#I don’t care if it doesn’t make sense

[blank-potato]

I Love The Girl With Magic Ways

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Witch!Reader

Summary:

He’s there, standing at the foot of your bed, shadows clinging to him like silk. Those eyes, golden and curious, lock onto yours. Not threatening. Not kind. Just... watching. “You dream of me,” he says, not asking. You swallow, and the air thickens. “That's not an invitation to break into my room at night.” He tilts his head, taking a step closer. “You called me. You always do—when your thoughts stray, when your control slips. You think about me more than you care to admit.” You don’t respond. Can’t. Because he’s not wrong. Or When training with Bob goes awry, you come face-to-face with The Void, and he's interested in you; he wants to know what makes you tick.

WC: 2.5k

A/N: Title from Magic Ways by Tatsuro Yamashita (such a good song). I'll probably write a part 2 to this, methinks. Here's the link to the request here. Enjoy!

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Training with Bob wasn’t going well. It was frustrating, more for him than you, but still difficult. When you had tried to help him focus, to channel his power, you’d taken a gentle approach, even though gentleness didn’t come naturally to you all the time.

He’d broken the mirrors and the containment shields in the training facility and accidentally thrown you into a wall with his mind.

“I swear, I didn’t mean to.”

“I know…” You groan, brushing dust off your sleeve as you push yourself up.

You make your way back over to him. He’s sitting on the floor, hands in his lap, and anxiety is coming off him in waves.

“It’s okay,” You say softly, sitting beside him. “You’ll get it.”

You don’t know if the look on your face is reassuring or just tired, but judging by the way he won’t meet your eyes, it probably isn’t convincing. He doesn’t seem any more confident.

You sit next to him, trying to think of how to teach him control in a way he’ll actually absorb. You sigh, watching him.

“When I harness my magic, it’s like… holding energy, shifting it from one place to another—like water between cupped hands. Maybe if I show you how I do it, you can follow. How’s that sound?” You sigh, not meaning to sound tired, but you swear you still have a crick in the neck from hitting the wall.

“I’ll give it a shot.”

You nod, the light glowing in your hands, flickering softly like a heartbeat. Bob finds it beautiful, the way you shape it and mould it with such ease. He doesn’t fully understand it himself, not yet, but there’s awe in his eyes.

“Your turn,” You say gently, passing the moment to him.

He tries. Nothing happens at first, just stillness, but then there’s a faint buzzing in the air, a low hum that tickles the edges of your senses. He can feel it. So can you. His eyes glow as he concentrates.

He’s getting there, but—

“Just a little more…”

Your hand hovers next to his, almost touching, and suddenly, there’s a jolt—like a circuit overloading. Lights flicker, then short out, sparks raining from a fixture above. Half the room is thrown into darkness, the other half stuttering with flickering light.

Bob exhales sharply, his face contorting in frustration. “I messed up again,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. It had been at least the tenth mistake in the last thirty minutes, and it was starting to wear him down.

“Control can be hard to learn, but it doesn’t mean it’s impossible…” You say, trying to keep your voice steady, calm, and reassuring.

“I’m hopeless…” Bob murmurs, the words heavy with self-doubt. His chuckle is bitter, empty, and the silence that follows feels louder than any explosion. His eyebrows knit together, and he looks away, shoulders slumping under the weight of his frustration.

You step closer, the glow still dancing faintly in your palms.

“You’re not hopeless. You’re learning. And that’s never a straight line.”

You feel a chill slide down your spine as something shifts, and darkness begins to creep in, curling at the edges of the room like smoke spilling through cracks.

“Bob?” You call again, more urgent now.

The room is fading into a thick, velvet black, seeping into every crevice, swallowing light and colour like a slow tide.

“Bob? Talk to me,” You say, your voice cutting through the dark, a single thread trying to reach him before the void does. It’s too late, though. 

He keeps his head down. It’s clear the words aren’t even getting to him anymore. The darkness overtakes him, swallowing him whole. What emerges is a shadowy figure only being illuminated by the faint flickering light of the broken overheads.

You step toward him, slow and cautious, before you meet his gaze.

His golden eyes glint back at you through the dark, sharp and gleaming with something unreadable. A sinister smile works its way onto his face, deliberate, unsettling in its calmness.

“I’m curious about you,” The Void murmurs, voice low and unnervingly calm. “I want to know what you can do.”

“And I want to talk to Bob,” You retort, eyes narrowing.

“You are talking to Bob,” it replies, with a slight twist of amusement, mocking, almost cruel. “...a part of him, at least.”

You smirk, sharp and laced with sarcasm. “Charming.”

He steps closer and invades your space like a cold draft slithering under a door. The air tightens, heavy and bitter. You can feel his presence: not just beside you, but around you, coiling like smoke, probing.

Still, you hold your ground, looking straight into his eyes. You don’t flinch. “How interesting,” he muses, tilting his head. His darkness moves again, tendrils slipping toward you, tasting the air around your magic, your thoughts, your fear.

But they meet resistance. Your magic flares, and the darkness recoils, hissing as it brushes against your glow.

You remain standing, untouched.

“I’m not afraid of you,” You say, voice like steel wrapped in silk. “And Bob isn’t yours to keep.”

He studies you before letting out a low, curious laugh. “No,” he says finally. “Maybe not.”

“Could I keep you instead?” The Void asks, voice low, almost amused, but there’s something sincere beneath it. He reaches out to touch your face, fingers grazing the space between you.

But you grab his hand before he can. You laugh softly, a little disbelieving.

"I think I suit you quite nicely," he murmurs, undeterred.

"I can see what they can't," he continues, his eyes narrowing, glinting with something ancient and knowing. "The anger, power right at your fingertips and yet you try to play the hero. Why?"

“I’m not playing at anything,” You say firmly, voice steady, eyes locked on his.

He leans in, the shadows around him thickening, curling like tendrils reaching out. They’re dark, hungry, trying to pull you closer, to draw you into their world.

But you fight back. Not with every ounce of will you have, pushing against the invisible pull, anchoring yourself.

“I beg to differ,” he murmurs, his breath grazing your skin like a whisper, cold and intoxicating. “Such wasted potential. All for the notion of being good when you could be so much more.”

You reach out, your hand hovering near his temple. Your fingers glow, light pulsing softly, alive. He watches, unblinking, as your magic stirs in the air like smoke catching fire. It’s ethereal, coiling, licking at him, and it has him curious. 

You're trying to see into his mind, but—

“I think the real question is…” he interrupts knowingly, tilting his head, “…are we inside your mind or mine?”

The words twist around you like a spell, and suddenly, the weight shifts. The darkness starts to peel away from your limbs, sloughing off like ash in the wind. You blink, feeling the ground under you change, reality sliding sideways.

The Void just smiles.

“I’ll see you soon.”

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You’re still thinking about it… about him.

Every time you’re training with Bob, he’s there, at the edge of your thoughts. You’re not in fear. You’re not scared of the Void, not really. It’s more like a wariness, a flicker of unease that one wrong move, one flare of power, might open the door again. Might bring him back.

It was wrong. And confusing. But a small part of you wanted to see him again. 

Your mind drifts when you’re not paying attention—whether it’s during missions, training, or even in bed. He’s in your dreams when you fall asleep, and sometimes, you wake up imagining the ghost of his voice in your ear.

The Void hadn’t tried to hurt you. No, he watched you—studied you. And in some twisted way, he seemed to want you. Not to harm, not to destroy… but to possess, to understand. You just wanted to know why. What did he see in you? What was it about you that drew something like him in?

One night, you’re in bed, the day heavy on your bones, the world finally going quiet around you. You’re slipping closer and closer to sleep…

But you sense it, that shift in the air, a pulse of dark presence curling at the edges of your senses. You feel him before you even open your eyes.

“This is bordering on obsession,” You sigh, eyes still closed.

You hear him laugh, low and amused. The sound crawls down your spine, equal parts unsettling and intimate.

“Not bordering. It is obsession,” he replies, and you can hear the smile in his voice, like he’s proud of it.

Reluctantly, you open your eyes.

He’s there, standing at the foot of your bed, shadows clinging to him like silk. Those eyes, golden and curious, lock onto yours. Not threatening. Not kind. Just... watching.

“You dream of me,” he says, not asking.

You swallow, and the air thickens. “That's not an invitation to break into my room at night.”

He tilts his head, taking a step closer. “You called me. You always do—when your thoughts stray, when your control slips. You think about me more than you care to admit.”

You don’t respond. Can’t.

Because he’s not wrong.

“You’re speechless,” he teases, voice like velvet laced with static. He sits on the edge of your bed, casual, as if he belongs there.

You shift away instinctively, creating space, as if a few more inches could keep him from seeing straight through you.

“Biding my time. There’s a difference,” You reply, keeping your voice even, though your pulse betrays you.

The Void watches you closely, amused by your defiance. Or maybe by the fact that even now, you're still trying to guard yourself. Still playing the game.

His eyes flicker, a faint glow blooming within them like embers. “You may say you don’t want me here, but you keep opening doors.”

“I’m not doing it on purpose,” You bite back, sharper than intended. He smiles, but there’s something beneath it, something hungry. “That’s the best part.”

His hand twitches slightly, not reaching for you, but close. Waiting. 

“You’re more than you think. More than they let you be, more than you let yourself be.”

The air thickens again, and you’re feeling him again, his presence threads through the room like smoke.

“What do you want from me?” You ask, tired of circles.

Suddenly, he sounds less teasing, more honest. 

“To see you become more than this,” He leans closer as if observing you, “You’re no hero. You’re something else entirely.”

He almost sounds in awe of you.

You want to lie. You want to turn away, pretend you don’t feel it, the weight of his words, the strange reverence in his voice.

But in some weird, completely twisted way…you felt seen.

“Show me what you can do,” he says softly, like a challenge… or a plea.

Against your better judgment, your hands move. Fingers lift with purpose, glowing as your magic rises like a tide. Not to attack. Just to beckon. To draw him in that fraction closer.

And he comes.

He leans in, unflinching, until his lips hover just a breath away from yours. The air between you hums with tension, your power brushing over him.

He doesn’t flinch. He invites it.

He looks at you, eyes gleaming. They weren’t cold, but burning. Goading.

“Do it,” he whispers. “Manipulate me. I want to see you try.”

Your magic coils, crackling faintly between you both, held barely in check. It licks at his skin like fire starved of air. You could push. You could twist something in him, see what bends and what breaks.

That thought strikes sharp and fast, and then you remember.

Bob. Somewhere beyond this darkness, behind the weight of The Void’s presence, he’s there. You couldn’t do this. You couldn’t risk hurting him.

You lower your hands slowly, magic fading from your fingertips. The crackle in the air dies with it, and you feel the release.

The Void sighs dramatically. “What? You don’t want to hurt me? I’m disappointed.”

You vanish from in front of him, slipping through space in a blink, reappearing beside him, your lips by his ear, breath warm and taunting.

“I live to disappoint,” You murmur with biting sarcasm.

He chuckles, low and amused, the sound vibrating in your chest more than your ears.

“So you’re playing with me then?” he asks, a smile curling through his voice, teasing and predatory.

You teleport again, this time behind him, close enough to feel his back press against your body like the edge of a knife.

“Something like that,” You say, voice calm, almost bored.

This little verbal spar you had with him was… addictive. A dangerous dance on a wire stretched taut between temptation and control.

But then he shifts, turning around to face you. 

His expression darkens—not angry or violent—but filled with intent. He turns, slowly, deliberately, and starts walking you back with that same quiet pressure in the air that makes your skin prickle.

You don’t step away. You should, but you don’t.

Then, his hand reaches out, and in a second, you’re pinned against the wall. The cold wall meets your spine, and again, before you can blink, he lifts you effortlessly with his mind, sliding you up until your feet leave the ground. His body never touches yours, but his presence crashes over you like a wave.

“I don’t want to play games,” he says, voice low and electric. You meet his eyes, your own burning with something halfway between challenge and adrenaline.

“But this one is so much fun,” you quip back, your tone reckless, like flicking sparks into a powder keg.

His jaw clenches, just slightly. Not in rage. In restraint.

“I came to see you,” he says, eyes scanning your face like a puzzle he hasn’t yet solved. “But all you do is run and hide behind your clever little words.”

“Maybe you need to chase me,” You reply, breath shallow but steady. The Void pauses, his voice surprisingly soft when he answers, “And how long would you make me chase you?”

You meet his gaze, your heart skipping.

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you disappear from his hold, reappearing right in front of him, so close you can see the sweep of his eyelashes. You lean in just a little more, the space between you charged.

“Until I think you’ve had enough.”

His eyes widen a little, but he stifles it. 

“Until I’ve had enough…” he repeats to himself, quietly, like he’s tasting the words. He searches your eyes, there’s something in you, something he needs. Finally, a slow, dark smirk spreads across his lips.

“We’ll see.”

The energy between you crackles, thick and electric. You both want this; he wants to pull you into the darkness, to make you lose yourself. Sure, you wanted to play with him, but you could kiss him and still keep him at bay.

But just as your eyes flutter shut and you feel the weight of his presence drawing near, then suddenly there’s only air.

You open your eyes, breath catching. You turn and he’s standing by your door, smiling at you again.

“I’ll see you soon.”

With that, he fades away, leaving you standing alone, still in your mind.

Masterlist

[seumyo]

Hey love, saw you're taking hq requests. Anything with Ushijima will work, maybe a post-argument one👀👀

I love your work muah😘

the aftermath of an argument with ushijima.

Ushijima was not a man easily bothered.

His emotions moved like tectonic plates—rarely shifting, but when they did, the tremors ran deep. That night, the silence in the apartment wasn’t new to him. Silence was common in their shared space, but this one wasn’t quiet—it was laden. It hung from the ceiling like smoke, settling into the cushions and clinging to the floorboards.

He stood in the kitchen, his massive frame almost out of place amidst the sleek, modern lines of your careful decorating. The sink dripped once. Twice. He looked down at his hands. They were calloused, strong, still curled ever so slightly at his sides from the aftermath of the argument.

It had been about something ridiculous. Something shallow, or so he’d called it. Something he regretted minimizing now.

“You think it doesn’t matter because it’s not your family,” you had snapped, your voice sharp but tremulous. “But it’s mine, and it hurts.”

You had been talking about your cousin’s wedding—how Ushijima hadn’t wanted to go because of the travel, the crowd, the chaos. He hadn’t understood why you were so upset. To him, missing a wedding wasn’t a tragedy. But to you, it was about belonging, being seen, and getting along, not always having to explain why your husband seemed so... remote.

So detached.

He had stood, arms crossed, jaw tight. “I don’t see why you’re making this into something it’s not.”

That had been the wrong thing to say.

“You know I already said yes to them,” you’d said, your voice gentle but expectant. “We leave Friday.”

And he, with that same stone-cut calm, had answered, “That soon? I thought we agreed not to travel this month.”

You had blinked, already bristling, though trying not to show it. “No, you said you didn’t want to travel. I told you it was important to me.”

“It’s one weekend. I don’t understand why it matters so much,” he had replied.

That pushed it even further.

You had inhaled sharply, like you’d just stepped into cold wind. “It matters because they’re my family. I want them to see you. I want them to see us. Plus, it’s about getting along with them—they went to our wedding!”

“I don’t enjoy those events. It’s loud. They ask too many personal questions. I’m not... suited for them.”

“God, Wakatoshi,” you snapped, and that was when he felt the fight truly take off. “Not everything is about your comfort. Sometimes you have to show up even when you don’t want to. It’s rude that only they show up to our special event and we don’t make an effort to go to theirs.”

He had gone quiet then, eyes narrowing slightly. “So I’m inconsiderate now.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

You sighed and walked away then, into the bedroom, closing the door behind you. Not slamming it—you never slammed anything. But the click of it had echoed louder than any yell.

Ushijima had never believed marriage would be easy. His father—an emotionally distant man—had once told him plainly, “Love is not a solution. It’s a context.” At the time, he hadn’t understood what that meant. Now, standing in the dim glow of the kitchen, it was starting to become clear.

Love didn’t erase tension. It didn’t mean you would always forgive him without explanation, nor that you wouldn’t need to feel seen just as much as loved.

Now, Ushijima found himself standing there, unmoving, still trying to make sense of it all. He had already replayed the conversation in his mind five times. Each time, his own words sounded more clumsy. His tone was colder.

He wasn’t good with feelings. He never had been. But you had always made space for that. You never demanded he change, only that he try. And tonight, he hadn’t even tried.

He walked slowly to the closed bedroom door and raised his hand to knock. He hesitated. He could walk away. Wait until morning; let it fade. But this wasn’t like a sprained tendon that healed with rest. This kind of thing festered if left alone.

He knocked once.

You didn’t answer. He opened the door anyway, slowly.

You were sitting on the bed, a paperback in your hands you clearly weren’t reading. You looked up when he entered, your expression unreadable.

He closed the door behind him.

“I was wrong,” he said, voice low.

You blinked, not reacting. You weren’t going to make it easy.

“I minimized what you were feeling. I didn’t understand it, so I assumed it didn’t matter. That was—” he paused, searching for the right word. “—selfish.”

You lowered your book. “You said it was insignificant.”

“I was frustrated,” he said, slowly. “That’s not an excuse. It’s just the truth.”

You were quiet for a moment. Then: “You never get upset over this kind of thing. But tonight, you looked like you weren’t even listening.”

He moved to sit at the edge of the bed, leaving space between them.

“I listen better when I’m not trying to win,” he said. “Tonight I was trying to win.”

You looked at him for a long time, eyes softening just a little. “I know your parents didn’t fight in front of you. That you never saw what working through something looks like.”

He nodded. “They avoided each other for days. Weeks sometimes. I don’t want to be like that.”

Your brows furrowed. “Then why do you go so quiet when we argue?”

“Because I’m afraid,” he said simply. “Afraid of saying something I can’t take back. Afraid of making you look at me differently.”

You looked down, fingers playing with the edge of your blanket. “But silence feels like rejection.”

“I didn’t know that.” He exhaled. “I know now.”

A pause. You looked up at him again, the corners of your mouth tight. “You made me feel like I was being dramatic.”

He reached out, not touching you yet, but letting his hand hover near yours. “You weren’t. You were telling me how much something mattered to you. I should have treated that with respect.”

You nodded slowly. You looked tired (not of him, hopefully), but not angry anymore. “You always make things feel steady. But sometimes I don’t want steady. I want to feel like you care, even when it’s messy.”

“I do care,” he said. “Even when it’s messy.”

He finally touched your hand. You let him.

“I don’t always understand your emotions right away,” he said, voice still low. “But I want to. And I will keep showing up. Even when I don’t get it the first time.”

You swallowed. “You say things like that and then act like you don’t care for hours.”

“I’m learning,” he said. “Not fast. Not gracefully. But I’m learning.”

You gave a short breath that could have been a laugh or a sigh. You leaned against him, shoulder to shoulder, letting the weight of your body press into his. “Okay.”

He turned, resting his cheek lightly against the top of your head. “Okay?”

“I want you to come to the wedding still,” you said. “But I think it’s ok if you really don’t want to come.”

“I will,” he said. “Because you asked. And because I want to.”

You smiled then, faintly. “I still think you’re going to hate it.”

“Probably,” he admitted.

“But you’ll be there?”

“I’ll be there,” he repeated. “With you.”

You sat in the soft dark for a while after that, the silence gentler this time, less like smoke and more like a warm blanket. Eventually, you reached for his hand with both of yours, holding it like an anchor.

He didn’t let go.

