#I feel like I will hate this when i wake up

[yogirl-willow]

The Crimson Pact | Part 2

Characterizations | Part 1 | Part 3

SoulBond!AU

Pairings: Yandere!Saja Boys x F!Reader

Synopsis: You were never supposed to remember them.

Four hundred years ago, a pact was made—a blood-soaked bond tying five demons to one human soul: yours.

They’ve waited lifetimes for your reincarnation, cursed with obsession, tethered by fate.

And now that you’ve returned?

They’ll burn the world before they let you go again.

Warnings: Soul bond with the Saja Boys, Yandere themes!, obsessive behavior / possessiveness, mild stalking, romantic psychological tension, mentions of implied past death / reincarnation, intense emotional fixation, yearning, a little dirty talk (if you squint), dark romance, sick!reader, mild supernatural body horror (bond sickness), demons, comfort and control.

Author's notes: Thank you guys so much for all your comments, reposts, and likes! I'm definitely motivated to continue this story and have some plans in mind for the future chapters. 🥰

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The Saja boys are all demons.

They are wrath and ruin. Jealousy and death.

And yet, before her, they kneel.

Because she is the Heart. Because her soul is what keeps them from unraveling into true monsters. Because they were bound by her love and her curse.

They don’t just crave her—they depend on her. Without her presence, their minds deteriorate. Their bodies decay. Their hunger becomes unbearable.

Only Y/N’s touch tames the demon inside.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Part 2:

Tethered in Silence

You wake up every morning feeling… better. But it doesn’t make sense. Because during the day, you feel sick. Nauseous. Lightheaded.

Your skin prickles like you’re wearing clothes that don’t belong to you. Sometimes you forget where you are mid-thought. Your body feels too heavy for this life.

But at night?

You sleep deeply. Without nightmares. Without fear.

It started the day you ran from them.

And you don’t understand it. You’ve done nothing different. No medicine works during the day. But when the sun sets… Your body calms. Your breathing evens out. You feel—safe.

You tell yourself it’s just exhaustion. You don’t know that each night, one of them watches over you.

Sometimes it’s Mystery, curled up outside your window, nose pressed to the glass like a loyal animal waiting to be let inside. He never scratches. Just listens for your breathing to steady—then smiles softly in the dark.

Sometimes it’s Romance, leaving rose petals beneath your balcony, humming one of the songs he swore he wrote just for you. The same one you’ve caught yourself humming without realizing.

Sometimes it’s Jinu—who, when your fever spikes, slips silently into your room just to stand near you until the bond calms. He never moves. Never speaks. Just watches you with reverence and restraint, fists clenched tight to keep himself from reaching for you.

And sometimes—only sometimes—it’s Baby. Not close. Just nearby. Leaning against the wall across the street. Eyes glowing faintly under his hood. Unmoving.

Watching.

They never touch you. Only witness. Only ache.

Your light. Their everything.

They hate to feel your suffering during the day—a consequence of the bond forming without proximity. But they hope that this pain you carry is what drives you toward them.

Because every night, you sleep because they’re there. And you don’t even know it.

You wake up on a Wednesday, feeling well rested—though you know that won’t last long. It never does. You sit on your counter, chewing breakfast slowly, staring off at nothing. Your eyes drift to the shelf.

Romance’s book.

It’s been sitting there for days. Untouched. Daring.

You don’t want to admit you’re curious. But your hand moves anyway. “How did he even know I wanted to read this?” You mutter around a mouthful of bread.

You waddle to the couch and crack it open. Your heart’s not ready, but you flip through the pages. And then—

You freeze.

A passage, underlined in neat black ink:

“Love that spans lifetimes is never gentle. It devours slowly.”

Your breath catches.

The creeping feeling in your chest tightens. Longing. Yearning. You don’t even know for what.

Nope.

You slam the book shut.

Not today.

You work overtime at the café the next few days, thinking you’ll outrun whatever this is. But the nights remain the same. Each one of them leaves something. A new sketchbook on your doorstep, the paper thick and expensive, with a note from Mystery:

“For when you draw us again.”

You haven’t seen him. But your heart races every time you hear footsteps outside. You swear you hear purring through the window once, but shake it off.

The day after, you come home late, too tired to even stand. You drop your bag. Your stomach growls. But your apartment smells like miso and spice. Your favorite ramen sits warm on the stove. No signs of forced entry. No windows broken. Your locks were fine. You tell yourself you must’ve made it before and forgot. You try not to look at the empty bowl already set out for you.

After that, it becomes a pattern.

Groceries show up on your doorstep. Snacks you forgot you liked. Drinks you told no one about. Sometimes a sticky note:

“Don’t skip meals, brat.” (You know it’s from Abby. You roll your eyes… and smile.)

They don’t push. But they never leave.

Letters. Tickets. Handwritten invitations. Concerts. Fanmeets. Award shows. You never go. But you read them all.

The private session ticket with your name in looping calligraphy stays on your desk. You’ve moved it twelve times. You’ve never thrown it away.

Then, on Friday of the next week, comes a final envelope.

No ticket.

No flower.

Just a single sheet of paper, torn at the edges. The ink slightly smudged like someone had been holding it for too long before sealing it. You unfold it slowly.

‘You don’t have to believe us.Just let us prove it.’—J

You sit back on your couch. Everything aches. You’re tired. Dizzy. Burning with fever in the afternoon, freezing by night. It’s getting harder to deny what’s happening. You keep telling yourself it’s a prank. A stunt. A delusion.

They’re famous. Rich. Beautiful. They have no reason to want you.

You met them once.

But the bond doesn’t care about logic. The bond wants what it wants. And as you stare at that letter in your trembling hands… You start to wonder if maybe—just maybe— you want them too.

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By Sunday, you’re fed up from feeling so sick and decide to go and buy new medicines. You’re pale. Shivering. Oblivious to the way demons on the street stop in their tracks when they see you.

One begins to follow you.

From the shadows, Rumi, Zoey, and Mira spot it.

“Target marked,” Zoey whispers.

“No incident,” Rumi replies. “Quiet takedown.”

They move in—silent, lethal. Weapons at the ready.

But then the demon sees your face.

It freezes.

Eyes wide. It backs away, trembling, then flees like it’s seen a god. You never notice. You’re inside buying Tylenol.

The girls stare after you.

“What the hell?” Rumi questions, watching as the other demons in the area back off and run somewhere else.

“That’s… not normal,” Mira mutters.

“Is it her?” Zoey questions, watching your sick form drop a vitamin jelly and curse pathetically. Pity erupts in her chest. “She seems pretty normal to me…”

“Something’s off.” Rumi states, analyzing you. You seemed like a very normal person. No markings whatsoever. Why did they flee? “Maybe we should look into it a bit more..?”

“We can run a background check.” Mira suggests. “Though it’ll just be for precaution. We shouldn’t- ZOEY?”

The rapper of the group was slowly walking towards you with the intent of engaging in conversation. 

The fluorescent lights above hum louder than usual.

Your head is pounding. Your limbs feel like lead. Every movement takes just a little more effort than it should.

You shuffle toward the over-the-counter shelf, fingers grazing through boxes of headache meds and nausea tablets. You’ve been here too many times this week.

“You okay? You look like the flu’s winning.”

The voice is light, teasing, warm.

You glance sideways and nearly drop your medicines again. Cool. Effortlessly pretty. The kind of girl who belongs on your feed—not in front of you, talking like you’re friends.

You know her face. You’ve seen her before. Not in person. But in clips. In edits. She’s Zoey—one of the girls from Huntrix.

“Sorry,” she says, flashing an easy grin. “Didn’t mean to startle you. You looked like I did last week when I thought I had the plague but it was just anxiety and kombucha withdrawals.”

You nod stiffly. Your throat is dry. “Yeah. I’ve just… been off…sorry, you’re Zoey, right? As in from Huntrix?”

She giggles nervously. “Yeah, I just need to grab a few things too.” She steps closer to the shelves. Casually, like she’s just browsing. “Cold stuff’s over there, but if it’s more like… migraines or vertigo? These work way faster.” She taps a pack of fast-acting tablets and hands them to you.

You take them without thinking, a little starstruck. “Thanks.”

She studies you—not overtly. But it’s there. Her eyes linger too long on your face. “No problem! I hope you feel better! Uh... I, sorry I didn’t get your name-”

“Y/N” you nodded with a nervous smile. 

“Great to meet you, Y/N! Maybe when you feel better we could hang out sometime. Get your instagram?”

You stammered, mouth gaping then closing. What was with all these pop stars approaching you as of late? “Uh, yeah, sure…” You said blinking. You were too sick for this. Why did you have to meet one of the most famous people in the country now when you looked this shitty? And she wanted your instagram? Is this real life?

You told her your instagram handle and she smiled. “Awesome! Well, I hope you feel better.” she started to walk away and you raised an eyebrow. “Uh… weren’t you supposed to get something?” 

Zoey turned red and laughed nervously. “Oh- right! Silly me. My memory is so bad. Thanks for reminding me!” 

You nodded, still a bit shocked at this whole encounter and went to pay for your medicine. 

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The next day, You see a clip on TikTok. It was the Saja Boys at a fanmeet. Laughing with the Huntrix girls, though the girls seemed less enthusiastic. You scroll through more of your feed and stop when you see an image.

It was Jinu and Rumi playing footsies.

You feel a pang in your heart and scroll on.

Zoey playfully hitting Mystery and his little pout after that.

Romance and Abby fanart with Mira.

"Miromabby is real!"

"Zoestery supremacy."

"Rujinu playing footsies? They’re the cutest!"

Your stomach drops.

You turn your phone off. Then on. Then off again.

“They’re not mine,” you whisper to convince yourself. “They were never mine.” You feel yourself getting weaker. A sinking feeling in your gut. It’s unexplainable. You were the one avoiding all of the boys and their madness. Why would something like this upset you? You were the one rejecting their invites.

And then something just breaks.

The next weekend, your coworkers drag you out. They mean well. You look like you haven’t slept in days, and so when one of the girls invited you to come out with them after work on a Saturday, you accept. 

They take you to a club. Loud music. Glittering lights. Free drinks. You tell yourself you deserve it.

But deep down, you feel wrong. Like you’re doing something unforgivable.

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The boys are in their studio, practicing choreo for an upcoming show when Mystery jolts upright mid-step. His head whips toward the door. His pupils dilate. And then—

He growls. Low. Deep. Animal.

They freeze.

Romance is the first to stop moving, lips parting as he slowly lowers his mic. Abby drops into a ready stance like he’s about to charge into something. “What? What is it? What is she feeling now?”

He’s been on edge for days. Every time Mystery whimpers about your nausea or fever, he paces like a caged beast. Every time your scent spikes with sadness, he throws something across the room. It’s taken both Jinu and Baby to restrain him—twice this week alone. Once when Mystery said you slipped in the shower. Another when your heart rate flatlined in fear while walking home alone. He hasn’t stopped shaking since.

“Tell me,” Abby grits. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Mystery’s hands twitch. “She’s not alone.”

Romance is already unlocking his phone, screen flipping up to your page—he checks it a hundred times a day. Sometimes a thousand. He breathes in sharply.

“She posted. Or—no, someone tagged her.”

A nightclub. Low lighting. Your smile—nervous. Shy. And then—other men.

Hands brushing your waist. A stranger whispering in your ear. Your head tilting back in a laugh that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

The phone screen burns in Romance’s hand. His smirk dies. “Is that her?” he asks. But he already knows the answer.

Abby doesn’t bother replying. He rips the phone from Romance’s grip and snarls, muscles tensing beneath his shirt as he glares at the video. “Who the fuck are those guys?” he growls, loud enough to shake the chandelier above. “Why is he touching her? Why is she letting—”

A teacup shatters.

Baby hadn’t moved. But his hand had clenched just enough to crush the porcelain in his grip. He stands at the edge of the room, statue-still. His pupils blown wide, pitch black. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. His breathing is slow—too slow—as he watches the clip loop.

He’s memorizing the men’s faces. So he knows who to kill first.

Mystery lets out a sound—not human. It rips from his throat like a guttural whine and a growl, high-pitched and wet. His claws are out, twitching. 

“She’s letting strangers touch her,” Baby says softly. But it’s not soft. It’s dangerous.

Romance’s voice is velvet-wrapped venom. He’s smiling again, but the smile is hollow—like a cracked mask. “She’s trying to forget us,” he murmurs. “Trying to pretend she doesn’t belong to us.” His voice dips. “It won’t work.”

There’s a snap. A shift. Something ancient uncoils in the room. The temperature drops. Power hums in the air like static before a storm.

And then—they move. No plan. No hesitation. No words. Just instinct. Baby’s already calling Jinu. The leader’s in a meeting—still gathering intelligence on Rumi, on the Hunters, on the fragile balance between war and reunion.

The phone rings once. “Yes?” Jinu’s voice is curt, sharp with authority.

“She’s at the club,” Baby says calmly.

Jinu doesn’t respond at first. There’s the sound of footsteps. A tiger’s whine. Then Baby adds, like a bullet to the heart:

“Men are touching her.”

The phone crackles. Not with sound, but with energy. Dark, feral, electric. Baby can feel the shift through the line. Something old stirs. Something broken. Then—

Jinu’s voice returns. But it’s not Jinu.

It’s the voice of the thing that crawled to Gwi Ma 400 years ago, begging to bring you back. It’s older. Colder. Hungrier.

“Where is she?”

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You're tipsy. Laughing. Warm. The club pulses like a heartbeat beneath your skin—bass thudding through your ribs, lights smearing color over your vision. You haven’t felt this loose in ages. Not since university. Not since before the dreams started. Before the headaches. Before the boys.

Your coworkers sway around you, drunk and shouting. One of them pours you another shot. You take it. You let it burn. It’s easier to blame the sick feeling in your chest on the alcohol now. Easier than admitting that you’ve been haunted.

You don’t notice the guy your friends brought getting too close. Not at first. He presses against your back under the excuse of helping you keep balance. His hand slides to your waist. You laugh it off. You don’t want to make a scene.

Another drink. Another dizzy smile. Another moment where you forget who you are. “Come on,” he says, too close to your ear. “Let me walk you home.”

You nod. You shouldn’t have.

He throws his jacket over your shoulders like it’s a favor. Wraps an arm around you. Guides you through the club’s glowing mouth into the alley beside it.

The world tilts sideways. Your pulse buzzes against your skull. And then—you round the corner.

And they're there.

Five shadows cut from the dark like carved obsidian. They don’t speak. They don’t have to. Your breath hitches in your throat. The bond snaps into place like a noose and for the first time all night—you can breathe. The ache behind your eyes disappears. Your limbs go steady. Your nausea evaporates. And even in your drunken haze, you know it’s because of them.

The boys who haunt your dreams. The demons who ruin your peace. The monsters who feel like home.

Abby moves first. He doesn’t speak to you. His full, furious attention is on the man still touching you. “Touch her again,” Abby growls, voice low and venomous, “and I’ll shatter every bone in your body.”

Romance steps into view, golden eyes gleaming like firelight. He tsks, slow and mocking. “Naughty girl,” he murmurs, eyes trailing down your body like he’s savoring the view of you in your dress. “Out here, letting strangers paw at what isn’t theirs.”

His gaze lingers on your thighs. The hem of your dress. Your dazed expression. You see the muscle in his jaw twitch. “She forgot us,” he says with a small, cruel smile. “So she let herself be touched.”

Romance leans in with a sickly sweet smile aimed at the guy by your side. “She’s not yours to protect,” he whispers. “So if you would so kindly… fuck off.”

The guy squares his shoulders. “Who the hell do you think—” His voice dies the moment his eyes land on the figure behind them all.

Baby.

Still. Silent. Watching. His pupils are blown wide, pitch black. Shadows crawl up his arms like smoke.

The guy’s bravado crumples. “Hey, hey—I didn’t know she was spoken for…” He stumbles back. Your balance wavers. 

Mystery darts forward, catching you in his arms like you were made to fit there. He buries his nose in your neck with a shaky inhale. Like it's the only thing in the entire world that could calm him down. You don’t push him away.

“Y/N? You know these guys?” your friend calls weakly.

“Uh huh,” you mumble. Your voice is slurred, but you don’t miss how Romance is staring—burning holes through your clothes. Your spine prickles. He rakes his eyes over you slowly, like memorizing every inch. You remember the way he said you belonged to him. And for a second, you want to.

Abby moves closer again, jaw tense. His eyes flick from your dazed expression to the guy who dared to touch you earlier. He sees red.

“Take care of him,” Baby says, the words barely audible—but they’re a death sentence. Abby cracks his knuckles.

“With pleasure.”

“Don’t look, baby,” Mystery whispers into your ear. You shiver. His voice is soft, but it carries heat. Danger. Something low coils in your stomach, and lower still. His hands tighten around your waist and you melt. You don’t even notice the scream behind you.

“You came,” you slur, eyes glossy. “I… feel better now…”

“Is that so, princess?” Romance frowns, stepping closer. He tilts your chin with two fingers. The bond flares. A moan slips from his throat before he can stop it. His eyes fall lower—to the swell of your chest in that too-short dress.

“Did you wear this for them?” He asks through gritted teeth. “For all those men to see you like this?”

His jaw tenses. His hands twitch. Mystery’s fingers dig into your hips and you gasp. It’s too much. You whimper. And it breaks something in all of them.

Romance yanks his hand back like he’s been burned, turning away with a curse. Marks rise on his skin, glowing faintly. You don’t even notice.

But then—

Jinu steps from the shadows. His gaze is ice. Piercing. Regal. He spares no glance for the man Abby dragged away. Only you.

“You’re drunk,” he says flatly.

You flinch.

“You’re reckless.”

Tears prick at your eyes. You know you shouldn’t have gone out. You know you shouldn’t feel better just because they’re here. But you do. Jinu’s hand reaches for your jaw, and you go still. The moment his fingers graze your skin, the bond explodes between you. You can’t breathe.

He leans down until your noses almost touch.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So reckless. So breakable.”

Jinu trails his nose on the side of your neck causing a shiver to erupt down your spine.

“If you’d stopped pretending this wasn’t real, you’d be spread across my lap, begging us to forgive you.”

You suck in a breath. Every nerve in your body screams. You squeeze your thighs together. This is wrong. This is insane. You should be running.

But you’re not.

You’re melting.

He lets go. You nearly fall forward—but he catches you. Of course he does.

They don’t ask.

They don’t wait.

They take you home.

Theirs.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

From the rooftop nearby, Mira watches the scene unfold.

The way the boys surround you.

The way you lean into them like they’re the only thing keeping you alive.

And then—

They vanish in smoke. With you.

She presses a finger to her earpiece. “She’s not normal,” she whispers. “And she’s gone with them.”

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The sheets are silk under your touch. A splitting headache forms and you groan, last night’s party flooding back like a cruel wave. You decide you’re never drinking again.

Your eyes open—and your stomach twists. The ceiling isn’t yours. You bolt upright, heart pounding. And they’re there.

All five of them. Beautiful. Dangerous. Familiar in a way that makes your soul ache. They’re watching you. Some with concern. Some with reverence. Some like they want to devour you.

“Where am I?” you breathe. Your voice shakes. “Why am I here?”

You look around wildly, mind racing. You remember the latter events of the night. Romance’s gaze. Mystery’s breath on your ear. Abby’s voice like thunder. Baby’s black eyes. Jinu’s warning...

“You took me,” you gasp. “You took me.”

Abby steps forward first—hands raised like you’re a spooked animal. “You were in danger.”

“I was out with my friends,” you argue.

Mystery whispers from where he kneels near the door. “You’re always in danger when you’re not with us.” His voice is soft, but it cuts like glass.

Romance kneels beside the bed next. Too graceful. Too close. “Let us explain.”

You scramble back, trembling. “No. No more dreams. No more tricks.” Your hands press to your temples. “I’m not yours.”

You say it like you need to believe it. Like it’s the only thing keeping you sane.

Baby finally speaks from the shadows. “Then why do you feel safer here than you’ve felt in your entire life?”

His voice is emotionless. Clinical. But something about it makes your skin erupt in chills. You freeze. Because he’s right. And that terrifies you.

Abby sits at the edge of the bed, watching you like a kicked dog. “You must be tired. How about a bath first, hmm?” His voice is too gentle for someone so strong.

You flinch. He notices.  And it kills him.

“I should go home—”

“Please, stay,” Mystery pleads. His voice is almost a whimper. You look at him and feel your heartbeat falter. Then Jinu approaches. Deliberate. Measured. The pull in your chest pulses harder.

“We would never hurt you,” he says, voice steady. “Please allow us to explain.”

You glance around. Five sets of eyes. Each one begging for the same thing. Not obedience. Not fear. A chance.

You sigh. “Fine. But I need a bath first.”

They release a breath like they’d been underwater for hours. Romance smiles. “Thank you, baby.”

