sweat and tears I poured into it?

And worst of all—what about her?

The love he had chased so hard.

His fingers tightened around his pen.

"God… is this my punishment?”

As he walked aimlessly along the campus path, still lost in his thoughts, he collided hard into someone.

A loud gasp. A cup slipping from their hands.

SPLASH.

A cold, sticky sensation spread across his shirt. "Shit!" Mingyu hissed, looking down at the brown boba tea now soaking through his clothes.

"Oh my god, I’m so sorry!" A flustered voice stammered in front of him. He looked up—ready to snap, his frustration bubbling over—but the moment his eyes met hers, the words died in his throat.

It was you.

Standing there, eyes wide, panicking over the mess you made.

His chest tightened. He forgot to breathe.

"Wait, let me grab some napkins—" You fumbled with your bag, reaching for the small towel you always carried, but Mingyu grabbed your wrist, stopping you.

"Babe…" he whispered, barely audible—but you heard it.

You froze. Your brows furrowed in confusion as you stepped back, gently pulling your wrist from his grip.

"Sorry?"

Mingyu’s heart sank.

Your voice, your face, everything was the same—but the way you looked at him wasn’t.

It was unfamiliar. Foreign. There was no warmth, no recognition, none of the love he once knew.

And that realization hurt more than anything. 

"Sorry—no, I mean, it's okay. No big deal."

Mingyu quickly averted his gaze, avoiding eye contact. His throat tightened, and he didn’t know why his eyes felt moist. No. He couldn’t break down here. Not in front of you. Not while recreating history.

"No, it was my fault. Let me help you," you insisted, concern lacing your voice. But Mingyu didn’t wait. Didn’t think.

He bolted.

———————————————————

Back in his dorm, he slumped onto his chair, burying his face in his hands.

"God… I’m such a fool.” The scene replayed over and over in his mind—your confused gaze, the unfamiliarity in your eyes, the way you stepped away from him.

He exhaled sharply and grabbed a notebook, flipping to a blank page.

"Okay… let’s draft this."

He started scribbling furiously, tracing every event that led up to this moment.

The night before everything changed.

Went home.

Had a shitty day.

Acted like an asshole.

Mingyu winced, gripping his pen tighter. Well, that hurts to think about again.

He continued drawing a mind map, connecting events like puzzle pieces—until he reached that moment.

The cake.

The music. The laughter. The people cheering. And then—

“Make a wish…”

Mingyu’s pen stilled.

"Make a wish…" he whispered.

That voice.

That wasn’t anyone from the club that night. He was sure of it. wasn’t Mark, wasn’t any of his colleagues.

It was something else. A voice that felt like a passing breeze—fleeting, distant. Mingyu leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

————————————————————————

At the Girls' Dorm

Y/N sat at her study table, staring blankly at her textbook. The words blurred together, her mind elsewhere.

"Babe?"

His whisper echoed in her head.

Her chest tightened.

"Y/N!"

She snapped out of her thoughts as her friends called her name. Blinking, she looked up and forced an awkward smile.

"What's up?"

Both her friends exchanged teasing looks.

"Thinking about the drama from this morning?" one of them smirked.

"Gosh, it was adorable! The way it happened—you have to admit, it was kinda romantic."

"Don’t tell me your heart didn’t flutter when he looked at you like that," the other girl chuckled, nudging her playfully while making a dreamy expression.

Y/N let out a small laugh and shut her textbook.

"Nothing to fantasize about," she said, waving it off. "It was just a mistake. And honestly, I think he was pissed." She sighed. "Gosh, he’s Jeonghan's friend. How am I supposed to fix my image now?"

At the mention of Jeonghan, her friends groaned in unison.

"Ugh, why’d you have to bring him up?" one of them whined.

"Yeah, way to ruin the mood," the other pouted. Y/N chuckled, shaking her head. But deep down, her thoughts drifted back to Mingyu.

That look in his eyes… why did it feel so familiar? She shakes her head and focus back on her friends.

"By the way, speaking of Jeonghan..." one of her friends started, eyeing Y/N closely, trying to gauge her reaction—which, of course, worked.

"His sister said not to forget about next week," her friend added casually, passing along the message.

Y/N raised a brow. "Next week?"

"Giiirl, I bet you're already on her potential sister-in-law list," her other friend teased with a grin.

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. Next week was Soobin's birthday—Jeonghan's sister.

"But here's the thing—she wants you to bring a plus one. And she already warned us not to be your plus one."

"Yeah, I think she wants you to finally have the guts to ask her brother out," her friend added, wiggling her eyebrows.

Y/N let out a deep sigh. "Okay, okay. Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll contact her to confirm everything."

Her friends exchanged knowing looks before bursting into giggles, “Good luck okay any advice you can count on us” With that they both went out.

While Y/N buried her face in her hands, she sighed. Why did it always come back to Jeonghan?

Right. Of course, it made sense. Back in university, she had a huge crush on him. Funny how her heart took an emergency turn, falling for that big puppy instead.

Mingyu.

His eyes that afternoon… the way they looked at her—it stirred something in her chest. A part of her wanted nothing more than to pull him into a hug, to comfort him.

Yes, she is also back in the past. She thought she was the only one here, but after that incident, hearing him whisper that nickname like he used to. it seemed like he was here, too.

Her gaze fell on the watch sitting on her desk. The watch she had planned to give him before he lashed out and left that night.

Her fingers traced over the glass, the stillness of the hands catching her attention. The date displayed was today’s date—the present—but the clock’s needles weren’t moving.

All she had to do was push the crown back to make the needles move again, and she would return.

She exhaled deeply, her lips curling into a soft smile.

"I miss him already… but since we’re here, shouldn’t we enjoy it a little? It might be my last chance—who knows?"

---------------------🕰.......🕰------------------------

I make the story more complicated...damn it should end after this. part 1, part 2, part 4, part 5