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

Hello!! Could I request an angsty/fluff fic between Remmick and a reader that is getting used to him being a vampire? They found out recently and now they are adapting? Thank you so much keep up the great writing!!

Still trustworthy||Remmick x GN!Reader

Summary-Remmick never Told you that he was a vampire and now after accidentally cutting your finger you learn the truth and learn how to adapt to him.

Word count-2.5k

@abriefnirvana @fuckoffbard

A/n I kinda went off the request a bit I’m sorry it’s still good tho

I was also inspired by that one scene in the vampire diaries when Elena accidentally cuts herself

It starts with a cut.

Small. Barely noticeable. Just the edge of a kitchen knife nicking your fingertip when you’re slicing tomatoes.

You hiss, more from surprise than pain.

Remmick is behind you, halfway through pouring wine. He stills completely.

You don’t notice at first—your attention on the faucet, washing the blood away. It’s already clotting. No big deal.

“Shit,” you mutter. “I’m fine. Just stupid.”

Still no answer.

You glance over your shoulder.

Remmick’s not moving. Not a twitch. One hand grips the neck of the wine bottle, the other clenched tight at his side. His face has gone… blank. Too blank.

“Rem?” you ask, confused.

He lifts his eyes to yours.

And something inside you freezes.

His pupils are blown wide, nearly swallowing the irises. His breath has gone shallow. Sharp. Almost panting.

“What the hell—“

You instinctively step back, fingers still dripping faintly red. The scent of copper is faint, but it hits the room like perfume.

“Remmick?” you repeat, slower now.

His jaw tightens. He sets the bottle down with almost mechanical control, every movement deliberate. Too careful. Like he’s holding himself in place with everything he has.

“You need to leave,” he says, voice hoarse.

“What—?”

“Go to the bedroom. Shut the door. Please.”

Your stomach drops. “Remmick, what’s going on?”

He turns away from you—violently, like looking hurts.

His shoulders shake. Not with pain. Not even with restraint.

With hunger.

You see it now.

You smell it. The blood. It’s not even much—but the room is different. Like the air thickened around you.

Your brain is scrambling for logic, for sense. But your instincts know before your thoughts catch up.

You take another step back. Cold creeping up your spine like a whisper.

He’s gripping the edge of the counter now, knuckles white. You’ve never seen him like this. Not even close.

He always had perfect control. Always.

“Remmick,” you whisper. “Talk to me. What is this?”

He swallows hard. Then again.

When he finally turns his head—only slightly—you see them.

His teeth.

Elongated. Sharpened. Not bared like a threat, but unmistakable.

You stop breathing.

He sees it—your stillness. Your silence.

Sees the moment you realize that he’s not quite human.

His face crumples.

“I never meant for you to find out like this.”

The world tilts.

This isn’t real.

It’s a joke. A dream. A delusion—

But your heart is pounding too loud. Your hand stings where you cut it. And the man you’ve been waking up beside for months is standing in front of you with fangs and trembling restraint and eyes like a wounded animal.

“You’re—” Your voice breaks. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m sorry.”

It’s the way he says it that makes it real.

Not with malice. Not even shame.

Just grief.

Like he knew, eventually, this would be the end of everything.

You stumble back a step, and it’s automatic. Not even fear—just the lizard part of your brain begging you to put distance between you and a predator.

He doesn’t follow.

Of course he doesn’t.

He’s still gripping the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him from doing something monstrous.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says. “I would never—”

“You can, though,” you snap. It comes out harsher than you mean it. “Don’t lie to me, Remmick. Not now.”

His face hardens—only slightly. “I’ve never lied to you. I just… didn’t tell you. Yet.”

You almost laugh. “You drink blood.”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“I was turned in the 5th century not long after the Christians came to my land and converted my people.”

Your breath leaves you like you’ve been punched.

He’s older than you.

Older than you ever thought possible.

You clutch the edge of the sink. You’re shaking. You don’t know if it’s rage, terror, betrayal, or some mix of all three.

He stays silent. He lets you feel it. Doesn’t try to talk over your panic.

That somehow makes it worse. Because he’s not denying it. He’s not chasing you down to convince you he’s harmless.

He’s letting you choose.

That’s when the tears sting your eyes.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” you ask.

“Yes.” No hesitation. “I was waiting for the right moment.”

“There is no right moment for this,” you whisper.

“No.” He nods. “But I still hoped I’d find one.”

You stare at him.

Not the man you love. Not right now.

Right now he’s a stranger in the same skin.

Something ancient, restrained, dangerous—and heartbreakingly sad.

“Do you feel it?” you ask suddenly. “Right now? My blood?”

He closes his eyes. “Yes.”

“Do you want it?”

He doesn’t lie.

“Yes.”

The room goes still. All you hear is the clock ticking, and the distant hum of the fridge.

And your heartbeat.

Loud. So loud.

He hears it. You know he does.

He’s always heard it.

You turn your face away.

“I need space.”

“I’ll go,” he says immediately. “I’ll stay at the old place.”

You nod. You can’t look at him again.

He leaves quietly.

No door slam. No dramatic last look.

Just the soft click of the latch and the sound of your own heartbeat in the silence he leaves behind.

You don’t move for a long time.

You stand in the kitchen with the tiny cut on your finger stinging under the faucet, and your legs locked like if you move, the truth will catch up to you.

It already has.

The first night is the hardest.

You leave the bedroom door open out of habit.

You think about texting him.

I’m okay.

I’m not okay.

Please tell me this is a dream.

Please tell me you still love me.

None of them get typed. None of them get sent.

You turn over in bed again and again. The pillow smells like him. The sheets feel colder than usual.

You don’t cry until three in the morning.

You don’t stop until five.

The second day is worse, because there’s no shock left to pad the grief.

You wake up to sunlight through the blinds and it feels wrong. Like too much light is hitting a world that’s cracked open and bleeding underneath.

You sit on the couch and think about every moment that now feels like a lie.

The way he used to press his nose to your neck like he was breathing you in. The way he knew when you were getting sick before you did. The way he always ran warm somehow, like magic.

It wasn’t magic.

It was blood.

You curl up under a blanket and stare at the window all day.

You want to be angry. You want to scream, to break something, to call him names that would hurt.

But you just sit there. Hollow.

And you miss him.

God, you miss him.

By the third night, you’ve stopped trying to sort it out.

You’re just tired.

You don’t know what you’re grieving: the man you thought he was, or the comfort of not knowing the truth.

Maybe both.

You’re lying on the couch again, wrapped in that same blanket, when you hear something shift on the front porch.

Not a knock. Just the faint scuff of boots.

You freeze.

You know it’s him.

It’s a full minute before you stand up. Before you walk to the door, slow and heavy. You don’t open it.

You just press your palm to the wood. Like maybe he’ll feel it.

“I don’t know if I’ll be here when you come back.”

“I know. But I’ll come back anyway.”

You say nothing.

But you don’t tell him to go.

The next morning, there’s no sign he was there at all. Just a tiny wet mark on the wood from where he must’ve leaned his head.

You touch it.

It’s gone by the time you blink.

But something in you softens. Just a little.

The fourth night, he knocks.

Once. Quiet. Like he’s testing the world.

You’re already sitting on the couch, wrapped tight in the same blanket.

You don’t move. You don’t speak.

You just look at the door.

And then you do something you didn’t expect.

You whisper.

“Come in.”

The door clicks open.

You don’t know why you said it. Your heart is slamming in your chest. Your body screams at you to run.

But he steps inside like he’s afraid to break something—and maybe he is.

And now…

Remmick’s standing at the threshold of the living room, coat half-unbuttoned, boots tracking in mud on the rug. He hasn’t moved since he walked in.

You’re on the couch, knees drawn to your chest, the blanket bunched in your lap like a shield. You’re not cold, but your hands are clenched tight in the fabric.

He looks at you like he’s waiting for something.

Maybe permission to speak. Maybe permission to leave.

Instead, you say quietly, “You fed.”

His lips press into a tight line.

“I did,” he replies.

You nod, barely, and try to keep your voice steady. “You’re still warm.”

He’s not supposed to be. Not usually. But after feeding, he flushes a little—almost human.

Remmick doesn’t answer that. Just takes a slow step forward and stops again when your fingers twitch.

Your pulse hammers in your ears, traitorous and loud.

He can hear that, you think.

He always can.

He always could.

“Do you want me to go?” he asks, voice soft, like he already knows the answer and doesn’t want to hear it.

Your throat tightens.

No, you want to say. Stay. Please. Don’t make me do this alone.

But your body remembers what your heart keeps trying to forget.

The first time you saw him bare his fangs.

The way he growled—actually growled—when someone brushed against you in the bar.

The look in his eyes when you bled, just a little, and how he froze like every atom of him was screaming.

He didn’t hurt you. He’s never hurt you.

But he could.

And that knowledge coils in your stomach like cold iron.

“I don’t want you to go,” you whisper, not meeting his eyes. “But I don’t know how to be near you yet.”

He nods slowly. Like that hurts—but not more than it should.

Remmick takes a few steps forward and kneels on the floor in front of you, careful, deliberate, like you’re a wounded animal and he’s trying not to startle you.

Not touching. Not even close enough to.

“I’ll sit here,” he says. “If that’s okay.”

You nod again.

Silence stretches between you like a tightrope.

He doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t breathe, even. Just watches you with that quiet reverence that used to make your heart race for all the right reasons.

Now it just makes you ache.

“I’m not scared of you,” you finally say. “I’m scared of what I don’t understand.”

“That’s fair.” He swallows hard. “What do you want to know?”

You hesitate.

There are a hundred questions. A thousand.

How do you feel when you bite someone?

Can you smell my blood right now?

Do you want it?

But what comes out is smaller. Softer.

“Do you ever wish you hadn’t told me?”

He blinks. His expression doesn’t change but his shoulders stiffen like he’s been struck.

“No,” he says immediately. “Never.”

Your gaze finally lifts to his. You expect pity or guilt, maybe that practiced calm he wears like armor.

But what you see instead is fear.

Not of you. For you.

“You deserve the truth,” he says, voice low and tight. “Even if it means losing you.”

Your breath catches.

He’s terrified, too.

That realization cracks something open inside you.

You study him in the low light. His jaw, sharp and tense. The soft dark shadow under his eyes. The way he’s holding himself back from you—not because he wants to, but because he knows you need it.

Because he doesn’t trust himself either.

“I miss you,” you murmur.

He closes his eyes. “I miss you too.”

Slowly, you shift forward on the couch. Not close enough to touch. Just a few inches.

It feels like a mile.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admit. “How to be near you and not be afraid sometimes.”

“You don’t have to pretend,” he says. “You don’t owe me that.”

“I’m not pretending.” You pause. “I’m just learning.”

Remmick looks at you, eyes shining faintly with something raw and aching.

“Then I’ll learn with you.”

You want to reach for him. You almost do.

Instead, you say, “What does it feel like… when you feed?”

He blinks. You’ve never asked before.

He takes a breath, just for the motion of it.

“It’s not like hunger,” he says slowly. “It’s more… need. And noise. Everything sharpens. I feel everything—sound, scent, your heartbeat… it’s like drowning.”

You don’t interrupt. You let him keep going.

“And then when I feed, it’s quiet. The world gets quiet. I don’t feel like I’m going to lose control. It’s the only time I feel… human.”

Your heart thuds. “Does it hurt them?”

“No. Not when I do it right. But that’s why I go to the clinic. No risk. No fear. No guilt.” He pauses. “I’d starve before I took it from someone who didn’t want to give.”

You believe him.

You do.

But the fear isn’t logical. It’s primal. And it sits just under your skin like splinters.

Still, your body starts to loosen. Just a little.

Your hand falls out of the blanket.

Remmick’s eyes flick to it—then back to your face.

You see the restraint in every line of his body.

And you reach out.

Just a few inches. Your fingers brush his.

He goes perfectly still. Not tense. Just reverent.

Like your touch is holy.

Like it could save him.

You don’t pull away.

“Your hands are warm,” you murmur.

“I won’t be, in a few hours.”

“That’s okay.”

You inch closer.

Now you’re only a foot apart. He’s still kneeling, and you’re still guarded—but the space feels different. Less like a wall. More like a boundary you’re both respecting.

You slide your hand into his fully.

He closes his eyes like he might fall apart from that alone.

“I want to be able to touch you without flinching,” you whisper. “I want to kiss you and not wonder what’s behind your teeth.”

He swallows.

“I want that too,” he says, voice thick. “But I’ll wait. As long as it takes.”

You lean in.

Slow. Slow.

And press your forehead to his.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the day you found out.

“I love you,” he says, voice cracking. “Even if you never let me close again.”

You tilt your head, just slightly, and brush your lips against his.

It’s not deep. Not urgent.

Just real.

He doesn’t kiss back not fully. Just lets it happen, lets you lead, lets himself be chosen.

And when you pull back, your heart isn’t racing out of fear.

It’s just beating.

“I do love you,” you whisper. “Even if I’m still figuring out what that means.”

A flicker of something wild and gentle flashes in his eyes.

“I know,and that’s okay too. Take all the time you need.” he replies.

Later, you fall asleep with your hand in his. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even shift his weight. He stays sitting, holding your hand like it’s a lifeline.

And maybe it is.

Not for you—

but for him.

[bullshit-usa]

Nobody cares. Gay men assault and rape each other. And gay men creep on straight men too. Doesn’t mean all men should be in the women’s restroom, retard.

Also you ain’t tricking NOBODY, the mfs who creep on you are gay lol. Even the most “passing” trans people don’t pass. You edit your pictures and use filters and think that’s how you look irl lol. Either dumb af or so many ppl blindly affirmed you on r/mtf you think they weren’t lying to you to make you feel better about yourself

Isn’t the stats like 40% of gay men have underaged sex with an adult? I read a study once that suggested the impact of trauma is based on culture, as kids who think XYZ is normal don’t show signs of PTSD and they compared it to how gay men who used gay hookup chats/sites/apps while underage don’t show signs of trauma. Bc they think it’s normal. Fuck if anyone remembers this study pls send me the link. I think it’s super obscure (duh cuz it counters the narrative) but it aligns well with PTSD studies.

And makes sense. A lot of people say their mental health got worse after starting therapy. It tracks. These realizations do fuck people up

no yeah thanks for welcoming me to womanhood again but like yeah this man is in fact currently following me home can we maybe address that aspect

[wonfie]

NOT YOURS !

‎ ꗃ 𝗐𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗍𝗁 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗁𝗒𝗌𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗅

𝑓─── fwb!jungwon ㅈ f!rea ✶ smut ⏜ bartender!reader barowner!jungwon rough sex petnames degradation jealousy use of handcuffs, blindfold fwb2??? ✿ 𝐜𝓲𝐞𝓁 ｡

消息 ⦂ finally here.. (i hate it) not worth the wait imo this was a disappointment 💔 8.5k words of pure ASS writing

REBLOG4 𝗞𝗜𝗦𝗦 𓏼 ◜ ᴗ ◝ 𓏼

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈 : ACT LIKE MINE

THE MUSIC thrums through the floor, a relentless pulse that shakes the air and sinks into your bones. the club is a living, breathing beast, its veins made of neon, its heartbeat the bassline that drowns out thought. strobe lights cut through the haze like blades, catching sweat-slick skin and glinting off half-empty glasses. your dress—black, tight, barely there—clings to every curve, the hem riding high enough to turn heads, to invite stares. you move through the crowd with purpose, hips swaying to the rhythm, each step a deliberate invitation. you’re not here to blend in. you’re here to be seen, to be wanted, to feel the weight of eyes on you like a second skin.

you sense him before you see him. jungwon. not hovering, not chasing, but there—always there. his presence is a tether, a pull you can’t ignore. from the shadowed booth across the room, his gaze locks onto you, sharp and unyielding, cutting through the chaos of bodies and lights. his arms are crossed, one leg stretched out, his posture deceptively relaxed, like he owns the place. because he does. his lips are pressed thin, his expression unreadable, but those eyes—dark, hungry, burning with a cold fire—tell you everything. he’s watching, waiting, and you know he’s not going to move until you make him.

the dance floor is a crush of bodies, a sea of heat and motion, but you carve out your space in the center, your drink in hand, condensation slick against your fingers. sweat beads on your skin, catching the light as you move, your body swaying in time with the relentless beat. jungwon stays back, leaning against the wall now, talking to someone—a friend, a business associate, it doesn’t matter. his eyes never leave you. you feel them like a touch, like a hand sliding down your spine, and it makes your breath catch, your chest tighten with something you don���t want to name.

you’re playing a game. you both are. he’s the master, the one who sets the rules, but tonight, you’re rewriting them. you lean into the stranger beside you—dark shirt, flashy watch glinting under the lights, the faint scent of sweet liquor clinging to him. you don’t care about his name or his smile, but you let him think you do. you laugh at his half-heard jokes, tilt your head back, let your lips graze the rim of your glass in a way you know jungwon hates. it’s a performance, every movement a silent dare, a challenge thrown across the room. you want him to see. you want him to react.

the stranger’s hand brushes your arm as he hands you another drink, and you let it linger, let his fingers graze your skin just a second too long. you feel jungwon’s gaze sharpen, feel the air shift as his patience frays. you don’t look at him—not yet. you sip your drink, slow and deliberate, letting the cold liquid slide down your throat while your body moves to the music, hips rolling, hair falling over your shoulders. the stranger says something, leans closer, and you smile, all teeth and no warmth, because this isn’t about him. it’s about the man watching you, the one whose control you’re testing, whose limits you’re pushing.

then you feel it—his hand on your wrist, firm but not painful, a quiet command that stops you cold. you turn, meeting jungwon’s eyes, and they’re darker than the club’s shadows, burning with something that makes your pulse race. “we’re leaving,” he says, voice low, clipped, leaving no room for argument.

“but we just—” you start, voice teasing, testing him one last time.

“now.” his grip tightens just enough to remind you who’s in charge.

you glance at the stranger, who’s watching with a mix of amusement and awkwardness, and you flash him a quick, mocking wave. “boyfriend,” you say, your smile sharp and wicked, before letting jungwon pull you through the crowd.

outside, the night air is a shock against your flushed skin, the low cut of your dress leaving you exposed to the bite of the cold. you wrap your arms around yourself, heels clicking against the pavement as you trail a few steps behind him. he’s already on his phone, calling the car, his jaw tight, his movements sharp. when the sleek black sedan pulls up, you slide into the back seat beside him, the leather cool against your thighs. he doesn’t look at you, just stares straight ahead, knee bouncing, body taut with barely restrained energy.

you watch him from the corner of your eye, the city lights streaking across his face in flashes of neon. you want to say something, to break the silence, but the words feel heavy, trapped in your throat. you’re wet already, and you hate how easily he does this to you—how a look, a touch, a single word can unravel you.

“you’re mad,” you say finally, voice soft, testing the waters.

he turns his head slowly, eyes narrowing, unreadable. “mad?” he echoes, the word sharp enough to cut. “no.”

you raise an eyebrow, skeptical, but his lips twitch into a low, bitter laugh before you can press further. “i’m embarrassed,” he says, and the admission catches you off guard.

“embarrassed?” you repeat, surprise flickering through you.

“you looked pathetic,” he says, voice like a blade, precise and vicious. “pressing up on some guy like you didn’t have anyone. like you were begging for it.”

“he wasn’t touching me—” you start, defensive, but he cuts you off, voice dropping lower, darker.

“you wanted him to.” it’s not a question. “don’t lie to me.”

you open your mouth to argue, to deny it, but the words die on your tongue. he’s right. you were playing a game, pushing boundaries, and you both know it. his eyes darken, not with anger but with something fiercer—hunger, control, a need coiled tight beneath his skin.