So there you were, sitting on the edge of a couch that costs more than your rent. Hair damp and in clothes way too big for you. Based on the scent, you hate how you could tell they were Jinu’s. Unbeknown to you, the guys had drawn sticks to decide who’s clothes you would wear after your shower. 

Velvet cushions. Mahogany floors. Tall windows draped in gauzy silk that sways with no wind. You don’t know where you are.

But it smells like them. Like rain on stone, smoke, citrus, old paper, and heat.

You’re in their apartment.

And they’re all still here.

Watching.

Waiting.

Like wolves circling their starved mate—but trying to look civilized about it.

Abby comes up from behind you, handing you a glass of water and two painkillers. “For your pretty little head. It must be pounding right now” 

You noticed his extra caution and nervousness and it broke your heart a little bit even if it shouldn’t. You take the medicine. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, princess.” 

The room is bathed in silence after you take your medicine. Five pairs of eyes staring at you with longing and another emotion you were too afraid to acknowledge. Fondness? 

Love?

You shake your head at the thought. 

All of them couldn’t believe you were here. In their clothes sitting on their couch in their apartment. It was almost too good to be true. They had to be careful. They couldn’t afford to have you run like last time. 

Because they knew they wouldn’t just let you go now. Now that you’re here in their clutches. They’d make you stay.

Romance is the first to speak. “You’ve been dreaming of us.”

It isn’t a guess.

You swallow. Hard. “How do you know that?”

Mystery, curled up on a cushion across from you, answers in a low murmur. “Because we feel it when you do.”

You flinch. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Jinu steps forward slowly, crouching down like he’s afraid you’ll bolt. “The bond is active again.”

You cock your head to the side like a puppy. It was the cutest thing they’d ever seen. 

Baby’s fists tighten, resisting the urge to pounce on you.

Jinu speaks. “Your soul remembers. But your mind doesn’t. That’s why you feel sick during the day. Why you sleep like you’ve finally come home.”

He doesn’t touch you—but he gestures to the sketchbook on their coffee table. “You’ve been drawing us, haven’t you?”

You glance down. The sketchbook you didn’t bring with you. The one Mystery must have brought you. The pages are full of lines you don’t remember making. Faces. Threads. A burning palace. A blood moon. And five boys who all look like them.

“These don’t mean anything,” you say quietly. But your voice shakes.

Abby leans against the far wall, arms crossed. “You feel cold during the day. Like you’re not in your own skin.”

You nod slowly. “And you’ve been dizzy. Unsteady. Like something inside you is pulling.”

More nods. “That’s the bond, too.”

Romance sits down across from you, not too close. For once, he looks serious. “You don’t have to believe everything right now. But you feel it. Don’t you?”

“The thread. Between us.”

You try to speak.

Nothing comes out.

You stand up abruptly, putting the coffee table between you and all of them. They all flinch like they’re ready to catch you if you run. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’m having dreams that don’t feel like mine. I’m drawing with a hand that doesn’t feel like mine. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

Baby’s voice cuts in—calm and sharp. “You’re not losing your mind.”

“You’re remembering what was taken from you.”

You turn to Jinu, eyes wet with frustration. “Then explain it. Really explain it. No more riddles.”

Jinu takes a breath like it hurts to speak the words. The others go quiet. You feel the room shift—heavier. Like the bond itself is listening.

“You died.”

His voice is low. Steady. But grief hums under every syllable. “Four hundred years ago. You died. And it was my fault.”

He doesn’t blink. “I sold my soul to Gwi Ma for fame. I thought I wanted luxury, adoration—immortality. I got it. But then I met you.”

“You were just a girl. Bright. Human. Good. You saw me for what I was—a demon. And you stayed anyway.”

Your eyebrows raised at the mention of demon, but listened on, letting him finish.

“But I was selfish. And you paid the price. When you died, I begged Gwi Ma- the demon king to bring you back. He said no.”

His fists clench on his knees. And you began to think maybe he was crazy. A demon king? Really?

“So I made a deal. If I could bind other demons to your soul—build a tether strong enough to pull you back across lifetimes—he’d let you be reborn.”

He looks at you now. Really looks.

“And I did. I found them. Each one of us—Abby, Romance, Mystery, Baby—we lived lives tied to you. Not all at once. Not always together.”

“In every lifetime, you met one of us. You fell in love. You died. Again and again.”

Your breath catches in your throat and fear grips you. I died? Multiple times? Are they crazy? Every rational thought within you told you to reject this explanation. This Fairytale and yet…

When you looked into each of their eyes they were sincere. Jinu’s eyes holding so much truth so much anguish. Either they were psychos who believed their lies or…

It was all the truth. And that terrified you.

“You’ve lived dozens of lives, and in every one, your soul was trying to return to the pact.”

“Now… we’re all here. Together. Finally.”

“And your soul remembers.”

You sit frozen. The blood drains from your face. Your voice comes out broken: “So… I’m not me.”

Jinu’s expression shatters. He moves toward you slowly—like you’ll flee again. “You are you. You’re this lifetime’s version of her. But you’re more than this moment. You’re all the love, all the pain, all the choices you made to find your way back to us.”

Questions began swimming in your mind. Demons? They were demons? There was a Demon king, this Gwi Ma… it was all so crazy. Too crazy. Maybe too crazy to be a lie… How else would you explain this tether to them, this bond. How you’ve been feeling. The dreams, the sketches, the visions. It lines up with this story. 

Mystery whispers from the corner, cutting through your thoughts. “We missed you every time.”

There was a pain in his gaze, and you looked around to see that same pain reflected in everyone’s eyes. 

You needed more details. More explanations. Them not being human made sense, that was clear to you. But everything else, just seemed so bizarre to be true. Demons were real? You had been reincarnated? And they had loved you throughout those lifetimes? Their souls were tied to yours? 

Well, that last bit had you believing, because at least that last bit you actually felt.

It was all too crazy and you sighed, rubbing your temples. You didn’t want to believe them but somehow you just did. Like it all made sense. And deep down you knew it was the truth. 

You let the silence stretch. Something hot stings behind your eyes. “So what now?... You expect me to just—fall in love with you all?”

Baby answers this time. Voice low. Final. “No.”

“We expect you to remember that you already did.”

Your head is pounding. Not in a normal way. It feels like something is unraveling behind your eyes—memories that don’t belong to you pressing against the inside of your skull like water through cracked glass.

You close your eyes. The room spins. You hear a voice. Soft. Familiar.

“Don’t push her,” Jinu murmurs to the others. “She’s at the edge.”

You open your mouth, then close it again. You want to argue. Scream. Say it’s all ridiculous. Say you don’t believe in past lives or demons or fate.

But your heart won’t let you. And neither will the thread quietly tugging behind your ribs. You don’t realize you’ve sunk back onto the couch until Mystery is gently placing a pillow behind your head, his touch featherlight. He doesn’t speak. Just hums something low and wordless as your eyes flutter shut.

Your head still hurts, but less. The weight of everything presses down—and still, for the first time in days, you don’t feel alone.

Romance crouches nearby, hands on his knees, watching you through his lashes. “We’re not asking you to love us today.”

“We’re asking for a chance.”

Abby, his arms crossed, finally uncrosses them. “A chance to take care of you. Like we were supposed to.”

You open your eyes. The ceiling above you glows faintly with soft reflected light. There’s no sound but their breathing. And your own heartbeat.

“Just… a chance?” you whisper.

Jinu kneels beside the couch again. “That’s all.”

“And if I don’t remember?”

He smiles—small. Sad.

“Then we’ll give you a thousand new reasons to love us again.”

You don’t say yes.

But you don’t say no.

You close your eyes.

And this time, when the bond pulses gently at the base of your spine like a heartbeat that doesn’t belong to you…

You let it.

TO BE CONTINUED ───────── ༺🜃༻ ─────────

Author's note: Wahhh I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter as much as I did writing it! Things are picking up now and the ball is rolling. I sprinkled in a little bit of naughtiness there just to hint on eventual spice down the line... eventually, when it feels right! But let me know if you guys liked this one, reblog, comment, and like if you wish too! <3 Love y'all Willa x.

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Tag list: @faerie-soirxx@strayharmony943@ibby-miyoshi-nerd@anonymousewrites@cottonheadedninnymugggins@apelepikozume @moonlight-rosevine @yepitsmesendhelp @lovely-maryj @nonetheartist @ateezswonderland @sarah22447 @zuhaeri @enerofairy @littlemissfix-itfic @meeeegaaan

[ilovejb]

hi! I absolutely loved ur hurt/comfort for lewis!! I was wondering if you could write a fluffy hurt/comfort about him and the reader meeting on the set of top gun maverick? I found it so cute!!

| Altitude |

Pairing : Lewis Pullman x Actress!Reader

Summary: While filming Top Gun: Maverick, the stress of your first big role threatens to pull you under—until Lewis Pullman quietly becomes your anchor.

Warnings: Fluff, emotional hurt/comfort, kissing

Authors note : I need Lewis so bad I physically ache

The sun had just started rising over the San Diego base, spilling soft orange light over the tarmac. Fighter jets stood quiet and still, engines silent for now, as the film crew scurried into place like a hive waking up.

You sat on a folding chair near base camp, still dressed in your green flight suit, fingers nervously twisting the zipper up and down.

You were supposed to shoot a reaction scene today—just a couple of close-up shots, nothing huge—but the pressure was already curling inside your chest like smoke.

A few weeks into filming Top Gun: Maverick, and you were already losing sleep.

Everyone else seemed so chill. So confident. You were the new one. The last-minute addition to round out the squadron, an actress with a couple indie films under her belt, now surrounded by established names and Navy advisors barking out commands like you were actually on deployment.

You couldn’t breathe.

“Hey.”

The voice came gently, like a soft knock on the door to your panic.

You looked up and blinked.

Lewis Pullman stood beside you, holding two coffee cups in one hand and a granola bar in the other. His hair was a mess of curls under a backward cap, and he looked like he hadn’t quite woken up yet.

“You okay?” he asked, offering one of the coffees.

You hesitated, then took it with a murmured “thanks.”

He sat beside you without waiting for an invitation, resting the granola bar on the arm of your chair.

“You looked like you might be spiraling,” he said, not unkindly. “I’m a bit of a spiraler myself.”

You let out a breath that was half a laugh. “That obvious?”

“Only to another anxious person.”

You stared out at the runway, sipping the coffee. Silence stretched between you���comfortable, not awkward.

“I keep thinking I’m gonna be the weak link,” you admitted, voice low. “Like they’ll realize I’m not actually cut out for this.”

Lewis leaned back in his chair, letting the morning breeze ruffle his jacket.

“Wanna hear something crazy?” he said.

You nodded.

“I almost threw up before my first scene,” he confessed. “Full body nausea. Like, was sure I’d mess up and disappoint everyone.”

Your brows lifted. “You? But you seem so—”

“Put together?” he offered with a crooked smile. “That’s the trick. I act like I am until I believe it.”

You blinked at him, then looked down at the cup in your hands. His words sank in slowly.

He didn’t ask you to smile or tell you to ‘shake it off.’ He just let the feeling exist in the open. Like it didn’t make you weak. Like it was allowed.

That morning, Lewis stayed beside you until you were called to set. And when the cameras rolled and the director called “Action,” you caught a glimpse of him just off-frame, watching you.

Steady. Quiet. Soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Filming dragged on for weeks after that morning.

Between long days on the tarmac and evening flight training, everyone was running on caffeine and exhaustion. But something had shifted quietly for you.

Because every time you felt overwhelmed, you’d find Lewis nearby—offering a protein bar, a joke, or a quiet moment where you could just be without the cameras, the pressure, the pretend bravery.

And somehow, you started doing the same for him.

You learned he hated big crowds, got overstimulated by noise, and sometimes disappeared on lunch breaks just to sit in his car with music playing low. You started bringing him iced tea instead of coffee because he liked how “unserious” it felt. You teased him, gently, and he teased you right back—but it was always kind. Always safe.

And now, it was near the end of shooting.

The hotel where the cast stayed was unusually quiet—most people had flown home for a long weekend, but you and Lewis had opted to stay. Whether that was coincidence or intentional, neither of you said.

You were watching an old movie on his laptop, curled up at the foot of his bed in your hoodie and sweats, sharing popcorn with Lewis, who was half-propped against the headboard, socks mismatched and hair damp from a shower.

You had barely touched your popcorn, too distracted by the warmth in your chest every time he laughed at the screen.

When the movie ended, neither of you moved.

The only light in the room came from the streetlamp outside, casting faint gold patterns through the blinds. The silence that settled wasn’t awkward. Just… heavy. Expectant.

Lewis shifted, pulling the blanket over both your legs.

“Can I ask you something?” he said softly.

You glanced at him. “Of course.”

“What happens when this ends? Like—this movie. This bubble. Do we just… go back to real life like nothing happened?”

Your chest tightened.

“Is that what you want?” you asked.

He shook his head, slowly. “No. Not even close.”

You sat up straighter, your legs brushing his under the blanket.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had something like this,” you whispered. “Not just the movie, but… you. Us.”

He looked at you like he’d been waiting his whole life for those words.

“You make me feel like I’m not broken,” he said. “Like I don’t have to keep pretending to be confident all the time. Like I can just… exist. And you won’t leave.”

Your breath caught.

You reached up, hesitantly, and brushed your fingers through the curls above his forehead. His eyes fluttered shut at your touch like it physically calmed him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured.

He opened his eyes again, gaze burning now. “Can I kiss you?”

You nodded.

And the second his lips met yours, the world went quiet.

It wasn’t rushed or needy. It was anchored. Like his hands had finally found the thing they were meant to hold. One slid behind your neck, the other gripping your thigh under the blanket as you leaned into him, mouths moving in slow, tender sync.

You felt his sigh as your fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more—not in a lustful way, but like you were starving for connection.

His kiss deepened, lips parting as his tongue gently grazed yours, and you whimpered against him without meaning to. That sound made him pull you into his lap in one smooth movement, hands warm under your hoodie now, not groping—just touching, grounding you both.

When you finally pulled away, both of you breathless, your foreheads stayed pressed together.

“I think I’m in love with you,” Lewis said first, voice raw and almost shy.

Your heart flipped.

“I know I’m in love with you,” you whispered.

He laughed softly, pulling you in again, this time to press kisses to your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder.

“God, I was so scared,” he murmured. “Scared I’d lose you the second we left set.”

“You won’t,” you promised. “Not ever.”

You spent the rest of the night in his arms, whispering about your fears, your hopes, your dreams for life after the movie—like building a future wasn’t terrifying anymore, now that it included each other.

And when the sun came up over the Pacific, painting the room in soft morning light, Lewis was still holding you.

And you were still smiling.

[norristrii]

10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU.

Summer at the Leclercs’ was always easy—sun, sea, and your best friend Arthur by your side. But now Charles is back, older, bolder, and looking at you like you’re not a kid anymore. And suddenly, everything feels new, exciting, and a little dangerous.

pairing. Charles Leclerc x fem! reader. (bonus: platonic! Arthur Leclerc x fem! reader)

warnings. 11,6k words, best friend’s brother! charles (based on this post), summer romance, angst, fluff, mean! charles kinda, drinking alcohol, 3 years age gap, implied timeskips, badly proofread (sorry was too lazy).

YOU GREW UP IN MONACO, running barefoot through the streets and spending almost every day with Arthur Leclerc. He was your best friend, your partner in crime. The two of you were always getting into trouble, laughing too loud, and making every summer feel like a movie.

Arthur’s house became your second home. You knew every room, every smell, every sunlit corner of it.

And then there was Charles.

Arthur’s older brother. He was taller, moodier, and always seemed annoyed when he had to watch over you. He didn’t like missing out on plans because of “the kids,” and he never let you forget it.

There were a lot of things you hated about Charles Leclerc.

When you grew up, things changed. You moved away, found new streets to run on, new friends to laugh with. But you never lost touch with Arthur. Not really. There were messages, blurry video calls, bad jokes that still made you smile.

Still, your favorite part of the year was always summer.

Because every summer, you came back. Back to the sun, the sea, and the little town that still felt like yours. Back to the Leclercs’ house—your second home, even now.

This year, you were back again. The air smells the same, the sea still sparkles the way you remembered, and your heart raced faster than it should.

Because you were about to find out if you still hate all those things about Charles Leclerc.

─── 1: I HATE HOW YOU STILL CALL ME KID.

You were back. Finally.

The air smelled just as you remembered—salt from the Mediterranean curling into every breath, sunlight warming the pavement, and that familiar scent of citrus and expensive perfume that always clung to the Leclerc villa like a secret. It was the smell of summer, of comfort, of the place that shaped you. Coming home didn’t feel like going back. It felt like waking up.

“I missed you so much, Y/n,” Arthur said, his hand wrapped around the handle of your suitcase as he hoisted it up the stone steps like it weighed nothing. His voice was the same—familiar and easy. “Everyone’s already here. Even Charles,” he added casually, like the mention of his older brother didn’t land in your chest like a stone skipping across still water.

You hadn't seen Charles in five years.

You were nineteen the last time you saw him. Half-baked plans, scraped ambitions, and a heart still soft around the edges. You came back every summer since, but not once had his car pulled into the drive, not once had his voice echoed down the hallway. He was too busy chasing the dream you'd heard him whisper about when he thought no one was listening—Ferrari, podiums, the roar of the track.

Now you were twenty-four. You had your own life, your own routine, your own apartment with a loose drawer handle you never fixed. You had grown into a version of yourself that didn’t chase things anymore. But something about being here—this house, this moment, that name—unraveled you slightly. Softened edges you’d carefully carved out.

“Go wait on the terrace, I’ll be there in a sec,” Arthur said, nodding toward the tall glass doors that framed the golden light spilling onto the patio. His tone was casual, but your pulse wasn’t. You offered him a small smile—tight-lipped, trying to look like your heart wasn’t suddenly echoing in your ears—and stepped forward, the wheels of your suitcase clicking softly on the stone as you walked away..

The door gave easily, and as you stepped out, the familiar scent hit you like it had been waiting: warm salt air, blooming jasmine, sunscreen, and sea breeze rolling straight off the Mediterranean. Everything about it said home.

And then you saw him.

A figure stood at the far end of the terrace, lean frame silhouetted against the view of Monaco—postcard-perfect and glittering in the late afternoon sun. He hadn’t heard you at first, too caught in whatever thoughts the horizon was pulling from him. But the sound of the door clicking shut behind you must’ve given you away, because he shifted, turned.

Charles.

His name collided with your heartbeat.

He looked—different. Not unrecognizable, but older. Sharper around the edges. There was a mustache now, annoyingly well-suited to the shape of his face. His hair was longer, messier, starting to brush the tops of his ears like he didn’t care much for styling anymore. He wore a plain white T-shirt, one hand tucked into his back pocket like he had all the time in the world.

But the eyes—those were the same. Steady, unreadable, a shade too amused for your liking as they landed on you.

"Kid’s back in town?” he said, and the sound of his voice nearly tripped your step.

It was deeper than you remembered. Rougher. And somehow, that one line managed to undo five years of growing up.

You stiffened, heat creeping up the back of your neck. Of course he’d go straight for that.

“I’m twenty-four, actually,” you replied, sharper than intended. “I’m not a kid anymore.”

His eyes skimmed over you then—slowly, thoughtfully—not with the arrogance you braced for, but with something quieter. He was taking you in, cataloging the details: your longer hair, your steadier voice, the way you didn’t shrink beneath his gaze this time.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low and lazy. “I see that.”

Then, without missing a beat: “But for me, still a kid.”

He said it so easily. Like it wasn’t a knife disguised as a tease.

Like it didn’t sting the way it always had.

And still, your breath hitched. You hated that. You hated how much that one word could pull you backward. How five years dissolved into nothing the second he opened his mouth.

Worse, you hated that a part of you wasn’t sure whether it was anger or something else rising in your chest. Something more dangerous. Something like longing.

Your voice came out before you could stop it, sharper than intended, laced with something that had been sitting in your chest for too long. “Why did you disappear for five summers? And not even say anything?”

The words surprised even you, but the ache behind them was real. It had always hurt when he teased you—but it hurt just as much when he simply vanished.

Charles shifted, his shoulders tightening ever so slightly. “I was working.”

You let out a dry laugh, folding your arms. “Right. Living your dream. Must’ve been exhausting.”

His gaze flicked to you, more tired than annoyed. “It wasn’t as easy as it looked. We struggled for a few seasons—midfield car, no podiums. It wasn’t all champagne and celebrations.”

You shrugged, tone cool. “I wouldn’t know. I was busy working too.”

He tilted his head, studying you like he hadn’t expected that answer. But you didn’t flinch.

Charles didn’t answer right away. He just kept looking at you—not glancing, not brushing you off the way he used to. It was the kind of look that pulled threads loose. Like he was comparing memories with reality and realizing they didn’t quite match anymore.

The quiet stretched, and you felt it settle heavy in your chest.

Your gaze dropped to the terracotta tiles, their pattern suddenly fascinating. Anything to ground yourself. “You could’ve said something,” you murmured, softer now, the fight draining from your voice. “Even just a message.”