“you wanna act like that?” he murmurs, leaning closer, his voice a dangerous whisper meant only for you. “don’t fucking complain when i treat you like you don’t know how to behave.”

you say nothing. you don’t need to. because he’s right, and because you want whatever comes next.

the car pulls up to his building, and jungwon is out first, slamming the door without a glance back. you follow, heels unsteady on the pavement, your stomach twisting with anticipation. the elevator ride is a study in silence, the air thick with it, your shoulder brushing his just once. he doesn’t react, doesn’t move, his hands loose at his sides, but you know better. you know the calm is a mask, and beneath it, he’s deadly.

the apartment door barely clicks shut before he’s on you.

the space is too quiet after the club’s chaos, the city’s hum a faint drone through the thick glass windows. jungwon doesn’t speak, just watches you, his gaze heavy, predatory. you shift in the tight dress, the fabric warm from the night, your bare legs pressing against the cold floor. your wrist still tingles where he grabbed you, the memory sharp, electric.

he steps closer, and the distance between you shrinks to nothing, the air charged with unspoken words. his breath is steady, slow, but you can feel the danger in it, the promise of something raw. his finger traces your jaw, light but deliberate, sliding down your neck, sending a shiver through you that feels like it could break you apart.

“you don’t listen, do you?” he murmurs, voice low, calm in a way that makes your knees weak. his hands are on you now, quick and impatient, dragging the dress up over your hips to reveal the thin lace beneath. “you think just ‘cause they’re out there, i won’t fuck the attitude out of you?”

you gasp, heart pounding as the cold air hits your thighs. “won—wait, i—”

you don’t finish. he’s already bending you over the counter, one hand covering your mouth before you can say another word, the other gripping your hip with bruising force. he doesn’t wait, doesn’t tease—just pushes in, rough, a sharp stretch that steals your breath. you squirm, but he holds you still, his pace relentless, your legs trembling under the onslaught.

it’s not playful. it’s not angry. it’s possessive, primal, like he’s staking a claim. he fucks you like he’s proving something, each thrust deep and unforgiving, but his voice stays low, lips brushing your ear when he leans forward. “be good for me, baby.”

you moan behind his hand, loud, unfiltered, and he tightens his grip, muffling you instantly. “you want them to hear you getting ruined by me?” he hisses, his breath hot against your skin. “you want them to know who fucks you like this?”

your body shakes, your moan turning to a whimper as he slows just enough to let the pressure build, the stretch becoming unbearable, addictive. his teeth graze your neck, nipping just below your ear, and the heat between your thighs pools, your body betraying you as it clenches around him.

he feels it. groans. “fuck,” he breathes, voice raw. “you’re so wet it’s disgusting.”

he pulls out suddenly, and before you can catch your breath, he flips you around, lifting you onto the counter like you’re weightless. your wrists reach for his shoulders, but he catches them, pinning them to your sides, his gaze hard, unyielding. “don’t touch me unless i tell you to.”

you nod, dizzy, drunk on his voice, his presence, the way he looks at you like you’re his to break. “bed,” he says, and you slide off the counter, legs shaky, walking ahead of him, feeling his eyes on you like a predator stalking prey.

you hear the clink of his belt hitting the floor, the soft thud of his jacket following. slow, methodical, deliberate. he’s not rushing—not when he’s like this. every move is calculated, every step heavy with intent. you reach the bedroom, and your eyes flick to the drawer by the bed, the one with the handcuffs, the blindfold, the small black box you’re forbidden to touch without permission. he follows your gaze, and without a word, he pulls it open, setting out what he needs with the precision of a surgeon—cuffs, blindfold, and something else, something you can’t quite see.

“on your knees,” he says.

you drop to the bed, hair spilling over your shoulders, hands trembling as you kneel, waiting. he takes your wrists, locking the cuffs behind your back with a soft click. the metal is cold, biting into your skin—not painful, but a warning, a promise of what’s to come.

he stands back, his breath heavy, and you can feel his eyes on you, taking you in. “look at you,” he says, voice low, almost reverent. you bite your lip, feeling the weight of his gaze, the way it strips you bare.

“do you feel good about what you did tonight?” he asks.

you nod, hesitant, knowing it’s the wrong answer but unable to lie.

his head tilts, eyes narrowing. “you shouldn’t.”

he grabs the blindfold, slipping it over your eyes without warning. the world goes dark, the fabric tight against your face, and your breath stutters. every sound is sharper now—the creak of the bed, his steady breathing, the rustle of his clothes. you hear him move, feel the mattress dip as he kneels in front of you. his knuckles brush your jaw, then your lips, and you flinch, oversensitive, hyperaware.

“open,” he says, pressing two fingers to your mouth.

you part your lips, letting his fingers slide in, your tongue curling around them instinctively. he exhales sharply, a sound that sends a thrill through you, and you suck, slow and deliberate, pulling a soft grunt from him. then he’s gone, fingers pulling away, leaving you empty, wanting.

you whine, soft and needy, and he laughs—low, mocking. “don’t start.”

the bed shifts again, and you know what he’s doing, even without sight. the faint sound of fabric, the subtle rhythm of his hand moving, stroking himself just inches from your face. your lips part, ready, aching for him, and he mutters, “needy little mouth. didn’t get what you wanted at the bar, so now you’re desperate for mine, huh?”

you nod, because lying is pointless. he knows you too well.

he brushes the tip of his cock against your lips, barely there, just enough to make you chase it. again, and again, teasing, cruel. “open wider,” he says, and you do, letting him thrust in slow, shallow at first, then deeper, his hands holding your face steady as he rocks forward. you gag slightly, throat flexing, but he doesn’t stop, his pace building, relentless, until your throat burns and your lungs ache. spit drips down your chin, tears prick behind the blindfold, but you don’t pull away. this is what you wanted.

he holds you there, nose pressed to his skin, throat full, until you’re trembling, then pulls out with a wet pop. you gasp, chest heaving, throat sore and pulsing. he’s silent for a moment, letting you catch your breath.

then, soft but stern: “face down.”

you move without thinking, cheek pressed to the sheets, hips raised, the cuffs digging into your wrists as you brace yourself. he fucks you like he’s marking territory, each thrust deep, deliberate, his lips brushing your ear with every movement. “mine,” he says, and you don’t argue, because you are.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈 : BOLD ASSUMPTION

three months ago, you didn’t know his name. the city was a maze of glass and steel, neon bleeding into the night, and you were just another shadow passing through. you’d come here after a breakup that left you raw, chasing a fresh start in a place where no one knew your failures. the job was simple—bartending at a dive bar downtown, pouring cheap whiskey for tired men, dodging their hands, their leers. it paid the rent, kept you moving, but it didn’t fill the void.

the first time you saw jungwon, he wasn’t like the others. he didn’t flirt or leer or make crude jokes. he sat at the end of the bar, nursing a bourbon, eyes scanning the room like he was waiting for something—or someone. his face was all sharp angles, shadowed and unreadable, but there was an intensity to him, something that made your pulse quicken when his gaze landed on you.

“another?” you’d asked, holding up the bottle.

he nodded, sliding his glass toward you. “make it quick.”

you poured, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light. “rough night?”

he didn’t answer, just tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve. “you new here?” he asked instead.

“couple weeks,” you said, wiping the counter. “you a regular?”

“something like that.” his lips twitched, not quite a smile. “you don’t belong here.”

you bristled, but his tone wasn’t cruel, just certain. “and where do i belong?”

he leaned forward, elbows on the bar, voice low. “somewhere people don’t look at you like meat.”

you laughed, sharp and surprised. “bold of you to assume i don’t like it.”

his eyes narrowed, a flicker of something dangerous passing through them. “you don’t.”

you didn’t know why, but you believed him. he saw through you, saw the armor you wore, the cracks beneath. you poured another shot, slid it to him. “on the house,” you said. “for the unsolicited advice.”

he didn’t touch it, just watched you, unblinking. “careful,” he said finally. “this place chews up girls like you.”

he was gone the next night, and the one after that, but when he came back a week later, he sat in the same spot, ordered the same drink, and watched you with that same unnerving focus. you started to notice things—the steadiness of his hands, the way he never slurred, the way people gave him space without being asked. he wasn’t just a drifter. he carried weight, the kind that came with power.

“you own this place or something?” you asked one night, half-joking, as you refilled his glass.

“or something,” he said, that not-quite-smile back.

you learned his name eventually. jungwon. no last name, no explanation. just jungwon. and you learned he wasn’t just a regular—he was the kind of man who could silence a room with a glance, who didn’t need to raise his voice to be heard.

you started staying late, closing up alone, just to see if he’d show. sometimes he did, sometimes he didn’t, but when he was there, the air felt charged, like a storm waiting to break. you’d talk, or you wouldn’t. he’d watch you wipe down the bar, and you’d feel his eyes like a physical touch. you started wearing tighter shirts, leaning closer when you poured his drink, letting your fingers brush his when you handed it over. testing. teasing. seeing how far you could push before he pushed back.

one night, he stayed until the last customer stumbled out. you were locking up, the bar empty except for the hum of the neon sign outside. he was still there, sitting at the counter, watching you.

“you’re trouble,” he said, voice low, like he was stating a fact.

you turned, leaning against the bar, arms crossed. “you don’t know me well enough to say that.”

“i know enough.” he stood, slow, deliberate, crossing the space between you. he was close now, close enough you could smell the faint spice of his cologne, feel the heat of him in the cool air. “you’re looking for something. and you think you’ll find it here.”

“and what if i do?” you shot back, chin tilted, defiant.

he stepped closer, crowding you against the bar. his hand came up, fingers brushing your jaw, light but possessive. “you won’t. not with them.”

“and who’s them?” your voice was steady, but your pulse wasn’t.

“everyone who’s not me.”

you laughed, shaky. “cocky bastard.”

“you have no idea.” his thumb grazed your lower lip, and your breath hitched. “come with me.”

“where?”

“does it matter?”

it didn’t. you followed him out the back door, into the alley where the city’s pulse felt rawer, louder. he didn’t touch you—not yet—but you felt him, like a current under your skin. the car was waiting, black and sleek, and you slid into the passenger seat like you’d done it a hundred times before.

that was the first night. not the last.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈 : FRIEND OR FHOE?

jungwon wasn’t your boyfriend. you didn’t call him that, and he didn’t ask you to. but he was something. something that made your heart race, your skin burn, something that made you feel alive in a way you hadn’t in years. he was a drug, and you were hooked.

he owned clubs, you learned—not just the dive bar, but others, sleek upscale places where the city’s elite came to lose themselves in music and liquor and secrets. he moved through them like a shadow, always in control, always untouchable. you saw how people looked at him—fear, respect, desire, all tangled together. you saw how women watched him, how men stepped aside when he passed. and you saw how he looked at you, like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

you started going to his clubs, not as a bartender but as his. you’d show up in dresses he bought you, tight and expensive, the kind that made heads turn. he’d watch from across the room, never hovering, never crowding, but always there, his presence pulling you back. you’d dance, drink, flirt with strangers just to see how long it took for him to cross the floor and claim you. it was a game, and you both played it, knowing who’d win.

tonight wasn’t different—at first. you’d picked the dress yourself, black and barely there, knowing it would drive him up the wall. you’d danced with that guy because you could, because you wanted to see how far you could push before jungwon snapped. you wanted the rush of his anger, the heat of his possession. you wanted to feel him.

and now, here you are, blindfolded and cuffed, kneeling on his bed, his voice cutting through the dark like a blade.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐕 : ARE YOU, THOUGH?

“you think you’re clever,” he says, voice almost a growl. “you think you can play me.”

you shake your head, lips parted, but no words come out. the blindfold sharpens everything—the creak of the bed, the sound of his breath, the brush of his fingers against your skin. you’re hyperaware, every nerve alive, waiting.

he’s close now, the heat of him radiating, the weight of his presence suffocating in the best way. his hand trails down your spine, slow, deliberate, and you arch into it without thinking. he laughs, soft and mocking.

“so eager,” he mutters. “you act like you don’t want this, but your body says different.”

you bite your lip, trying to stay quiet, to hold onto some shred of defiance. but it’s hard when his fingers are on you, tracing patterns that make your skin burn, make your thighs clench. he knows exactly what he’s doing. he always does.

“say it,” he says, voice sharp. “say you want me.”

you hesitate, just for a second, just to push him. but then his hand is in your hair, pulling your head back, exposing your throat. you gasp, the sound loud in the quiet room.

“say it.”

“i want you,” you whisper, and it’s true. it’s always been true.

he hums, satisfied, and releases your hair. you feel the bed shift, feel him move away, and you hate it—the sudden absence, the cold where his body was. you strain against the cuffs, the metal biting into your wrists, but you don’t care. you want to touch him, want to pull him back.

“patience,” he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. “you don’t get to decide what happens next.”

you hear the drawer again, the soft clink of something being picked up. your heart races. you know what’s in there—the tools he keeps, the ones he uses when he wants to take his time, to unravel you slowly. you don’t know what he’s chosen, and the not-knowing makes your pulse throb in your ears.

“spread your legs,” he says.

you do, slow, feeling the mattress dip under your knees. you’re exposed, vulnerable, and the blindfold makes it worse—or better. you can’t decide. every nerve is alive, waiting, anticipating.

you feel it then—the cool, smooth edge of something against your inner thigh. not his fingers, not his mouth. something else. you flinch, but he steadies you with a hand on your hip.

“don’t move,” he says, voice calm but edged with warning.

you nod, breath shallow, and he drags the object higher, teasing, letting it linger just close enough to make you squirm. you don’t know what it is—maybe a knife, maybe something else—but you trust him. you shouldn’t, maybe, but you do.

“good girl,” he murmurs, and the praise sends a rush of heat through you, makes your toes curl against the sheets.

he moves the object again, and this time it brushes against you—light, fleeting, but enough to make you gasp. it’s cold, slick, and you realize it’s the handle of something, maybe a knife, maybe a toy. you don’t care. you just want more.

“you like this,” he says, not a question. “you like not knowing.”

you nod, because lying is pointless. he knows you too well.

he chuckles, low and dark, and then the object is gone, replaced by his fingers, warm and rough, sliding over you, testing your limits. you moan, loud and unashamed, and he doesn’t stop you this time. he lets you make noise, lets you beg with your body, lets you fall apart under his touch.

“you’re mine,” he says, and it’s not possessive now—it’s a fact, like the sky is dark or the city never sleeps. “say it.”

“i’m yours,” you gasp, and you mean it.

he doesn’t respond with words, but you feel him shift, feel the bed dip as he moves closer. his mouth is on you then, sudden and relentless, and you cry out, back arching, wrists straining against the cuffs. he’s not gentle, not careful, but it’s exactly what you need—exactly what you’ve been chasing all night.

hours later, you’re lying on the bed, blindfold gone, cuffs off, your body heavy and sated. jungwon is next to you, one arm draped over your waist, his breath steady against your neck. the room is quiet now, the city’s hum a distant backdrop. you’re both silent, but it’s not uncomfortable. it’s just… done.

you turn your head, look at him. his eyes are half-closed, but he’s watching you, like always. you wonder what he sees when he looks at you like that. you wonder if he knows how much you need this—need him.

“you’re still trouble,” he says, voice soft, almost fond.

you smile, small and tired. “you like it.”

he doesn’t deny it, just pulls you closer, lips brushing your temple. “go to sleep,” he says.

you do, because for once, you don’t want to fight him.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐕 : DON’T FLATTER YOURSELF, IT’S WHAT FRIENDS DO

the morning light is pale, spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows of jungwon’s penthouse, softening the sharp edges of the room. you’re in one of his shirts, too big, the hem brushing your thighs as you stand at the kitchen counter, pouring coffee from a sleek machine that probably costs more than your rent. jungwon is at the table, scrolling through his phone, hair still messy from sleep. he looks almost normal like this—human, not the untouchable figure who commands rooms and owns half the city’s nightlife. but even now, there’s an edge to him, a quiet intensity that never quite fades.

“you’re staring,” he says, not looking up.

“am not,” you lie, turning back to the coffee, the rich aroma filling the air.

he snorts, soft, and you hear the scrape of his chair as he stands. he’s behind you before you can react, hands on your hips, chin resting on your shoulder. “you’re a terrible liar,” he says, voice low, teasing, but with that undercurrent that makes your pulse quicken.

you lean back into him, just a little, letting his warmth seep into you. “you like that too,” you murmur, and he doesn’t argue, just tightens his grip on your hips, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“you working tonight?” he asks, his breath warm against your skin.

“yeah,” you say, stirring sugar into your coffee, the spoon clinking softly against the mug. “closing shift.”

he hums, thoughtful, his fingers tracing lazy circles against your hip. “don’t flirt with the customers.”

you laugh, turning in his arms to face him, one eyebrow raised. “jealous?”

his eyes narrow, but there’s a flicker of amusement there, a spark that makes your stomach flip. “you know better,” he says, voice low, and you do. you know exactly how far you can push him, and you know what happens when you go too far. it’s why you keep doing it.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐕𝐈 : GET REAL !

the club is different in the daytime, hollow and quiet, the neon lights off, the air stale with the ghost of last night’s chaos. you’re behind the bar, restocking bottles, the clink of glass against glass the only sound in the empty space. jungwon walks in, his presence as commanding as ever, even in the daylight. he doesn’t come here during the day often—too busy running his empire, you assume—but when he does, it’s always with purpose.

“you’re early,” you say, not looking up from the crate of vodka you’re unpacking.

“had a meeting nearby,” he says, leaning against the bar, his eyes tracking your movements. “thought i’d check in.”

you glance at him, skeptical. “you don’t check in.”

he smirks, just a little. “maybe i missed you.”

you roll your eyes, but your pulse quickens, betraying you. “sure.”

he watches you work, silent, and you feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and familiar. it’s not just attraction—it’s something deeper, something that makes you feel seen in a way that’s both thrilling and unnerving. you set a bottle down, turn to face him, wiping your hands on a rag. “what do you really want, jungwon?”

he shrugs, but his eyes are serious, searching. “you ever think about quitting?”

you pause, caught off guard. “this job?”

“this life.”

you set the rag down, cross your arms. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he steps closer, voice low, deliberate. “you’re not like the others here. you’re… different.”

“different how?” you ask, chin lifting, challenging him.

he’s closer now, close enough that you can smell the faint spice of his cologne, feel the heat of him in the cool air. “you’re not just passing through. you’re looking for something. but you won’t find it behind a bar.”

you laugh, sharp and defensive, but it rings hollow. “you don’t know what i’m looking for.”

“don’t i?” his voice is soft, but it cuts deep, and for a moment, you can’t meet his eyes. he’s right—he always is—but you’re not ready to admit it, not to him, not to yourself. you’ve spent too long running from your past to start digging it up now.

“i’m fine,” you say finally, turning back to the bottles. “i like it here.”

he doesn’t believe you. you can feel it in the way the air shifts, in the way his jaw tightens. but he doesn’t push, not this time. “be careful tonight,” he says instead, and then he’s gone, leaving you with the echo of his words and the weight of his absence.

that night, the club is alive again, the same pulsing beast it always is. you’re behind the bar, pouring drinks, dodging hands, flashing smiles at the customers who tip well and ignoring the ones who don’t. jungwon’s there, in his usual spot, but he’s not alone tonight. there’s a woman with him—tall, sleek, her dress as expensive as the ones he buys you, her hand brushing his arm as she laughs at something he says.

you hate the way it makes you feel. you hate that you care.

you pour a drink too fast, and it spills over the edge of the glass, the customer cursing under his breath. you barely hear him, your eyes flicking to jungwon, to the woman, to the way she leans closer, like she has a right to him. he doesn’t look at you, not once, and it twists something sharp in your chest.

you tell yourself it’s fine. you’re not exclusive. you’re not anything. but the knot in your chest doesn’t loosen, and when your shift ends, you’re out the door before he can say a word, the cool night air hitting you like a slap.

you walk home, the city’s lights blurring into a haze. your apartment is small, cramped, nothing like his sleek penthouse, but it’s yours. you drop your keys on the counter, kick off your heels, and sink onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. you don’t know why you keep doing this, why you keep going back to him, why you let him pull you in again and again when you know it’s a game you’ll never win.

your phone buzzes. a text.

jungwon: where are you?

you don’t answer. not tonight.

he shows up at your door an hour later, and you’re not surprised. he probably bribed the doorman, or maybe he just knows everyone in this city. he’s still in the black shirt from the club, hair slightly tousled, like he’s been running his hands through it. he looks at you, standing in your doorway, and there’s no trace of the smirk you’re used to, just a quiet intensity that makes your heart stutter.

“you didn’t answer,” he says, voice flat.

“i was busy,” you lie, leaning against the doorframe, blocking his way in.

he raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. “busy hiding?”

“busy living,” you snap, sharper than you meant. “i don’t owe you an explanation.”

he steps closer, and you hate how your body reacts, how your heart speeds up just because he’s near. “you ran out,” he says. “why?”

“i was tired,” you say, but it sounds weak, even to you.

“bullshit.” his voice is low, cutting through your defenses like they’re paper.

you glare at him, but he doesn’t back down. he never does. “who was she?” you ask before you can stop yourself, the question slipping out, raw and unguarded.

he pauses, and for a moment, you think he’s going to dodge it. but then he smirks, just a little, and you want to slap it off his face. “a business associate,” he says, and the way he says it makes it sound like it’s nothing, like it shouldn’t matter. “jealous?”

“no,” you lie, but your voice betrays you, sharp and brittle.

he steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat of him, smell the faint trace of his cologne. “you don’t get to be jealous,” he says, voice low, almost dangerous. “not when you’re out there playing games with me.”

“i’m not—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“don’t.” his voice is sharp, final. “you know exactly what you’re doing. you always do.”

you want to argue, want to push him away, but he’s right. you’ve been playing this game as long as he has, and you’re both too good at it. “what do you want, jungwon?” you ask, tired suddenly, the fight draining out of you.

he looks at you, really looks, and for a moment, there’s something soft in his eyes, something almost vulnerable. but then it’s gone, replaced by that hard, unreadable mask. “you,” he says simply.

you laugh, bitter. “you have me.”

“do i?” his voice is quiet, but it hits like a punch.

you don’t answer. you don’t know how.

he steps past you, into your apartment, like he owns this place too. you close the door behind him, because what else can you do? he’s here, and you’re here, and the game isn’t over.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐈 : ANYTHING BUT UNDERSTANDABLE

the next few weeks are a blur of nights like that—clubs, drinks, his hands on you, his voice in your ear. you tell yourself you’re in control, that you’re choosing this, but every time he looks at you, every time he touches you, you feel yourself slipping, falling deeper into something you can’t name. you start noticing things about him—small things, things you shouldn’t care about. the way his hands shake sometimes, just slightly, when he thinks no one’s looking. the way he avoids questions about his family, his past. the way he never talks about love, or forever, or anything that feels too real.

you ask him one night, after, when you’re both lying in his bed, the city lights spilling through the window. “why do you do this?”

he’s quiet for so long you think he’s not going to answer. but then he says, “because it’s easier.”

“easier than what?” you press, turning to look at him.

“everything else,” he says, and his voice is so soft, so guarded, you almost miss the weight of it.

you don’t push. you don’t know if you want to know.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈 : DOES THIS COUNT AS OBJECTIFICATION ?

the club is louder tonight, the crowd wilder, more reckless. you’re not working—you’re here for him, like always. you’re in another dress he picked, red this time, the fabric clinging to you like a second skin. you’re dancing, but it’s not for the crowd—it’s for him. you feel his eyes on you, always, from the corner of the room, and it’s enough to make your blood sing.

you don’t see the fight until it’s happening. a drunk guy, too handsy, too close, and then jungwon’s there, pulling him off you, his fist connecting with the guy’s jaw before anyone can blink. the crowd parts, security swarms, and jungwon’s standing there, knuckles bloody, eyes blazing.

“won—” you start, but he grabs your arm, pulls you through the crowd, out the back door.

the alley is cold, the air sharp against your skin. he’s pacing, hands in his hair, breathing hard. “you okay?” you ask, because you don’t know what else to say.

he laughs, short and harsh. “am i okay? you’re the one who had that asshole all over you.”

“i was handling it,” you say, defensive, arms crossing.

“handling it?” he rounds on you, eyes flashing. “he had his hands on you.”

“so what? you don’t get to punch every guy who looks at me.”

he steps closer, voice dropping, dangerous. “you think i do this for fun?”

you don’t answer. you can’t.

he grabs your face, not gentle, but not rough either. “you’re mine,” he says, and it’s not a question.

you pull away, heart pounding. “i’m not a thing you own.”

he looks at you, and for a moment, you think he’s going to argue. but then he just nods, slow, and steps back. “fine,” he says. “walk away.”

you don’t. you never do.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐗 : JUST MAYBE

the next night, you’re back at his place. you don’t know why you keep coming back, but you do. he’s different tonight, quieter, softer. he doesn’t touch you right away, doesn’t push. he just sits on the couch, watching you as you stand by the window, the city sprawling out below.

“why do you stay?” he asks, and it’s the first time he’s ever asked you that.

you don’t have an answer—not a good one. “because i want to,” you say finally, and it’s the truth, but it’s not enough.

he stands, crosses the room, and this time, when he touches you, it’s gentle. his fingers brush your cheek, your throat, and you lean into it, closing your eyes.

“you’re going to break my heart,” he says, so quiet you almost miss it.

you open your eyes, look at him. “you don’t have a heart to break.”

he smiles, small and sad. “you’d be surprised.”

the game doesn’t end. it never does. but it shifts, becomes something else. you’re not sure what it is, but you feel it, every time he looks at you, every time he touches you. it’s not love—not yet, maybe not ever—but it’s something. and for now, it’s enough.

you’re back in the club, weeks later, the same pulsing lights, the same pounding music. you’re dancing, and he’s watching, and you know how this ends. you know you’ll push, he’ll pull, and you’ll both fall into each other, like always.

but tonight, when he takes your hand, when he leads you out, there’s no anger, no punishment. just you, and him, and the city that never sleeps.

and maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐗 : OUCH !

you keep going back to the clubs, to the nights that blur into mornings, to the way jungwon’s eyes find you in a crowd, no matter how packed the room is. it’s a rhythm you’ve both perfected—push, pull, tease, surrender. you wear the dresses he buys, each one bolder than the last, each one designed to draw his attention and everyone else’s. you dance with strangers, let their hands linger just long enough to make jungwon’s jaw tighten, to make his fingers flex at his sides. you know what you’re doing, and so does he. it’s a dance, and you’re both leading.

but there are moments—quiet ones, in the spaces between the chaos—where something else creeps in. moments when he’s not the untouchable club owner, not the man who can silence a room with a glance. moments when he’s just jungwon, sitting across from you at his sleek dining table, pouring you coffee, his hair mussed, his eyes soft. moments when you catch him watching you, not with that predatory intensity, but with something warmer, something that makes your chest ache in a way you don’t want to examine too closely.

one night, after another round of the game—another night of dancing too close to someone else, of feeling his eyes burn into you from across the room—you end up back at his place, sprawled on his couch, the city lights glittering through the windows. he’s sitting beside you, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his tie long gone. you’re in one of his shirts again, the fabric soft against your skin, your legs tucked beneath you.

“why do you keep doing it?” he asks, voice low, almost curious. he’s not looking at you, just staring at the amber liquid in his glass, swirling it slowly.

“doing what?” you ask, though you know exactly what he means.

he glances at you, one eyebrow raised, calling out your feigned ignorance. “pushing me. testing me. you know what happens when you do.”

you shrug, leaning back against the couch, stretching your legs out so your toes brush his thigh. “maybe i like what happens.”

his lips twitch, but it’s not a smile, not quite. “you’re gonna get yourself in trouble one day.”

“haven’t i already?” you shoot back, voice teasing, but there’s an edge to it, a challenge.

he sets the glass down, leans closer, his hand resting on your knee, his thumb brushing slow circles against your skin. “you’re different,” he says, and it’s not the first time he’s said it, but it hits harder tonight, in the quiet, with no music to drown it out. “you don’t belong in this world.”

you laugh, but it’s hollow. “and what world do i belong in, jungwon? some quiet little life where i’m not… this?” you gesture vaguely at yourself, at the shirt, at the city beyond the glass.

he doesn’t answer right away, just looks at you, his hand still on your knee, his thumb still moving in those slow, maddening circles. “i don’t know,” he says finally. “but not here. not with guys like that. not with me.”

you freeze, the words landing like a punch you didn’t see coming. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he leans back, running a hand through his hair, his expression unreadable. “you’re too good for this. for me. you’re gonna figure that out one day, and when you do, you’re gonna leave.”

you stare at him, your heart pounding, because he’s never said anything like this before, never let the mask slip this far. “and what if i don’t want to leave?” you ask, voice quieter than you mean it to be.

he looks at you, and for a moment, you see it again—that softness, that vulnerability, buried deep but there. “then you’re dumber than i thought,” he says, but there’s no bite to it, just a quiet resignation that makes your chest ache.

you don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything. you just slide closer, resting your head against his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. he doesn’t push you away, doesn’t make a move. he just lets you stay, and for now, that’s enough.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐗𝐈 : YOU KNOW BETTER

the weeks blur together, a cycle of nights and mornings, of clubs and his apartment, of games and quiet moments that feel too real. you start to notice more—the way he clenches his jaw when he gets a call he doesn’t want to take, the way his hands linger on you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, the way he never asks about your life before this, like he’s scared of the answers.

you’re not sure when it happens, when the game starts to feel like something else, something heavier. maybe it’s the night he shows up at your apartment unannounced, his tie loose, his eyes tired. you open the door, and he doesn’t say a word, just steps inside, pulls you into his arms, and holds you like he’s trying to keep himself together. you don’t ask what’s wrong, because you know he won’t tell you, but you let him hold you, let him bury his face in your hair, let him pretend for a moment that he’s not the man he is.

or maybe it’s the morning you wake up in his bed, the sunlight soft and golden, and he’s watching you, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. “stay,” he says, and it’s not a command, not this time. it’s a request, soft and raw, and you nod, because how could you not?

you start to wonder if this is what love feels like—not the burning, all-consuming thing you’d imagined, but something quieter, something that creeps in slowly, like the tide. you don’t say it, though. you don’t dare. because love is a dangerous word in a world like this, and you’re not sure either of you is ready for it.

one night, the club is packed, the air thick with sweat and perfume and the sharp tang of alcohol. you’re behind the bar again, filling in for someone who called out, your hands moving fast, pouring drinks, taking tips, dodging the usual handsy customers. jungwon’s there, in his usual spot, but he’s distracted tonight, his phone buzzing constantly, his jaw tight. you don’t ask questions—you’ve learned not to—but you feel the shift, the tension radiating off him like heat.

you’re pouring a shot when it happens. a guy—drunk, loud, too close—grabs your wrist, his grip slimy and too tight. you twist away, flashing a smile to defuse it, but he doesn’t let go, his eyes glassy, his words slurring. “come on, sweetheart, don’t be like that.”

you’re about to snap something sharp when jungwon’s there, faster than you’ve ever seen him move. he doesn’t touch the guy, doesn’t need to—just steps between you, his presence enough to make the man shrink back. “walk away,” jungwon says, voice low, deadly, and the guy does, stumbling over his own feet in his haste to disappear.

you exhale, shaking out your wrist, and meet jungwon’s eyes. “i had it under control,” you say, because you always say that, even when it’s not true.

he doesn’t answer, just grabs your hand—not your wrist, not rough, but firm—and pulls you out from behind the bar, through the crowd, to the back office. the door shuts, and it’s just the two of you, the music muffled, the air heavy.

“you didn’t need to do that,” you say, crossing your arms, but your voice lacks conviction.

he steps closer, his hands flexing at his sides like he’s trying not to touch you. “you think i’m gonna stand there and watch some drunk asshole put his hands on you?”

“it’s part of the job,” you snap, but even you don’t believe it. you’re tired, suddenly, of pretending you’re untouchable, of pretending you don’t need him to step in.

“fuck the job,” he says, and his voice is raw, unguarded, like he’s saying something he shouldn’t. “you’re not theirs to touch.”

you stare at him, your heart pounding, because this isn’t the game anymore. this is something else, something real, and it scares you as much as it thrills you. “and whose am i?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

he doesn’t answer right away, just looks at you, his eyes dark and searching. then he steps closer, so close you can feel his breath on your lips. “you know whose,” he says, and then he kisses you, hard and desperate, like he’s trying to prove it.

you kiss him back, because of course you do. you always do.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐗𝐈𝐈 : LIKE PUZZLE PIECES

the game doesn’t end, but it changes. it’s not just about pushing and pulling anymore, not just about testing limits. it’s about the quiet moments after, when you’re lying in his bed, his arm around you, the city outside silent for once. it’s about the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not watching, like you’re something he’s afraid to lose. it’s about the way you feel when you’re with him, like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, even if you don’t know what that means.

you’re back at the club, weeks later, the same lights, the same music, the same pulsing energy. you’re dancing again, and he’s watching, and you know how this will end. you’ll push, he’ll pull, and you’ll end up tangled in each other, like always. but this time, when he takes your hand, when he leads you out, there’s no edge to it, no punishment. just you, and him, and the city that never sleeps.

and maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

you don’t talk about what this is, not really. you don’t call it love, or a relationship, or anything that feels too permanent. but you feel it, in the way he touches you, in the way he looks at you, in the way he shows up at your apartment unannounced, just to sit with you in the quiet. you feel it in the way you think about him when he’s not there, in the way your body aches for him, in the way you don’t want to imagine a life without him.

one night, you’re at his place, sitting on the balcony, the city sprawling out below like a glittering dream. he’s beside you, a cigarette between his fingers, though he doesn’t smoke it, just lets it burn down to ash. you’re in one of his shirts again, your legs bare, the cool night air raising goosebumps on your skin.

“you ever think about leaving?” you ask, breaking the silence.

he glances at you, exhaling a slow plume of smoke. “leaving what?”

“this.” you gesture at the city, the lights, the life. “all of it.”

he’s quiet for a moment, his eyes on the horizon. “sometimes,” he says finally. “but it’s who i am.”

you nod, because you get it. this world—his world—is as much a part of him as you are. maybe more. “and me?” you ask, voice soft, almost afraid of the answer. “where do i fit?”

he looks at you then, really looks, and there’s something in his eyes that makes your breath catch. “you’re the only thing that makes it bearable,” he says, and it’s the closest he’s ever come to saying something real, something that matters.

you don’t push, don’t ask for more. you just lean your head against his shoulder, and he lets you, his hand finding yours, his fingers lacing through yours like they were made to fit.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐗𝐈𝐈𝐈 : I LIKE U

the nights keep coming, and so do you, back to the clubs, back to him. you dance, you drink, you push, and he pulls, and it’s a rhythm you both know by heart. but now, there’s something else in it—a thread of something deeper, something that makes the game feel less like a game and more like a promise.

you’re not sure when it happened, when the lines blurred, when it stopped being just about the thrill and started being about him. but you know you’re in too deep now, and you know he is too, even if he’ll never say it. you see it in the way he watches you, in the way he touches you, in the way he lets you see the parts of him he keeps hidden from everyone else.

you’re back at the club, the music pounding, the lights flashing, the crowd a living, breathing thing. you’re dancing, and he’s watching, and you know how this ends. but tonight, when he takes your hand, when he leads you out, it’s different. it’s not about possession or control or proving a point. it’s just you, and him, and the city that never sleeps.

and maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

[kinkyniragi]

War Goddess

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Reader

Genre: Smut 18+

Word count: 4,8k

Summary: You are Tommy’s wife. You hear him moan in the dark, caught in another war-drenched nightmare—except this time, he´s coming in his sleep. He asks you to help him in quite a special way and you say yes...You’re not sure what terrifies you more: The violence he craves… or the power he gives you.

CN: Tons of smutty smut (but with a plot, of course ^^), Tommy forcedly being submissive, war trauma and healing attempt, heavy psychological themes tbh, Tommy being vulnerable but not able to suppress his dominant side, power and gun play, degradation, humiliation, bondage, blindfolding, kind of spicy interrogation, oral and anal stuff, edging, hard sex as usual. Please note that this is all just fantasy. Things that happen in my stories should always be consensual. Take care.

Author’s note: My longest one-shot so far…Feel free to leave comments and share my story if you enjoy it—I truly appreciate every bit of motivation to keep writing. Even though I'm not a native speaker, I'll do my best 😉

***

The bed is warm. His back is damp.

You wake before him, as you often do, your body curled against his. A fine sheen of sweat glistens on his chest, his jaw clenched. He mumbles something — unintelligible at first — then clearer, just enough for you to catch fragments.

“In the walls—"

He jolts, his hand clenching into a tight fist.

“They´re coming—"

“Hey, shh…” you whisper, trying to soothe him, but before your fingers can even find his skin, he cries out — loud, raw:

“Fuck—NO!”

He’s nowhere near waking.

You run your hand gently across his fevered cheek, but even your softest touch can’t reach him. He’s too far under — trapped in whatever nightmare his mind has pulled him back into.

“Please—” he pleads, voice cracking with anguish. “Take what you want—"

And then, startling you into stillness, you feel it: the hard press of his arousal against your stomach.

You freeze.

What the hell is happening in his head?

He shudders and turns his head. His lips part once more.

“Use me—hurt me—just don’t kill me…”

The words spill from him in a strangled mix of fear and something else — something desperate, broken, wanting. A twisted yearning that doesn’t make sense, and yet feels all too familiar to you.

You shouldn´t be aroused by what you are witnessing.

But you are.

***

You love him. That’s never been the question.

It’s what comes with loving him. The silence, the scars, the smoke that never clears. The way he disappears for days without a word. The way he comes back smelling of whiskey and gunpowder, like some battle you weren’t invited to.

Tommy has always been the hell of a dominant partner — what most would call an alpha male, without a second thought. Your safety, your well-being, they’ve always mattered to him, no doubt about that.

But only on his terms.

In daylight.

And by night.

Tommy doesn’t ask. He takes. And because you love him — and because you know he loves you, in whatever way he knows how — you’ve always let him.

***

You don’t speak of it the next day. You want. But your throat closes up.

He never talks about the war, not really. But you see it when he wakes in a cold sweat. When he touches you like he’s claiming land. When he looks at you like you’re the last thing standing between him and the abyss. But in this night, something shifted. Through the fevered haze of his words, his dreams have begun to take shape. Some buried trauma seems to claw its way to the surface — twisting, merging with an arousal that has no business being there, showing up as a wet dream in the dark. It shouldn't turn your stomach and your thighs into this aching knot of questions.

But it does.

Almost every night, Tommy lives through terror. Submission and destruction leading to a heavy climax he must be aware of the morning after... You wonder if there’s a way in — a way to reach him, to pull him from that place. To help him.