He exhaled slowly, raking a hand through his hair, and for the first time he looked like he might feel it too. The absence. The distance. The weight of what wasn’t said.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “I know.”

Before the moment could tilt too far, Arthur’s voice cut through the haze.

He appeared behind you, all bright energy and innocence, throwing an arm around your shoulder. “So,” he grinned, “how’s the big reunion going?”

You didn’t even look at Charles. Your reply was sharp, dry, and laced with more than a little salt.

“Perfect.”

─── 2: I HATE HOW YOU LOOK AT ME.

The morning sun spilled across the terrace like honey, painting the table in gold and warmth. Plates clinked, cutlery scraped gently against ceramic, and the scent of fresh espresso mingled with ripe melon and toasted bread. You sat across from Charles, barely breathing, trying to pretend you hadn’t noticed the way he kept watching you.

Arthur was in the middle of a story—loud, animated, waving a spoon around for emphasis. “—and I swear, we thought it was our boat. It had the same name, didn’t it? I mean, what are the odds, right? We were halfway into the harbor when this man comes running down the dock yelling in Italian—like actual yelling. Y/n looks at me and goes, ‘Arthur, why is that man pointing at us?’ And then—wait, wait—this is the best part—she hits the throttle!”

His voice was all sunlight and nostalgia, his laughter easy and infectious. Around the table, someone chuckled; someone else swore they remembered it differently. But for you, Arthur’s voice was more like background music—a melody you loved, but couldn’t really hear right now.

Not when Charles was sitting right across from you.

He hadn’t said much. Just sipped his coffee, eyes half-lidded behind sunglasses he didn’t need anymore. But you could feel his gaze burning into your skin. Not teasing, not mocking—something slower. He looked at you like you were something he didn’t expect to find again. Like he was trying to memorize you without letting on.

And you hated it.

You hated how your fork paused in midair when you felt his eyes again. How your skin heated under the weight of it. How every glance felt like a wordless conversation you weren’t ready for.

Arthur was still talking—“…and she’s shouting at me over the wind like, ‘Do you even know how to steer?!’ Like I ever had a chance, Y/n, you were the one pressing buttons like it was Mario Kart—”

But his voice had faded now. The table, the clatter, the laughter—it all blurred behind the silence stretching between you and Charles. The silence said more than Arthur ever could.

Because Charles wasn’t just looking at you.

He was seeing you.

And that terrified you more than anything else.

The second you stood, his eyes followed. Of course they did.

“Sorry—bathroom,” you muttered, not meeting anyone’s gaze as you pushed your chair back. Arthur was too deep into a tale about someone’s disastrous karaoke night to notice, but you could feel Charles watching you leave. You didn’t need to look to know.

The hallway was cooler, quieter. You stepped into the bathroom, closed the door, and exhaled like you hadn’t breathed properly all morning.

You braced your hands against the sink, heart pounding in your ears. You hadn’t expected it to be like this. The staring. The tension. The way his eyes felt like a hand on your skin, pulling something up from the inside that you thought you'd buried years ago.

You looked at yourself in the mirror. Same face. Same mouth. Just… different somehow. You hadn’t changed overnight. But the way he looked at you made it feel like you had.

And you hated that.

You hated that his stare said things he’d never said out loud. You hated how your body responded, like it hadn’t gotten the memo that you were supposed to be over him.

You gripped the edges of the sink one last time, the porcelain cool beneath your fingertips. Your reflection stared back at you, chest still rising and falling too fast, eyes too wide like they’d seen something they weren’t ready for. You'd come in here to breathe—to break whatever invisible thread was pulling taut across the breakfast table. But even behind a closed door, that look had followed you.

You ran your hands under the tap, splashed cool water on your cheeks, and closed your eyes. It helped. Not enough—but just enough to move again.

You dried your hands slowly, counted to five under your breath, and opened the door.

And there he was.

Standing in the hallway like he belonged there—which of course, he did—but to you, in that moment, it felt suffocating. His arms were crossed loosely over his chest, posture relaxed, but his eyes were anything but. Focused. Watchful. Like he’d been waiting.

You stopped short. “Charles!” The name escaped like a reflex, startled and sharp.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t apologize. Just looked at you. That same heavy gaze that you’d run from minutes ago. Quiet. Curious. Too much.

You swallowed hard, throat tight. “Can you stop looking at me like that?”

Still, he said nothing at first. Just tilted his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours.

And then, finally, that voice—low, slow, achingly calm.

“You’ve changed so much, kid.”

─── 3: I HATE HOW YOU ALWAYS WIN.

It took you a while to adjust to the new version of Charles—the older, quieter, more unreadable one. He wasn’t exactly the boy you remembered, and yet… being around him felt frustratingly easy. Too easy. As if no real time had passed at all.

What surprised you most wasn’t how much he’d changed—but how little it mattered.

You, Charles, and Arthur sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the big TV, pillows and half-finished drinks scattered around like evidence of a lazy afternoon. The sun was dipping outside, turning the windows soft gold.

“Loser pays for drinks,” Arthur announced, wiggling his controller like a sword. “No excuses.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You always say that after you’ve had a practice round.”

Charles leaned back slightly, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s because he cheats on the practice round,” he said. His voice was smooth, low. Relaxed in a way that made your skin buzz.

Arthur gasped dramatically. “I do not cheat! I am simply… fast.”

“Fast at losing,” you muttered, smirking as you selected your go-to Mario Kart character.

Your kart was spinning, bananas flying, and your voice rising above the chaos. “You idiot!” you shouted, smacking Arthur on the arm as his character swerved in front of yours, blocking your path on Rainbow Road. “Get out of my way!”

Arthur was already laughing, wheezing through his half-shouted apology. “It was an accident! I swear, I didn’t mean—”

But whatever excuse he was making got drowned out by the sound of Charles erupting into laughter beside you.

Not just the usual chuckle, either—full-on, head-thrown-back, eyes-crinkling kind of laughter. It tumbled out of him, warm and boyish and utterly unguarded.

And then—he leaned into you.

Barely. Just enough for his shoulder to press against yours, solid and warm through the thin cotton of your shirt. He didn't pull away. Didn’t even seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and that was worse.

You froze for a beat.

Just long enough to miss the next turn.

Your kart plummeted off the side of the track.

“Are you serious?” you groaned, eyes wide, “Now you’re in my way!”

But Charles just kept laughing.

And for a moment, you almost did too.

Except now your heart was racing, and it had nothing to do with the game.

You barely had time to recover before another green shell flew across the screen and sent your kart careening into a wall.

“Arthur!” you shrieked. “Are you targeting me on purpose?!”

He doubled over beside you. “I swear I’m not—I’m just chaotic neutral!”

“You’re just chaotic!” you snapped, frantically mashing buttons as your character respawned in 12th place.

“Hey,” Charles cut in, voice smug but smooth, “try staying on the track next time.”

You whipped around, glaring at him. “Try not breathing so loudly. It’s distracting.”

It was complete, unfiltered mayhem. Controllers clicking like mad. Arthur howling. You yelling threats you had no intention of following through on. And Charles—silent but deadly—always three moves ahead, glancing at you from the corner of his eye with that maddening grin he tried to pretend wasn’t there.

When the race ended—Charles in first, of course—you threw your controller onto the rug in mock defeat. “I hate how you always win.”

He leaned back on his hands, eyes glinting. “Then get better.”

Arthur gasped. “Ooooh, the audacity!“

You lunged for a throw pillow and launched it across the room.

It hit Charles square in the chest. He didn’t even flinch—just tossed it right back.

And for the first time in a long time, you forgot to be guarded.

You just laughed.

Arthur had barely finished laughing when another pillow flew through the air—this time from Charles. You ducked, but not fast enough. It clipped your shoulder and sent you twisting, more out of laughter than anything else.

“Oh, you want to play dirty?” you challenged, scrambling for a second cushion.

Charles didn’t answer. He just lunged.

You shrieked, tossing a pillow wildly in his direction, but he dodged with infuriating ease and caught your wrist instead. In the next breath, you were flat on your back on the rug, giggling uncontrollably as Charles loomed over you with a wicked grin.

“Charles—don’t you dare—”

But he did.

His fingers found your ribs and you shrieked again, dissolving into breathless laughter as he tickled you without mercy. Your legs kicked. Your hands flailed. Arthur howled in the background, absolutely no help at all.

“Say you surrender!” Charles laughed, breathless himself now.

“Never!” you gasped, tears in your eyes from laughing so hard.

“You’re stubborn,” he murmured, still grinning, “just like I remember.”

Eventually, you gave up, limp from laughter, panting against the carpet. He stopped tickling, resting back on his heels as he looked down at you, the edges of his smile softening.

Arthur declared something about needing a refill and disappeared into the kitchen, still cackling to himself.

And for a moment, the room was quiet again.

You lay there, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, heart thudding far too fast.

Charles was still watching you—but this time there was no smirk, no teasing. Just a calm, quiet recognition in his eyes. Like something had settled between you.

It felt reckless. Familiar. Like right before a storm, or right before a kiss.

Like summer had finally come home.

Charles shifted beside you, the pillow slipping from his hands as the last echoes of laughter faded into a quieter kind of silence. The kind that settles when the chaos dies down but the feeling lingers—bright and warm and heavy in all the right places.

You were still catching your breath, head tipped back against the couch, hair in every direction, chest rising and falling a little too quickly. He was close. Not in the accidental way. In the way that happens when neither of you decides to move.

You turned your head just slightly, and there he was—watching you again. But not with that sharp, impossible gaze from breakfast. This one was softer. Like he was remembering something and seeing it completely differently this time.

“What,” you whispered, a laugh still stuck in your throat, “you gonna say I’m still a kid after that performance?”

Charles gave a small smile, not the smug one he wore during Mario Kart victories. This one was real. Quiet. Thoughtful. “You’ve got fight in you,” he said softly, almost to himself.

You raised an eyebrow. “I always did.”

“I know,” he said. And the way he said it made your breath stutter again.

Outside, the light shifted into that golden hour glow. The kind that softened every corner and turned even old memories into something cinematic.

Arthur shouted something from the kitchen—something about cocktails and “where’s the damn ice?”—and the moment cracked just slightly, letting a breeze of normalcy back in.

You sat up, brushing your fingers through your hair. “We should probably go help before he burns the house down.”

Charles stood and offered you a hand without a word.

You took it.

─── 4: I HATE HOW YOU MAKE ME LAUGH.

It was far too late for you to be awake. The villa had gone still hours ago, the only sounds outside your window were the gentle lap of waves and the occasional rustle of night wind in the palms. Everyone else was sleeping off wine and laughter, the kind of drowsy contentment that came with salt-soaked skin and sun-kissed shoulders.

But not you.

Sleep refused to come, your thoughts coiled tight beneath your skin. Every shift beneath the sheets only stirred more questions—about him, about tonight, about the way he looked at you like he saw something he wasn’t ready to admit either.

Then came the knock.

Soft. Barely there.

Two polite taps against the wood, like someone trying not to be caught.

Your pulse skipped.

“You up?” Charles’s voice was quiet, almost careful. The kind of careful that made you think he’d been standing there for a minute, hand hovering, debating whether to knock at all.

You blinked at the door. What the hell was he doing here at—what? Two in the morning?

You threw the covers back and padded over, unsure if you were annoyed, curious, or worse—excited.

You cracked the door open just wide enough to peer out. He stood barefoot in the hallway, hoodie slung loose over his frame, curls messy from sleep or maybe indecision. His expression was unreadable. But he was here.

“No,” you said flatly, though the corner of your mouth betrayed you with the ghost of a smirk.

His grin was already trouble the moment it curled up the side of his face. “Wanna go swimming?” he asked, voice hushed like a secret he was daring you to share.

You narrowed your eyes, arms crossed loosely over your sleep shirt. “Now? You want to sneak out? Are we seventeen?”

The roll of your eyes was automatic. But your smile—damn it—gave you away.

He didn’t miss it. “Just like when we were teenagers,” he said, smirking with a warmth that made the hallway feel ten degrees hotter.

You paused. Thought about the cool water, the hush of the waves, the moonlit grin of a boy who knew exactly which part of your brain still belonged to summers past.

“Give me five minutes,” you muttered, already turning to grab your towel.

He nodded once, already turning with that smug, unbothered confidence that somehow hadn’t faded with time. “I’ll be waiting at the dock,” he said over his shoulder, voice low, almost teasing. The hallway swallowed him up, and the air felt warmer for it.

You closed the door and leaned back against it, pulse thrumming just beneath your skin. It was ridiculous. Reckless. Exactly what you weren’t supposed to be doing.

And yet—five minutes later, you were slipping into the hoodie you always stole from him back then, your swimsuit underneath, towel in hand, tiptoeing barefoot down cool stone steps toward the water.

The moon sat high, casting silver ripples across the bay, and the yacht rocked gently against its ropes like it had been holding this secret just for the two of you. Charles was already there, one hand on the railing, waiting. When he saw you, his expression didn’t shift—not really—but something in it softened.

“Nice hoodie,” he said.

You rolled your eyes again, but your mouth twitched. “Still smells like you.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Is that a complaint?”

You ignored him, stepping onto the deck. The sea shimmered like glass all around you, and suddenly everything felt too quiet, too close.

“It looks so cold,” you muttered, tugging the hoodie—his hoodie—over your head. The salty air kissed your bare skin, sharp with night chill, and goosebumps rose instantly along your arms.

You padded to the edge of the yacht, eyes on the water, but you could feel it—him. That unmistakable weight of his gaze trailing over you, pausing like punctuation, drinking in every inch with quiet certainty.

You turned, and your eyes met.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting. A smirk, maybe. A smart remark. But what you found was steadier than all of that. Intent. Like he knew something you didn’t—or maybe just wasn't afraid to admit what you both had stopped pretending not to feel.

And just when your lips parted to say something—anything—

His arms wrapped around your waist.

“What the—Charles!”

But you didn’t get to finish.

He lifted you, fast and without warning, laughter already catching in his chest. You shouted, twisting in his grip, but it was too late. You were airborne—both of you—and then falling.

The world paused.

You weren’t in the water yet, but your stomach had already dropped.

“You absolute asshole!” you yelled, just as the sea swallowed you.

Cold and wild and breath-stealing. You surfaced sputtering, hair slicked back, a curse halfway out of your mouth when he popped up beside you, grinning like the devil.

“You were taking too long,” he said, brushing hair from his eyes

You laughed—harder than you had in weeks. The kind of laugh that left your ribs aching and your voice cracking, tangled somewhere between disbelief and pure, breathless joy. The sea cradled you both in its cool hush, waves rising gently around your shoulders as you swam closer to him, every stroke slow and easy like the night had finally let you go.

“You are such an idiot, Charles,” you managed between gasps, your grin wide and irrepressible as another giggle slipped through. Water beaded along your collarbones, your skin flushed with the thrill of it all—of sneaking out, of salt on your lips, of him.

He floated nearby, treading water with casual grace, that infuriatingly confident smirk still pulling at the corner of his mouth. “You love it,” he said, his voice low and smooth, rippling across the water like a secret.

Maybe you did.

You drifted forward, slow and unhurried, like the water itself had drawn you toward him. It was barely more than a ripple, but the space between you vanished. His hand found your waist again, confident but gentle, fingers steadying you like the water might carry you away if he let go.

You didn’t realize how close you'd come until you were looking directly into his eyes—dark and lit by the shimmer of moonlight, reflecting something quiet but impossible to ignore.

Then his hand rose slowly, fingertips brushing your cheek before pushing a wet strand of hair behind your ear. The contact was featherlight but deliberate. Like he needed an excuse to touch you, and that one moment was all he dared to take. You forgot to breathe.

“You’re driving me insane,” you said, the words slipping out on the edge of a laugh. You meant it to be teasing—sharp, flippant—but the way it caught in your throat gave too much away.

He didn’t respond immediately. Just looked at you like that was exactly the effect he’d been hoping for.

And still—you laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it was safer than silence. Safer than admitting what was happening between the laughter and the splash fights and the way his thumb had drifted from your waist to rest just above your ribs.

You hated that even now, with the ocean holding you both in its quiet cradle, you couldn’t stop smiling. That your body kept reacting like it remembered this version of him—warm, close, daring—before your mind could catch up.

His eyes flicked down, barely a breath, to your mouth. Then back up.

Not cocky. Not assuming. But sure.

Sure that he could kiss you right now.

Sure that you wouldn’t stop him.

He was watching you again—really watching. Like the only thing he could see in this whole endless dark was you.

“Charles…” you started, but you didn’t even know where the sentence was going.

Then—just as your lips parted, just as your eyes flicked down in that barely-there way that meant you could—

A clatter.

Somewhere nearby. Metallic. Sharp.

Your heads whipped toward the source instinctively—a boat hook had slid off the deck railing and clanged against the rail with enough noise to shatter the fragile quiet.

You sucked in a breath. He let out a muttered curse under his.

And then, from the far-off shore, Arthur’s voice carried like a warning flare: “If you two are making out, at least wait ‘til I’m asleep!”

You both blinked. Froze. And then burst into laughter again—real, ridiculous, too-loud laughter that cracked the silence and brought you crashing back to earth.

Charles leaned in, forehead briefly against yours in mock defeat, still chuckling under his breath.

“I swear, he times these things.”

You didn’t move. Just let yourself float there with him, tangled in the could-have-beens and the not-quites.

─── 5: I HATE HOW YOU SAY MY NAME.

It wouldn’t be summer at the Leclercs’ without a chaotic night at your favorite club—the one with sticky floors, neon signs, and exactly zero self-control. The bass vibrated through your bones, sweat-slick bodies packed wall to wall, drinks flowing like Monaco didn’t believe in hangovers.

And, of course, this time you were paying.

So naturally, Charles had been at the bar like it was a personal challenge. Three shots in, he was charming. Five shots in, dangerous. By the seventh, he was gone.

Now he swayed through the crowd with a glazed grin, sunglasses (where had he even found those?) perched crookedly on his nose, mouthing lyrics he didn’t know while dancing in a way that could only be described as... enthusiastic.

You and Arthur had been dancing near him, sharing glances every time he nearly tripped over nothing or saluted the DJ with a full drink in hand.

“Should I take him out?” you asked, leaning close to Arthur so your voice didn’t get swallowed by the bass. Close enough that your breath brushed his ear.

Arthur shrugged without looking too concerned. “Maybe.” Then he turned his head, giving you a far-too-knowing look. “Do you need help?”

You narrowed your eyes, shaking your head with a roll of your own. “No.”

Of course not. You knew Charles’s drunk rhythms better than anyone.

You cut through the crowd and caught his wrist mid-dance, halting him just before he could spin himself directly into a group of strangers. His skin was warm and damp under your fingers, his whole body still moving like the music hadn’t let him go yet.

“Time to go, buddy,” you said, tugging gently.

But Charles just blinked at you, lids heavy, hair sticking to his forehead, and smiled the slowest, most devastating grin. He leaned in—closer than necessary, breath brushing your temple—and mumbled, slurring ever so slightly, “You look so hot when you’re responsible, Y/n.”

You froze. Not because of the words—but because of the way he said them. No teasing lilt. No smugness. Just soft, honest awe. It landed somewhere dangerously deep in your chest, like gravity changed direction for a second.

“Oh god,” you muttered, looking anywhere but at his eyes.

He tilted his head, clearly pleased with your reaction and entirely unaware of the emotional war he’d just started inside you. “What?” he asked, grinning like he'd just won something.

You gritted your teeth and started guiding him toward the exit, trying not to trip on your own thoughts. Outside, the air was cooler, laced with sea breeze and the echo of muffled bass from inside. The cobblestones were uneven beneath your heels, and Charles wobbled dramatically, clinging to your arm like you were the only thing anchoring him.

“I’m fiiine,” he said as you helped him down the steps. “Just... tired. But you’re very pretty.”

“You already said that,” you muttered, but your cheeks betrayed you.

He dropped himself onto the curb like the weight of the night had finally caught up to him, elbows resting on his knees, head slightly bowed. The streetlights cast a soft gold glow over his face, making his flushed cheeks and unfocused eyes look even younger than usual.

You hovered nearby, arms crossed, watching him with a sigh that came from somewhere deeper than just annoyance.

He looked up at you—slow, lazy—his eyes wide and glassy and far too sincere. That kind of drunk honesty that clung to the edges of everything he said.

“You’re so beautiful, Y/n,” he slurred again, voice thick and slow like honey warmed too long.

You rolled your eyes, even as your stomach did a quiet, inconvenient flip. “You’ve already said that, Charles. Twice.”

“I meant it both times,” he said, lifting one hand to gesture vaguely, as if his words needed space to land. “I’d say it a third. I’d say it a hundred. You’re—” He paused, squinting at you, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “You’re drop-dead gorgeous. Like, movie-scene gorgeous. Like… I’d die for you.”

You froze for a second, your breath catching somewhere between disbelief and reluctant softness.

“Okay,” you said, crouching in front of him. “That’s enough compliments for one night.”

“I’m serious,” he murmured, voice dipping low, suddenly quieter. “You don’t get it. You never got it.”

He was still slouched on the curb, the fluorescent spill of the streetlight painting soft shadows along the line of his jaw. You watched him, your arms crossed, trying to mask the chaos bubbling just beneath your skin. You'd seen Charles drunk before—knew the rhythms of his laughter, his stumbles, the way his charm dialed up to blinding—but this? This was different. The words that had slipped from his mouth weren’t tossed out for effect. They had landed with a weight you hadn’t been ready for.

“Y/n, mon amour,” he repeated again, quieter this time. Like maybe he liked the way it sounded in the air between you. Like maybe he’d been saying it in his head for years and only now had found the nerve to speak it aloud. His French curled around the words, gentle and devastating. It made your name sound like something delicate. Sacred.

“I think about you all the time,” he said. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, no longer teasing but soft, unexpectedly vulnerable. “Like… damn.” He chuckled to himself—an embarrassed sort of sound—and you could see the pink bloom across his cheeks, deeper than the flush from the alcohol. “I’ve been in love with you since like… forever.”

You felt the ache bloom slowly in your chest. It was a strange kind of ache—familiar and foreign all at once. Because in some impossible way, it made perfect sense. Like maybe you’d been waiting to hear those words your whole life and just didn’t know it. But before you could say anything, before you could let yourself feel anything, he added quietly, “But Arthur would probably kill me, you know how he is.”

And there it was—the unspoken name that always hovered like a ghost in the space between you. Arthur. His brother. Your best friend. The tether that had kept you both firmly rooted in the land of what-ifs and never-coulds. You swallowed hard, trying to find air in lungs that had forgotten how to expand.

Charles didn’t seem to notice your silence. Or maybe he did, and chose to fill it anyway. “Just look at you,” he whispered, voice low, almost reverent. “Who wouldn’t love you, darling?”

You crouched down next to him, knees brushing the edge of his thigh. He turned toward you slowly, his eyes glassy, but still full of everything he hadn’t said. Your name sounded dangerous in his mouth now. Like a truth he couldn’t stop telling.

─── 6: I HATE HOW YOU KNOW ME BETTER THAN ANYONE.

You hadn’t talked about it.

Not the things he’d said on the curb. Not the way he’d looked at you like you were the center of every blurry constellation in his mind. Not the way your name had fallen from his mouth in that accent of his—careless and reverent at the same time.

And definitely not the night swim. The moonlight. The silence that had almost turned into something else.

You’d both slipped back into the rhythm of summer like nothing had cracked beneath the surface. No one mentioned it. Arthur was clueless. Everyone else was oblivious.

And now—now it was just you and Charles in the kitchen. Late afternoon sun filtering in through the shutters, making the countertops glow. A bowl of half-sliced watermelon sat between you, juice bleeding into a paper towel. The hum of the fridge. The rhythmic thud of a knife against the cutting board. Your wet bikini clung uncomfortably to your skin, the water from your hair dripping onto the marble floor and leaving little trails behind you.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

“Can you pass me a bowl?” Charles asked, not loudly. His voice was gentle, like he was being careful with it.

You didn’t look up. Just reached for a clean one from the open cabinet and passed it to him wordlessly.

His fingers brushed yours. Briefly. Deliberately?

You didn’t ask. Didn’t meet his gaze. But you could feel it anyway—resting on your temple, drifting across your collarbone, dragging slowly down to where your hair was still damp against your shoulder.

The silence stretched. Thick. Charged. Still pretending to be casual. You sliced another strawberry. A little too hard this time.

You hadn’t said much in days. Not since *that* night. You stuck close to Arthur, keeping conversations quiet and safe, using him as a shield from what the rest of the world—what Charles—might still remember.

So when Charles finally spoke, it landed like something breaking. “Are you okay?” His voice was careful, but not distant. Not forced. He was watching you again, really watching. “You’ve been quiet lately.” You didn’t look up. You didn’t have to. Of course he noticed. Charles always noticed. He knew how loud you were meant to be, how your voice usually filled spaces and your laugh skipped over tile floors and soft poolside evenings like it belonged in every corner of his summer. Now, you barely made a sound.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically, your voice clipped and too polished to be honest. And maybe you hoped he’d let it slide. Maybe if you delivered it with just enough steadiness, he wouldn’t ask again.

But he didn’t back off. Instead, Charles stepped closer—not enough to touch, but enough that you could feel his gaze trying to reach beneath your skin. “C’mon, Y/n,” he murmured, voice just low enough to feel private in the open room. “I’ve known you long enough to know when something’s off.”

You said nothing, eyes still locked on the cutting board as if the watermelon rind would answer for you. You didn’t expect what he said next.

“You’re doing that thing,” he said, softer now. “With the corner of your lip.”

Your breath caught in your throat, subtle but sharp. That hit in a way you weren’t prepared for. It was something tiny. A detail. Something so easily missed, even by people who claimed to know you inside out. Arthur hadn’t noticed. No one had ever said it aloud. And yet here Charles was—casually cracking open a part of you you hadn’t even known you were showing.

It wasn’t fair. That he could do that. That he could see through the armor you’d spent days, maybe years, building up. You hated how it rattled you, how it made your fingers falter just slightly on the knife. You hated even more the warmth blooming in your chest—because maybe, deep down, you wanted someone to notice. And it had to be him. Of course it was him.

You finally looked at him, really looked, and saw that he wasn’t teasing. His gaze was steady, unwavering, all the warmth stripped of charm—just the quiet kind of concern that only comes from someone who’s paid too much attention for too long.

“You know you can tell me anything,” Charles said, voice low and careful, like he was handling something fragile—like maybe he was handling you.

Your grip tightened around the edge of the counter. “I’m just—” You stopped, jaw clenching as emotion scraped against the back of your throat. “I’m just fucking confused, Charles.”

You tried to sound annoyed, sharp, anything but shaken. But it cracked at the end, too raw to hide.

His brows pulled together, but he didn’t interrupt.

You drew in a shaky breath and pressed on, your voice quieter, tremor riding every syllable. “I thought… I thought there was never gonna be anything between us. Especially not from your side. You were always joking. Flirting. But I figured it was just... you being you. And now—” You shook your head, words starting to tumble faster, too much and not enough. “And now you say these things. And I feel like you want me but maybe only halfway. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.”

Your chest rose and fell faster now. You hated that your eyes were stinging. You hated even more that he was still just standing there—quiet, listening, like he wasn’t going to run.

Charles exhaled slowly, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not halfway.”

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard him right.

He took a step closer. “It was never halfway.”

The silence that followed was thunderous, vibrating between your ribs. You turned slightly, your hand now resting on the counter more to steady yourself than anything else.

“You’re not just another person I flirt with, Y/n,” he said, and you could hear the weight in his voice now. “I joke around because I’m scared. Because what I feel for you doesn’t fit into something simple or easy or casual.”

You turned your head, eyes meeting his, and what you saw there unraveled something in you—honesty, fear, hope, all tangled together.

Charles stood quiet for a moment, watching the way your fingers clenched the edge of the counter, like if you let go you might fall apart entirely. There was something in your eyes that made his throat tighten—vulnerability you hadn’t meant to show, heartbreak you hadn’t had words for until just now.

He stepped forward again, slower this time, and leaned slightly against the island across from you. “I should’ve told you sooner,” he said, his voice rough at the edges. “God, I wanted to. So many times. But I didn’t want to ruin what we already had. I thought maybe if I kept it to myself, it’d go away. That I could just... be near you and be fine.”

He swallowed hard, eyes not leaving yours. “But I wasn’t fine. I never was. I’ve been carrying this thing around for years—this stupid, constant, inconvenient feeling. And I didn’t know how to give it to you without making everything harder.”

You stared at him, and for a second, the ache in your chest felt too heavy to speak around. But the words came anyway—fragile, but true. “Then why say it now? Why wait until you’re drunk and I’m already trying to forget how much it almost meant?”

Charles looked down, then back up, eyes glassy and unguarded. “Because pretending it didn’t matter hurt more than the idea of losing everything.”

A silence fell, thick and trembling between you.

Your voice broke it first. “I don’t know how to be your friend after this.”

His lips crashed into yours with no warning—just heat and certainty and a kind of desperation that had nothing to do with impulse and everything to do with time. Years of restraint, half-swallowed words, and silent moments that had begged for more—all of it spilled out in the space of a single breathless kiss.

His hands settled on your hips like they’d belonged there all along, steady and warm, grounding you even as your world tipped on its axis. You didn’t move at first. Maybe from shock. Maybe because deep down, you’d imagined this exact moment a hundred times and still never expected it would feel quite like this—both inevitable and completely surreal.

Your breath caught in your throat as he pulled back, just an inch, his forehead barely brushing yours. He was close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath against your lips, close enough to see the way his eyelashes fluttered before his eyes opened again, searching yours for permission—or apology. Neither of you spoke. Not yet. The quiet buzzed between you, too fragile to break.

“I can’t do this to Arthur,” you whispered, your voice frayed and trembling, the words escaping before you could hold them back. Guilt coiled instantly, sharp and familiar, winding around the base of your ribs and tightening with every syllable. Even saying his name aloud in that moment felt like betrayal. Your arms were still around Charles. His hands were still on you. But everything inside you had started to ache with the weight of what this meant.

Charles didn’t move away. His gaze didn’t waver. “I know,” he said softly, and his voice wasn’t defensive—it was resigned. Honest. A quiet confession of a boundary he never wanted to cross but already had.

“I know,” he repeated, and something in the way he said it made your chest ache. Because he wasn’t just saying it about Arthur. He was saying it about all of it. The guilt. The risk. The impossibility of pretending this hadn’t just happened.

─── 7: I HATE HOW YOU ALWAYS HAVE SOMETHING TO SAY.

Those days felt almost unreal—like living inside a warm, slow-motion dream you knew couldn’t last. You and Charles kept falling into each other easily, effortlessly. Whispered jokes over breakfast. The way his fingers would brush your lower back as he passed behind you. Shared looks that lingered a little too long across sunlit rooms.

But always—always—there was Arthur.

He wasn’t saying anything, but he didn’t need to. You felt it. In the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore. The way he’d glance up when you laughed with Charles, and then look away just as fast. Like he was bracing for the confirmation he didn’t want. And when he’d sit at the table with you both, his hands wrapped around a glass too tight, pretending not to notice the space between you narrowing… you knew.

Charles noticed it too. You caught him watching Arthur sometimes—subtle, cautious. Like he was waiting for him to say something. But Arthur didn’t. Not yet.

The silence between the three of you was turning into something dense. Fragile.

And you could feel it bending.

The afternoon sun cast golden stripes across the stone terrace, the air thick with late summer haze and the fading scent of oranges from the grove below. You sat perched on a cushioned bench, legs draped lazily over Charles’ lap, one of his hands idly tracing circles just above your knee as you laughed at something dumb—some ridiculous childhood story involving a treehouse, jellybeans, and a poorly timed wasp. He was smiling, easy and warm, the way he always got when he felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of you.

And for a few fragile seconds, it almost felt normal.

Then the sliding door creaked open behind you. Arthur stepped onto the terrace.

You felt it instantly—the shift. The way laughter collapsed in your throat. The way Charles' hand froze. You moved quickly, instinctively, pulling your legs back to the floor with an awkward glance down, like maybe if you didn't look at him, it wouldn’t look like what it was.

Arthur didn’t say anything at first. He walked to the table, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, and sat in the chair across from you with a calmness that felt louder than shouting.

He didn’t look at either of you when he spoke. “That’s okay,” he said, voice even but heavy. “You can keep them there.”

You didn’t move.

“I’m glad you two are getting along,” he added, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the railing, past the olive trees, toward the blue stretch of sea where no one had to answer for anything.

Charles sat a little straighter, eyes narrowing, the sudden shift in tone igniting something defensive beneath his skin. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, not cold, but edged enough to invite tension. The humor was gone.

Arthur let out a dry, clipped breath, half a laugh, half disbelief. “I think you know exactly what it means,” he murmured, his eyes still on the water. “I’ve seen it.”

Charles ran a hand down his face like he was trying to smooth out the moment, but his words came sharp anyway. “If you have a problem, just fucking say it.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched. When he finally looked over, the disappointment in his eyes landed like a punch you’d been bracing for—but still knocked the wind out of you. “Alright,” he said. “My problem? Maybe it’s that you’re sleeping with my best friend and acting like it’s just another one of your harmless flings.”

The words dropped heavy and final, like a door slamming that neither of you had the courage to close. You could feel Charles bristle beside you, but he forced a scoff, masking his tension with mockery. “Oh, so what, you’re jealous? Is that it, little brother?”

Your stomach twisted. The shift in Charles was subtle but sharp—his voice too calm, too practiced. You reached to nudge his knee under the table, but it didn’t slow him.

Arthur let out a sharp breath, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “I’m not jealous, you idiot. I’m disappointed you didn’t tell me,” he said, shaking his head like even speaking it aloud stung more than he expected.

His voice wasn’t raised, but it hit hard—each word clipped, careful, hurt wrapped in sarcasm he couldn’t quite control.

He turned toward Charles first. “I saw the way you looked at her for years. You think I didn’t notice? I expected this from you, honestly. The flirting.“

Then his eyes landed on you. And this time, they didn’t waver.

“But you?” he said, softer now—but sharper somehow. “I didn’t think you’d be that easy to pull in. I didn’t think you’d make it that easy to leave me out.”

Charles spoke before you could even form a thought. “Maybe it’s time you accept she’s not yours to protect forever,” he said, his voice colder than the air between them.

Your heart sank. Oh god, no. Not like this.

“Charles!” you snapped, your voice cutting through the tension. “That’s enough.”

Arthur turned, something flickering behind his eyes—hurt, betrayal, something years old finally surfacing. “I wasn’t trying to own her,” he said, voice rising just enough to crack. “I was trying to make sure she didn’t get dragged into your mess like everyone else.”

Then, with a bitter scoff, “You’ve always been good at talking, Charles. Never been great at staying.”

He shook his head and stepped back, fists clenched at his sides. “You’re still the same selfish bastard you’ve always been.”

And just like that, he turned and walked inside, the door swinging slightly in the breeze behind him.

“Arthur!” you called, already pushing back your chair, chasing the echo of the door and the boy who once knew all your secrets.

Charles barely had time to react before your words sliced through the tension like a blade.

“You are such an asshole, Charles,” you snapped, your voice trembling with exhaustion and disbelief. He looked at you—like he hadn’t expected that from you of all people—but you didn’t care. You didn’t stop. You just turned, jaw clenched, blinking back the heat in your eyes, and stormed into the house after Arthur.

“Arthur, wait!” you called, voice urgent as your footsteps echoed down the hallway. He was already halfway to the guest room, shoulders rigid, head down like he didn’t want you to see how much he was breaking. You caught up and reached for his wrist—gently, like any more pressure might cause him to shatter completely.

He paused but didn’t turn. The seconds between you stretched impossibly thin.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, breath catching. “I was stupid.”

He let out a breath—half a sigh, half a laugh—and finally glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah,” he said, a shrug in his voice. “A bit.”

And somehow, it broke the tension enough for your chest to loosen just slightly. You smiled—tiny, wobbly. “You know you’ve always been the most important Leclerc to me, right?”

Arthur turned all the way around then. And his expression—soft, exhausted, barely held together—cut deeper than any shouting ever could.

“God, Y/n,” he murmured, finally facing you. “You know I can’t stay mad at you.”

You didn’t expect it—not that fast, not like that. One second you were barely holding yourself together, and the next his arms were around you, grounding you like gravity had suddenly picked sides.

It wasn’t tentative. It was tight, certain, and real. The kind of hug that speaks before you can. His chin brushed your shoulder, his hand curled lightly into the fabric of your shirt like he was afraid if he let go, something might disappear.

─── 8: I HATE HOW YOU LEAVE WITHOUT SAYING GOODBYE.

The silence after the fight wasn’t just quiet. It was heavy. Every room in the house felt colder, like the laughter that used to fill it had been packed away too. You and Charles hadn’t spoken. Not properly. Just a few passing looks, a few stiff moments in the same space—but nothing real. Nothing that fixed anything.

Instead, you found yourself spending more time with Arthur. At first, it was just easier. Less tense. But soon, it started to feel like something you needed. You’d sit together on the back steps in the mornings, sharing coffee. Walk through the orange grove in slow silence that didn’t need words. He didn’t ask for explanations. He didn’t push. He was just there, and maybe that was the most comforting thing of all.

But still, it felt like choosing sides. And some part of you hated that.

Then one morning, you noticed the space behind the gate was empty. Charles’s car was gone.

You asked Pascale, his mother, where he had gone. She answered casually—like it meant nothing. “He went to Carlos’s for a few days,” she said, stirring sugar into her tea like it wasn’t strange. Like it wasn’t everything.

He hadn’t told you. He hadn’t said goodbye. And somehow, that made it worse. Because after all the noise, the arguments, the pain—you thought maybe he’d at least say something before leaving. But he didn’t.

The sun poured through Arthur’s window, soft and golden, stretching across the bed where the two of you lay belly-down on the covers. The photo album was open in front of you, pages slightly curled from years of flipping and laughter.

You turned another page, and there it was.

A snapshot of you and Arthur at around ten years old, sitting on the dock with your legs dangling over the edge, clutching ice cream cones like treasure. Your head leaned sleepily on his shoulder, both of you grinning so wide it looked like your faces might split.

“Oh my god,” you laughed, pointing. “I remember this. I dropped mine on the ground like, three minutes later.”

Arthur chuckled. “And I gave you mine, because I’m a saint.”

“You gave it to me after taking one last dramatic bite,” you said, nudging him with your elbow.

“Fair. I was ten and deeply attached to my desserts.”

You smiled, eyes soft. “That was the day I decided you’re the one I need to keep.”

Arthur turned to look at you, mock-scandalized. “Decided? As if I wasn’t already keeping you? Please.”

You both broke into laughter, full and warm, the kind that shakes your shoulders and leaves your cheeks aching. The kind that belongs to inside jokes and old stories and years of knowing someone down to the last freckle on their nose.

“I swear, we peaked at ten,” Arthur said between giggles, flipping to the next photo.

It was one of him in a bright blue bucket hat, mid-cartwheel, legs a blur and his shirt flying up.

You burst out laughing again. “Never mind, I take it back. This was the actual peak.”

Arthur groaned. “Burn it. Burn the entire album.”

“Nope,” you grinned, hugging the album to your chest. “This is going in my will.”

Arthur rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one hand as he looked at you, still laughing. “I swear, if someone ever publishes this album, my dignity is done for.”

You hugged the book tighter to your chest, feigning solemnity. “Don’t worry. I’ll only leak the bucket hat photos. The rest are safe—maybe.”

He gasped. “You wouldn't.”

You grinned. “I would, absolutely.”

He groaned and flopped back onto the pillow. “I knew trusting you at six was a mistake.”

You bumped your shoulder against his. “Too late now. You’re stuck with me.”

He glanced over at you again, his smile softening just a little. “I can live with that.”

You turned the page, and the photo made you smile the second you saw it. There the three of you were—on the yacht, the day before Charles’s 18th birthday. You were lying on your stomach with cards in your hand, laughing at something out of frame.

Arthur and Charles were sitting behind you on the sofa, both grinning like everything was simple and good. Charles looked like he had just won a round of UNO and was very proud of it. Arthur looked like he was pretending not to care, but you could tell he was annoyed that he was losing. Everything about that photo felt warm—sun, sea, and three people who didn’t know things would change.

You turned the page, and the photo made you smile the second you saw it. There the three of you were—on the yacht, the day before Charles’s 18th birthday. You were lying on your stomach with cards in your hand, laughing at something out of frame.

You stared at it for a moment before speaking. “Do you think it was always that innocent?” your voice soft, maybe even a little unsure.

Arthur looked at the photo for a long moment, then at you. “Was it ever?” he said with a quiet laugh, like he wasn’t sure of the answer himself.

You laughed a little too, shaking your head. “I don’t know,” you said, tracing the edge of the picture with your finger. “But I was so into him back then. Like, so into him.”

Arthur burst out laughing, louder than you expected. You turned to look at him, surprised, but he just grinned. “You still are,” he said through a laugh, nudging your shoulder with his.

You raised an eyebrow, but you couldn’t help but laugh too. Something about the way he said it—casual, light—made it easier to breathe. It didn’t feel like teasing. It felt like honesty, said kindly. And for the first time in days, the memory didn’t sting. It just made you miss the way things used to be. Before it all got so complicated.

You exhaled a small, guilty sigh. “Yeah, maybe,” you admitted quietly. “I’m... sorry.”

He blinked, then rolled his eyes with a grin. “Oh, come on, Y/n. Don’t apologize. I think I’ll survive the emotional trauma of you liking my absurdly good-looking brother.”