***

A week later, you're both drunk in the sitting room — the kind of drunk that slows time and peels away your last defenses. He watches you over the rim of his glass. His hair’s undone, shirt half open. His tie lies forgotten on the floor.

“You’ve been looking at me differently,” he says. His voice is low. Controlled. But not cold.

You blink. Try to smile. “Have I?”

He stands. Takes a step closer. Then another. Your little drinking session has had an unintended side effect: you're off guard now — and he's noticed. Which gives him the perfect opening to question the shift in your behavior.

“You heard me, didn’t you? That night.”

You don’t answer. But he sees it anyway. He always does.

His voice, usually sharp with command, softens unexpectedly. It disarms you more than you'd like to admit.

He stares into his glass of whiskey, thoughtful, then downs it in one swallow. Without looking up, he starts to speak.

“It was the tunnels. France. 1916. We knew they were under us. Digging. Germans. Could hear it through the fucking mud. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t breathe.”

His sudden honesty confuses you. You had hoped that sharing a few drinks might loosen his tongue, maybe draw something out of him — but you hadn’t counted on much. His illegal dealings with the whiskey trade were hard to hide from you, of course — not least because he was his own best customer, though he liked to dress it up with the word "tasting."

Still, his seasoned tolerance meant that getting him drunk enough to slip wasn’t an easy game to play. Tommy and loss of control — those were two things that almost never coexisted. At least, not in the daylight world.

So the fact that he's opening up to you now — telling you things about what he's lived through — You want to believe it’s because he’s letting go. Because something in him is softening, and he’s showing you a part of himself he doesn’t let others see.

But you know better.

You’ve known Tommy too long not to recognize the strategy behind every move he makes. Nothing he does is ever without calculation.

He’s in front of you now.

“One night... I dreamed it wasn’t them anymore. It was you. Digging through. Breaking in. Pulling me under.”

A pause. Then:

“I panic. It’s life or death — a fight to survive. But... it’s you. The woman I desire. The woman who desires me…”

His jaw tightens under the weight of the words, clenched around a knot of fear, terror, helplessness. Tears track silently down his cheeks.

You listen, spellbound, aching to reach for him — to comfort him — but his entire body is so coiled, so rigid, you know he’d likely shove your hand away in fury.

“Everything blurs. The memory… it slips, dissolves. And then—fragments. They come back. Again and again. The same dream. Every damn night. No escape. I have to—”

Beads of sweat shine on his forehead. His fingers rake through his hair, fisting it so tightly his knuckles go white.

“I have to end it. The me inside the nightmares... he needs to understand it’s over. That it’s safe to let go. That it’s time to surrender.”

He reaches into his holster. Pulls the pistol.

Hands it to you.

“Next time… when you want me, really want me… use this. Hold it to my head. Overpower me. Take me. Hurt me. Fuck me raw. Do whatever it takes to let me overcome this fucking nightmare. I really mean it. Do you understand, sweetheart?”

Your fingers close around the metal. Still warm from him.

“You trust me that much?” you whisper.

He leans down, mouth to your ear.

“I need to.”

He pauses, then adds with a sharp edge to his voice, “But don’t you fucking dare look inside the magazine, eh?”

You hold his gaze, unflinching.

Impatiently, he presses on, “Got it? I trust you. Just trust me. No hesitation. Not for a second.”

As the weight of the pistol settles in your palm, you realize he’s not asking for danger. He’s begging for freedom.

From his ghosts.

And only you can give it to him.

***

He’s already asleep when you enter. Lying on his side, arm curled under the pillow, his breath deep and steady. The moonlight drapes him in silver, catching on the line of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders, the faint sheen of sweat on his bare back.

You’ve prepared everything to make him relive the nightmare — without real danger, and with a happy ending. At least, that’s the plan.

Maybe you’ve gone too far, but here you are: wrapped in the long coat of his uniform, and beneath it, a whisper of black lace and silk over-the-knee stockings.

A femme fatale. A war goddess.

Ready to take on the fight with men and their ghosts.

Silently, you set down the items you've brought with you. A glass of cool water goes on the nightstand within his reach — he’ll need it later.

You stand there for a moment, watching. Your chest rises and falls. Faster. You know what you’re about to do. And you know what it means.

This isn’t a game to him. It never was.

You pick up the pistol. It’s heavier than you remember.

You slip onto the bed without a sound, carefully turn him around by the shoulder, straddling his hips, knees sinking into the mattress. Carefully, you slip the makeshift noose around his neck, crafted from a pair of your silk stockings. It tightens just enough to be felt — a whisper of threat, a breath of control.

He stirs as your weight settles over him but doesn’t wake. Not yet.

Your fingers trail down his chest. You feel the twitch of his muscles. His breath hitches.

You lean in, pressing your mouth to the shell of his ear. Then, with a sharp crack, you strike the wooden headboard several times with the pistol and shout his name — loud, commanding, unmistakably in charge.

“Don’t fight me, soldier,” you continue.

He tenses.

Eyes still closed, but his body wakes before he does — blood rushing, skin hot and sweaty.

You shift your weight, and his hands move instinctively to your thighs, still half-lost in whatever liminal place he drifts in.

He jolts awake, eyes wide with panic.

And that’s when you raise the pistol, slowly, deliberately, until he’s staring straight down the barrel.

Then you let the cold metal touch his temple.

He freezes.

The air turns electric.

He looks at you. Sees the gun. Sees your eyes. Besides his panic, there is something else, a slow, dark hunger blooming behind his gaze.

He exhales through his nose, sharp and hot.

You lean down and kiss him, deep and brutal, until he groans against your mouth and grabs your hips. But you don’t let him lead — not tonight.

Tonight, he’s yours.

Your fingers tighten around the pistol as you straddle him, your thighs framing his hips. With your other hand, you give the silk noose around his throat a slow, deliberate tug — just enough for him to feel your control over every breath he takes. You feel him hard beneath you — not just aroused, but wide awake now, sharp with tension. And still, he doesn’t move.

He’s waiting.

For you.

“Lift your hands above your head,” you command quietly.

He obeys.

There’s a clarity in your movements now, a calm, predatory resolve that leaves no doubt: you’re going to take exactly what you want from him.

The pistol slips soundlessly into the bulging pocket of Tommy’s military coat. Then you reach for the coarse hemp rope you had set aside — rough, unyielding, unforgiving — and begin wrapping it around his wrists. One loop, then another, until he’s bound. You secure the ends to the slatted headboard above him.

He watches you in tense, breathless silence, his chest rising and falling. You can see how hard he’s working to restrain himself, to keep from grinding hungrily against the heat between your thighs.

The oversized coat is carelessly fastened by a single button, gaping just enough to tease him with the barest glimpses of skin, of lace, of promise.

If Tommy only knew what else you were going to deny him tonight.

From the inside pocket of the coat, you draw something slick and black. Before he can register what it is, darkness swallows him whole.

Your silk sleep mask — what a perfect idea.

With his vision gone, his world narrows to sound, to sensation, to you. Every brush of fabric, every shift of weight, every breath you take.

You reach once more into the pocket where you stashed his gun, then let the heavy coat slide off your shoulders with a slow, deliberate rustle. For a moment, you wait, letting the silence stretch, then — click.

The unmistakable sound of the safety being released.

His body flinches beneath you. But he doesn’t speak.

He just lies there, blindfolded, bound, and waiting.

Ready for whatever’s coming next.

“You’ve been keeping secrets from me, soldier,” you say, voice low and even. “I think it’s time you talk.”

A pause. Then his answer, tight, unsure: “I— I don’t know what you mean…”

You slide the cold barrel of his own pistol along his temple. Not hard. Just enough to remind him who's holding the cards tonight.

“Start with what you think about when you’re alone. When you’re hard. When no one’s watching.”

He shifts under you. The ropes strain softly against the wood.

His answer comes hesitantly. “I… I think about things. Sometimes.”

You let the silence stretch, the pistol resting lightly against his temple.

“Go on.”

“I imagine… being under you. Not… not just like this. More.”

You lean in, your lips grazing his ear. “More how?”

He swallows. “Your thighs… I think about your thighs. And you… above me.”

You smile. “Above you?” you echo, feigning confusion. “You mean like now? Or do you want something more than just to be pinned?”

He says nothing.

“I think I know what you mean,” you continue softly. “You want me to sit on your face, don’t you? Use you like you’re nothing but a tongue.”

His breath catches.

“Say it.”

A beat. Then, quietly: “...yes, ma’am.”

You don’t move.

“Say it properly. I want to hear it.”

His voice is thick with shame and arousal. “I want you to sit on my face… ma’am. Use me.”

You feel it in the tension of his body—every muscle pulled taut beneath you, not from resistance, but from the unbearable strain of surrender. It isn’t the act of pleasuring you with his mouth that costs him; he's done that before, eagerly, with a fervor that bordered on reverence.

No, it’s the confession.

The admission that he wants to be used.

That he craves your weight, your power, your indifference to his pleasure. That he needs you to strip him of the armor he wears even in your bed.

And still, some part of you waits for the snap—for the moment he can’t take it anymore, when he breaks the ropes or tears off the blindfold, flips you beneath him and reclaims the control that defines him. You see the war in his clenched jaw, in the way his hips shift beneath you as if his cock could argue with his mouth. He wants to dominate. It's in his blood.

But somewhere deeper, darker, older, is this need: to be undone by you. To be freed from himself—not with mercy, but with force.

And you?

You’re willing to take him there.

As many times as it takes.

You lower yourself slowly, knees firm against the mattress, thighs bracketing his head. His breath hitches as the heat of your arousal nears his lips—he can smell you now, wet and aching, your desire soaked into the soft fabric barely shielding you. You don’t speak. You wait.

His voice, hoarse: “You don’t know what you do to me. Or maybe you do. Please… end me.”

A smile plays at the corners of your mouth. You remove the last barrier.

“You’re going to earn your reward, soldier,” you murmur. “Not with your cock, though. That’s not yours to use. Not yet.”

You press yourself against his mouth. He groans—hungry, eager—and you feel the warm pressure of his tongue between your thighs. Every movement is reverent, desperate, grateful. He drinks you in like a man parched.

“You’re so fucking hard, aren’t you?” you whisper, teasing. “Throbbing. Aching. Can’t wait to bury yourself—but you’ll have to wait. Only good boys get what they want. And you haven’t told me everything yet.”

His voice is muffled, but the words reach you, trembling with devotion: “Thank you, ma’am. You taste... incredible. I love this. I love being used by you.”

You slide your fingers through his hair, tighten slightly.

“Then prove it,” you say softly. “Confess more. Tell me the rest of your dirty little truths while you worship me.”

His breath hitches, hesitant at first, voice low and trembling: “I… sometimes imagine your finger… while you’re… using your mouth on me. It feels wrong, but… maybe that’s why it’s so… intense. Like I’m… losing myself in a way I’m not supposed to. It’s… a bit unsettling, but I can’t stop thinking about it.”

You didn't expect this turn of events, but you don't let it show and act cool. “Inside you? What do you mean by that? Don’t be afraid to say it.”

You can hear that the tension is almost breaking him. He struggles with the words: “I… I think about you… pushing something inside me…when you’re pleasuring me with your mouth.”

You lean closer, your tone gentle but insistent: “Push something inside you… What exactly, Thomas? I want to hear it.”

He swallows hard, cheeks flushing beneath the mask, finally admitting with a whisper: “Your finger. I imagine you… using your finger… while you’re making me yours.”

You see the mix of shame and relief in his posture as he speaks the words aloud, the weight of his confession hanging heavy in the room.

You press your thighs a little tighter around his head, sensing his pulse racing beneath you.

For a second, you hesitate.

You’d stepped into this role for him willingly—eager, even—but the rawness in his voice takes you off guard. You hadn't anticipated this. Not that the subject itself is unfamiliar. Anal play was never taboo between you. On the contrary, he’s had no trouble taking the lead there before, no hesitation in pressing deep, in claiming you in every way he could.

Especially on days when business hadn't gone his way, or after another shouting match with his brother Arthur, he seemed possessed by the need to use your body in that degrading, desperate way. Not for pleasure, at least not primarily. For control. For relief. Like you were the only thing that could soak up his chaos.

And when he did, there was always that gleam in his eye, that hungry, near-feral focus that told you he wasn’t holding anything back. That when he had you like that, he felt powerful. Unstoppable. Like the world could burn and he wouldn’t notice if he was buried in you.

And now… now he wants to feel the opposite.

That image grounds you. Gives you direction.

You lift yourself from his face slowly, relishing the shaky breath he pulls in as you grant him air again and at the same time let him endure the uncertainty of how you will react to his confession.

Finally, to his surprise, you pull the sleep mask from his eyes. You want him to watch exactly what happens to him next. Sliding down his body with the smooth confidence of someone in full control, you let your tongue drag along his hot skin until you come to rest at his most sensitive spot, teasing him just enough to make him twitch.

He gasps, hips flexing instinctively—but you hold him still with a palm to his thigh.

You dip your head, let a slow strand of saliva trail from your lips to your fingers. Your eyes stay on his as you coat your middle finger, then reach lower, circling gently around his entrance—soft, slow, testing. Not entering. Just letting him feel that you could.

And will. When you decide.

“How many times,” you ask sternly, “have you imagined me forcing my way inside you? Don’t lie. I want details. Or I stop."

A tense pause. You can feel him swallow under your gaze, his breath shallow.

“Too many,” he admits hoarsely. “In the dark. When I can't sleep. When the flash backs come.”

He hesitates, then continues, the words dragging over gravel: “I imagine you… holding me down. One hand over my chest. Your mouth driving me mad. And then your finger. Slick. Insistent. Not asking.”

His body tenses as his dirty fantasies fall out of him, raw and real. “You don’t stop. You know exactly what it does to me. You edge me until I’m desperate. Until I’m begging.”

You listen closely as he stammers through his shame, your eyes locked on his. Your tongue circles the tip of his hardness with practiced precision, drawing a sharp, helpless breath from his throat. Meanwhile, your fingertip begins to apply gentle pressure—testing, teasing—until you feel him yield, inch by inch, his body pushing back, unmistakably begging for more.

"Fuck, just do it," he hisses through gritted teeth, jaw clenched in lust and defiance. "Claim me."

His chest rises with each breath, muscles tense, but his hips don’t lie—he’s aching for it. And yet, his voice lowers dangerously, his command laced with warning: "This never happened. You breathe a word of this to anyone and you’ll regret it."

His wrists twist in the silken bonds as if they were about to break free at any moment. As if the balance of power were about to reverse at the last moment because he can't bear it any other way.

"One time. That’s all. I needed to get it out of my system. After this, it goes back to the way it was. I’m in charge. Understood?"

Your finger presses in, slow and controlled. His body tenses against it, breath staggering. The sound he makes is halfway between a growl and a gasp, raw and involuntary. Still, he doesn’t stop you. He lifts his hips ever so slightly, as if giving in to you hurts less than resisting.

"God, don’t stop," he mutters, voice strained and dark. "Just—"

You take your time, tongue still working him in tight, knowing swirls, your finger moving with increasing confidence. The way he trembles beneath you, the broken sounds spilling from his lips—it’s more than arousal. It’s surrender. And it’s yours.

When you sense him teetering at the edge, you pull back. Slowly. Cruelly.

"Fuck!" he chokes out, head thrown back, fists clenched in the silk. "You—"

You do it again. And again. Bringing him close until his body is slick with tension, his voice hoarse from begging without words. Every time you stop, his eyes search yours with something like desperation—and still, he won’t say please.

Not yet.

Your finger is buried deep inside him, pressing against that sensitive spot with relentless precision, sending waves of agonizing pleasure through him. The warm, salty taste of his precum lingers on your tongue, rich and intoxicating. He groans, eyes fluttering shut, wrists tugging at the restraints. His entire body coils tight, every muscle trembling beneath your weight.

Finally, he cries out, “Please… I— I can’t…”

“Can’t?” you whisper. “That’s not what I saw in your eyes when you begged me to use you like this.”

With satisfaction, you let him believe for a moment that he can now experience relief. And then—you pull away.

His cry is raw, broken, the sound of a man unraveling.

“No, soldier. Not yet,” you pretend to be calming, “You don’t come until I say you can. You gave me that power, remember?”

You rise slowly, deliberately, your breath steady as your fingers glide over his sweat-slicked skin. His muscles twitch under your touch, every nerve drawn taut. You lean in, lips grazing the line of his jaw, breath warm against his cheek, and then, without hesitation, you guide yourself onto him.

Your body takes him in inch by inch, a slow, relentless claiming. His breath hitches, turns into a sharp gasp as you sink down fully, burying him inside you. He throws his head back, jaw clenched, wrists straining against the bonds.

“You think being inside me makes you in charge?” you whisper, voice laced with heat and mockery. “No, soldier. You’re just where I want you—hard, helpless, and desperate.”

He groans, shaking his head in defiance, but his hips betray him, rising to meet you, his body aching for more.

“You wanted this,” you say, grinding down with a slow, punishing rhythm.

He groans again. This time it’s almost a sob. “Yes,” he breathes.

“You think you still have control?” you taunt, increasing the pace just enough to keep him trembling on the edge. “Say it. Say who this cock belongs to.”

His eyes squeeze shut, teeth gritted, every word a battle. “…It’s yours.”

“Say it properly.”

He chokes on the next breath, voice low and broken: “My cock belongs to you, ma’am.”

You smirk, leaning in to bite gently at his throat. “Good boy.”

He's drenched in sweat, his eyes wild, teeth clenched hard as he tries to hold onto the last thread of composure. But it's gone. He's gone.

“I see you, Tommy. Even when you hide. And right now, you’re mine. My weapon. My ruin. My beautiful, broken thing,” you whisper.

“Take the gun,” he rasps, voice barely human. “Do it…now.”

You freeze for a heartbeat. He’s serious. His eyes are shining, bloodshot, locked on yours.

“You said… you'd surprise me,” he pants. “You said you’d do it. You have it, don’t you?”

He swallows, every word a plea and a command all at once. “Pick it up. Point it at me. While you're… riding me. Please. Fuck. Just—please.”

Your hand reaches for the revolver where it lies on the table. It feels impossibly heavy in your palm. You keep grinding against him, relentless, as you lift it and point it at his chest.

You remember what he told you. Don’t look in the magazine. Trust me.

And you hadn’t looked.

Not then.

But now the weight of the revolver in your hand feels heavier than it should. Loaded? Empty? Just one round waiting? You have no idea.

And that’s exactly how he wanted it.

You glance down at him—sweat-slicked, eyes wild, desperate—and you wonder: Did he ever want to win this round? Or lose it? You panic, but no matter what, you are aware that you have long since reached the point of no return.

Your breath grows uneven, ragged, blending with his in a tangle of gasps and broken sounds. The room pulses with heat and noise, the rhythm of skin on skin, breath on breath, your pleasure building in sync, your bodies answering each other.

“Pull the fucking trigger,” it bursts out of him.

You knew this was coming.  And you hesitate for what feels like eternity. His eyes bore into yours, begging and burning all at once.

“Pull it.”

He growls now, louder. “Do it. DO IT.”

You squeeze your eyes shut—

Click.

Silence. Nothing.

You throw the gun aside with a shaky breath just as his cry tears through the room, loud, guttural, pure release. His body jerks beneath you, cock pulsing inside, spilling more than just heat. It’s everything—grief, helplessness, pain, old wounds he never dared name. All of it floods out of him at once, like his body finally found the only way it knows how to let go.

His wrists wrench free of the silk just as his body arches up into you. The bindings fall, forgotten. He seizes your waist and turns you on your back, breathing ragged, eyes wild. There's no hesitation anymore.