You smiled, a little caught off guard, but grateful for how easily he brushed it off.

He leaned back slightly, arms folded under his chest as he looked at you, his voice gentler now. “I just want you to be happy. If that means it’s him… then that’s okay.” He smiled again, more honest this time. “Really.”

And somehow, sitting there with him like that—laughing, remembering, being heard—it felt easy. Easier than you thought it would. Like maybe forgiveness didn't always have to come wrapped in pain. Sometimes, it could just sit quietly between two people who still cared.

Arthur’s words settled between you, light but real, like sunlight warming the edge of a shadow you hadn’t realized you’d been standing in.

For a second, you didn’t speak. You just looked at him—really looked at him—and felt something settle in your chest. Not confusion. Not guilt. Just… gratitude.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” you said, your voice still soft, but steadier now.

He rolled his eyes with a smile. “Took you long enough.”

You laughed and leaned your head briefly on his shoulder, the way you had in the photo from years ago. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. He just let you rest there, like that was exactly where you were supposed to be.

─── 9: I HATE HOW YOU KNOW I’M WAITING FOR YOU.

The night was quiet, and the dock felt like the only place where the world stood still. You sat at the edge, legs dangling over the side, your feet slowly moving through the cool, dark water. The air smelled like salt, wood, and a little bit like everything you hadn’t said. Above you, the sky stretched wide and clear, filled with stars that didn’t help answer anything at all.

Your thoughts always went to Charles.

You didn’t know where he was, or who he was with. Maybe he was laughing. Maybe he was thinking of you. Maybe he wasn’t. That hurt more than you wanted to admit. You wondered if he missed you even a little, or if it was easy for him to leave without saying anything.

You thought about what he might be doing, if he had already moved on, or if he was still somewhere in between like you were. You never thought loving him could feel this heavy, this confusing. But here you were, sitting in the quiet and trying not to fall apart. Maybe if you hadn’t been so quick to fall for him, things would be different. Maybe everything would be fine. Easier. But you did, and it wasn’t.

You heard it then—footsteps behind you, slow and uneven on the wood. You didn’t move. You didn’t have to. You already knew it was him.

“I knew you’d be here,” came his voice, low and familiar. That voice that had been missing.

Charles.

You didn’t turn around right away. You just stared out at the dark water, your voice soft and full of something tired. “You came back, huh?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then, slowly, he stepped closer and sat down next to you. Not too close, but close enough that you could feel his presence again. Like he never really left, not completely. You didn’t look at him. Not yet. But his being there stirred something that had been still for days.

His voice cut through the quiet. “I had to come back. For you.”

It landed too sharp. Too flat. Like the feeling got lost somewhere between his chest and his mouth.

You didn’t turn to look at him. You just stared at the dark water, trying to breathe around the ache in your throat. “You didn’t have to,” you said, barely loud enough. “I would’ve been fine.”

It was a lie, and you both knew it.

He let out a breath, like he’d been holding it for days. “I love you, Y/n,” he said, softer now. “I love you too much to stay away. I tried. I really did. But I couldn’t do it.”

That stilled something in you.

You drew in a shaky breath, the air cool against your skin, and finally let the words fall. “I’m scared, Charles. I don’t know what to do next... after this ends.” Your voice was low, barely louder than the waves brushing the dock’s edge. It felt like saying it aloud made it more real—that this moment, this summer, this version of the two of you might slip away the minute it was over. And you didn’t know how to make peace with that.

You turned to look at him then, really looked, the tears clouding your vision making his face blur slightly. But you could still see the way his expression shifted—how the boy you knew sat beneath the man in front of you. He seemed just as lost. “I don’t know, Y/n,” he said after a long pause, his shoulders lifting in a quiet shrug. “I wish I did.”

There was a weight behind those words, the kind that only comes from knowing something good has an expiration date. He looked out toward the water as if the answer might be hiding in the waves, and for a second, you both just let the silence stretch between you. It wasn’t empty. It held everything unsaid.

“Maybe we should just... not think about it,” he said finally, his voice gentler now. “Just enjoy the last few weeks. Let it be what it is. And then... maybe we just forget.”

Your chest tightened at that. The idea of it all—being reduced to a memory, a footnote in a chapter you didn’t want to close—made something inside you ache. You were about to nod, to agree even if it was a lie, when he added, softer this time, as if he wasn’t even sure you were meant to hear it, “I don’t want to forget.”

That changed everything.

His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, like he wasn’t sure he should say it—but he did anyway. “I just want you to know I’ll always love you.”

You didn’t look at him right away. The words settled between you like something tender and impossible to hold.

“Yeah,” you said softly, nodding just once. “Me too.”

Then your smile faltered a little, and you added, “Maybe that’s the problem.”

You breathed out slowly, your chest tight with the truth of it. Loving him had always been the easiest part. It was everything else—the timing, the choices, the weight of what ifs—that had turned things hard. The love was constant. Maybe that’s what made it so complicated.

─── 10: I HATE HOW YOU ALWAYS WILL BE THE ONE.

And somehow, you did enjoy it as much as you could.

The days blurred into one another—warm mornings by the water, quiet afternoons full of sun and stories, soft nights under the stars. You laughed more than you expected. Sometimes too hard. Sometimes just enough. Arthur kept finding ways to pull you into old games, silly traditions, the kind of things that didn’t matter unless you were ten years old or heartbroken and trying not to be. Charles didn’t say much at first, but he didn’t leave your side either. And slowly, he softened again. Or maybe you did.

It all felt dreamlike—so easy it was hard to believe it belonged to real time. Like you’d stepped back into some version of childhood, but this time you knew what was coming. So you held on a little tighter. Laughed a little louder. Let every golden hour slip into your skin before it passed completely.

They tried not to talk about the end. About what would come after. Arthur joked more. Charles stayed longer when he didn’t have to. You never asked. You just let the days keep coming.

But every moment slips away, as all things do.

You stood outside the airport, suitcase by your side, the air a little colder than you expected. People rushed past with bags and tickets, voices rising and falling, but your whole world had narrowed to the two people in front of you—Charles and Arthur. Both of them just standing there, like they didn’t know what to say either.

You gave them a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “It was really good to see you again, boys,” you said, glancing from one to the other slowly. Taking them in one last time. You wanted to remember everything—the way Arthur’s smile always made things lighter, the way Charles looked at you like you still mattered, even when neither of you said it.

You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around Arthur first. He didn’t hesitate—just pulled you in tight like he already missed you. You held onto him like you weren’t ready to let go either.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” you whispered. “I’m going to miss you so much.”

Arthur stepped back, and you saw it right away—the way his eyes were glassy, blinking too quickly. He tried to smile, but it wobbled at the edges. “Aw, don’t cry,” you said with a soft laugh, your voice catching as your own tears finally slipped free.

You wiped at your cheeks, half-laughing through it now. “Great, now we’re both a mess.”

He shook his head, chuckling quietly as he swiped at his face too. “We’ve always been a mess.”

But in that moment, it didn’t feel like a bad thing. Just honest. Just the kind of goodbye that only happens when it really meant something.

You turned toward Charles, and the look in his eyes almost undid you. They were shining with the kind of emotion he rarely let show, blinking too fast like he was trying to hold it all in. “Char,” you said gently, your voice softer than it had been all day, “come here.”

He didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. His breath shook near your ear. “I love you,” he said, barely louder than a whisper, but thick with everything he couldn’t say before.

You laughed through the lump in your throat, trying to keep it together. “Stop,” you said, voice shaking, “or I’ll cry even harder.”

When you finally pulled back, both of you were smiling through tears. His laugh came first, low and a little broken, then yours followed, and suddenly you were both laughing like you hadn’t just said goodbye.

“So...” he said between breaths, trying to calm the shake in his smile, “see you next summer?”

You looked at him, heart full and aching, and nodded. “Yeah,” you said quietly, “see ya.”

You knew, deep down, that you’d made the most of this summer. You’d squeezed every last drop from the slow days, the warm nights, the laughter that echoed through quiet rooms and open fields. Even with the weight of saying goodbye, even with the ache that came from leaving Charles behind, you didn’t regret a single moment of it.

The ending was bittersweet—yes. But you wouldn’t have traded it for something easier or simpler. Not when it gave you memories that felt like sunlight, friendships that held you up, and a love that, even if only for a while, felt like everything.

© norristrii 2025

babsie radio ! First summer break day. Can u believe it? That’s crazyy… hope u guys enjoy it as much as you can!! <3

tag list ! @haniette

[kenntoria]

nanami isn’t used to missing people.

he’s used to silence, to routine, to the quiet clink of glass when he pours himself a drink at the end of a long day. he’s used to closing doors without hesitation and waking up without waiting for a message. there’s a rhythm to solitude that he’s memorized over the years—efficient, measured, safe.

but lately, it’s all offbeat. especially now, miles away from home, in a hotel room that smells too clean, surrounded by unfamiliar buildings and a language that only half makes sense to him. the bed is too wide. the silence too loud. and it’s not the time difference or the jet lag or even the goddamn cursed spirit that’s giving him a headache—it’s you.

it sneaks up on him slowly. the way his hand twitches towards his phone every hour. the way he keeps thinking about how your laugh sounds when you’re half-asleep and trying to argue about breakfast. the way he remembers, in perfect clarity, how you looked that morning he left—hair messy, eyes still soft with sleep, all pliant and naked and completely open for him, your voice a little hoarse as you told him, “come back soon, ‘kay?”

and he’d said something like “don’t I always?” but it didn’t come out as steady as he’d hoped.

now, three days into this mission, he’s starting to feel unhinged in a way he can’t explain.

nothing dangerous. nothing dramatic. just this low, gnawing ache in his chest whenever he remembers you’re not waiting for him at the end of the day. no warm presence sliding up to him on the couch. no familiar weight pressed to his side in bed. no idle fingers tugging at his tie or reaching under his shirt just because you like to feel his skin. no voice telling him about your day. no you.

he stares at his phone again. contemplates texting you. he’s already called once. last night. just to hear your voice. just to say he made it safely and not much else. you’d sounded sleepy, but happy. soft and slow like always when you miss him but don’t want to say it outright. you’d said, “i hate sleeping without you,” and he’d gone quiet for a moment too long, trying not to let it show in his voice how badly he wanted to say, me too.

it’s not like him, this… missing. it’s not obsessive. not irrational. just constant. heavy. like a second heartbeat that drums just beneath his skin whenever he’s not near you. he’s never needed anyone before. never wanted to need someone. but god, he thinks now, as he sits alone with the dim glow of the bedside lamp flickering over tired eyes—he needs you.

he doesn’t sleep well. never does when you’re not next to him. his body forgets how to settle. his mind races too fast. he wakes up tense and irritated, the sheets twisted around him, and for a second, half-dreaming, he reaches across the mattress for you. his hand finds only cold fabric.

“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, dragging it back.

the mission ends quicker than expected. he doesn’t even tell you he’s on his way back. just gets on the first available flight home and shuts off his phone on the plane. he stares out the window, thinking about your face. about how your eyes crinkle when you smile. about how your hands are always warm. about how maybe he shouldn’t wait anymore to say it out loud.

he gets home past midnight. the apartment is dark. quiet. your shoes are by the door. your cardigan draped over the back of the couch. his chest pulls tight at the sight of it. he toes off his shoes, drops his suitcase without thinking, and makes his way to the bedroom.

you’re asleep on the bed, back curled, face slack with exhaustion. the bedside lamp is still on. your phone rests on the pillow beside you—his name in your open messages. unsent: “miss you. a lot. like too much. like stupid much.” your breathing’s soft and even. you’re wearing one of his shirts. his throat clenches. everything inside him stills.

he exhales, slowly. kneels by the side of the bed and just looks at you for a while. watches the way your lashes rest against your cheeks. the way your lips part slightly with each breath. the way you shift a little, instinctively, like even asleep you can feel him near.

he brushes a hand over your hair. gentle. reverent.

“i missed you,” he whispers, almost to himself. “more than i thought i could.”

you stir, eyes fluttering open, confused and drowsy. “kento?”

“yeah,” he murmurs, and leans in to kiss your temple. “i’m home.”

you blink up at him, smile blooming slow and sweet, and open your arms without a word. he doesn’t hesitate. slides into bed beside you, wraps you up in his arms, presses his face into the crook of your neck like a man who’s finally allowed to breathe.

your hands tangle in his hair. “was it bad?”

“no,” he says. “just… long.”

you kiss his cheek. “you’re home now.”

he nods. “yeah.”

and he knows, without a doubt, he’ll never let himself be gone from you for that long again. not if he can help it. because missing you is like losing parts of himself he didn’t even realize he needed—and being with you, like this, wrapped up in your warmth, breathing you in like oxygen—this is what feels like home.

[rafeys-angel13]

rafe not letting you get out of bed

- request a fic - masterlist -

——— ⋆·˚ ༘ * requested! - blue!collar!rafe x sahm!reader

it was a saturday, which meant everyone got a nice long sleep. you didn’t have to get up for anything at all and you could just wake up on your own accord.

not this morning though, you’re awake at the crack of dawn for absolutely no reason. you lay where for a while, watching how peaceful rafe looked. his snores didn’t even annoy you, it was just nice to see him relaxed for once. he’s always so tence.

it is weird not to see the small crease in between his forehead. you can’t think of the last time there wasnt a small frown on his handsome face.

your fingers trail over his slight beard and moustache that he said he was “trying out”. you don’t know if you like it. on one hand it is insanely hot, but on the other, you do miss his soft face when he kisses you. the scratchy bears and moustache are a little annoying, but it’s worth it for how sexy he looks with the facial hair.

when it gets to around 8, you decide to get up and get ready. you figured you’d maybe clean the house up a little so that you can spend the rest of the day with the kids and rafe without having to worry about chores.

you untangle your limbs from rafe’s and sit up, only to be pulled back down again. rafe pulls you on top of him and wraps his arms around your arms, anchoring you to him with a small groan.

“stay with me, baby…” he murmurs, his voice gravelly from sleep.

“i’d love to, but i need to get up…” you sigh and he shakes his head, his grip tightening on you.

“no you don’t, it’s saturday… the boys aren’t awake yet…” he mumbles, rolling onto his side and bringing you with him. he throws his leg over you to hold you down even more.

“you got me there… but i wanna clean the house up before the boys get up…” you respond, having a hard time convincing yourself that you actually want to get out of bed.

his cheek rests against your forehead, his face is still bed warm and a little flushed. you try to resist his addictive cuddles and his soft voice— but it’s hard.

“stay” he retorts simply, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple and closing his eyes again. he rubs your back firmly, patting it every now and then. “— go back to sleep… you need it, honey” he urges softly, his voice lulling you back to sleep.

you hate that he has this calming effect on you but you can’t help but feel tired in his arms. it’s hard to resist when he talks to you in that soothing voice and his hands rub against your achy back.

he smiles proudly when he sees your eyes fall shut and your breathing even out. he closes his own eyes when he feels your body relax fully, falling back to sleep himself.

[timsrins]

a/n: cw allusions to kaiser's lore like a little bit if u squint rlly rlly hard 🤏 do not talk to me about his backstory i will just cry on the spot ouuu kaiser they can never make me hate u

michael kaiser who likes waking up beside you. most of the time, he wakes up before you. he doesn’t immediately get up, no. he remains on your side, staring at the ceiling before directing his stare to your face—peaceful, woven with sleep. your eyes are still closed when your hand snakes under his shirt, sliding up the muscle of his torso, past the center of his chest, and finally settling on his neck. warm palm applying light pressure right over his pulse and a thumb caressing the rose inked on his skin. the first time it happens, kaiser freezes up, unsure of how to react. but now, he just breathes out and places his hand over yours. 

michael kaiser who likes the feeling of your body against his when you give him a back hug while he’s brushing his teeth. he feels your cheek between his shoulder blades, your arms tight around his waist. 

michael kaiser who likes it when you tackle him after a match. he’s sweaty, jersey sticking to his back and hair matted against his nape and forehead, yet here you are, clinging to him like a koala and muttering words of praise. he keeps you balanced by placing his hands under your thighs, accepting every compliment with a hum and a kiss to your cheek. 

michael kaiser who likes it when you’re sitting atop his lap. straddling his toned thighs, arms around his neck, face buried where his shoulder meets his throat. his hand slithers up inside your hoodie against your spine while watching a past bastard munchen match against spain. 

michael kaiser who likes it when you slip your fingers under the waistband of his jersey shorts and trace along his hip bone. it’s so intimate and he can’t help but melt at your touch every single time. he notes that you do this on the rare times that he’s feeling nervous before a match. 

michael kaiser who just loves it whenever you express your love and adoration through touch. it makes him feel grounded, safe, and loved. michael kaiser thinks he’d burn down the entire world if it meant having your hands on him at all times. 

[nyl88ndrs]

voicemails bf!luke would send you!

voicemail #1 — 11:52pm, 0:47

"hi- i think i might be a little tipsy. just a little. like... a healthy amount i think. jack made me do a shot after the game, and then someone opened a bottle of champagne, and now i'm in bed with my shoes still on and i miss you so bad it actually hurts."

"you should've seen the goal tonight, baby. i know you watched it, you always do, but it's not the same when i can't see your reaction. like, you'd probably do that little clap you do? and that smile where your nose scrunches? god. i wish i could've seen that. i wish i was watching you watching me."

he sighs softly and lets out a breathy laugh "sorry, that was cheesy. but whatever. drunk luke's allowed to be cheesy. it's like... one of the perks. you get voicemail confessions."

"anyways i'm lying on the hotel bed, and it's too cold, and i keep looking over like you're gonna be there, in my hoodie, hogging the blanket. and i just—i miss you. and i feel like i'm here, but not all here, you know?"

"okay. i should sleep. or hydrate. maybe both. call me when you wake up, pretty girl. i love you."

voicemail #2 — 1:16am, 1:21

"hi. i know you probably don't want to hear from me right now. and i wouldn't either, if i were you. but i had to say something."

there's a long pause. his breathing a little uneven - you can hear him swallowing hard, like he's trying to hold himself together. "i keep replaying it in my head. what i said. how you looked at me when you walked away. i've never felt so-fuck. i don't even know the word for it."

"¡ hate this. i hate that i made you feel like you couldn't talk to me. like i wasn't hearing you. and i was, i promise. i just... i got defensive. i always do. it's stupid. i'm so fucking stupid sometimes."

"you always make me want to be better. not just for you — for me, too. but especially for you. and now it just feels like maybe this time... maybe i really pushed too far. like you're slipping away, and i don't know how to stop it."

"I'm sorry. i'm so fucking sorry, baby. i don't know how to fix it yet, but i will. i swear i will. just- please don't shut me out. i'm not okay without you. i don't know how to be."

voicemail #3 — 4:08pm, 0:36

"okay, wait. i have to tell you this because it's ridiculous and you need to know." he's already giggling. soft, but infectious.

"jack just took a full-on dive because of a grape. like, one little grape on the floor, and bam. he's down. i'm not even exaggerating."

"it's honestly impressive, the way he manages to turn the simplest things into a slapstick comedy show. if you ever want a reason to smile, just watch him try to walk through a room with anything even remotely slippery."

"i swear, sometimes i wonder if he's training for some secret grape-slipping olympics and forgot to tell us."

he lets out a soft laugh,

"you'd probably laugh way harder than me. i miss laughing with you like that. it's the best thing ever."

"anyway. just thought you should know the current state of the world here. hope you're having a better day than jack's grape situation. i love you."

voicemail #4 — 2:39am, 0:58

"hey." his voice is quiet, like the way it is in the morning, and before he goes to bed at night, "it's late. way too late. but i can't sleep. it's like —my brain won't shut off, and every time i close my eyes, all i see is you. like you're right here."

"and i keep reaching over in bed and... nothing. just cold sheets and your side empty."

"it's dumb, i know. but it feels like there's this space inside me that only you fill. and right now, it's just... echoing." he sighs softly.

"i keep thinking about your laugh. the way your hair falls over your face when you're sleepy. how you curl into me like it's the safest place on earth."

"i'm sorry i'm rambling. i didn't want to make this sad — or sappy. i just— i wanted you to know that even when you're not here, i'm holding on. to you. to us." his voice is quiet and hopeful in a way that's so him.

"call me when you wake up, okay? i love you. so much."

voicemail #5 — 8:56pm, 1:03

"hi, baby." his voice is soft — you can hear the hum of the car underneath it, his blinker clicking faintly in the background.

"i'm driving over. i know you said i didn't have to, but— yeah. i couldn't wait till tomorrow. i missed you too much."

"i was just about to pass the turn onto your street, and 'feels like' came on. you know, that gracie abrams song you always make me play when we're driving at night? the one you sing all dramatic like you're onstage?" he lets out a quiet laugh

"yeah. that one. it started playing and i don't know-everything just slowed down."

"i always think of you when i hear it. but not in a sad way. more like... like i can already see you. waiting at the door for me. hair all messy. wrapped up in that stupid blanket you love. smiling like i'm home." he exhales softly, then adds, quieter

"it makes me feel really lucky, you know? to love someone who feels like this." another pause. a little giggle - warm, boyish.

"okay. that was cheesy. but i meant it. i always mean it with you."

"'ll be there soon. don't fall asleep yet, i love you."

voicemail #6 — 9:27pm, 1:16

"baby," he's already laughing when the voicemail starts - that soft, breathy kind that sounds like he's smiling too wide to talk properly.

"okay. i just watched that video again. the one where you're making pancakes in my hoodie and dancing around like a little idiot while i'm filming from the couch?"

"¡ forgot about it until now. it just popped up in my camera roll and -i think i actually stopped breathing for a second."

he's quiet for a beat, then adds,

"you looked so happy. like the world didn't exist outside that little kitchen. and i remember thinking right then —'this is it. she's it."

"it's stupid, right? how a two-minute video can wreck me like that? but it does. it always does. i see you in my hoodie, hair all messy, humming along to whatever song was playing, and it's like... god. how did i get this lucky?"

he sighs, still smiling

"¡ don't need a video to remember how much i love you, but-i don't know. it's nice to have proof. like little time capsules of us being us."

"¡ love you. i love you more than i can say in a stupid voicemail. but i'll keep trying anyway."

voicemail #7 — 6:11pm, 0:44

“okay. okay. you need to sit down for this. like—actually sit.”

he’s already wheezing with laughter when he starts

“so we’re all sitting in the locker room, right? just chilling, stretching, whatever. and somehow we start talking about space. no idea how it started, i blacked out the first half of the conversation.”

“and then this guy—seamus—goes: ‘bro, i thought the moon was just a reflection of the sun off the ocean.’”he bursts out laughing again — full-on giggles now, nearly breathless, “off the ocean. like the moon is just the sun bouncing off a puddle or something.”

“i had to bite my jersey to stop myself from laughing in his face. i swear to god. i’m still not over it. you’re gonna bring this up randomly next week and i’m gonna lose it all over again.”

he sighs dramatically, calming down just a bit,

“anyway. that’s the end of today’s science lesson. can’t wait to tell our future kids that their dad plays with people who think the moon is ocean glitter.”

[tojbnuy]

hey! Please could you write a little something where roommate sukuna is a little mean to reader and it’s a bit angsty but he feels bad and has to make it up to her with lots of cuddles

thank you for the request! i know it’s been a while but i hope this is okay :3 this is the same reader as part one and two pls do check them out <3

yours and roomate!sukuna’s relationship was complicated to say the least. complicated yet comfortable. your old dynamic was still up and running just with the addition of proximity. but that didnt mean things were always perfect, sukuna was still sukuna at the end of the day and he was far from perfect but he was trying.

bickering was common for the two of you, it was usually about guys or cleaning up mess but there were times were your heart was left feeling slightly shaken. you were a sensitive soul that was clear as day. sukuna was a lot more gentle with you than he was with his friends for example but sometimes the words left him before he could think about their repercussions.

today’s fight was a minor one to begin with. who had forgotten to unload the dryer and led a few of your clothes to become incredibly creased.

‘like seriously i need this shirt for tomorrow morning now im gonna have to wake up early to iron.’

‘im telling you kuna it wasn’t me, i would have remembered i always do.’

‘pssh yeah definitely.’

‘what does that mean?’

‘it means what more could i have expected from you of all people.’

‘if it was me i didn’t mean it.’

‘you didn’t mean it yet you’re always managing to do and say dumb shit. like seriously fucking grow up.’

immediately tears welled up at the harsh tone of his voice and the anger behind his words. you knew you weren’t as clever as some people but you didn’t think he found you this annoying, you had thought maybe there was even a bond developing between the two of you. comments from others about your sometimes unusual behavior and out of the blue remarks didn’t affect you as much, it was the ones from people who’s opinions you valued that tore away at your self esteem. stupid of you to think he would want to create a bond with someone as stupid as yourself when he has plenty of beautiful smart women at his hand. he would make random remarks about you being silly, maybe call you a dummy but you tried to not let it get to you, this however had tipped you off until you could no longer keep it inside. you were ashamed. ashamed to have done something so stupid.

sukunas hands were still inside the dryer, his focus on the task at hand so he hadn’t realised you hadn’t responded. then all of a sudden he heard the slight squeak of your feet on the tiled floor and a whispered sorry and only then did the guilt begin to situate. he himself was having a shitty day and the anger had built up so much so that the first inconvenience had him lashing out. at you of all people. he felt bad of course he did and he didn’t have the slightest clue as to how to check on you.

he made his way over to your room ready to be met with anger, that he could deal with. what he wasn’t prepared for was you hunched over, breathes coming out short and your shoulder shaking with how much you were crying.

‘baby? baby, hey look at me.’

you frantically wiped at your tears and attempted to stop the trembling of your hands. he hated to see you trying to act unaffected. he knew he was crazy about you before but seeing you like this, because of him was a pain he had never experienced before. the words were stuck in his throat, his pride always managing to ruin things for him.

‘you hate me.’

‘no i don’t brat, look what i said was out of line i was just mad i shouldn’t have said any of that. how could you think i hate you?’

‘because you’re always calling me stupid. i know im not like your other girl friends but you don’t have to be so rude to me all the time.’

sukuna had fucked up. majorly fucked up. what he thought was a harmless joke was actually hurting you. how could he care about anyone the same way he cared for you.

‘No, no i’m sorry baby i really am. i don’t give a shit about anyone let alone any girl the same way i care about you. i mean that doll from the bottom of my heart. i didn’t know it hurt you. i love everything about you doll. i look for you in everyone.’

‘do you think i’m stupid?’ you said with a sniffly nose and your hands gripping the comforter.

‘no doll i don’t think you’re stupid. i think you say some funny things sometimes but it makes you you. and i lo-‘ ‘i’ve gotten used to your antics by now brat’

‘i’m still a bit upset.’

‘yeah? what can i do to make it better?’

‘i think you have to cuddle me extra today.’

‘i’ll see what i can do’

immediately he folded you so you were pressed intro him. he was laying in his back against your pink fluffy cushions with you resting directly on his chest. he could feel your stuttered breathing against his chest, some tears still falling onto his shirt. he wanted so badly to tell you exactly what he was feeling but instead decided to stroke up and down your back, occasionally letting his hand roam down to your ass, softly molding you, patting you gently. your soft flesh under his palm was not only comforting to him but had you purring directly into his ear. he alternated between massaging your scalp, rubbing you back and patting your bum until your breathing had completely calmed.

‘really am sorry doll’ he whispered into your hair.

‘i know’ you whispered back with a little kiss to his chest.

he was really and truly fucked but this moment right here was one wherein he would die happy.

[carnalcrows]

All that we leave behind

pairing: gangster ! male OC x male reader [faceclaim]

synopsis: You take a job. It goes to hell. Suddenly you’re bleeding, locked up, and wondering if your daughter will forget the sound of your voice. Then he shows up. Not with lawyers. Not with mercy. With fists, fury, and a plan that involves you, him, and handcuffs. You should hate him. You should run. Instead, you end up in his car, half-naked and shaking for reasons that aren't entirely fear.

You're free now. Kind of.

But someone’s watching. And they know your kid's name.

content warnings: 18+, bottom male reader, violence, blood/gore aftermath, imprisonment, trauma, emotional distress, power imbalance, mafia themes, handcuffs, mild voyeuristic implication (guards witnessing), handjob (reader receiving), p in a, overstimulation, slight dubcon (stress-induced), light darcyphilia, emotional manipulation, Felix being terrifyingly calm, implied threat to child, enemy gang foreshadowing.

word count: 2.4k [pt 1 here]

You wake up to the sound of your daughter humming.

It’s a tuneless thing, low and content, drifting in from the living room—something she must’ve picked up from cartoons or daycare. Your eyes open slowly. Dry. Your body feels like it was chewed up and spat out by something mean.

Sunlight filters in through the curtains. Too soft. Too normal.

You sit up, and everything aches. There’s dried blood under your nails. Not yours. You should shower. You should move.

But instead, you just sit there. Listening to Nora hum.

Eventually, she calls for you. “Daaaad. I can’t reach the peanut butter!”

You scrape yourself off the bed. Pull on clean clothes that still smell like detergent. Walk barefoot to the kitchen, pretending your legs don’t tremble under you.

She’s standing on her step-stool, arms outstretched like she’s reaching for the moon. Her pyjamas are wrinkled and her curls are everywhere, and when you lift her into your arms, she giggles like everything’s fine.

You make toast and slice bananas. She chatters about some picture she drew at Zia’s yesterday. You nod. Smile where appropriate. Laugh, even.

There’s a stack of folded laundry on the table that you don’t remember folding. Your phone buzzes once.

Felix. You don’t check it.

“You look tired,” Nora says around a mouthful of banana. “Did you fight the monsters last night?”

You freeze.

Just for a second. Long enough for her to blink at you, then giggle again, like she’s only teasing. Like she has no idea what you did with your hands last night. What you let Felix do with his.

“Yeah,” you say finally, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “Yeah, baby. I fought ‘em all off.”

“Good,” she says, swinging her legs. “Then they won’t come here, right?”

You want to promise her that. You want to lie.

But outside the window, you spot a black car parked across the street. New. Too clean.

Your phone buzzes again.

This time, you check it.

Felix: Your next assignment will be cleaner. Less blood, more control. You’ll need to be dressed by 10. I’ll send someone.

You stare at the message for a long time.

Then you delete it. And wipe peanut butter off Nora’s cheek.

✧✧✧

You knew it would get messy. You didn’t think it’d end in cuffs.

The job sounded simple enough. A warehouse, a warning, and rough up a guy who’d been skimming off Felix’s money. You’d done worse things for less reason. This time, though… something went wrong.

Too many people inside. Someone pulled a gun. You saw red, then blood. Then cops.

You were still panting, knuckles split and bruised, when they slammed you onto the hood of a cop car. Felix wasn’t there. He never showed.

The precinct didn’t know who you worked for. Not really. They tossed you in a holding cell like you were nothing more than some cracked-out muscle for hire. You said nothing. Not about Felix. Not about Nora. Not even when they tried to bait it out of you.

Your hands were cuffed behind your back for hours. Your shoulder ached from where someone had clocked you with a bat. The adrenaline was wearing off, and the pain was settling in. You were starting to wonder if maybe this was it.

Then he arrived.

Not with lawyers. Not with bribes.

Felix walked into that goddamn prison in a pair of handcuffs—escorted in like he was just another perp. Like he belonged there.

He didn’t look at you right away. He sat across the cell, calm. Controlled. But when the guards left, when the door clanged shut behind them, his voice was low and furious:

“What the fuck did they do to you?”

✧✧✧

You didn’t speak to him the first day.

He was put in the same cell—whether by coincidence or something far more deliberate, you didn’t know—but he didn’t say a word when the bars shut behind him. Just sat on the opposite bench and looked at the wall. Not at you. Not at your bruised face. Not even when you muttered, “You’re a goddamn lunatic.”

On day two, he finally broke the silence.

“Nora’s fine.”

You didn’t answer at first. You weren’t sure you believed him. He looked too calm. Too clean.

“She’s with Claudia,” he added. “One of my best people. She likes her. Drew her a picture of a unicorn yesterday. It’s hanging on the fridge.”

You clenched your jaw and stared at the cracks in the cement floor.

“You could’ve sent someone,” you muttered. “Didn’t have to get yourself locked up.”

Felix didn’t blink. “No one touches what’s mine.”

You weren’t sure if he meant your daughter or you. You weren’t sure which one scared you more.

✧✧✧

By now, you'd memorised the rhythms of the place. The morning announcements. The guards’ footsteps. The shift changes. The guy in Cell 14 who didn’t stop coughing. The way Felix didn’t sleep, just leaned back with his arms folded, eyes half-shut, but always listening.

You were starting to piece it together—how some of the guards looked at him. Not like a prisoner. Like a storm waiting to happen.

“So what’s the plan?” you asked finally, low and quiet. “You gonna break us out with your mind? Or are your guys tunnelling through the sewer system?”

Felix smiled, a soft, humourless curve of his lips.

“I don’t need a sewer. I already own half the staff.”

That wasn’t a metaphor. You believed him.

Still, you asked the one question that had been gnawing at you:

“Why didn’t you come in with your people? Why… this? You walking in here like a goddamn martyr?”

His eyes finally met yours. Sharp. Dark. Unreadable.

“Because I don’t trust anyone else with you.”

✧✧✧

It happened after dinner on the third day.

A guard stopped by your cell with two pairs of handcuffs and a clipboard.

“Cellmate transfer,” he muttered. “You’re being moved together for the night. Orders from above.”

You raised a brow. Felix said nothing, just stood when the cell door slid open.

The guard—bald, tattooed fingers—clicked one cuff onto your wrist, then reached for Felix and snapped the second half onto him. Deliberate. Tight.

Felix didn’t even flinch. But he gave the guy a look— a nod.

The guard slipped you a folded scrap of paper as he left. No one noticed.

You waited until the footsteps faded.

Unfolded the paper. Two words.

Get ready.

✧✧✧

You were moved to a different part of the prison that night. Fewer eyes. More shadows.

Felix hadn’t said much since the cuffs locked the two of you together. Just that slight tug of the wrist every now and then, guiding you down hallways, across the yard, keeping you close without asking. The skin of his wrist brushed yours every few steps. You hated how steady he felt. Like he was used to this.

The paper said “get ready,” but it didn’t say when.

You got your answer after lights-out.

A clatter of metal. A yell.

Then a fist hit your jaw.

You didn’t even see who threw it—some meathead with a busted lip and too many tattoos. He’d been eyeing you since day one. But tonight, he moved like he had permission.

Your body slammed against the wall with the force of the hit, and the only thing keeping you upright was the sharp jerk of the cuff as Felix pulled you back to your feet.

“Mine,” Felix growled. Just one word. Not even loud.

Then his fist met the guy’s face.

Bone cracked.

The next second? All hell broke loose.

The brawl spread like wildfire—fights erupting between inmates, guards shouting, bodies flying. Someone tackled a guard. Alarms started blaring. Felix never let go of your wrist.

“Move,” he said, voice deadly calm, yanking you through the chaos.

You were still dazed—someone else's blood on your face, yours or theirs, you didn’t know—but your legs listened. His grip was firm and unyielding, dragging you through the stampede with surgical precision.

Down one corridor. Around a bend. He knew exactly where to go.

“This way,” he said, ducking into a side door kicked half open. Inside, a guard already lay unconscious, keys still hanging from his belt.

Felix grabbed them without breaking stride.

You blinked. “Wait, he’s not—?”

“One of mine,” he said simply.

Of course he was.

✧✧✧

It wasn’t glamorous. Not some secret hatch in the wall or dramatic rooftop leap. Just a utility tunnel, half-flooded, stinking of rust and mildew. Felix shoved the door open with his shoulder, pulling you through as water sloshed around your ankles.

The cuffs dug into your skin every time you stumbled, and he didn’t stop moving—not until you both reached the end of the tunnel and emerged into open air.

A black car waited.

Engine running.

“Get in,” Felix said, unlocking the cuffs with the stolen key. He caught your wrist as he did, his touch firm but careful. He didn’t say anything about the bruise forming beneath the metal. Just helped you into the backseat like nothing about the past hour had happened.

You didn’t ask who was driving.

You didn’t ask where you were going.

You just sat there, adrenaline flooding your bloodstream, your ears ringing, your hands stained with someone else’s blood. You felt like you were coming apart at the seams.

Felix sat beside you. Close. Too close.

And then his hand slid over your thigh.

“Breathe,” he said.

You did. Barely.

“Good,” he said, voice lower now, sliding into something darker. “Because I need to check something…”

✧✧✧

The car doors shut like a vault locking behind you.

The night was still ringing in your ears—fists slamming into flesh, your own or someone else’s, the way the cuffs had bitten bone-deep, the coppery tang of blood clinging to your teeth.

You didn’t speak. Neither did Felix.

He drove like he wasn’t in a hurry but knew exactly where to go. His hand rested too casually on the wheel, like he hadn’t just broken you out of prison with his bare fists.

The silence stretched. You were still bleeding, somewhere. Or maybe not. Hard to tell anymore.

Then—

“I told you I’d get you out,” he said. Calm. Matter-of-fact. Like none of it was personal. “Didn’t say you’d be okay after.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to.

He pulled into an alley. Cut the lights. The car’s engine ticked into silence.

And then—his hands. On you. Tugging. Pulling you over the console. Until you were in his lap, straddling his thighs, chest to chest.

Your voice was hoarse. “What the hell are you—”

“You’re not okay,” he murmured, already working open your belt. “I’m going to fix that.”

You could’ve stopped him.

Maybe.

But then his mouth was against your neck, his breath hot and steady, one hand spreading you open like he’d done it before. Like he’d imagined it. Dreamed it. Practised it in his head a hundred times, waiting for this moment.

The first push of him inside you punched the breath out of your lungs.

Not gentle. Not rough. Just inevitable.

You choked on your own voice, grabbed at his jacket like it could anchor you to something real.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, low and wrecked. “Take it. You can take it.”

He kept one hand on your hip, guiding every grind of your body against his, the other hand pressed flat to your back like he didn’t trust you to stay.

You moved with him. Or maybe he moved you.

It was all too much and not enough, and the pain bled into pleasure somewhere along the way. Something in you cracked. Came loose. Maybe it was trust. Maybe it was a survival instinct.

You came first, biting down on his collar to stay quiet.

Felix followed with a grunt, deep and low against your throat, still buried inside you when his grip loosened.

For a while, neither of you moved.

Just the sound of your breathing.

His hand on your back.

Your blood on his shirt.

And somewhere, far away, the question that would haunt you later:

What the fuck did you just let him do?

✧✧✧

You slept like the dead.

You woke up in silk sheets that weren’t yours, wearing clothes that didn’t belong to you. Your body ached in places that weren’t visible, and your throat was sore from silence. The room was dimly lit, clean, and too quiet. A tray sat on the nightstand with a glass of water and a note.

“She’s safe. Sleep. —F”

You stared at the handwriting for a long time.

You didn’t dream. Not properly. Just flashes—steel bars, Felix’s breath on your skin, blood in your mouth that wasn’t yours. Somewhere in between the cracks of sleep, you remembered what it felt like to let go. To not fight back.

To give in.

You didn’t know if it made you weak or just human.

✧✧✧

The next morning, Felix wasn’t in the apartment.

A man you didn’t recognise was seated outside the bedroom door. Not armed. Not hostile. Just… present. He nodded when you walked past him. Said nothing. You got the feeling that if you had asked for a ride to hell, he’d have already started the car.

You found Felix in a high-rise kitchen, sleeves rolled to the elbows, cutting fruit. Like it was a normal Tuesday. Like he hadn’t killed a man in front of you two nights ago. Like he hadn’t had his hand inside you in the backseat of a bulletproof car.

“Sit,” he said, not looking up. “You need food.”

Your stomach churned at the thought, but you obeyed.

He set a plate down in front of you. You didn't touch it.

You did speak, though. “Why are we still here? Shouldn’t we be with Nora?”

Felix paused. Knife mid-air.

“She’s in a safehouse. Out of reach. You showing up covered in blood wouldn’t exactly be soothing.”

You stared at him. “You think this is soothing?”

His jaw tightened—but he didn’t argue. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and slid it across the table.

You hesitated. Then opened it.

There was a photo attached.

A man. Late thirties. Scars down the side of his neck.

The name below the photo made something in your gut clench.

“You’ve heard of him?” Felix asked.

You nodded slowly. “He used to run guns out of Naples. Thought he was dead.”

“He’s not. And he’s been asking about you.”

You looked up. “Why?”

Felix finally met your eyes.

“Because he knows about Nora.”

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

Taglist: @axetivev @yyuinaa @zaynesyumei @sageofspades @onyxmango @puccigucii @the-ultimate-librarian @sooobiinn @sooniebby @i2innie @tintenka1 @timaas-blog @darlinqvi @horrorsbeyondreality @rednugget @lysanderplume @leron1108 @kauo-writez @the0ishere @calgurl @kissenturine @bleedingbl0ssom @gayaristocrat @hyppernovva [comment to be added, or send an ask]

[teamackles96]

Headcanon: That's My Nickname for Her

Characters: Russell Shaw, Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy/Ben, Mark Meachum and Boaz Priestly

Scenario: Nickname for you

pairings: Russell Shaw x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader, Beau Arlen x Reader, Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader, Mark Meachum x Reader, Boaz Priestly x Reader

Russell Shaw

You okay, princess?

The first time he called you princess, you hated it. When Colter introduced the two of you, he was taunted you. The smug smile as he spoke, seeing the way it got under your skin. It drove you insane.

Every now and then, he would say it again.

What do you think, princess?

Well aren't you full of surprises, princess.

Why don't you let us handle this, princess?