His fingers slide between your legs, slick and sure. His mouth follows, tongue teasing all of your sensitive spots, relentless, until you’re gasping, knees weak. Only when you're shaking, breathless, right on the edge, he flips you onto your stomach, pushing your hips up with practiced hands. He has long since recovered and is half hard again; a few strokes are enough to be ready again. He thrusts back in with a deep groan, hips snapping against you.

Now it's your turn to cry out.

And this time, he doesn’t stop until you do.

And when you come, you don’t hold back. Your knees give way, and you sink onto the mattress. He falls on top of you, still buried inside your core.

You cry out under his heavy weight, breaking apart, shaking, eyes wide open, he wraps his arms around you tightly — possessively, like the old Tommy is being back, but also like someone trying to anchor himself to something real.

His lips press to your hair.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

You don’t answer. You’re not sure you can.

But as the sweat cools on your skin and your heartbeat settles against his, one truth presses in quietly:

He didn’t just surrender tonight.

He chose to be known.

And that frightens you more than if he’d begged for the trigger a second time.

***

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Special Note: This story contains the idea of IRRT (Imagery Rescripting & Reprocessing Therapy) a special therapy technique to treat PTSD.

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[ambrossa]

Tim Drake Is Clueless About Flirting (And jason Knows It)

[Team strategy meeting]

Kon, whispering:

“You’ve got that ‘I’m concentrating but also adorable’ vibe.”

Tim:

“Thanks! I’ll make sure to keep ‘adorable’ in my notes.”

Jason:

“Notes? He thinks flirting is a bullet point.”

[Later, in the common room]

Kori: “You’re so cute when you don’t realize you’re the center of attention.”

Tim: “I’m just focused on not tripping over my own feet.”

Jason: muttering “I’m the only one who can see the chaos and no one’s helping.”

Rose: “Tim, you’re like a puzzle wrapped in a mystery.”

Tim: “I’m just trying not to get hit.”

Steph: “He’s the only one who can be both clueless and dangerous.”

Tim: “Thanks, I think?”

Jason (from comms): “Clueless is your middle name, kid.”

[Hallway, Young Justice HQ]

Bart: grinning “Hey Tim, you ever think about how fast your heart races? Because mine sure does around you.”

Tim: blinks “I think I’m just out of breath from running laps.”

Jason (watching from the side): “That’s not running laps, that’s called a panic attack. Also, he’s flirting with you, not the other way around.”

Tim: “Wait, what?”

Bart: “Relax. I’m just saying you’re cute.”

Jason: facepalm “I’m losing my mind over here.”

[Training room, Young Justice HQ]

Cassie: grinning “Tim, you’re surprisingly strong for a bookworm. You sure you don’t want to spar sometime? Maybe I could show you a few moves… or more.”

Tim: adjusting glasses “Uh, sparring sounds great! Just don’t hit too hard?”

Jason: from the sidelines “She’s flirting. He thinks it’s a workout plan.”

Cassie: “Flirting or training, it’s all about heart rate, right?”

Tim: “If that’s true, I’m definitely winning.”

Jason: facepalm “Someone save this kid or me.”

[Training room, sparring match]

Miss Martian, smirking:

“Careful, Tim, I might have to use my telepathy to read your thoughts. Hope you’re thinking about me.”

Tim, oblivious:

“I’m mostly thinking about how I’m going to survive this match.”

Jason, watching:

“I swear, if one more person flirts and he thinks it’s friendly advice, I’m adopting a pet raccoon just for the company.”

Jason: “Okay, listen up. Everyone’s flirting with you. Like, nonstop. It’s not a compliment buffet—it’s flirting.”

Tim: “Flirting? Like… being friendly?”

Jason: exasperated “No, Tim. Friendly doesn’t come with heart eyes and whispered compliments.”

Tim: “I thought that was just how heroes talk.”

Jason: “You’re hopeless. I’m starting a support group.”

[Batcave, late night]

Jason (throwing up his hands):

“I’m done. Tried explaining the flirting thing to Tim a million times. He’s still clueless. So, I’m adopting a raccoon. Meet Steve. At least Steve won’t flirt back or ignore me.”

Tim (confused):

“Wait, you’re serious?”

Jason:

“Dead serious. Steve’s got more sense than half the team.”

Tim:

“…Does Steve think I’m adorable too?”

Jason (grinning):

“Steve’s smarter than you. He definitely knows.”

[rainrot4me]

how about the creeps with a reader that’s super affectionate after “fun time”? like cuddly, giving them praises, kissing all over their body etc. Maybe even cleaning them up where needed with a damp washcloth. Not in an annoying way, but in a way that helps them come down from the high. Would they be annoyed and want space? bask in it? or return the favor?

✦ . jeff the killer

Jeff pretends to be annoyed. He’ll grumble under his breath and say, “You’re like a damn nursemaid,” but he doesn’t move away. In fact, his hand might sneak up your spine as you’re tending to him, tugging you closer.

“You’re ridiculous,” he’ll mutter as you press soft kisses to his chest, but the corner of his mouth twitches upwards when those kisses travel up his neck to his cheeks.

When you come back with a warm cloth and dab at his skin, his eyes soften for a flicker of a moment, the kind of rare vulnerability that reminds you there is still a person under all that madness.

“You treat me like I’m made of glass,” he murmurs. “You know I could have done worse, right?”

Still, he lets you do it. Because deep down, being treated gently is something rare and foreign to him. It’s hard for him to rationalize that someone would want him for more than sex, let alone want him in general. He basks in that warm glow in his chest.

✦ . ticci toby

Toby melts. His nervous system is wired for high-intensity stimuli, so your soft, grounding affection is like a balm. He leans into every kiss, every whisper of praise, and he closes his eyes when you brush your fingers through his messy hair. He enjoys just sticking his face into your neck and taking deep breaths.

He doesn’t say much, just these little hums, whines, or sharp exhales that tell you he’s listening, he’s just busy soaking it all in.

When you clean him up, he blushes hard and hides his face in your shoulder. “I do-don’t deserve this,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your skin as he rubs circles onto your stomach.

But he lets you, every time. And eventually, he starts doing it back—wiping your brow, murmuring little thanks, holding you tighter afterward than he did during.

He’s a big sleeper afterwards, so just being able to curl into you and doze off together is heaven enough for him. His tics lessen afterwards, the muscular strain making his joints tired, so it’s honestly the most comfortable sleep of his life.

✦ . eyeless jack

Jack is incredibly responsive to affection, even if he struggles to express it at first. The first time you kissed his scarred skin without fear or flinching, it kind of threw him into a stew of anxious coddling.

Now, every time you trace those same paths after you’ve both come down from the high, he’s still in disbelief.

“You’re too kind,” he’ll say, trying to understand it. Like if verbalizing it will make it make sense. “It’s not instinctual. You choose to care for me.”

And when you clean him up? He freezes a bit, then covers your hand with his, guiding it for a moment, just to feel that kind of care. He always makes sure to return the favor, no questions asked.

Eventually, Jack gets into a routine of afterglow. Cuddling, checking you over for any bruising, talking, and then dragging you down to the kitchen to cook for you. He likes to prepare your food at the stove while you sit on the counter next to him, chatting and watching, just being together.

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Masky doesn’t know what to do with your affection at first. It hits a nerve he’s tried to bury under layers of strict conditioning, locking away the sensitive parts that would make him an easy target.

He lies there rigidly the first few times, staring at the ceiling while you kiss down his shoulder and whisper sweet compliments and praises. It doesn’t turn him away, it’s just unfamiliar territory that he doesn’t know how to react to.

Eventually, his hand finds your waist. Not demanding, just… anchoring. “You always do this,” he says softly. “Why?”

You just smile and keep brushing damp hair off his forehead. If after the first time you had stopped, he wouldn’t have thought anything more of it. But it’s your continuation and unrelenting desire to show him affection that makes his mind spin with question.

He’s quiet for a long while, but the next time, when you go to clean him up, he’ll grab the cloth from you and say, “Lie down. I got it.”

✦ . hoody (brian thomas)

Hoody is… surprisingly into it. He doesn’t always ask for affection outright, but he basks in it when it’s offered. It soothes his jagged edges.

He’ll lie there calmly while you trace every part of him with your lips and ask where each of his scars are from, tallying how many new bruises he’s gotten since the last time you were together.

“Affection is a ritual,” he called it once, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

He’ll let you clean him up. He finds it endearing. But he’s the type to return the favor immediately. You’ll barely get the cloth back to the sink before he’s rolling you over and tending to you next. He’s an eye-for-an-eye kind of man, so there’s no point in trying to one-up him in bed, he’ll always settle the score.

“You care so much,” he murmurs. “Someone should do the same for you.”

✦ . kate the chaser

Kate isn’t used to softness, she’s used to war. But your tenderness; your kisses, your praise, the way you treat her like she’s something precious instead of a weapon? It undoes her.

She’ll sit there in silence at first, brows furrowed, trying to make sense of why your fingertips on her jaw feel more dangerous than any knife against her throat. “…Why do you do this?” she asks. “Why do you treat me like I matter?”

When you clean her up, she clenches her fists at her sides, not in anger, but because the touch is too much. You just smile and continue to debunk every bad thought that arrives in her mind, verbalized or not.

And that’s when she leans in, forehead against yours, her voice raw.

“Promise you won’t stop. Ever.”

✦ . ben drowned

Ben tries to play it cool, like he’s too “above it all” to care, but the truth is, your affection makes him feel like he’s alive again. The way you curl up beside him, touch his chest like it’s sacred, coo sweet praises about how he made you feel. He gets addicted to it.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he says one night, half-laughing, half-serious.

He teases you when you bring the washcloth over: “Aww, cleaning me up? What, am I your little pet project now?”

But when you dab gently around his neck and kiss his jaw after, he’s staring at you like he’s trying not to fall harder. Despite all that awestruck behavior, he’ll still try and flip you over to tickle your ribs and make you squeal when you’re not focused.

But he’s definitely the one to press a thousand lazy kisses to your shoulders afterward, whispering, “Don’t ever stop treating me like this. Please.”

✦ . clockwork

Clockwork is weirdly into it. Your soft, doting energy after all that intensity? It hits her in a way she didn’t expect. But she loves it. Especially when you touch her scars like they’re beautiful, like you’re memorizing her inch by inch.

“I just carved up the world with you,” she’ll smirk, “and now you’re treating me like your little baby bird.”

When you clean her up, she grins with amusement at first, but her eyes soften. She cups your face, makes you look at her before dragging you into a slow, gentle make out that leaves you both panting and heated again.

“No one’s ever taken care of me like this,” she says. “I don’t wanna get used to it… but I already am.”

Later, she’ll cradle you against her chest, stroking your hair and murmuring about her plans for the both of you, her dreams and how they include you, and every little detail she admires about you.

✦ . laughing jack

Jack is suspicious at first, affection like that is unfamiliar to him. Doting praises are usually followed by requests that leave him feeling empty, so it’s odd to him when no requests ever come.

He watches you as you nuzzle into him, cover him in kisses, tell him he’s wonderful. At first, he snorts. “Trying to butter me up? Hoping I don’t rip your spine out next time?”

But when you don’t laugh, when you just keep kissing his throat and trailing your fingers across his chest, his laughter dies out. He’s quiet. Still. It’s like he’s stunted himself, circling all the obvious choices but none of them are correct.

And when you return with a damp cloth and gently clean him, his eyes flicker with something that looks almost like grief. Grief that he’s gone all this time without you, but also that you’re stuck with a monster like him.

“…You’re dangerous,” he says finally. “Because this? This makes me want to be good.”

✦ . slenderman

Slender is quiet, powerful, and composed, but even he isn’t immune to your devotion. He watches you as you kiss his form with reverence, as though he’s something divine. And for someone so feared, it unravels him.

You whisper your thanks into his chest, clean him with a soft, warm cloth like you’re tending to a holy relic. As if he couldn’t rid the stains with the swipe of a hand, but you wash him like any other human.

He doesn’t stop you. He lets you touch the parts no one sees. “My thanks.”

And then, in a moment of startling vulnerability, his tendrils will curl protectively around you, drawing you closer while he grabs your favorite things. A book, a blanket, your phone, whatever you need to offer you comfort.

“You honor me,” he says, voice like a storm held back by glass. “And for that, I am yours.”

꩜ .ᐟ

[rafeslvbug]

reqqq hockey player!rafe and reader getting in an argument i wanna see angst😭 maybe reader sees a girl flirting w rafe and he doesn't react or push her

you didn’t know what to think when you saw the girl against rafe’s locker, his arm over her head, her fingers hooked around his tie. you tried not to stare, really you hadn’t meant to, but it was like magnetism. drawn to the torturous sight, the image of a girl putting her hands all over him when he’d been yours for a fraction of a night - a week ago.

the party.

that fateful night where you both got drunk, and you woke up in his bed. he left you with an unspoken promise that it’d happen again, now as you saw it, he’d moved on.

just like that. you were forgotten.

the red head wrapped around his neck, listening to his every word like an eager puppy was both the object of your repulsion and in a position you so desperately craved. but you forced yourself to look away, to collect your books and not slam your locker as loud as you wanted to, or even trip the two up in the hallway.

that didn’t mean rafe noticed you any less. he didn’t miss how you shoved past them, how tensed you look, how you avoided him in all lessons. admittedly he had thought of a million ways to try and talk to you the past week since the morning you woke up in his bed. he had been so bold then, and everything had gone downhill since. he hadn’t known how to ask you out on a date, or do any of the things he thought you might like - he had spent too long being inconsistent, flitting between girls to stabilise even when he found the one person he wanted most.

he hated it. in every sense of the word, it made him want to chase after you and lock himself away all at once, aching and ashamed. stuck wanting a girl he wouldn’t let himself have.

-

yet he tried anyways to speak to you at lunch, catching you right when you walked away from your friends. “you ignorin’ me, flash?” he drawls, attempting to pretend like he doesn’t know why you’re giving him the cold shoulder - a bad move on his part.

scoffing, you don’t even grace him with an answer, although that’s an answer enough. not much of a hint, however, since he grabs your arm, spinning you back around to face him. “okay, don’t ignore me, please,” he asks, tilting his head to catch your wandering eyes.

“why not?” your gaze lands on him, sharp, precise, cutting. your eyes pierce through him, burning holes shamelessly.

“i don’t like it,” he mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

“yeah well there’s a few things i don’t like about you rafe!” you snap, wrenching your arm free from his grips.

“hey, come on, don’t get angry.”

“don’t get angry?” you whip around, brows furrowing with bewilderment. “you kiss me! multiple fucking times! you say all this bullshit, make me think that maybe for once you’re not an asshole! and then you do..that!” you gesture wildly at the red head standing off to the side, chatting with rafe’s friends, and probably flirting with them as much as she flirts with rafe.

“it’s not like that..” he murmurs, though he knows you’re right, he just wished he didn’t overcomplicate things so much.

“it is! it’s exactly like that! you’re– fuck you rafe, alright? you are an asshole, and that night was a mistake!”

“don’t say that–“ he pleads, hands wrapping around your wrists to pull you closer to him.

“don’t talk to me! go back to your red head, pry her away before she kisses one of your friends!” you shove against his chest, blinking back the hotness brimming your eyes and walking away before he can get another word in.

-

it plays on rafe’s mind for the rest of the day, he abandons the red head, though he’s sure he doesn’t even hear him when she starts giggling over a new man. he doesn’t care, he only cares about you. currently, it’s the only thing that drives him at 11pm, to stay behind at school and make his way to the one place he knows you’ll be - the rink.

you’re trying to clear your head, skating around, headphones on and focusing on the feeling of the ice underneath your feet. then there are hands on your waist, painfully familiar, gracefully spinning you around to face him. rafe hooks his finger under the band of your headphones, tugging it down to rest on your neck, “hey there..”

you skate back, trying not to slip on the ice as you escape his grip, “did you really have to bother me here?”

“i’m not tryna bother ya.”

“but you are, you won’t leave me alone after everything–“

“i do like you!”

“really? you call that liking someone? kissing them and moving on to a new girl?” you fold your arms over your chest, watching as his brows pinch, trying to figure out what to say next.

“no..no, i just– i don’t–,” rafe groans, running a hand down his face before releasing a heavy sigh. “i don’t usually do relationships, i didn’t know how to treat you properly, so i fucked it up,” he admits.

chewing on the inside of your cheek, you nod. “yeah, you did,” you agree, voice barely a whisper, beginning to get chills from underdressing for the ice at night. you notice rafe moving closer, his body warmth emanating from him and onto you, nearly pulling you in.

“i’m sorry..” he whispers, face dangerously closer to yours, head dipping low to yours and hands placed under your elbows. you stay quiet, lips drawn together in a tight pout, prompting him to keep saying, “no more red heads, or other girls, i’ll figure out how to take you on dates, you can walk me like your little dog, how ‘bout that?”

“huh,” you fight back the smile tugging at your face, head cast down to avoid him seeing, but he only nudges it back up with his fingers tapping your chin.

“yeah ‘m sure you like that,” he chuckles, letting one arm wrap fully around your waist and the other slipping around your shoulders, pulling you closer to him, his head tilted down to the side. “so what d’you say? give me a chance?”

“you’re sorry?” you confirm, letting him wrap you like a personal blanket.

“so sorry,” he murmurs, lips hovering above yours now. “forgiven just yet?”

“not yet..you’ve still got work.”

“i can work,” he mumbles, before pressing a featherlight kiss to your lips. “i can do that.”

taglist: @starkeyjoseph @rafesbabygirlx @slut-4-rafey @lanaslushworld @littlelamy @rain-likes-purple @sunny1616 @csturnioloswifey @silkylovey @mak1777 @supasolaa @octoberbxbyy

[saeamy]

OCHAZUKE

platonic! itoshi rin x reader / sae x reader

summary ۫ ꣑ৎ rin is never really alone when you're here. content: fluff :3 itoshi brothers have a good relationship, reader is sae's gf and a sisterly figure to rin ^^ reader is same age as sae! wc: 769 a/n: i'm really busy with exams so i can't write much rn! but anyways i wish to make this into a small drabble series kinda :) there are no romantic feelings between rin and reader btw, entirely platonic x

rin could feel it. a sense of impending doom, lurking in the vicinity, close to him. 

he waits for a moment, and then he hears it. the familiar pattern of knocks on the door. his heart drops to his stomach when he gets up to open the door. rin finds you standing there, a plastic bag in your hand, the other hand still raised from knocking on the door.

“rin! it’s been a while!” 

it’s only been less than a week. you walk in and toe your shoes off, making your way to the kitchen like you lived in the place. 

how long has rin known you for now? 

before you and sae had officially started dating, which has been quite some time, you would often follow sae around while also treating rin like a little baby, despite you being the same age as sae.

and as you grew older and entered your relationship, you never stopped doting on rin. you’re frequently visiting the itoshi household, even though sae was away in spain most of the times, and you’d facetime him with rin excitedly talking about the things you did and how you both can’t wait for him to return (rin rarely spoke and never said how he couldn’t wait for sae to return).

rin had begrudgingly come to view you as a big sister figure, sometimes even motherly, but he wouldn’t say that out loud, never in a million years. rin sits down at the kitchen island, watching you unpack the plastic bag. “what are you doing?” 

you turn around to face him and smile. “i’m making some ochazuke with bream!”

and rin can’t help the way his face contorts into a little grimace. while ochazuke is his favourite dish, you weren’t the most… competent in the kitchen, yet he doesn’t have the heart to stop you, so he lets you be. 

it takes around 25 minutes for you to finish cooking, and rin straightens up once you put the hot bowl in front of him, and you sit down next to him with your own. you give him a little grin and start digging into your food. rin mutters a thank you, and starts eating as well. 

it wasn’t bad. rin has had far much tastier and better made ochazuke, however this one probably remains his favourite by far. the rice was a bit overcooked and you put too much tea, except there was something in it that no restaurant or professional chef could recreate. homey, full of comfort maybe?

rin is thankful he can maintain his stoic composure at the corny thoughts on his head. “you don’t know how to cook.” blunt and straight, just as always.