You tried not to react to him, opposed to giving him the satisfaction, but it was becoming a reflex now. Your eye would twitch whenever he uttered it, his smirk growing bigger each time.

The three of you were looking for a young woman who had gone missing. Possibly a crazed ex-boyfriend or a stalker? You decided to split up, when you got taken. He had crept up behind you covering your mouth with a chloroform soaked cloth so you couldn't scream.

You woke up tied to a pole in the basement of some house. In the corner of the room, you noticed the woman you were looking for slumped over covered in blood. Luckily, you could see her chest rising and falling. She was alive.

By the time the boys had found you, a few hours later, you already had a split lip, cracked ribs and bruises around your neck. Colter came in first rushing to check on the woman, taking her pulse to see if they were too late.

Russell followed shortly after, making a beeline for you. He gently lifted your head, with a softness you hadn't seen from him before. You couldn't help but lean into the warmth of his palm, closing your eyes in relief. "You okay, princess?"

It was like music to your ears. You let our a breathless laugh, nodding. He didn't believe you. Hell, you didn't even believe you.

His touch was gentle as he released you from your binds. You told him you could walk but that didn't stop him from picking you up in his arms. His chest vibrated as he chuckled, watching you snuggle into his body as he walked out the house. "Comfy, princess?"

"Don't ruin it, Shaw" you mumbled making him laugh harder.

Dean Winchester

Mornin' sweetheart

It was lucky to find love as a hunter. You considered yourself even luckier that you found it with Dean Winchester. He didn't think he deserved your love, believing he was a broken man but you assured him you were the glue to put him back together.

There was something about him from the moment you met. He would tease you that it was love at first sight for you, which you denied but you knew you were lying.

Nice to meet you, sweetheart.

Sent a shive down your spine. His low voice adding something special to the word. He saw your reaction, of course he did. You noticed a few weeks later, he only saved sweetheart for you.

A smile graced your lips as you watched him sleep next to you. It was pretty rare that you would wake up first considering he hardly sleeps. His face was peaceful. His brow wasn't furrowed, no scowl across him lips. Just peace.

Your eyes traced the freckles across his face like your own personal dot-to-dot. His plump pink lips slightly parted as he snored gently.

As if he could feel your gaze, he began to stir. His eyes flickering open slowly to adjust to the light. A soft smile when his gaze landed on you, beautiful and already awake.

"Mornin' sweetheart."

God, that one got you every time. That's why it was your favourite. His morning voice, gravelly and warm, seemed to make the word even sweeter. You swooned. Swooned hard. The two words were always followed by a soft chuckle when he saw your reaction.

This was your morning routine, and what a way to start the day.

Beau Arlen

What can I do for ya, darlin?

Jenny and Beau were in a meeting in his office when a knock on the door came. Beau glanced over at the door to see you. As soon as his eyes met yours, his whole demeanour changed. He went from the hardened Sheriff to a school boy with a crush. Even Jenny noticed his frown literally turn upside down at the mere sight of you. He nodded his head for you to come inside.

"What can I do for ya, darlin?" He turned in his office chair to face you. His full attention was on you. You handed him the files for the case you were working on and quickly exited his office, not wanting to interrupt their meeting for too long.

Jenny would tease him relentlessly about his crush on you. He thought he was hiding it well but everyone knew. Everyone except you.

Beau would literally light up whenever he spotted you. He could be mid conversation, but as soon as his emerald eyes drifted away from to you, they knew he was a goner.

Jenny tried to convince you multiple times that he had a crush on you. "You're the only one he calls darlin'."

Since she told you, you couldn't miss it.

You good, darlin'?

Want a coffee, darlin'?

You started to realise that you loved the term of endearment. His Texas drawl added charm to the word. Sometimes, you would enter his office just to hear him say it.

One late night you were still working at your desk when he perched on the side of it, making you look up. Your doe eyes met his green ones. It was like you were seeing him properly for the first time. "It's late. Why don't you go get some rest, darlin'?" That's when it happened.

A tinge of a blush tinted your cheeks and he didn't miss it.

It seems like he wasn't the only one with a crush.

Soldier Boy

I know you want me, doll

Now that Soldier Boy was back in the spotlight after 40 years. He was provided a handler - you.

At first it was a nightmare, he wouldn't listen to anyone. He was America's first Supe and he could do what he wanted.

Over time, you were slowly able to break him down by appealing to Ben and not Soldier Boy. The two of you had developed some sort of weird friendship. Obviously, he would love to have more but you wanted to remain professional. You needed to remained professional.

Often times you would be sitting in your office going through your e-mails or creating his schedule, when he would barge in and collapse on the sofa.

He would complain about the other Supes: No one's as good as me, doll! Why do we need the rest of them?

He would complain about modern masculinity: What happened to being a man, doll?

He would complain about anything and everything. You didn't mind listening. You actually had a bit of sympathy for him. He hadn't been in the world for 40 years so this must have been a shock.

Today was no different.

You were at your desk responding to an e-mail for Soldier Boy to promote some kind of energy drink, when he walked in. As usual he slumped onto the padded cushions of the sofa, but something was different.

You sent the e-mail, turning your chair to face him. His head dropped back on the edge of the sofa, muttering lowly to himself.

Then he changed.

He slowly looked up at you through hooded eyes. A predator assessing his prey before he attacked.

You could feel goosebumps on your skin as he approached your desk. He stood in between your legs. One finger under your chin lifting it up to meet his gaze. "When are you going to give in?" His voice rumbled like he was purring. "I know you want me, doll. Just like I want you." His gaze dropped down to your lips, biting his in the process. "When that day comes, and it will, I'm going to ruin you. God, the things I'll do to you, doll." He whispered, taking a deep breath in.

Before he could continue, someone knocked on your office looking for him to take him to his next shoot. He smirked as you sat their speechless. Then he left.

Left you with your thoughts and the building heat between your legs.

Mark Meachum

Just give me something, gorgeous.

Mark wasn't the only one undercover at Palmdale Prison. You were there too as the prison nurse. The two of were coming at the inmates from two different angels. You were good cop and Mark was bad cop.

He was the inmate talking shit and busting balls. You were the sweet nurse offering an ear and a place of comfort. Obviously, some inmates tried to take advantage of that. You shut them down fast.

You were taking inventory and making notes when the guards brought Mark in... again. "Missed me, gorgeous?" That was his name for you. You would have found it flattering, if you weren't one of the only woman in a 40 mile radius.

A cut on his forehead bled down the side of his face, just missing his eye. You stepped between his legs to clean him up as he filled you in on his latest “findings.”

"Did you have to start a riot?"

"It wasn't a riot. Just one little fight." His excuse every time.

You hadn't missed his hands on your hips, where they usually fell. His thumbs stroking your white lab coat gently. It was his way of grounding himself and finding comfort whilst undercover. The two of you had been here for almost 9 months and it hadn't been easy.

Maybe the nickname was a way to bring normalcy into a tough job. You could see it was taking a toll on him, just like it was you. Any other inmate would try the same but when Mark said it, it felt right.

He winced in pain, bringing his hand to rub his forehead. You knew about his headaches, he was probably just stressed out or not sleeping well. You would ask about them but he would always brush it off. "Just give me something, gorgeous," and you did every time. Anything to help his pain.

Just a few minutes later a guard came back to take him back to his cell. "I'll see you later, gorgeous."

"See you later." You couldn't help the smile on your lips as he winked leaving your small office.

Boaz Priestly

Order up, babe

The Beach City Grill was slowing down after a mad lunch rush. Tish, Priestly, Jen and your had handled it like a well oiled machine. Tish would take the orders, Jen made the sandwiches, Priestly manned the grill and you prepared the orders to hand them to the customers. Piper offered to help, but you all insisted she keep working on the mural.

At last, it was finally the last order.

You were standing at the counter waiting for the sandwich to hand to the customer. "Order up, babe!" Priestly’s voice came from behind you, low and amused. One hand settled lightly on your hip while the other reached around to pass you the wrapped sandwich.

You handed the sandwich to the customer silently. The small touch from your boyfriend had made you flustered. His voice, the way he said babe, had you blushing like an idiot. Your cheeks were on fire, your brain reduced to mush.

Behind you, Priestly chuckled, clearly pleased with himself as he went back to the grill.

"All good babe?" He teased behind you.

He loved calling you babe. Not just for the way it made you melt, but because you were his.

Guys came in all the time and hit on you or Tish, thinking they had a shot. But they didn’t. Not even close.

You were his. And he loved it.

AN: Hope you liked it! I have a few more ideas for some of these but happy to take requests! Happy reading <3

No idea if this is headcanon or not, but I'm going with it.

Main Masterlist

[bueckersworld]

remind me

───୨ৎ.. synopsis trapped in a messy, off-the-record situationship, you and paige keep coming back to each other — through drunken arguments, accusations of cheating, and nights that feel like love but end in silence. she’s possessive, you’re fed up, but somehow, you’re both addicted to the chaos. maybe it’s toxic. maybe it’s love. maybe it’s both.

───୨ৎ.. content warnings toxic relationship dynamics, emotional manipulation, cheating accusations, mutual jealousy, alcohol use, unhealthy attachment, implied casual sex

───୨ৎ.. a/n the song ‘remind me’ by givēon has been stuck in my head help.

word count: 3k info. masterlist. taglist.

you don’t even remember how it started. not really.

one minute you were just her friend — the next, you were waking up in her bed with your shirt inside out and her fingers still wrapped around your wrist like she was scared you’d vanish.

paige was never good at saying how she felt. but she was great at pulling you in, better at holding on, and damn near perfect at pretending none of it meant anything afterward.

except it did.

it always did.

you’re at a house party when it happens again — that thing you swore you were both done doing.

you’re tipsy, laughing with someone she doesn’t know. someone tall. someone with dimples. he touches your arm, and suddenly she’s there, drink in hand, jaw locked tight.

“having fun?” she mutters, voice low enough to be a threat.

you glance up, cheeks warm, heart sinking. “paige…”

“i’m just asking,” she shrugs, but her eyes don’t match the calm. “looked like you were ready to go home with him.”

“he’s literally just talking—”

“right,” she snaps, stepping closer. “that’s what you always say before you fuck someone else.”

your mouth falls open. “excuse me?”

“you heard me.”

it’s not even the first time she’s accused you of cheating. it never matters that you haven’t. the moment someone else looks at you, she sees red.

you storm off, out the back door, into the cold night. the music is still thumping behind you, muffled by the walls, and your pulse is just as loud.

she follows, of course.

“you gonna deny it again?” she scoffs.

“there’s nothing to deny,” you bark, turning to face her. “why do you always do this?”

paige throws her hands up, frustration pouring out of her like smoke from a fire. “because i know what this is, okay? you talk to other people like i don’t exist. you kiss me, fuck me, and then pretend you don’t know what we are. i’m tired of it.”

“you’re tired?” you laugh bitterly. “you’re the one who told me this wasn’t serious.”

“yeah, well,” she says, voice cracking. “i lied.”

the air stills. you blink.

she’s drunk — you both are. that’s the only reason this is happening. she’ll take it back tomorrow. just like she always does.

“you don’t get to be possessive and careless,” you whisper. “pick one.”

her jaw clenches. “i’m not careless.”

“then what are we, paige?” you ask. “tell me right now, because i’m done being whatever you want in the dark and nothing in the light.”

silence.

you should leave. go home. end this for real this time.

but you don’t. because the truth is, she reminds you of everything you hate about yourself. every selfish decision, every reckless night. she’s the mirror you keep smashing and taping back together.

and somehow, when she looks at you, you feel whole.

later, you’re in her apartment again. same old scene: you sitting on her counter, her standing between your legs, lips on your neck, hands under your shirt like she needs to memorize your skin before it disappears.

“don’t leave,” she whispers against your throat. “not tonight.”

you don’t say anything. you just nod.

the morning is cold and quiet.

you wake up tangled in her sheets, mascara smudged, breath stale. paige is already up, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at her phone like she’s reading something she shouldn’t be.

you sit up. “what’s wrong?”

she doesn’t answer right away.

“paige.”

she looks over, eyes hard. “who’s noah?”

you freeze. “what?”

“your texts,” she says. “from last week.”

your stomach flips. “you went through my phone?”

“you left it open. don’t act like i hacked it.”

you sigh, fingers pressing into your temple. “he’s nobody. i vented to him about you one night. that’s it.”

“he said, ‘you deserve someone who actually gives a damn about you.’”

your heart drops. “it wasn’t like that.”

paige gets up, starts pacing.

“i do give a damn,” she says quietly. “you just don’t let me.”

you stand, slowly. “because when i do, you crush it. you pull me in, then shut me out. you get jealous of people i don’t even care about, and then you act like i’m the problem.”

she laughs bitterly. “maybe we both are.”

and she’s right.

you’re just as toxic as she is. you poke where it hurts. you kiss her when you know you should walk away. you let her take your clothes off and call it nothing, then pretend it didn’t ruin you the next day.

you both confuse love with possession, and loyalty with obsession.

but still — she reminds you.

of how it felt the first time. of how easy it was to fall. of how impossible it’s been to stop.

two nights later, she shows up at your apartment, drunk again. hoodie too big, hair messy, that broken look in her eyes like she’s trying to apologize without speaking.

you let her in.

of course you do.

“i saw you with him again,” she says.

you don’t answer. you’re too tired to fight.

“he looks at you like he wants something he doesn’t deserve.”

you turn to her, voice sharp. “and what do you think you deserve, paige?”

“i don’t know,” she admits, and her voice is so small it almost kills you. “but i know i want you anyway.”

there’s a beat of silence before she adds:

“i don’t want to share you.”

you should hate her for that. you should tell her you’re not a thing to be had. but instead, you whisper, “then stop treating me like a secret.”

she nods, like she finally understands what it’s going to take. like she knows it’s not enough to just want you — she has to choose you, even when it’s hard. especially when it’s hard.

she walks over, cradles your face in her hands, and kisses you like it’s the last time — but it never is.

because somehow, even after everything, you keep coming back.

maybe it’s the way she touches you like you’re home.

maybe it’s the way you ruin each other perfectly.

maybe it’s because deep down, you’re the same — all messy emotion and sharp edges and soft apologies whispered too late.

whatever it is, it’s yours.

and she reminds you.

of who you were.

of who you are.

of why you’ll never really let her go.

even when you should.

© bueckersworld

𝑤𝑖𝑡𝘩 𝘩𝑢𝑔𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑘𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠, 𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑟

taglist: @elswhore @private-but-not-a-secret @paigebaby5 @raimund00 @bravemode @d1paigebueckersglazer @evanpeterstoe @zi0nnnn @jadasogay @fuddaround @jaylie-bee @everyonewatchesuconnwbb @mrsarnold @lol-12n @sayurireidotcom @slt4kavanagh @kl0verk @agnesblight @scarlett177 @syraxsbigfanfr @asapeveryday @avvwritesstufff @rand0mmmgg

[karaswnee]

Requested by @quietb00m

König Catching Feelings for You

[ NSFW Alphabet ]

[ Headcanons ]

Emotional Reactions

• Emotionally Overwhelmed – König is used to suppressing emotions.

When he starts developing real feelings, he’s flooded with anxiety and self-doubt.

He doesn’t understand why his chest gets tight when you smile or why he replays your laugh in his head at night.

His instinct? Withdraw.

Not because he doesn’t like you, but because he likes you too much.

• Hyper-aware of You – You become the one constant he scans for in every room.

His eyes always find you—tracking you like a mission objective.

He clocks your moods, notes what makes you laugh, and silently commits every detail to memory.

• Guarded Affection – He expresses his love through subtle things.

A cup of coffee placed beside you without a word.

Stepping into your blind spot during drills.

Fixing your gear and pretending it’s “no big deal” while his heart is hammering behind the mask.

Behavioral Shifts

• Shy but Territorial – König is not possessive in an overt way, but he hates seeing others flirt with you.

His voice drops an octave, stance widens, and he makes himself physically larger.

He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it—it’s all instinct.

• Loyal to a Fault – Once König realizes his feelings, he’s utterly loyal.

If you ask, he’ll follow.

He would kill for you without hesitation, and worse—he’d blame himself if that wasn’t enough.

• Self-conscious – He doesn’t believe he’s someone worthy of affection, so even the smallest gestures from you—like brushing his arm or complimenting his work—make him flustered.

He’ll mumble a thank you in German, ears visibly red under his hood.

↓ (NSFW)

————————————————————————

Emotional Build-Up

• Obsessive Thoughts – König doesn’t just want you.

He aches for you.

He dreams about your skin under his gloves, your breathy voice when you say his name.

But he’s also deeply ashamed of these thoughts—thinking they’re too much, too needy.

• Deep Desperation – When he finally gets to touch you, it’s not just lust.

It’s a silent prayer of “I need to feel real,” pressed into your skin with shaking hands and reverent lips.

In Bed

• Gentle Giant Vibes – You wouldn’t think a man his size could be so careful.

He checks in constantly: “You okay, mein Schatz?”

His hands tremble the first time he undresses you—he’s so scared of hurting you or doing something wrong.

• Size Kink Heaven – The contrast between your body and his absolutely breaks him.

He loves how small you feel under him, how your thighs tremble when he stretches you slowly with his fingers, how you moan when he bottoms out with a broken gasp.

• Mask Play – At first, the mask stays on.

He feels safer that way—more in control.

But if you ask him to remove it during intimacy, his breath catches.

That level of trust undoes him. He’ll murmur your name like a prayer, eyes raw with emotion.

• Possessive Marks – He lives for leaving bruises and bite marks.

His hands, mouth, even his belt—he loves knowing your skin tells the story of being his.

Expect hickeys, finger-shaped bruises, and his initials mumbled against your throat mid-thrust.

• Whispers in German – When he’s close, his language slips.

Expect to hear deep groans of “So schön… du gehörst mir” while he clutches you like you’ll vanish if he lets go.

Aftercare

• Extremely Soft – König turns into absolute mush post-intimacy.

He wraps you up in his arms, tucks your head under his chin, and strokes your hair while whispering soft apologies if he got too rough.

He’ll run a bath, help you clean up, and quietly ask if he made you feel good enough.

• Emotional Collapse – Sex is vulnerable for König.

He doesn’t do it lightly.

So after, you’ll feel him cling—not in a panicky way, but in a quiet, deep-sigh kind of way.

You’re his anchor, and he’s afraid of waking up and finding it was all a dream.

[andy-15-07]

Hi love. Can I ask for some old Joel smut. Maybe after they get to Jackson safe, grumpy old Joel asks for something back since he basically saved her life and now they live together. He wants to release tensiin and stress. He wants to have free use of her, get to touch her and ask for things like that whenever he wants. He is nice and loving eith her, except when it comes to that, he is pervert, likes it rough, etc.

Something lime that. Thank you

What You Owe Me

PAIRING:Joel Miller x reader

WORD COUNT: 886| requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Masterlist II

You owed Joel Miller your life.

And he never let you forget it.

It wasn’t like he held it over your head every day,not out loud, anyway. He’d just glance at you sometimes, sharp and unreadable, the way a wolf eyes something it’s already claimed.

You still remembered that night. The scream. The clicker lunging at you in the dark. The blood splatter. And Joel standing over the body, chest heaving, bloodied crowbar in hand.

He didn’t even look at the corpse,just looked at you. “You okay?”

You’d nodded, trembling. “I owe you.”

And he’d said: “Damn right you do.”

Now you lived with him. Shared food. Shared warmth. Jackson was safer than anywhere you’d ever been,but Joel? He wasn’t safe at all.

He was brooding, gruff, territorial. He didn’t talk much. But when he looked at you, it was with heat. Hunger. Frustration.

He wanted you.

And he was tired of pretending he didn’t.

It started with a knock on your door.

It was late,after midnight. You were in bed, half asleep when the heavy knock startled you upright.

You cracked the door open.

Joel stood there in a worn shirt, boots still on, eyes shadowed. Jaw tight.

“Joel?” you asked, voice hoarse. “Is everything okay?”

“Need you to come with me.”

Your heart jumped. “What,what happened?”

He didn’t answer. Just turned and walked down the hall.

You followed, pulse thumping.

He led you into his room. Shut the door. Locked it.

Turned to face you.

"You remember what you said?” he asked. “That you owed me?”

Your stomach twisted. “Yeah.”

His voice was low. Rough. “Time to collect.”

You froze.

His gaze dropped to your body,bare legs, old shirt hanging off one shoulder. He stepped closer, tilting his head.

“I saved your life,” he said. “Put my ass on the line. Nearly got bit.”

“I know,” you breathed.

“And you been sleepin’ in my house. Eatin’ my food. My bed, when you get nightmares.”

You swallowed hard. “What do you want, Joel?”

His eyes burned.

“You.”

A pause.

“I want to be able to touch you,” he said. “Whenever I need to. Take what I want. Use you when this world gets too fuckin’ heavy.”

Your thighs clenched. You hated how much you felt that in your gut.

“And if I say no?”

He didn’t move. “You can. Always. Ain’t gonna hurt you.”

Your voice shook. “You want… free use?”

He stepped in, voice dropping to a growl. “I want that tight little body on your knees when I come home angry. I want your mouth when I wake up hard. I want you bendin’ over when I say now, no questions.”

His hand cupped your cheek,gentle, almost sweet.

“But only if you want it too, baby.”

You didn’t answer with words.

You dropped to your knees.

Joel groaned.

“Good girl.”

Your shirt was gone in seconds. Joel gripped your chin, thumb sliding along your bottom lip.

"Open."

You obeyed.

He unzipped himself, cock already hard, leaking.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Mouth’s too fuckin’ pretty not to use.”

He shoved in slowly,groaning as your lips stretched around him, hand curling into your hair.

“Take it. All of it. C’mon, baby, let me fuck that sweet mouth.”

You moaned around him. He started to thrust, shallow at first, then deeper,grunting with every stroke.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he growled. “Been thinkin’ about this since you moved in. Knew that mouth’d feel like heaven.”

You gagged as he pushed deeper.

“Good girl. You let me do this when I need to, yeah?”

You nodded around him.

He pulled out suddenly, grabbing your arm and hauling you to your feet.

“Get on the bed.”

You scrambled up, chest heaving, and lay back. He yanked your panties off, pushed your knees apart, and stared.

“Fuckin’ soaked.”

His thumb slid through your folds. You whimpered.

He leaned in, voice hot against your thigh. “You like bein’ used, huh?”

You gasped. “Yes.”

“You like knowin’ you belong to me?”

You nodded frantically. “Yes, Joel,please.”

He growled. “That’s what I like to hear.”

Then he was inside you.

No teasing. No patience.

Just thick, hard cock splitting you open as he groaned into your throat.

“Shit, you’re tight.”

You cried out, nails digging into his back.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow.

He fucked you hard, rough, like you were a pressure valve for everything he’d ever felt and never said. His hips slapped against yours, his hand gripping your throat,not choking, just holding. Possessive.

“Gonna fill you up,” he snarled. “Gonna use this pussy whenever I fuckin’ want.”

You arched under him. “Joel,please,”

“Please what?”

“Please come inside me. Use me. I’m yours.”

He came with a low, broken growl,burying himself deep, pumping you full.

You moaned as his seed spilled into you, thick and hot, your own orgasm pulsing through your body seconds later.

He collapsed over you, breath ragged against your ear.

For a long moment, there was only silence.

Then,

“You did good,” he murmured. “Took me real well, sweetheart.”

You blinked up at him.

His face softened.

“You still okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “Yeah. I… liked it.”

He smiled, small and rare. “I know.”

Then he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“Sleep now,” he whispered. “You’re mine. I’ll take care of you.”

[noxitsnox]

love, unwriten- c. hyunju

cho hyunju x f!reader

summary: your girlfriend suddenly breaks up with you

tags: breaking up, angst, s3 spoilers, second person pov

a/n: i need her in ways the human mind is unable to comprehend

it was a morning like every other.

no clouds covered the sky, you woke up because of a soft ray of sunshine that had hit your eyes. the house was quiet, and you could hear birds sing from the open window. your girlfriend wasn't in bed next you, but you were used to it: hyunju would wake up even hours before you sometimes.

it was such a nice day, even if it was october it looked an early march morning.

you found hyunju sat at the kitchen table. your house wasn't big at all- just a two-room apartment with mold on the bathroom walls, but it felt like home. you hugged her from behind, kissed her hair covered cheek with a smile before realizing she wasn't feeling it.

"have you had breakfast yet, baby?", you said as you walked to the stove to make some coffee. she didn't answer, when she raised her head you could see her eyes were puffy and red. she had been crying.

"hyunju, is everything okay? you can talk to me, you know it." she let out a shaky sigh before opening her mouth, her voice barely audible. "y/n... we need to break up."

"what- baby, what happened? is it something i did? we can talk it out". you were panicking. you didn't realize anything was wrong in your relationship. have you been neglecting her? you felt your eyes fill up with tears, your vision blurring.

"no, no you didn't do anything." "then why, hyunju? i thought we were fine..." she just shook her head and got up. "i'm sorry, i can't tell you." you saw her walking to the front door, she mouthed and "i love you" before leaving.

you wished you could hate her.

---

the games were almost over and she was growing confident that she would be able to make it out alive. she wanted to see you again. she had to come back to you, she'd explain what happened and hope you'll forgive her.

every night she dreamt about you, your eyes, your smile it was the only thing keeping her sane.

when she felt the knife enter her skin, she saw your crying face in front of her. when she felt the knife leaving her body, hyunju realized she won't be able to apologize.

[veilishvixen]

“I hate that Lavellan always has to be the one to initiate contact with Solas.”

HOLD UP…she only technically initiates their first romantic scene together when she accidentally hijacks his dream and plants herself at the center of it.

Their second, third, and fourth are all TECHNICALLY initiated by Solas.

The balcony scene? Started by him when he stops us in our tracks to ask if we “have a moment.” Then HE proceeds to lead US to our OWN bedroom. Lavellan has to hold him back slightly from fleeing from the scene of his own making, but it’s still his scene.

The third is their dance at halamshiral where we will see Lavellan standing far from the crowd, trying to steal a quiet moment for herself before Solas comes skulking out looking for company. Talking about some “I’m not surprised to find you out here.” Shut up, like you ever lost track of her. Then he is the one to offer his hand and suggest that they dance.

The fourth and final we all know is crestwood. They’ll be talking about the well of sorrows, but then the topic will swiftly shift to where the future is taking them. I always choose the “I will have you at my side,” option but no matter which you choose, Solas (once again) will usher you into yet another secluded scene that you yourself can make no conscious decision to trigger. It’s all orchestrated by him.

He can also be the only one to ever say the words “I love you/Vhenan” throughout the entire main game if you choose. Lavellan may tell him she loves him while he’s breaking up with her, and she may call him Vhenan and tell him she “loved” him in Tresspasser, but choosing those specific dialogue options aren’t necessary to keep the romance alive. The only one that IS necessary is the promise she has to make him at the very end; “OUR love will endure.” This is always MY Lavellan’s first time telling Solas she loves him, even if it isn’t exactly direct.

Lavellan really only has to kiss him once in a dream, then treat him with grace and kindness afterward and Solas will eventually take up the lead if you leave it for him. Yes, he stumbles once on the balcony and she has to set him back on track again, but after that? It’s all up to him until the break up.

Afterward he will tell you your anger is justified and that he is furious with himself as well…because he knows; he played more into the relationship than perhaps even you did. He wanted your love more than his higher plans and it was selfish. Foolish because more than he loved you, he hated himself.

But apart from all of that, I think a lot of people forget that Lavellan is this man’s BOSS in inquisition and is well aware of her flirtations with him being inappropriate. She will immediately try to retreat after their first kiss, then again when Solas expresses disapproval/anxiety towards it when they wake the next morning. “If I’m pressuring you…” “If I misread you…I’m sorry.”

She was CONCERNED and more than willing to fumble her cracked mask of professionalism back into place if it meant putting his mind at ease.

Even the gossiping nobles outside will disapprove of the romance, saying they prefer a highborn scandal. A romance with Cullen would still be inappropriate, but a little less scandalous considering his high rank in society. Solas is nobody to the world…an apostate, a servant…and if he’s nobody to them, imagine what he looks like standing next to the Inquisitor. Lavellan is hyper aware of all of this and it makes more sense for her character to constantly be leaving the ball in his court rather than keeping it in her own.

Before knowing what I know now, I probably would have considered her more like I consider Mythal had she truly been the main instigator in this relationship; a woman willing to take advantage of the vulnerable and malleable to get what she wants. But she was never that to Solas and I think her vocalizing her anxiety about making him feel pressured only made me (and him) love her deeper.

[copiaslittlesunshine]

The Deal - Part 1

Pairing: Hwang In-Ho/The Front Man/ Player 001 x Female Reader

Summary: You get suspicious of Player 001 and confront him. A decision that will change the fate of your life forever.

Warnings: Nsfw, Smut, Oral sex, Angst, Blackmail.

It had been a surreal feeling waking up in the bunk bed dressed in the green track suit amongst the other players. It had felt like a weird dream, but this wasn't one you would wake up from, no matter how many times you would pinch yourself.

You had always been good at remembering faces, even amongst this big of a crowd. That's why you knew, when player 001 made the final vote to stay, that this was his very first appearance. He had not been there during the first game.

You watched him closely the next few hours, seeing him make friends with player 456. What was his reason for being here? Why had he arrived so late to the game?

You didn't know what possessed you to confront him, but you did. How could you know it would change your life forever?

"Why are you here?" you asked, approaching him in a moment when he was alone.

"Huh?" Player 001 turned around and looked down at you with a confused gaze. "What?"

"Why are you here?" you repeated, squinting your eyes at him.

Player 001 let out a soft chuckle and smiled. "Like everyone else here."

"But why weren't you here until it was time to vote?"

Player 001 smile faded. Was it worry you saw in his eyes?

"What do you mean?"

"You weren't here when we all wake up, nor during the first game."

Player 001 chuckled again, but this time you could hear the hint of nervousness in it.

"Yes, I was. There's a lot of people here, you just didn't see me."

"Oh, believe me," you said, smiling. "I'm good at detecting faces among crowds, and you were definitely not here until the voting."

Player 001 face hardened and he didn't look so friendly anymore.

"You're wrong," was all he said before he turned around and walked away.

□

You woke up in a daze that night, blinking your eyes in confusion when realizing you were not in your bunk bed anymore. You sat up with a jolt, looking around with widened eyes. Where were you? The room you were in was painted in gold and you were sitting in a black, leather armchair.

"You're finally awake."

You jumped at the voice behind you and turned around, your eyes widening at the sight of the masked man all dressed in black.

"W-where am I?" you asked, hating how scared your voice sounded.

The man chuckled and you knew who it was even before he took off his mask.

Player 001.

"I must admit, you're very good, y/n. I didn't expect anyone to be suspicious of me. That was a mistake on my part."

"Who are you?" Your voice was barely a whisper now.

"My name is In-Ho, I'm the man in charge here."

"Are you..Are you going to kill me?" He told you his name, what reason did he have to keep you alive?

In-Ho smiled. "That depends on you, y/n."

You frowned. "What do you mean?"

In-Ho's smile widened as he approached you, lifting your chin with his gloved hand as he stood in front of you. He was very handsome, you had to admit that, his dark-brown eyes piercing into your very soul as he looked at you.

"I will not kill you, if you stay here. As my...companion," he stated as his thumb slowly caressed your bottom lip. "You're a beautiful girl, y/n and I have been alone for so long now."

Your eyes widened, his touch sending tingles down your skin and realizing what his words meant. No, you couldn’t do that! Could you?...Your brain started ticking. If you did this, you could maybe by time to find a way out of here? You wouldn't win any money, but at least you would be alive. This game wasn't what you'd signed up for. You had never entered if you'd known your life were at stake.

So, you looked up at him and nodded.

"I need your verbal consent."

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath before looking right up into his eyes with determination.

"Yes."

In-Ho smirked. "Good girl."

□

In-Ho had left to join the players, he couldn't be gone for long to risk someone wondering about him. You didn't really know what to do, so you turned on the big screen in front of the armchair. Your stomach churned when you saw what was on. The next game. So, this is how In-Ho liked to entertain himself? Watching people get murdered? You felt sick just thinking about it.

You turned it off and started examining the room. There wasn't much there, but you did find some books to read and a bathroom. Well, thank God for that. At least now, you didn't have to wait for permission every time you needed to use the restroom.

You didn't know how much time had went by when the door opened and a guard with a square on his mask walked inside. He was carrying a black box with a pink bow on it. Your pulse quickened as flashes of the dead players being put into boxes went through your mind.

"The Front Man wants you to take a shower and then put this on," the guard said and handed you the box.

The Front Man? So that was what they called him?

You took the box out of the guard's hand and he left without another word. You looked down at the box with curiosity and carefully took off the lid. Your eyes widened as you took out the gorgeous, golden silk dress and a matching pair of high heels. The dress was ankle long with thin straps and an open back. At the bottom of the box, there was a pair of golden silk thongs to match the dress. Wow...and he even had all of your sizes right.

The warm water on your skin felt rejuvenating. It almost melted away all your thoughts and emotions you'd experienced since you'd woken up in the bunk bed.

You looked at the stranger looking back at you in the mirror. Where was the joyful person from a year ago? Before your husband died and left you with all his debts you couldn’t possibly pay, debts he hadn't even told you about. Fuck, you hated him for that. You sighed and slid the thong up your hips, and shimmied into the dress, let the soft material glide down your body. You ran your fingers through your wet hair, wishing you had a hairbrush. You slipped into the high heels and made a grimace. You'd never been a fan of them.

There was a set table waiting for you outside, with lit candle lights and a beautiful bouquet of flowers in the center. What was this? You took a few steps forward and that's when you saw In-Ho standing at a bar counter, opening a bottle of wine. He looked up, his eyes twinkling up with interest when he saw you, his gaze slowly taking in your appearance with appreciation. He put down the bottle and approached you with a confident gait. You could feel your heart racing and your breath hitching from his closeness as he stood before you, and his gloved fingers slowly running up your bare arm.

"You look exquisite, y/n," he said in a hushed tone as his gaze followed the trail of his fingers. The mix of his deep voice and touch sent a jolt of arousal through your core and settled between your legs. Fuck, you didn't want to feel this way about this man. You despised everything he was doing here and hated your body for reacting this way.

In-Ho's lips curved up into a smirk and you knew. You knew he knew exactly how your body was reacting to him. Well, fuck him. He wasn't going to have the higher ground here. So, you held your head high and looked him straight in the eyes.

"If you're trying to woo me with a candle light dinner, it won't work. I might have agreed to give you my body, but you will never have my soul."

In-Ho only smirked wider in return and you hated him more.

"Please sit down, y/n. Dinner will be served soon," In-Ho said and smirked at the glare you gave him. Oh, he would have so much fun with you.

You hated to admit how good it felt to get a real meal of food in your stomach. And the red wine...you rolled it in your mouth, taking in every detailed taste of it. It was delicious.

"So, how did your husband come to have such high debts?" In-Ho asked and took a sip of his wine while fixing his gaze on you.

You looked at him, surprised by his question.

"Uhm...well, you know. The usual stuff. Addiction to gambling, spending money he didn't have. That sort of thing."

In-Ho nodded in acknowledgement.

"What about you? How did you become...this?" you asked, motioning to his appearance.

In-Ho smiled. "You know, I was once the winner of the game."

You almost choked on your wine and stared at him in disbelief.

"Really?"

In-Ho nodded. "But my wife died while I was here, and I had nothing to return home to. So they offered me to stay as overseer of the games."

"They?"

"The ones who created the game."

"Why are you telling me all of this? Your name, your backstory."

In-Ho shrugged his shoulders. "I guess...It feels good to have someone to talk to again."

You studied his face, every beautifully carved feature, and you could see the sadness written in them, but also the longing for something more. Perhaps, deep in his heart, he didn't want to be this cold, ruthless person.

"Well, It seems like I'm not going anywhere, so you can talk as long as you like," you said in a joking tone and smiled at him, trying to lighten the heaviness of the situation you were in.

In-Ho looked at you and smiled back, and the soft chuckle coming from his mouth warmed the inside of your chest in ways you didn't want it too.

"You can sleep here. There's some night clothes for you in the box."

In-Ho led you into his bedroom, containing nothing but a king-sized bed with golden sheets and a black box with a pink bow.

You swallowed and glanced over at him. "What about you?"

In-Ho smiled and walked up to you, his now bare hand cupping your face. You stared up at him, hearing the nervous drumming of your heart pulsate in your ear as you looked into his dark-brown eyes twinkling back at you.

"Don't worry, little one. I will join you as soon as I can. But for now, I have to sleep with the players."

His thumb ran across your bottom lip, his gaze fixed on your mouth, and for a second, you thought he would kiss you. You held your breath in anticipation, feeling the electrifying pulse vibrate between the two of you. Then, he suddenly let go, as if he woke himself from a dream, and the moment was gone. He left without a word, and you lifted your fingers to your lip, grazing the trail of his touch as you stared at the closed door behind him.

□

Morning came sooner than you expected. You must have fallen asleep despite the thoughts tumbling around in your head. Were you actually starting to fall for this man? The nervous flutter in your stomach when you thought of him certainly suggested so. Well, fuck...

You looked at the clock on the wall in In-Ho's bedroom. 8 o'clock. There was another box waiting for you on the floor outside the bedroom door. You opened it and found a silk dressing gown in gold, of course. Damn, In-Ho was really obsessed with gold. You slipped into the gown and went to the bathroom to brush your teeth. One of the guards had brought more stuff for you yesterday, like toothbrush and toothpast and other hygiene stuff. When you were finished freshening up, you went into the main room. There, you saw a luxurious breakfast waiting for you. Those guards were really quiet, weren't they? You hadn't even heard them come inside to set all this up.

As you started eating, your thoughts went to the other players and the horrors they were going through right now. And here you were, eating this rich breakfast and enjoying the softness of a real bed and the warmness of a hot shower. You lost your appetite right then and there.

There wasn't much to do when In-Ho wasn't around, so you picked up one of his books and made yourself comfortable on his armchair with a glass of whiskey. You really didn't care for the flavor much, but it was something to numb the guilt dwelling in your stomach. The guilt of sitting here whilst the other were down there, getting murdered. Guilt over the fact that the man responsible for those deaths made you feel things you hadn't felt since you fell in love with your husband. Fuck, fuck, fuck! You closed your eyes and repressed those thoughts to the back of your mind as you took a deep breath and started reading the book in your hand.

You were half through the book when In-Ho returned, still in his green track suit. His face was shiny with sweat and his right cheek was sprinkled with blood. You swallowed, remembering all the dead people after the first game. His face was hard and cold, so different from the man you'd dined with yesterday.

"Are you okay?" you asked and stood up from the armchair.

"I'm fine," In-Ho mumbled back and disappeared into the bathroom. You heard the shower starting and sat back down on the armchair, waiting for him to come back out.

When he did, it was in his Front Man outfit, with the mask on and everything. He approached you with determined steps, and you stared up at the black mask as he stood in front of you.

"Get up."

You quickly did as he ordered, didn't dare to question the harshness in his voice. In-Ho sat down on the armchair, put on his jazz music, and removed his mask. He took a sip from your whiskey glass and closed his eyes, licking his lips before he put his mask back on.

"Get down on your knees."

A pang of heat went through your body at his words and you swallowed as you obeyed his command. You watched with widened eyes as In-Ho zipped down his pants, reached inside and pulled his cock out.

"Go on, little one. Do what you're here for and satisfy me."

A part of you felt hurt that he'd seemed to forgotten the conversation you'd shared yesterday. Was it only you that felt that the two of you had shared an intimate moment and gotten to know each other a little bit? And the other part of you...that part could feel his words awakening a forbidden desire inside of you.

You gave your lip a nervous lick as you wrapped your hand around his cock, feeling him twitch at the touch. You leaned forward and gave the head of his cock a cursory lick. He tasted salty and sweet at the same time.

In-Ho released a sharp breath and you gave another lick, but this time you dragged your tongue along the underside of his shaft, across the pulsating vein there. A low growl vibrated from his throat and you couldn’t help but feel proud that it was you who emanated those sounds from him.

You parted your lips and took the head of his cock into your mouth in one single, fluid motion, earning a sharp hiss in return. Slowly, you started to move your lips up and down his length, taking more and more of him into your mouth.

As soon as your tongue touched the base of his cock, In-Ho bucked his hips and let loose another hiss, and you felt his fingers curl into your hair. You pressed your tongue against him again, prodding and massaging down his shaft as you continued to move your mouth along his length, and you reveled in his reactions as he hissed and growled. He couldn’t seem to decide whether to grab onto your hair for support, or to hold you steady. Eventually he decided on the latter, and he held your head still as he began to lightly thrust into your mouth, drawing a guttural groan deep from your throat.

Your small, needy moans seemed to drive him quickly toward the edge, as his hips moved more urgently and sporadically as he fucked your mouth. You couldn’t keep pace with his thrusts, and you could feel him begin to throb against your lips and within your mouth. In-Ho released a final sharp hiss as he grabbed your head and thrust forward. His cock twitched and then began to throb violently as he spilled his hot seed onto your tongue.

As In-Ho was still milking himself into your mouth, you looked up at him. For a brief moment, you wished you could see his face, imagining his eyes half-lidded, unfocused with pleasure as he watched your mouth still firmly around his member. The throbbing pulses along his shaft had faded, and his vice-like grip on your hair was loosening as you pulled yourself off of his cock.

Then, In-Ho tucked himself back inside his pants, stood up, and walked out of his quarters as if nothing had happened.

You found yourself sitting there on the floor, feeling used as the hopelessness of the situation struck you. No matter the deal you made, you feared that you would never get out of this place alive.