“yet you eat it everytime, rin.”

once you’re both finished, he helps you with the dishes, and then you settle in the living room. you sit on the couch and turn some random shitty thriller on the TV, and rin sits on the floor in front of you. 

“if it were earlier, we could have called sae, but it’s too late for him now, wouldn’t want to wake him from his beauty sleep. he’d get grouchy like you.” 

rin just scoffs. “i don’t get grouchy.”

“sure you don’t rin. sure you don’t.”

a beat of silence hangs in the air as the movie continues on the TV, even though none of you were really paying attention to it. 

“do you miss him?” “hm?” 

rin doesn’t turn around to face you, keeping his gaze attached to the screen. “do you miss sae?”

you sigh dramatically and ruffle his hair, messing up the dark silky strands. “what kind of question is that? of course i do. he left me to take care of you alllll alone… i feel like a military wife waiting for her husband with her son!” 

a smirk dons your face as you hear rin’s huffing and his futile attempt to fix his mussed hair. “do you miss him rin?” 

he stays quiet for a moment. realistically, he should feel lonely without sae. there's nobody good enough to play football with him. nobody who could understand his determination and the discipline he had towards his sport. but you did. you were no replacement for his brother. 

you were somebody else who was here for him despite being busy with your own work at university, despite also missing sae. just like his brother, you’ve become irreplaceable. rin is content he has someone here with him. he’s grateful you chose sae because rin really doesn't mind having you as a sister. 

“i do.”

rin misses sae, but he isn’t lonely.

© saeamy 2025 - do not repost, translate, copy or modify my works on any other platform!

[fic-girlie]

Ok maybe an unusual idea but what about a Pedro x athlete!reader fix? Where it’s just an unusual pairing at first glance but makes so much sense when you actually think about it. Gives Pedro a chance to be the fan girl for once.

Your pace

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x athlete!reader Summary: You're all discipline and motion; Pedro’s all warmth and wonder—and somehow, you fit just right. Warnings: established relationship, fluff, Pedro giving very supportive boyfriend vibes, teasing and soft banter

You don’t really think he’s watching you.

Not at first, anyway. When you step off the track, your earbuds still in, shoes kicked into the grass like you’re claiming territory, you’re too focused on the post-run ache in your thighs to notice the man in the baseball cap and sunglasses sitting on the far bench—legs crossed, coffee in hand, and a smile tucked halfway behind the rim of a paper cup.

He’s watching like it’s a ritual. Like this whole thing is sacred. The way you slow your jog to a walk, shake your hands out, pull your hair back again even though it’s already perfectly knotted into a practical, sweat-slicked braid. The way you count your breaths. He doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he knows how many laps you’ve done before you stop—he’s learned your rhythm, memorized it like a script. You’re consistent like that. In a world of unpredictability and chaos, your body is a metronome. And he’s obsessed with it.

You see him finally, because he’s not trying to be subtle anymore. Not that he ever was.

He grins when your eyes lock. Raises that coffee like a toast.

“I think you beat your time from yesterday,” he calls out, voice still honey-warm and scratchy from sleep, even though it’s nearly noon.

You shake your head and laugh through your panting. “You don’t know that.”

“I might,” he says, smug in a way only someone who absolutely knows can be. “I was watching the clock. You did seven miles in—what—under 60 minutes?”

You arch an eyebrow as you approach, sweat clinging to your temples, making you look wild and fierce and untouchable. “Were you just sitting there, timing me like some creep?”

Pedro stands when you reach him, entirely unbothered. “No, cariño. I was timing you like a very supportive, extremely devoted boyfriend who skipped his morning interviews so he could watch his favorite person make everyone else here look like they’re jogging in slow motion.”

You snort, grabbing your water bottle and tipping it toward your mouth. “God, you’re ridiculous.”

But he’s already wrapping one arm around your waist, sweat and all, pressing a kiss to your temple. He doesn’t care that you smell like exertion and electrolytes. He loves that about you—how unapologetically physical you are. How your love language is showing up to life in a way he’s only just beginning to understand.

“You know you’re hot when you’re breathless,” he murmurs against your ear, all teasing velvet and obvious affection. “Like a sexy, furious hummingbird.”

You push him, laughing again—loud and unbothered, the kind of laugh you only reserve for him. It’s always been like this between you two. Easy, even if from the outside it shouldn’t be. People don’t expect him to be with someone like you. You’ve heard it before—some podcast snarking about how Pedro Pascal’s latest girlfriend could “outrun a bear and still make it to a Vogue shoot.” The internet calls you intimidating. Too focused. Too sharp. The kind of woman who doesn’t soften, doesn’t sit still.

But that’s not what he sees.

He sees the woman who wakes up before the sun just to run in silence because that’s when the world feels the most yours. He sees the discipline, sure—but also the joy, the lightness you carry when your body is in motion. And maybe most of all, he sees how you light up when he shows up for it.

You’ve dated people who didn’t get it before. Who rolled their eyes at 5 a.m. alarms, who didn’t understand why a missed run could feel like an emotional derailment. But Pedro?

Pedro wakes up with you, even if he doesn’t run. He makes your coffee exactly how you like it, lays your watch out next to your shoes. He keeps you company on rest days even when you're grumpy about them. He texts you race bib memes and kisses your calves when you’re sore and once—when you were down with a stress fracture—he downloaded an entire audiobook about endurance sports just so he could understand why you missed it so much.

He doesn’t do half measures with you.

“Come on,” he says now, adjusting his sunglasses and slipping an arm back around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You need carbs. I made pancakes. Don’t worry—protein powder and everything. I watched a TikTok.”

You arch an eyebrow again. “Did you now.”

“I’m a man of science,” he deadpans. “And love. Mostly love.”

And somehow, despite the fact that you’re still in your soaked sports bra and your knees are aching and your heart rate hasn’t quite settled, you feel calmer here with him than you do even on the trail. That’s the magic, you think. That’s what people don’t see from the outside looking in. He doesn’t slow you down—he meets you where you are. Not with competition or ego, but with awe. With joy. With that open-palmed kind of support you’ve spent your whole life pretending you didn’t need.

You reach up and tug the brim of his cap over his eyes.

“You’re such a groupie.”

He lifts it back, grinning like he lives for the title. “Damn right I am.”

And when he laces his fingers through yours as you both start the walk back to the car, he squeezes once—like punctuation. Like a promise. And you know, as much as you run toward things… You never once had to run after him.

[love--and--venom]

Protective Instincts: Ateez

Summary: Your best friend shows his possessive nature when another man harasses you

Warnings: Misogynistic comments, intimidation, threats of violence, if I missed anything lmk

The final installment of Protective Instincts!

Kim Hongjoong

Oh captain, my captain. Atiny knows that ninety five percent of the time, Hongjoong is such a sweetheart. But that last five percent? He’s the fucking master of predator eyes. That intimidating aura works so well for him on stage. Normally when it’s directed at us, it’s light-hearted and doesn’t really have much weight behind it. But on the off chance that he’s truly angry, it’s the scariest thing to see.

You’re beyond relieved that you’ve never been on the receiving end of his glare. Not that Hongjoong could ever be that upset with you. Honestly, his members are a little jealous. But even they get a watered-down version of his intimidation factor. He doesn’t want to scare the people he cares about. Although, he’s more than willing to go all-in when someone is making you uncomfortable. One pleading look from you has him crossing the room in an instant, sliding right up to pull you against his side. The relief that fills your chest is coupled with a blush rising to your cheeks and you have to actively ignore the way his hand falls so naturally to your hip. The guy that was relentlessly flirting two seconds ago is rendered speechless from the malice hidden under the surface of Hongjoong’s smile. While the dude flounders for an excuse, you peek up at Hongjoong. From your angle, that glare makes butterflies erupt in your stomach, which worsen significantly when he glances down at you with a warm softness in his eyes. You don’t even notice the other guy leave until Hongjoong asks if you’re okay. You nod, a little shaky but you’re clearly relaxing now that the other guy is gone. Hongjoong’s grin turns genuinely bright when you immediately agree to stick by him for the rest of the night. You assume that he’s going to put a bit of distance between you now, seeing as he generally dislikes skinship. You’re surprised he’s even kept you pressed to his side for this long. You’re proven wrong when he slides his thumb into your belt loop, letting his hand relax while keeping you close. He may have thoroughly confused you, but you’re just savoring the moment along with how warm he is. Damn, and he smells good. Wooyoung wiggles his eyebrows at you from across the room. You resist the urge to fan your face while tuning back into the conversation in front of you. Hongjoong makes it difficult to concentrate, and he knows it.

Park Seonghwa

Seonghwa doesn’t seek out confrontation. He’s easy to get along with, so he has no need to waste energy being angry for no reason. That’s until someone messes with the people he loves. When that happens, Seonghwa has no qualms about returning the energy. You’re at a fairly large party, which already makes you anxious. You’ve been floating around the groups of idols and non-idols alike, mostly listening to whichever Ateez member is closest to you. At the moment, you’re alone. You have no idea where any of the boys went, and you didn’t want to ruin their fun, so you leaned against the wall in a way you hoped looked casual. The universe has a cruel sense of humor. You’re already jittery and worried about looking weird. And yet in the worst, most twisted joke possible, your fucking high school bully walks into the room. This girl made your life absolute hell just for the fun of it, and now she’s walking toward you with a shit-eating grin. She stops in front of you and the guy she’s with drapes his arm across her shoulders. You cross your arms and shrink in on yourself as she passive-aggressively points out every one of your insecurities. It’s been years but you still don’t know how to tell her to shut the fuck up. Luckily for you, Seonghwa seems to have a sixth sense for when your mood drops. He appears at your side out of nowhere right as she asks how you got into this ‘exclusive’ party, stunning her when he answers by saying he invited you. He effortlessly brushes off her rude comments about you, countering them with a plethora of compliments that redden your cheeks. The final nail in the coffin comes when he switches his intense stare to the guy next to your bully. Without even acknowledging her, he says that she should tell her boyfriend to keep his eyes to himself. Before either of them can react, Seonghwa turns back to her and, with a sly grin, brags about how lucky he is to have you. Her jaw drops while Seonghwa leads you out of the room with a hand resting on your lower back. As you approach the rest of the group, he leans down and whispers that you’ll be having a talk when you get home (wink).

Jeong Yunho

Who needs offense when you have such good defense? You certainly don’t. Not when you can just hide behind Yunho and practically disappear. However, you’re not usually the one that initiates this little routine. Nah, that would be all on Yunho. If he thinks someone is standing a little too close for comfort, he’ll tug you closer to his side by your belt loop. If he thinks a creep is trying to peek under your skirt, he’ll gently maneuver you to stand in front of him. He’s pretty much your one-man protection squad, so much so that you’re hardly ever aware of the issue in the first place. But now you’re rushing over to him with some dude two steps behind you. Yunho’s on high alert the moment you step behind him and grip the back of his hoodie. His look of concern shifts to anger once he sees the tears brimming in your eyes. He offers his hand to you, feeling a primal sense of satisfaction despite the situation when you instantly latch on to him. The guy that followed you is trying to lean around Yunho, but is shoved back by the idol’s free hand. He stares the stranger down while asking you what happened. You quietly tell him that this guy grabbed your arm after you declined a date. He tilts his head and forcefully asks the guy why he was bothering you, his girlfriend. You can’t see the man’s reaction, but you hear his scoff before he goes off on a rant about how you were ‘such a bitch’ and that you should’ve just said you were taken. You cautiously take half a step to the side so you can watch for the guy’s next move. And this asshole tries to push past Yunho?! What, did he think the tiny sliver of your body showing was an opportunity? An invitation? For a moment you’re afraid of the guy . There was nothing to worry about, though, since Yunho shields your body with his own, dropping his hands protectively against your hips as he borderline growls for the guy to back the fuck up. The guy actually listens, albeit with an obscene amount of attitude. Once he’s gone, Yunho pulls you to stand in front of him and you are more than happy to comply. Especially when he’s pressed flush against your back with his arms around your shoulders. 

Kang Yeosang

Another pretty face, deep voice double kill. Yeosang has a whole goodie bag full of unexpected ways he’s intimidating. Anyone that knows Yeosang knows that he hardly ever fights back. He lets his members manhandle him, he let Wooyoung steal his corndog, and he generally just doesn’t give a shit. Atiny is shouting from the rooftops for Yeosang to use those bigass biceps to stand up for himself, but he doesn’t really need to cus he trusts his members. If he asks them to stop doing something, they will. This does not apply to strangers, especially when said stranger is hitting on you relentlessly. He’s not one to step in right away, since he knows you can handle yourself for the most part. When you look at him with a face that screams ‘this is so annoying please help’, he’s quick to attach himself to your side. On his way over, Yeosang drops his hoodie on the back of a chair so that when he crosses his arms and tilts his head at the strange man, his full physique is on display. You’re distracted by his arms because holy shit, the compression shirt. Are you drooling? You might be, to be perfectly honest, but Yeosang ignores it (for now) in favor of interrogating the guy that’s been harassing you. His regular speaking voice isn’t that deep, but he drops it an octave as he asks this rando who he is and why he’s bothering you. The guy stutters over an answer and Yeosang catches you completely off guard when he pulls you closer by your hip and tells the dude to stop bothering his girlfriend. You’re stuck processing the fact that Yeosang initiated skinship and said the two of you were dating, so you don’t even notice the other guy scurry away. You also don’t notice the way your jaw slightly drops until Yeosang gently closes it with a finger under your chin and a smug grin on his face. You’re certain he can feel how warm the sudden flush made you, but he obviously doesn’t care since he doesn’t look like he’s moving anytime soon. You’re left struggling to avoid staring while he chats with some of his other friends. He’s not making it easy. You can’t prove it, but you swear he’s flexing on purpose. 

Choi San

San knows when something’s off even before you do. He’s a protector by nature. He’s constantly looking out for you and his members and is usually one of the first to swoop in and help. This applies heavily when you’re involved. San is part of the demon line for a reason. Don’t fucking mess with him or the people he cares about. You’re regretting your decision to ask San for help at the gym. Every goddamn set ends with him telling you to do one more like four times. You listen, obviously, but you’re shooting daggers at him between sets as you hunch over to catch your breath. The whole time, San’s been laughing at your dramatics and giving you plenty of encouragement. But he’s also been keeping a wary eye on a man that’s been coincidentally doing all of the same exercises you were doing. Coincidence, my ass. This guy has been blatantly checking you out for the better part of an hour and it’s leaving a bad taste in San’s mouth. The man hasn’t tried anything, probably because of the dirty looks being sent his way by San, but that doesn’t mean it’ll stay like that. San is keeping you close to both deter the guy and keep you oblivious. If he can avoid bringing the other man to your attention, he will. There’s no need for added stress. San feels it in his gut that the creep will try something if you’re alone, so when you have to use the bathroom, he begrudgingly agrees. Does he want to walk you over? Yes. Does he have a justifiable reason to do so? Well, yeah. But he doesn’t want to tell you because he doesn’t want to make you anxious anymore than you already are. The gym makes you nervous sometimes. The ‘we don’t judge’ slogan doesn’t always go into practice. Anyway, he’s right. San only looked at his phone for a fucking minute and the dude seized the opportunity, ambushing you as you stepped out of the restroom. This man doesn’t get a single word out before San yanks him away from you by the back of his shirt. Any and all arguments die in the guy’s throat when he sees 1, the terrifying glare on San’s face and 2, the amount of raw power San obviously has in his muscles. The guy pulls an ‘oh sorry thought you were someone else!’ and speed-walks away. You question San, but he tells you not to worry about it as he steers you back to your workout with a hand on your lower back. 

Song Mingi

Another wonderful hiding spot! Unlike Yunho, Mingi doesn’t always notice the little interactions that could make you uncomfortable. You and Mingi are both painfully oblivious most of the time. If neither of you ever actually see the creepy behavior, that means it doesn’t exist! Perfect logic. Until an old man is blatantly and grossly loud with his comments. Apparently the world is this man’s diary, cus he’s just saying everything that crosses his mind. Mind you, this is a quiet cafe. There’s literally no reason to be borderline shouting, especially since there are kids at a nearby tabe. The old man is eyeing you up while he talks about the fun you could have with an ‘experienced man’. You cringe and shrink in on yourself, crossing your arms to try and cover the sliver of skin showing between your shirt and pants. Oh. Oh fuck no. Mingi is not about to stand there and listen to this bullshit. In any other situation, being cornered would put you in fight or flight mode. But this is Mingi. He always has your best interest in mind. You trust him with your life, and vice versa. Mingi backs up, forcing you to do the same until you’re in the corner of the cafe with him acting as a human shield. The old man immediately turns on Mingi, now fully shouting profanities and growing increasingly aggressive. Mingi’s glare turns scary and snaps at the guy to shut the fuck up. The man is momentarily shocked into silence, but it’s more than enough time for the shy barista to speak up. She tells him to leave or she’ll call the cops, and luckily the man listens. Mingi’s face softens as he thanks the barista and apologizes to the mom and her kids for his language. The barista throws a free pastry in with your coffee order. You can tell that Mingi is still angry as you walk down the street. After mulling it over for a few seconds, you grab his hand and suggest going to a nearby park to relax. He perks up and tugs you toward the park while you giggle at his quick mood flip. He sits under a big tree and maneuvers you so you’re sitting between his legs. Mingi dives enthusiastically into a detailed description of his most recent Valorant match with Yunho. You smile and nod in all the right places, but you’re internally freaking out. Which is totally understandable, to be honest.

Jung Wooyoung

I don’t know how it’s possible, but Wooyoung is somehow passive-aggressive and plain aggressive at the same time. The sass level is off the charts. It doesn’t matter if it’s a guy or a girl bothering you, he’s stepping in and putting them in their place. The two of you are doing one of the best boring day activities: wandering the mall, window shopping, and getting yourselves a little treat. You drift away from Wooyoung as the two of you browse a small comic shop. You’re skimming the blurb on the back of a sci-fi novel, minding your own damn business, when this random girl waltzes right up to you and strikes up a conversation. Okay, you weren’t expecting this much social interaction, but she’s so excited to be gushing about the book you’re holding. Her face drops a little when you tell her you’ve never heard of the series before, but she brushes past it and starts praising the author and their writing style. She stops in the middle of her sentence to scrunch her eyebrows at the keychain hanging on your cross-body bag. It’s a drawing of wooyonyang sealed in acrylic, but it’s not one sold on the KQ website. Wooyoung had it specially made as a birthday gift last year, and he drew his Aniteez counterpart himself. It wasn’t a very good drawing, but you cherished it dearly. It seems this girl is an Atiny cus she’s now interrogating you about the keychain and where you got it. You try to deflect it by saying it was a gift, but she’s persistent and asks who got it for you and if they got it off Etsy. You don’t want to say it’s from Wooyoung. For one thing, you don’t want to give any hints about his personal life, but you also don’t want this girl to try and get to him through you. The girl looks at something behind you and her jaw drops. You turn to see the man himself inspecting a figurine a few feet away. He must’ve felt your stare, since he glances over at you and waves. The moment his attention is back on the figure, this girl turns aggressive. She’s in your face, calling you a whore while poking your chest with an accusatory finger. You have absolutely no idea what to do. Luckily, you don’t have to do anything. Wooyoung hears the insults being thrown at you and drops the figure back on the shelf. He comes up behind you so he can press himself as close as physically possible with his chest to your back. You’re used to hugs from him, but this one feels different as his arms wrap possessively around your waist. He squishes his cheek against yours and in a deceptively sweet voice, asks the starstruck girl why she’s insulting you. She blinks once, twice, then furrows her eyebrows. Her attitude drops and she’s wondering why it matters. Oh, it fucking matters. Wooyoung, with all the confidence in the world, looks this girl dead in the eye and tells her not to fuck with his girlfriend. She leaves so fast you half expected a trail of smoke to follow her. You wiggle out of Wooyoung’s hold to glare at him, scolding him since that girl will probably spread around the rumor. He shrugs, smirks at you, then grabs your hand to drag you out of the store. He loudly interrupts your argument, saying he doesn’t care. Let the rumor spread. Jung Wooyoung, you have some goddamn explaining to do, but it doesn’t look like that’s happening anytime soon.

Choi Jongho

To the public, Jongho typically appears serious and mature, with shining moments of humor. To you and the rest of Ateez, Jongho is like his Aniteez counterpart: a big, fluffy, adorable teddy bear. He’s physically one of the strongest members, but since he’s also the youngest, he still gets doted on despite his protests. He pretends to be annoyed by it, but he loves his members and truly appreciates how much they care about him. He’s not affectionate, even if Wooyoung does try to kiss his cheek daily, but he shows his love in other ways. This is usually with acts of service, words of affirmation, and the occasional hug. Those hugs are a little more than ‘occasional’ when it comes to you. The older members tease him whenever he lets his cuteness aggression for you win. Listen, he likes squishing your cheeks, okay? You always scrunch up your nose when he does, and it only makes him want to bite your cheek. Platonically, of course (suuure). Long story short, he cares fiercely and uses his strengths to his advantage when someone is making you uncomfortable. It wasn’t uncommon for you to hang around at the KQ studio. It’s still a smaller company, so you’re familiar with most of the employees. Even if you don’t know them well, you can still recognize everyone’s faces. Today when you walk in, there’s a new face amongst the backup dancers. You greet everyone and take your usual seat on the floor between a cabinet and the soundboard. You like to tuck yourself away while they rehearse so you don’t get in anyone’s way, even though Hongjoong has reassured you numerous times you’re not in the way. Practice is going like normal and everyone is taking a water break. Little cliques form around the room with one person breaking away from the rest. The new guy, whose name you still don’t know, stands directly in front of you. He literally talks down to you, since he refuses to sit or crouch to be on your level. Your neck cranes uncomfortably as you try to figure out what the fuck he’s going on about. One second he’s saying how complicated the choreography is, the next he’s asking for your number. Typical. You politely decline and turn back to your phone, only to jolt from him kicking your shoe. You whip your head up, ready to curse him out, but falter at his sinister grin. He’s blatantly trying to look down your shirt and you hug your knees to your chest. His comments are getting increasingly aggressive, making you curl further into yourself. He’s looming with a hand on the wall above you, pretty much caging you in. He opens his mouth again, probably to call you a bitch for turning down a nice guy like him, but a hand roughly pulls him back by his shoulder. The dancer’s body is replaced with Jongho’s and you sag in relief. Jongho has his back to you, which means you have to force yourself to focus on the conversation and not his ass. He doesn’t need to say anything to the dancer. A glare and one eyebrow raising is enough to make the dancer retreat with his tail tucked between his legs. Jongho shares a knowing look with Hongjoong. The captain nods and silently leaves the room to speak with the manager of the backup dancers. With that taken care of, Jongho turns and crouches in front of you. He reaches out, and you automatically brace yourself for more face squeezes. You’re pleasantly surprised when he gently brushes his knuckles across your cheek, giving you a soft smile before he returns to practice. You watch him walk away with a flush rising on your face. You can tell by their shit eating grins that Mingi and Wooyoung are about to tease Jongho, but Seonghwa stops them with a pinch to their ribs and a sharp look. Not this time. Not when Jongho is so obviously satisfied with himself.

Permanent Taglist @furfoxsake22 @babygirlskz98 @miniverse-zen @holly-here @corgilover20 @eastjonowhere @bookswillfindyouaway @kpetts @vtyb23

Ateez Taglist @cristy-101 @queen-in-the-shadows @thegingerthatwaited

[bullet-prooflove]

Elderberry Wine: John Carter x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @anna-bailey @ofsoapsuds @queenslandlover-93 @gemofspace

Summary: You come home to find John waiting for you.

Companion piece to:

Dreamer (NSFW) - John dreams of you when he's with someone else.

Little John - You try to keep John's mind off the task at hand.

The First One Is Always The Hardest - You comfort John after the death of a patient.

Forget-Me-Nots - John wakes up hung over in a strange bed and with an unexpected memento of the night before.

Speak Your Truth - John speaks his truth in the aftermath of a tragedy.

Trauma - John makes a realisation after his confession.

Fever - John gets more than he bargained for when he attends a friend's stag party in a Chicago Speakeasy.

Minx (NSFW) - John had no idea he had such a deviant little minx on his hands.

Always - You and John discuss the reasons behind your dancing.

Diamonds - John's friend and rival makes you an offer you can't refuse.

The Stethoscope - John's world is turned upside down when he finds your stethoscope in his locker.

John’s waiting for you when you get home. He’s sitting on the floor outside your apartment with his back propped up against the door and a medical textbook in his lap. Beside him is a brown paper bag of groceries, you can see the egg carton and fresh peppers sticking out of the top as he raises to greet you.

“I went to my mom’s.” You say by way of explanation as you stride towards him. “She insisted on reading my tarot cards, thought they might give me a little clarity.”

Your mom has always been a little different, new agey before it was cool. She’s been the proud proprietor of the first feminist bookshop in Chicago since the late 70s and a staunch promoter of women’s rights. There’s a photo in her shop of you barely three months old cradled against her chest in a sling on the front line of a Chicago Women's Liberation march.

“Her first one.” She had said fondly as she’d read John’s cards on a shop counter pasted with Mod Podge and news clippings of her exploits. “But not her last.”

That’s the first taste you’d given him of your world, his first glimpse into the history that made up Crys Majors.

“What did they say?” He asks, his hand squeezing your hip as he tilts his head down to look at you. Your skin is a little flush, your eyes bright. Your hair falls loose around your features in soft waves, the same way it always does when you pull out your hair tie in the aftermath of a shift.

“I have no idea.” You tell him, the edges of your mouth tipping up into a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “Everything’s a little hazy after that second glass of wine.”

That’s the other thing about your mom. The elderberry wine she makes is so strong that that first time he’d been introduced to it he’d woken up face down in a beanbag in the children’s section surrounded by Jenga pieces. You still have the picture she took with her polaroid camera pinned to your fridge with a St Bart’s fridge magnet.

It makes sense that that’s why you’re smiling right now, despite having the shittiest day on this earth. Quality time spent with your mom and half a bottle of elderberry wine it’ll cure most the world’s ills, at least until morning.  

“Have you eaten?” He asks, his fingertips tucking an errant strand of hair back behind your ear.

You shake your head. “My mom offered but…”

“Yeah, she’s terrible.” He chuckles knowingly.

To be fair that’s not your mom’s fault. The woman is vegan so every meal she makes is bean or tofu based because it’s slim pickings in 90s Chicago. He’d almost spat out the coffee she’d made him when she was trying to sober him up because it was laced with rice milk. You’d found the whole thing terribly amusing.

“How about I whip you up something?” He says, his arms wrapping around you, drawing you close into the shelter of his firm body. “I know how much you like my omelettes. I could run you a bath, cook for you…”

“You don’t have to take care of me.” You say softly, your fingertips trailing along the lapels of his coat. Despite your words, your body language indicates something different. He can sense your need for reassurance, your desire for proximity amidst the storm that is your life. “Right now the elderberry wine is kinda numbing everything and I know it’s going to be a busy day for you tomorrow.”

It would have been a busy day for you too, he thinks as you toy with the buttons of his coat. You would have scrubbed in on the same surgery he’s observing, asked pointed questions, you would have rocked the whole damn thing.

“Are we gonna talk about it?” He asks, his mouth brushing over your temple as he cradles you against him. You sway together gently, it’s something you find soothing, he’s discovered, the light rocking of his form against yours.

“I don’t really have much to say.” You whisper, your cheek settling on his shoulder. “Mark’s clearly told you the whole story and my mom’s making a voodoo doll of the asshole. My guess is he’s gonna be experiencing some sharp pains in his dick during the next two to three hours.”

He laughs into your hair, his palm coming to rest on the nape of your neck as his thumb traces soothing circles over that tender little spot just behind your ear.

“John.” You whisper, your voice cracking as you bury your face into his chest. “You’re still gonna love me if I’m not a doctor right?”

“Oh Crys.” He murmurs, his lips ghosting over your forehead. “I’m gonna love you no matter what happens, you can count on that.”

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[clairewritesfanfics]

Man, Amber is gonna be pissed at Mark if/when she finds out what he said and did, she does NOT play about her friends like that and he’s clearly already on thin ice with her, my guess is that she’ll hear from Rick, though he doesn’t know what he said the night before he most definitely saw what happened in the canteen ALSO TY TY TY TY FOR NOT WRITING AMBER OR EVE AS MEAN GIRLS I HATE IT SO MUCH WHEN PEOPLE WRITE THE CANON LOVE INTERESTS AS ASSHOLES JSUT BECAUSE THEY WANT THE DUDE, your characterization of Amber is stellar and I’m actually so happy about it, she’s caring and she’s got a strong sense of justice and so many authors ignore her actual character in favor of making her the annoying nagging girlfriend I’m so glad you don’t do that to my girl 🩷🩷

Hi anon!

Thank you, I actually do enjoy writing about the girls, and their friendship is important to Y/N.

I never did like it when love "rivals" are villainized or have their personalities corrupted by the narrative to make them appear lesser than the main character.

Besides, if Mark chooses us because the other options are annoying, mean or bad, can we really even say that he chose us? Wouldn't that mean that he ends up with us by default?

I don't want his love by default.

Perfect devotion is when he decides to see only us despite being surrounded by so many kickass women (and William). 🌻

[wormizette]

ok so… blu scout…................…….

imagine loving your family more than anything and then finding out those memories aren’t even yours. they belonged to some other guy. blu scout doesn't have to

sooo i’ve been thinking about cross-team speedingbullet stuff lately and needed to get this out, usually i TRY TO let the art speak for itself but i know barely anything gets across. this is js my take/headcanon dump don’t take it too personal lol

first off, blu mercs are clones. they got all these fake memories of their “past” and a bit of each other, but none of it actually happened. they feel like they somewhat know each other but it’s just built-in impressions. kinda uncanny. red team at least had time to bond before getting cloned, so their relationships are real. blu team got the bootleg version of that

and scout's like 20-21 when he gets the job (in the comics where he's 26-27 he said he worked for miss pauling for 7 years, i portray him some years after like 22-24 years old), still just a kid really. the og's already full of insecurity and feeling like he doesn't fit in, now imagine a clone of that. with identity issues stacked on top.

he feels weird in his own skin, like, dysphoric? pissed off most of the time. can’t remember being paler, can’t remember ever having freckles. all the blu guys notice weird stuff like how their eyes don’t shine right but they try not to mention it. they’re also not allowed to leave the base, they're told red can’t either (which is a lie. red gets to walk out. blu do it too but have no idea that red's are allowed to)

and yea blu scout gets along with blu sniper but even that feels off. they have “memories” of their first interactions but scout feels like something's wrong. blu sniper supports him and all but scout still feels like he’s losing his mind sometimes. and meanwhile blu sniper is like………. well you probably saw my art. straight up OFF not just quiet like red sniper, but uncanny (I'd say he's a shizoid with no care to his problem with socialization in contrast to red sniper's insecurity and autism??) blu snipes has no personal space, no filter, no sense of boundaries, just chill in this weird detached way. he’s fine with his team but gives everyone that “something’s wrong” vibe

and here’s the part that kinda messes them both up — blu scout and blu sniper are both lowkey obsessed with their red counterparts. they feel like those are the people they actually met first, even if they never did. blu scout doesn’t fully trust blu sniper because something in him knows it’s not the real thing but they're close and try to make it up. blu sniper’s attached to both scouts but unlike red sniper he’s got no hesitation about crossing lines. while he doesn't have to do it to reach blu scout, it gets MESSY (TO SAY AT LEAST) while getting towards red

red scout and red sniper are okay btw. even though sniper's older and way more reserved he doesn’t see scout as a burden or some annoying kid. scout needs someone older to look up to a bit, but not in a way where he’s talked down to or treated like he’s less. prob is, sniper’s kinda scared of getting too close, doesn’t wanna mess scout up by becoming something like a father figure when he already sees himself as this old tired kinda broken guy. he’s ashamed of not being better, not being what scout might need but that’s the thing, scout’s not asking for some perfect role model, just someone who respects him and stays. and he proves that over time, shows sniper he’s serious, chooses to be there and eventually they get to something real and solid

blu will never get any of that

mourning for something he never had

what’s funny is how blu scout and red sniper were the most popular version of this ship like since forever but i never really got how it would work with how i see things. but after thinking more about the clone stuff i think it goes like… blu scout’s jealous of red in general, and his want to connect with red sniper turns into this weird frustration. he's mad at himself for even wanting this, he's mad that he barely has any chance. and red sniper is kinda confused by it, he doesn’t fully get why blu scout's acting like that but he also just… can’t bring himself to fight back ig… he’s too careful with scout, even the blu one. he feels sorry for him and tries to be gentle even if it's awkward

i actually got a ton more to say abt these two both in and outside the ship but this post’s already hella long and kinda unstructured waaaaaaaaaaah i hope you got what i meant tho!!!!!!!!!! really hope i won't die from cringe and get the motivation to do more eventually phew

[rainrot4me]

Ohh what is the love language like make how would they show their love to Mc ?

Also hope you’re having a lovely day or night and drinking plenty of water 💪

✦ . jeff the killer

Physical Touch & Acts of Service

Bruised knuckles? That’s love. Jeff doesn’t say he cares, but the way he throws himself between you and danger, or grips your wrist too tightly when someone looks at you wrong? That’s him screaming “mine.” There are a lot of things Jeff will tolerate for himself, but the list of things he’ll let slip with you is almost nonexistent. He’s more than happy to break a guy’s jaw for your sake.

“Come here, I’m not gonna bite… well, we’ll see.”

You’ll catch him pulling you into his lap without warning, cleaning blood off your shirt while pretending he’s annoyed, fixing things in your space without asking. He won’t admit it, but he likes when you rely on him. He likes to feel needed.

✦ . ticci toby

Quality Time & Words of Affirmation

Toby isn’t great with normal emotions, but he craves connection. When he loves someone, he sticks to them like glue.

“I don’t really ge-get people… but I get you.”

He’ll invite you to go on supply runs in town with him just to be around you, constantly asks what you’re thinking about, mumbles praise into your shoulder when he thinks you’re asleep, and loves sharing headphones or just sitting in silence next to you. It’s just the company and willingness to be near him that makes his sad little heart warmer.

✦ . eyeless jack

Acts of Service & Gift Giving

Jack is meticulous. The way he prepares your favorite tea, restocks the pantry with things you like, or dresses wounds with surprising tenderness—it’s all love. He’s never showy about it, but he makes it a point to recognize what you like and how you like it so he can always keep it that way.

“You were careless again. Sit down—I’ll fix it.”

He crafts strange little trinkets for you in his spare time: polished bones, stitched fabrics, mysterious glowing stones. If he leaves them on your pillow without a word, he adores you. Careful though, the rusted jewelry and half-torn clothes he gifts are absolutely from his latest meal.

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Acts of Service & Quality Time

Tim expresses love through protection and stability. He’s quiet but observant, and remembers the smallest things you say. If there’s something bothering you, he’ll handle it before you even have to verbalize your feelings, because he just reads you that well.

“You hungry? I’ll make something.”

He’ll offer to carry your bag, he’ll keep watch while you sleep, fixes your favorite mug when it breaks and never mentions it. His way of saying “I love you” is doing something to make your life easier. As long as you promise to be there for him with open arms at the end of the day, no matter what he’s done or will have to do tomorrow, that’s all he asks.

✦ . hoody (brain thomas)

Words of Affirmation & Gift Giving

Brian’s love is deeply emotional and intentional. His voice may be calm, but his words are a testimony to his feelings. He never sugarcoats things or drags people on, so if he tells you how he’s feeling, you know in your heart that’s exactly how he means it.

“You’re the only thing that still makes sense to me.”

Handwritten notes tucked into your coat, meaningful glances across the room, a new book you mentioned once mysteriously appears on your desk. He speaks his love softly, but with conviction. He asks for very little in return, just your loyalty and softness in the middle of all his chaos.

✦ . ben drowned

Physical Touch & Words of Affirmation

Ben is a flirty, always has been, always will be. He thrives on touch, especially casual, lingering contact that says “you’re mine.” He never lets you get too far away without reaching for your hand, enjoys it when you both rest your weight on each other on the couch, and especially likes when you subconsciously slip into his arms while you’re asleep.

“You missed me, right? Be honest.”

He’ll play with your hair while you game together, or press his face into your neck just to watch you fluster, then list of 30 reasons why you’re the best. Teases endlessly, but his compliments, when genuine, are disarming and heartfelt.

✦ . clockwork

Physical Touch & Quality Time

Natalie touches you a lot—hand on your back, fingers in your hair, forehead kisses. She needs to be close to you to feel secure. It’s sweet, but it’s more of a reassurance that you’re still next to her than actual affection. She has a subconscious fear if she takes her eye of you you’ll vanish in thin air.

“Come here. You’re safer in my arms anyway.”

She’ll bring you on “errands” just to spend time together. If someone so much as bumps into you, she’s got her knife out, it’s takes time to convince that not every man that looks at you wants to hurt you. Mostly, she loves to curl up and fall asleep on you.

✦ . laughing jack

Gift Giving & Words of Affirmation

Jack gives bizarre gifts like a taxidermy fox or a half-broken music box. But to him, they’re tokens of affection. If it reminds him of you, you best believe you’re receiving it that night, no matter how gaudy or useless it may seem. (You secretly think it might be his sly attempt at turning your home into a knock-knack fun-house).

“I made this for you! It only screams twice an hour now!”

He showers you in compliments—half are ridiculous (“Your soul has a delightful shimmer today!”), but every now and then, he says something real, and it hits you like a truck. The way you know he’s deep in love is when he gets serious around you, leaving his giddy-act behind for a second to just have a heart-to-heart.

✦ . slenderman

Acts of Service & Quality Time

You may never hear it from his mouth, but you’ll feel it. The world bends around you when he loves you, literally and figuratively. There are things that your mortal eyes can’t see, but he makes sure you’re always out of harms way.

(You just know he’s watching over you when the woods go deathly quiet.)

He changes all the traffic lights to green when you’re on your daily commute, wards off enemies you never even saw, leaves little bits of the forest (pressed flowers, river stones) in your space. He’ll let you read or nap in his presence, that’s his version of a date. It may be rare, but the times he appears in your room just to see what you’re doing is a sign he misses you.

꩜ .ᐟ